Hal Bolsa had called it a barn. Maybe originally that was true, and maybe originally the Colosseum in Rome was inlaid with Astroturf. Anymore, though, calling what Hal had a barn fell somewhere between poetic license and libel. It was no more a barn than a dried-up puddle is an ocean. The roof was half caved in and the remaining beams were one stray termite nibble from extinction.
It could, generously, be called a lean-to. A hovel. A hut. What little space there was inside had been mostly occupied by sawhorses and workbenches, though, if the layers of dust were any indication, they hadn’t been touched in decades. A musty smell hung in the air. Old posters and calendars from the Ford administration lined the walls. A single light bulb gave the small space a sad cantaloupe-colored hue.
Sam might have demanded then and there that they say their I’m sorrys, thank yous, and goodbyes alike, except, well, except for the mysterious tarp in the corner -- and whatever lay underneath.
“You two ready? I don’t want to surprise either of you too bad. I don’t want you shitting your pants in my barn.”
“Make that two of us,” Sam mumbled.
With a creak in his hips and a lion tamer’s flourish of the wrist, Hal pulled at the tarp and unveiled the unbelievable.
“God damn,” Sam and Hillary said in unison.
It was a flying saucer. Or, at least, half of one. It was something like six feet wide and five feet tall, made of a lustrous silver metal. There were no seams, bolts or nails to be seen. There was, however, the cleanest of cuts running from the top of the thing to the bottom, as if a cosmic King Solomon had sliced it clean in two.
Seeing Hillary’s eyes land on the razor-sharp cut, Hank offered the closest thing he had to an explanation.
“Letty used to say that it must have been like an eject button. Except this thing split clean in half instead of shooting its rider up through the roof.”
Sam and Hillary were uncommonly speechless. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Both of them had questions. Both of them wanted answers. But this, this was a flying saucer. They weren’t asking for a pot roast recipe or the fastest way to skip the evening gridlock It was a god damned flying saucer in the ruins of a barn in the podunkiest part of the saddest slice of California.
Forgive them if they couldn’t put together a sentence or two.
“Have a feel.”
Well, how do you prepare for someone saying that? Here, touch this piece of purported alien technology. There is no way to prepare for that. The only thing to do when confronted with an offer like that is to step up and, with both hands, grab it like a giant metallic burrito. Unless, of course, you’re Sam Spiezio.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, albeit well after Hillary might consider thinking twice about what she was doing. She had already grabbed it.
“It’s…humming.”
Hal nodded.
“For 65 years now. The same constant, low hum. Almost like a pulse.”
“And it feels, well, light. Solid and thick and strong. But light. Lighter than aluminum can even -- though it seems thicker than a steel beam.”
“Right again. That tells you how Letty was able to lift it up out of the ground and bring it back here herself. Grandpa would’ve helped, but, the thing about Grandpa Nolan was that he was a drunk. By turns an angry drunk or a sad drunk. Even, on occasion, a real romantic drunk. That night, so the story goes, Nolan was holed up in the prison trying to sleep off one of his less glamorous stupors.”
Sam did not do as Hillary did. He didn’t need to feel the thing. He was struggling to understand why they were still there, anyway. Wasn’t it enough to have gotten this far? It was more than he had expected, that was for sure. They had cobbled together enough from the original report to make it to this derelict little dust bowl. They had managed to find the country-fried grandson of the kook who’d called it in to begin with. They’d even stumbled upon what very much looked like some kind of spacecraft. Mission accomplished. He didn’t need to get intimate with the thing. He had been so sure that they’d come up empty-handed that he’d never given any thought as to what was supposed to happen if they actually were successful. Did Hillary want a selfie with this self-satisfied ape bumpkin Short of skedaddling with the damned saucer, or whatever it was, Sam didn’t know what would satisfy Hillary.
“The report. None of this is in the report. All it talks about is the flash Letty saw. Nothing about a saucer,” Hillary said, stepping back again from the spaceship. The report was brief. She hadn’t skipped or forgotten a word.
