I stumble to my feet. My head is pounding. I’ve got blood trailing down the side of my head but I can’t place the wound. It’s all just a big jumbled blur up there, as is everything around me. How long was I out? Could be a minute, could be an hour. It’s still nighttime but that doesn’t tell me much.

If cars had emotions, mine would be pissed. There’s all kinds of damage to it on the one side. It’s still running, though, so that’s good at least. I don’t even know where my mailbox is anymore. There’s dust everywhere. And leaves. Lots of leaves. It’s like God pulled a Mount Everest-sized party popper of confetti.

As I make my way down the road toward my home … or what used to be my home, I check myself more thoroughly. There’s a new tear in my jeans and a gash above my ear, but besides that I’m pretty much okay. I think so, anyway. Maybe some internal bleeding? I do taste a little blood. And It does hurt to breathe a little bit.

It's not hard to find the thing that completely demolished my home. One, because it’s twice the size of my previous residence. Two, it’s lodged into the side of the mountain, protruding like a sliver in the earth, and three … it’s glowing a dim green color. It looks like a massive shard of green crystal. Like the object Superman tossed into the arctic wasteland to grow his fortress of solitude (check the original movie from the 80s, not that crap made in the 2010s) only much bigger.

I’m drawn to it. The thing is mesmerizing. No sound, it makes no attempt to move. It just sits there glowing a little bit. This is my first time this close to anything alien and I’m captivated. To get near the base of it, I have to climb up a newly formed pile of rubble, which, I notice, includes pieces of my bathtub, arm chair, and work desk among the rocks. And it’s all hot, some of it too hot to touch. There’s water squirting into the air from a bisected water pipe.

I get close enough that I can see my reflection in the big green thing. It’s beautiful, like steel and jade and … something else. I smell ozone and it’s really strong. It makes me cough. I pull my phone out and snap a few videos and photos. This is going to be so awesome for my youtube channel.

Something—not sure how to describe this—pools around my reflection and I freeze, blink a few times. It’s almost like an illuminated white ink within the crystalline structure has taken an interest in me. I pocket my phone. Scenes from the original “alien” movie come to mind for some inexplicable reason (again, from the 80s). I gulp, and do the one thing you’re never supposed to do in a scenario like this: I reach out and touch it.

The jolt is instant: a burst of electricity or pressure or … I don’t know, some kind of power zaps me. I feel it mostly in the palm of my hand, and it’s strong enough to, once again, send me sailing backwards. Only this time I get to tumble backwards off a trash heap and into my front lawn, or what’s left of it.

The pain is everywhere, then nowhere, then it’s one-hundred percent isolated in my right arm. I want to scream from the pain, but it hurts too much to get even a whimper out. I roll around in a panic, clenching the limb to my chest. I can feel something happening to it. Something … unnatural. I can feel my bones and muscles under my skin maneuvering, reshaping, undulating. The pain goes all the way up to my shoulder. I’m shaking. The pain is so great I can feel myself about to lose consciousness. And then, as fast as it started, the pain goes away.

I lay there breathing, rubbing parts of my arm for a minute until I ramp up the courage to inspect it. It's still dark, but from what I can tell my arm looks completely normal, save for a massive keloid scar with a slit down the middle now on my palm. It runs from my wrist to the base of my middle finger. I touch it with my other hand. It’s a bit sensitive but doesn’t hurt. Then the keloid … flexes?

I catch my breath, my eyes go wide, and I extend my hand out as far away from my body as possible. I stare at it. I stare at it some more, squinting in the darkness to make sense of it. In my peripheral I notice the glow from the big crystal is fading. The scar, if you can call it that, doesn’t seem to be moving anymore. Maybe I was seeing things. Maybe I’m just exhausted.

Lights. I blink. I see headlights in the distance. A vehicle passes the turn off to my road up there. Wait, nope, they’re turning around. They’re coming down my street. They’re headed for me.

It’s a black SUV. Or dark blue, I can’t tell in the dark. I don’t know what to do, so I don’t do anything. I just stand there. They see me. Maybe I should run? But run where? Back to my car? But this is my house, or was (I’m still processing that). This is my property. I have a right to be here. There’s no need to run. Why do I feel like I should? It’s probably a neighbor from a few miles away that saw the impact come to check it out, see if I’m okay. Yeah, that’s probably it.

The SUV parks and two men get out. One in their late twenties and the other middle-aged. They leave their headlights on, blazing bright. It illuminates the entire site. They’re tall and dressed in black suits. The part of my mind that can still process nostalgia immediately goes to the movie Men in Black (this one’s from the 90s, kids) and I’m suddenly two parts giddy and utterly terrified.

“You alright there, son?” says the passenger. He’s the older one. He approaches slightly ahead of the driver. He’s super backlit by the headlights so I can’t make out a face.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I’m … yeah. Great. Just fine,” I say, and have a sudden instinct to clench my hand shut.

“You the owner of this … residence?” The way he talks, and his buzz top haircut, makes me think of an old fashioned army man.

I point with a thumb over my shoulder. “Oh, this place? Yeah, I lived here my whole life. Why?”

