by featured writer | Sep 20, 2007 | Story
Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer
Mr. Serling entered the cafe and took a seat at the bar. He ordered the lunch special which, for that day, was a bowl of vegetable soup, carrot sticks and a peanut butter sandwich.
His arrival did not go unnoticed. Rob watched from his booth table while his girlfriend, Mary, nursed her coffee.
“Rod Serling is an alien.”
Rob chewed his lip as he made his confession. Mary set down her cup of coffee, glanced around the cafe and lit a cigarette. She blinked.
“Your neighbor is an alien?”
“Yes, I’m telling you, he’s a damned alien and he’s right there.”
Mary took a drag and exhaled a plume of smoke. She regarded poor old Mr. Serling’s aged back and smiled.
“You’ve been smoking too much, man. Not the ciggies, either.”
“No, Mary, I’m serious. Here–”
Rob produced a brass pocket watch. Mary smirked.
“It’s a watch, Rob.”
“No, it’s not just any watch. I found this in his front yard.”
“You were snooping in that poor old man’s front yard?”
“No. Well, maybe. Yeah, anyway, look–this watch stops time. Just like in that old Twilight Zone episode.”
From his seat at the bar, Mr. Serling uttered a low belch and opened up a copy of the morning newspaper.
“Rob, you’ve been doing more than smoking. Did you drop that acid last night after I left?”
“I’m serious, Mary. Look.”
“Rob, it’s a damn watch. Now, I want you to go over there and return that man’s property. Tell him you found it and think it belongs to him.”
“But Mary, he’s an alien!”
This last outburst attracted the attention of several cafe patrons. Mr. Serling was too absorbed in his newspaper to notice.
Mary put out her cigarette in the ashtray and placed her hand on Rob’s.
“Honey. I love you, but I swear to God Almighty, if you don’t stop watching those reruns on TV, I’m going to kick you in the ass. The real Rod Serling died in the 70s. You know that. That guy–”
She pointed at old man Serling.
“–just happens to have the same name. That guy’s not even related. You know that. I know that. Now go return his watch before I smack you.”
“Mary, you’ve seen the shit that goes on next door some nights. You’ve seen things float into the sky and hover and the flashing lights and–”
“Rob, I’ve been stoned out of my mind and seen elephants eclipse the sun. He is not an alien. You’re just paranoid and weird. Now go return the damn watch.”
Rob snatched the watch from the table and rose. He marched over to the bar where his neighbor Mr. Serling sat chewing a peanut butter sandwich.
“M-Mr. Serling?”
The old man swiveled in his seat and faced Rob.
“Yes?”
“I, uh, well, see, I was walking along and I found this–”
Rob held up the watch. Mr. Serling’s eyes brightened.
“Oh, thank goodness. I thought I’d lost it forever. Thank you, young man.”
Mr. Serling took the pocket watch. He opened the cover, stared with gentle amusement at its ticking face, and then pressed the stop button.
Everything froze.
He rose from his seat, left a couple of dollars on the bar and left the cafe in its frozen state. Above, birds hovered still in the air, while cars and people stood in place.
Rod Serling surveyed the street corner, smiled and nodded. His work here was done. He pulled back his sleeve, tapped his wristwatch, and promptly vanished into another dimension..
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by featured writer | Sep 17, 2007 | Story
Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer
It’s the smell that gets to me. Agent Lennox ducks his head out from the kitchen just in time to watch me vomit into the hall.
“You okay, Church?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Just peachy-keen.”
The smell is that of burning meat Inside the kitchen are the remains of tenant #62 Jim Hollerbach. That horrid smell is from his insides coiled and plopped into a frying pan.
I check my sensory inhibitor, thumb it to olfactory and I’m good to go.
Agent Lennox’s phone rings. He taps the earpiece.
“Lennox,” he answers. “You’re shitting me. I’ll send Church over in a minute.”
He taps the earpiece again to disconnect and motions to me.
“The perp lives down the hall. Tenant #41. Guy jacked his line and set it on a loop.”
“He looped?”
The inhibitor gives me a metallic taste in my mouth.
“Yeah,” Lennox says. “Blind analog feed. Should be down the hall to your right. Go check it out. I’ll catch up in a minute.”
I give the remains of Mr. Hollerbach a passing glance before I leave the room. My stomach twists, but nothing creeps up my esophagus.
The Government requires inhibitors for situations like this. Dulling the senses is required to perform an Agent’s duties—or so they tell us in training. It sure beats the hell out of puking.
The serotonin, they tell us, is to enhance community morale.
Agents like myself and Lennox aren’t required to take the supplements. The inhibitors do it for us.
Walking down the hallway, it hits me. Analog. That’s not a word you hear very much these days. The SmartCams are wired to an all-digital encrypted network, and knowing how to bypass that encryption with old technology would require extensive old-world knowledge.
Printed literature took a backseat after the invention of Channel Zero. Rather than face scrutiny and ridicule during such a turbulent time, the Government chose to reinforce a blind eye toward printed material, instead pumping all its resources into the necessity of the single channel. It made more sense to divert the public’s attention rather than force them to give up reading.