Hal looked slowly, steadily into each of their eyes.
“You know what’s always surprised me? Now, I’m answering a question of sorts with a question of my own. But, forgive me. I just can’t fathom why Letty let those folks get away with writing a report about this thing at all. She wasn’t the type to ask for anybody’s help and she wasn’t interested in looking weak, either.”
“Maybe she was scared,” Sam added, choosing an odd time to finally interject.
Hal chuckled in a way that suggested he hadn’t found what Sam said even a little funny.
“I don’t know much about Letty, but I can assure you she wasn’t scared. Not of aliens or of the people sent out here to look for them. She made one call that night to the police to report something amiss. Nothing more. Anyone else who came here afterward was putting their nose where it didn’t belong. And they were treated thusly.”
Sam wasn’t brave enough to even think about laying a finger on the saucer. Hillary had to all but drag him out from the RV. And yet he was suddenly barreling into a conversation mouth first without giving a thought to what might be coming out of it-- or the trouble it might get them into.
“I mean, a mysterious burst in the sky. Flying saucer embedded in the ground but no sign of whoever or whatever was flying it. That’s scary stuff “
No amount of eye-rolling, winking, sighing, or coughing was enough for Hillary to signal Sam that he had said more than enough. And he was too far away for a nudge in the ribs or a punch in the gut.
“I think what Sam means to say--,” she started.
“Letty might have let them have a few words about what happened. But she sure did put up a fight. And no way in hell was she going to let them put a word in there about this here thing.”
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“That’s all well and good,” Sam went on, surely sealing their fate, “but how would she have managed to scare anybody off, anyway? I mean, what could she do to stop the Feds or whoever else from writing whatever they wanted in their report?”
It was only then that Hillary figured out that Sam was being propelled not by bravado or aggression but by the sheer force of his own stubborn mediocrity.
“Funny you should say that,” Hal chortled and, with one swift motion, pulled out from behind his back the wildest shotgun Hillary or Sam had ever seen. At least, it looked like a shotgun. Kind of. In the way that two cousins, once removed, might look like one another. “It just so happens I have right here the very thing Letty used to scare them folks off. They were the last ones to make it off the property alive after setting eyes on this here. The rest of them? I’ve got them buried in the back.”
The gun had three, long cylindrical barrels, each appearing to float in midair. Instead of metal, they were made of something more fluid, more malleable, almost like plasma. The three barrels gave off their own shimmery neon glow: purple, white, and gold. Whatever they were made of, it hadn’t come from this galaxy.
Hal cocked it and aimed it squarely at Sam’s head.
“I got lots of theories ‘bout this thing.”
“Hal. Hal. Mr. Harvey. Don’t do this,” Hillary pleaded, though it was unclear if her words even reached Hal. Sore as he was about what Sam had said, it seemed doubtful he would stand down.
“‘Course, can’t prove none of them. But, I’ve got theories. See, this gun, it don’t leave no marks. No bullet hole. No blood. No burn. How does it work? Sound waves, I reckon. Blows apart your ventricles from the outside in.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way. Hal. We can leave. We can just go. Leave you alone, just like you like it.”
Sam, belatedly, had remembered how to keep his mouth shut. Hillary would have to do the begging for both of them.
“Just stops your heart plain and cold. In an instant. At least, again, that’s what I think happens. All those folks me, my pop, and old Letty have taken care of over the years when they come trespassing? Not a single wound amongst them. Just a heart gone rictus and stale.”
Unlike Hal, Sam’s eyes were flitting back and forth, like he was looking for something. Hillary hadn’t the faintest idea what it could be. It certainly wasn’t his moxie; that he’d lost long ago.