“Looks like you’ve had a recent addition to the exterior decor,” says the driver as he joins his companion.

The passenger pulls a box from the inside of his coat pocket. He gives me a closed-lip smile as he flips the thin box open.

“What’s that?” I say, and the passenger pulls something out. It looks like a pen.

“You live …lived here alone?” says the passenger.

I step backwards. “Who are you guys?”

“You didn’t … touch that thing, by chance, did you?” He points with the pen at the big greenish obstruction. It's more of a silver color now, I notice, with just a hint of green.

“Why?” I say, quickly glancing back at it. “Is it dangerous?”

The driver sighs. “This inquiry is superfluous, Tom.” He pulls something from his waist. A gun? “There’s no need to take him in, he’s collateral damage. Let’s just get rid of him and get the extraction team up—”

I toss my hands up, palms facing them, and continue to step back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “Look, first of all, I’m not collateral damage. Okay? Second of all, you guys can’t be here. This is my hou … property, and you are not welco—”

“Please, just let me shoot him, Tom,” says the driver, scratching the side of his head with the butt of his pistol.

Tom ignores his partner and steps forward. His eyes go wide. “Your … hand.”

I still have my hands out in a defensive position. I cringe, tuck them into my armpits. “What about … what about that thing on my hand, the scar … that I’ve always had?”

Tom turns to his partner.

The younger man lets out a sigh, rolls his eyes, and holsters his gun.

Tom motions with his head towards me. “Pete, tell me you saw that—”

“Yes, I saw it,” says the younger one, putting his hands on his hips. “Looks like a diseased vagina.”

Tom turns back to me. “You did touch that thing up there didn’t you?”

I’m shaking my head no but Tom doesn’t buy it.

“Son, we’re going to have to ask that you come with us.”

“I don’t even know who you are,” I say. “You’re not cops, that’s for sure.” I mentally calculate how long it would take to sprint to my car. Ten seconds? Fifteen? It’s not that far.

“We’re …” Tom pauses to think. “We manage … extraterrestrial relations,” he says, motioning to the crystal.

“Well, if you don’t mind a little constructive criticism,” I offer, taking a side step. “You’re doing a crap job. If I’m not mistaken, we just blew one out of the sky.”

“You noticed that?” says Pete, sarcasm dripping.

“It’s complicated,” says Tom.

“I’m sure it is,” I say.

“Hey, wait a minute,” says Tom, pointing at me. “I know your voice. How do I know your voice?”

“Uh, I have a podcast,” I say, making it more of a question than a statement.

Tom snaps. “That’s it. It’s the guy we sent Gorne to. What a coincidence.”

“What do you mean you sent him? He reached out to me on his own.” I wonder if these were the two brutes who made me sign that stack of NDAs. But no, they look completely different.

“Sure,” says Pete. “You can think that.” He smiles. “That’s kind of the point.”

Tom steps forward. “Now, Jack—it is Jack, isn’t it? I remember now—you can come with us willingly, or we can put you to sleep. It’s up to you.” He says it so casually, like he’s asking if I want ketchup or mustard. He pops the top off the pen. Oh fun, it’s a needle. I’ve never been fond of needles, especially ones wielded by strangers giving me ultimatums.

I swallow. A part of my mind is thinking, “it’ll be fine, they can help you. They’re in charge. They’ll know what to do.” But a larger, more dominant part is shouting, “Nuh uh, run you dummy!”

And so I run.

I get about five steps, however, before Tom slams into me. We tumble and roll. When we come to a halt he’s on top. My hands are pressed up against his face and neck. I’m desperately trying to keep him up and off me. He’s lost the needle pen, I realize, because he’s grasping the area near my shoulder for something. Wait, no he’s found it. He cocks his hand up, preparing to stab my shoulder. The needle glistens in the glow of the headlights for a fraction of a second and then…

Tom's body collapses on top of me and I’m suddenly sopping wet from the neck up. I’m covered in … oh, jeez, is that blood? I cough and spit the stuff out as I struggle to shove him off of me. After I get to my feet I freeze. Tom … Tom has no head. His body is there, flopped on the ground, but everything from the collar bones up is just … missing.

I spit, gag, puke a few times, and blink some more. I look at the other guy, Pete, who appears to be just as stunned as I am. We exchange a look of loaded silence. He’s got one hand on his holstered gun and the other is slowly rising, seemingly ready to stop me if I choose to pursue him.

I’m out of breath, huffing hard lungfuls now. “Did you … do that?” I say, pointing at what’s left of Tom.

“No,” says Pete. “You did.” His tone leaves no room for debate.

I look at my hands, take a step back. “Did I?” Almost in response to the question, the scar, or whatever it is, quivers slightly.

A chill runs down my core.

I look up at Pete, who still hasn’t moved. I think he’s waiting for me to make the first move. So I do. I run. I turn and run towards my car down the street. I run so hard I can’t breathe by the time I slide into the already pelted side of it. I look back as I open the door. The guy is still standing there, watching me. The sight of his inaction baffles me but I’m in no condition to contemplate the choices, or lack thereof, of others right now. Right now, I just need to drive.