We talk for a little while longer about things that have been beaten to death over and over by millions of others, but at some point I realize the episode is going nowhere. It’s the same old theory-ridden conversational spiral all of my shows have been since the aliens appeared. Speculation, speculation, speculation. And it’s frustrating. We’re old friends, Jim and I, so it’s always nice to catch up. He doesn’t charge me for his time, which is also nice. This time, actually, he came to me of his own accord. The two military escorts that came with him strongly encourage me to sign all this non-disclosure documentation stating that any edited version of today’s live show has to be approved by the military, blah blah blah. And then Jim leaves after a handshake and a promise to do this again sometime.
I spend a good four more hours in my studio in downtown SLC before I decide to call it a night. I step out into the darkness of the city. Save for the street lights and illuminated storefronts, it’s completely dark. No stars. There haven’t been stars for two months. They’re still there, it's just nobody can see them.
I pop a Red Bull, take a sip, and crane my neck up. The underside of the alien ship looks like a black poker chip stretched over the Salt Lake Valley. The sheer size of the thing blows my mind even now. There’s a subtle blue glow to it. It’s not glowing, per se, but it’s also not NOT glowing if that makes any sense. Alien tech is weird. Occasionally, a thin streak of lightning will bounce around up there along its underbelly reaching for purchase. There’s never any noise from it and the structure itself never moves, but parts occasionally undulate. Again, alien tech is weird.
I get into my car: a stylish Toyota Camry and head to my home in Park City. It’s about twenty minutes east out of the city and through the canyon. It’s nearly two am by the time I get to the turn off to my street.
I park in front of my mailbox, which is about 50 feet from my house along the main pass. It’s next to a dozen other mailboxes that had never been used. Apparently the original plans for my street called for about a dozen more houses. But the developer ran out of money or died or something and mine ended up being the only one finished. And now my mailbox is here and my home is way down there.
My home, way down there, is a two story A-frame designed to withstand tons of snow. It’s summer right now so I don’t have to worry about that right now. It’s isolated and built directly into the side of a mountain. I left my front porch light on again, and it illuminates the entire end of the street. There’s a kind of ski resort, rustic lodge vibe about it that I’ve always liked, and the best part is I don’t have any neighbors for a few miles. It's the home I grew up in and the only thing left of my parents. I live alone save for a few stray cats that happen along and the occasional moose.
As I step out of my car and fumble around in my pocket for my mailbox keys, there’s a sound. A kind of distant whomp and rumble. Something deep, as if it came from the very bowels of the earth itself. I see light in my peripherals but just for a moment, and I’m unable to place it. I pause to consider. Maybe there was a crash down the road? I turn, squint my eyes but it’s too dark to see.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
It’s July 1st, so there’s a moment where I think: oh, maybe someone’s celebrating early this year? There’s another boom, then another. I look up. What I see makes me gasp and drop my redbull and keys my feet.
Explosion after explosion rocks the sky like the Fourth of July. They’re way up there, directly under the alien craft. No, wait, they’re happening WITH the alien craft. As the sky illuminates, I can see streaks of smoke coming up from the west. These explosions, I realize, are coming from the ground. We’re shooting at them … with rockets.
I’m stunned. Completely frozen in place. Every explosion is loud enough to make me flinch and it becomes so bright it hurts my eyes. But I can’t look away. There’s so many explosions I lose count. Then it all stops abruptly and there’s a loaded moment of silence. Apparently we shot our load and halted for a response. But there is none. For a long time nothing happens. Then a boom so deep and so low rocks my chest. My assumption is that the aliens are returning fire, but I don’t see anything falling to earth. No lasers or alien rockets or any kind of ammunition. The ship, I realize, is … cracking up.
The thing crackles with lightning and begins to slowly break up into a million pieces, exposing a bright blue interior. The object begins to descend. Not straight down, but in an almost controlled downward trajectory. It’s not going to fall directly on top of me, thank the heavens, it’s coming down at an angle, slowly, as if something (or someone) is trying, but failing, to still keep it a float. The far edge of it is headed towards the southeastern part of Utah, towards the National Parks like Arches and Canyonlands.
The movie Independence Day comes to mind.
Something catches my eye. A tiny sparkle from the underside of the craft. It stands out because of the green flare that tails it. It appears to be some sort of glowing, green projectile. And it’s coming down in a sporadic motion, zig-zagging, as if it’s not sure where it’s going. Perhaps it’s unable to control where it’s going? But one thing is for sure, it’s getting bigger and bigger.
The visual spectacle of it all is almost too much to bear. I’m caught between watching a craft bigger than a mountain range slowly descend to its inevitable demise, and an object skipping around in the sky getting closer and closer. Eventually the object wins my complete attention when the thing, whatever it is, slams into my home.
The impact knocks me backwards off my feet and into the curb across the street. The world goes completely silent for a few moments, long enough to wonder if I’d gone deaf, then I’m hit with a raging, numb ringing in my ears and a pounding headache. I squirm until my lungs open back up and the air slips back into my chest. Once I can breathe again I sit up and cover my head as tiny pieces of rock pelt me.
After the dust settles, I just stare and blink. It’s really all I can do. I get to my feet. I’m a bit disorientated, but I manage. Coughing, I stumble past my mailbox, which is bent now, to find a hole in the side of the mountain where my house once stood.
Then the earth shakes under my feet and I realize the big one has just touched down. The sky lights up in colors I can’t even describe. It takes a good five or so minutes for the low boom to catch up, and even longer for the rush of force to follow. Even from two-hundred and fifty miles away from impact, it’s enough to bust one of my car windows and send me sailing feet over tail into the aspens on the other side of the street.