“It’s like his dumb life is flashing before his dumb eyes,” she muttered to herself. “If only he was half as good at getting us out of trouble as he is at getting us into it. A tour bus driver for a jam band. I married a tour bus driver for a jam band. Worse yet, I was cheated on by a tour bus driver for a jam band. I should have married Dexter Anselmo when he asked me after prom, even though he wasn’t even my date and I only knew him because his locker was three down from mine. Sure, I would’ve been Mrs. Dexter Anselmo, but his only crime was securities fraud, which beats being a tour bus driver any day.”
Hal, like a gentleman, allowed Hillary to finish before offering his own closing thoughts.
“I think that it hurts. I don’t think it’s painless. These aliens, whoever made this gun and this ship, what did they care about human pain? Why should they make our suffering any less severe? If they have morals, I doubt they give any consideration to human feelings. I don’t think they give a hoot whether we die in agony or go quietly. So long as we go. You know, I gave this talk, or something like it, the last time I had people snooping around here, too. I asked them the same question I’m about to ask you. No way of knowing whether they were right, though.”
“We’ll rip up the report, leave Shadow Hills, leave you and your gun and your ship and your unmarked graves and not tell a soul --”
“So,” Hal said with unexpected heaviness in his voice,” what do you think it’ll feel like?”
“Gentlemen Giant,” Sam said at last.
Hal lowered the gun only slightly. Having it pointed at Sam’s midsection instead of his face was little comfort, though.
“Come again,” Hal said.
“Gentleman Giant,” Sam said, pointing above Hal’s shoulder. “You have a poster from the 1995 Ascomycota Tour.” It was the youngest thing on the walls and, still, it had been yellowed by time. “I mean, that was definitely before I had ever gotten behind the wheel…but, don’t tell me, are you a Pliant Giant?”
Hal lowered the gun further, all three of its barrels now pointing at Sam’s shins. He could do without his shins, Hillary thought, if it came to that.
“I am. I mean, I was. I don’t get out much anymore. But, yeah, ‘95, I was still a young man back then. I saw them in Chula Vista, Cape Coral, Round Rock…”
“You followed the Giants?”
Now the gun was at Hal’s side. Even Sam’s feet were safe.
“Damn right I did,” Hal laughed. “Nevermind ‘95. Back in 1990, I went all over the place for the Postcards from Ganymede tour: West Valley City, Victorville, Saint Paul…”
Hillary didn’t wait for him to get to Ann Arbor, West Jordan, or Denton, Texas. Without knowing, or caring, about what might come next, she sprinted at Hal, lowered her shoulder, and dislodged his feet from the ground. Considering the height and weight advantage he had on her, it was as close to a tackle as she’d come. More importantly, the triptych shotgun clunked harmlessly after them.
At least, it would have, had it been a shotgun, and not a Xenon Tetrabromide Trigun, or the Triclops, as the intelligence community had affectionately codenamed it, from the NGC 3115 galaxy. Whereas an Earth shotgun requires the trigger to be pulled to become a deadly weapon, the trigger on the Triclops was actually the secondary, less lethal way to do damage. Its main method of destruction was, in fact, by hurtling it at the ground, at which point all three of its plasma tubes would meld, causing a remarkably powerful concussive blast.
Which was exactly what happened; for all his theories, Hal had never imagined this.
In swift order, what remained of the barn came crashing down. By virtue of good luck, both Hillary and Sam managed to roll away from the wreckage. Hal, struck by any number of beams flying well above the speed of sound all across his body, was not so fortunate. His teeth were pulverized. His collarbone was ruptured. His bowels were turned to slurry. Few parts of him were left recognizable after the mess was cleared, save for each of his pinkies, which miraculously survived largely intact.
Hillary and Sam were not out of harm’s way yet, though. While the Triclops’s initial blast is quite powerful, its aftershocks are nothing to slouch at, either. Suddenly untethered by the barrels of the gun, the newly freed molecules raced scattershot through the air, like caffeinated kids on the first day of summer vacation. Earth’s atmosphere wasn’t quick enough to swallow it all up. Having nowhere else to go, the highly charged, highly erratic elements bounced again and again off of every semi-solid surface, only slowing down once they’d seemingly had their fill of havoc.
“What the hell is happening?” Hillary gurgled as she struggled to get to her feet amidst the swirling of wrecked barn beams. She could smell the beginnings of fire, too. What little was left of Hal's barn was going up in flames: dated posters and all. Her senses, though, were too overloaded to pay much mind to that at the moment. The horizon kept tilting; at first a little to the left, and then very severely to the right. And the ground had the very same consistency as a tub of expired cough syrup. Cherry flavor.
“Whatever you did, I think we’re in trouble,” Sam replied. Unable to combat the newfound forces of gravity, Sam was rendered prone to the ground, splayed out on all fours, with only his chin and mouth managing to remain upright.
“What’s that supposed to mean: ‘whatever I did’?'' Hillary grunted. She was having more luck than Sam, but only just barely. She’d managed to rise to one knee but the fire behind her-- yes, she could now confirm it certainly was a fire, on account of the flames nipping at her heels-- meant that her current pace was totally inadequate should she hope to survive.
It was as if Sam were battling the air itself. He could not manage to duck or juke fast enough to avoid its invisible blows. His nose ached and he was pretty sure both of his ribs were surely bruised. And he wasn’t ignorant of the threat of sudden immolation, either.
“I didn’t mean anything. And I definitely don’t want my last words to you to have been mistaken as some kind of accusation or --”
“Sam,” Hillary said, by now remarkably on both feet again,” they won’t be your last words. We’re going to get through this. It was quick thinking, by the way, what you did back there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Distracting that lunatic by saying all those ridiculous things about Gentleman Giant. I don’t know how you came up with all that nonsense so quickly.”
Sam stopped squirming just long enough to cast a sideways look at Hillary.
“Nonsense? Those were real tours. Treasured, fundamental parts of the Gentleman Giant lore. As central to the mythology of the band as the cherry tree is to Washington.”
“Oh. Look, Sam, whatever, it doesn’t matter. We’ve gotta get out of here. Don’t think about pulling yourself off the ground: think about letting yourself rise up into the air. Don’t fight it. Go with it.”
Now that is nonsense, Sam wanted to say. He was a little hurt by Hillary’s apparent apathy towards the band and quite hurt by the angry matter floating through the air. The last thing he needed was New Age mambo jumbo about how getting up was less about pushing off the ground and more about being one with the air. First the aliens, now this woo stuff? Sam would’ve laughed it all off, except that he thought that laughing, at that moment, might give him a hernia.
Of course, once he did stop trying to do battle with the Earth and once he did, reluctantly, follow Hillary’s advice, he managed to stumble to his feet. But he still owed Hillary a piece of his mind, good advice or not.
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t remember me talking about Ascomycota? Postcards from Ganymede? The infamous Chula Vista Hula Festa show where Barry and Tom played two back-to-back identical sets because by the end of the first they were so stoned they thought a whole new show had started? Gentleman Giant is my life. It’s all I talk about.”
Upright, at last, they hurried away from the scene of destruction. The tour bus had survived not just the blast from the Triclops but the subsequent aftershocks and fire, a real relief since Hillary hadn’t paid a penny for a warranty. Or insurance.
“I know how much Gentleman Giant means to you, Sam,” Hillary said as they both tumbled into the front seat. “I know it’s your life. What it took me too long to realize is that there was only room for Gentleman Giant in your life. Not me, too.”
Sam turned the ignition and praised whichever gods might have intervened on their behalf that the van started with no hesitation. Given all the shitty wheels he’d been behind, he was thankful that Hillary had managed to secure them such a good one. Even if he didn’t know how she’d swung it.
“I’m going to focus on getting us out of here, Hil, but I want you to know that isn’t true.”
“I’m not going to distract you while you’re getting us out of here, but don’t call me Hil.”