It worked, too. People stopped reading. They stopped caring. Books were no longer a danger because no one gave a damn anyway.
Tenant #41—tonight’s murderer—isn’t home, but he left behind the blueprints for his own design.
I step past the forensics team, tug on a pair of gloves and thumb through the first book I see. Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand.
Every wall in the apartment is outfitted with makeshift shelving. Books—at least a thousand—decorate the room. It’s an antiquarian’s dream collection.
“Lennox,” I say, and tap my earpiece.
He answers, and I tell him to conduct a search on all the local antique shops. When he asks why, I tell him.
“Because it looks like our perp is a reader.”
“Oh shit.”
I disconnect and put down the book.
The Government thought they could sweep this under the rug. That if people stopped caring about books, there would be no reason to take away that particular “freedom,” and no cause for alarm or rebellion.
Staring at the home of this murderous reader, I realize the Government has made a gross miscalculation.
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by featured writer | Sep 13, 2007 | Story
Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer
Dr. Watson and Dr. Blair watched as the orderlies interned the patient in observation room three.
Dr. Blair scratched absently at the back of his hand.
“So,” Dr. Watson said, “what’s his story?”
He gestured to the nameless patient in the straightjacket. Both orderlies left him in one corner of the padded room and closed the door behind them. The doctors stared at the young man through the observation window.
Dr. Blair grimaced, cleared his throat and said, “Wandered into the clinic this morning. No name, no ID.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No,” Dr. Blair went on. “He sat in the ER for two and a half hours before we could squeeze anything out of him. Even then, it was nothing but inane babble. Something about aliens.”
Dr. Watson smirked.
“You should be used to that in your neck of the woods.”
Dr. Blair continued to scratch the back of his hand. The skin was red and puffy.
“Damn kids come in from college, drive up to Archuleta Mesa to get stoned and look for the ‘lost military base.’ All they find is a hangover.”
“Lost military base?”
“Yeah,” Dr. Blair said. He kept scratching. The skin turned a dark reddish-purple from his consistent agitation. “Local myth. Sort of like Area 51 up in Nevada, but this base is underground, just north of Dulce. They say it has seven levels. Level seven is where aliens supposedly perform genetic experiments on human beings. Or some shit like that.”
Dr. Watson turned back to the observation window. The nameless kid slowly rocked back and forth. Blood dribbled down from a large, bulbous boil on his forehead.
“That’s one hell of a zit.”
Dr. Blair gasped as he drew blood from the back of his hand. Dr. Watson turned and frowned.
“I’ve got a first aid kit in my office. Walk with me.”
The two doctors left the observation ward.
Dr. Blair continued his story.
“Funny thing is, the kid isn’t stoned. Not as far as I can tell. When we finally got him to speak, all we could get out of him was a bunch of babbling and crazy talk.”
“What did he say?”
“Typical Archuleta bullshit. Went up with a few friends, dropped some acid, got separated. He said he found his way into the underground base and was led down to the seventh level where, and I quote, ‘E.T. revealed the greatest secret of all.'”
They entered Dr. Watson’s office, who proceeded to dig out the first aid kit. He chewed his bottom lip as he bandaged Dr. Blair’s wounded hand.
“Are you okay, doctor?”
“Yeah,” Dr. Blair nodded. “Just a rash. Shouldn’t have scratched it like that.”
Both men sat.
“Anyway,” Dr. Watson said, “what’s this big secret?”
Dr. Blair tried to refrain from smiling, but not hard enough.
“The kid says an alien told him he was the messenger. That he would send a ‘great revelation’ back to his race. Whatever that may be, I have no idea. That boil on his forehead has swollen to twice its size since this morning. He kept picking at it, which caused it to bleed. When we tried to treat it, he grew violent and attacked one of my nurses.”
“Odd.”
“Indeed.”
Dr. Blair rubbed his bandaged hand and rose from his seat.
“I’ve contacted the local police. Hopefully they can help track down his identity. I assume he’s in good hands here?”
“Of course,” Dr. Watson smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”
He saw his friend to the door. As he returned to his desk, Dr. Watson wiped sweat from his brow and felt a slight bump upon his forehead.
It itched and throbbed at his touch.
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by featured writer | Sep 10, 2007 | Story
Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer
Colt was a block from his apartment when the curfew alarms went off. The firing klaxon startled him, and he dropped his smokes. Heart pounding, he retrieved them and ducked into a nearby alley.
It wasn’t long before the first patrol sped by, its rifles poised and searchlights tracking the darkened streets ahead.
He curled up beside a dumpster, flipped his collar and tried to keep warm. The smokes helped. He scolded himself for losing track of time. The bookstore down by the square had enticed him yet again. It wasn’t until the owner, Mr. Drabury, pulled the shades that he realized what time it was. Drabury told him the local alarm was damaged in a riot a couple of days prior.
Gunshots echoed from somewhere farther down the street. Colt wasn’t alone in breaking the curfew.
More shots. Then again, he supposed, maybe he was.
After the hum of the patrol’s engine grew distant, Colt rose to his feet, lifted the lid of the dumpster and climbed in. The smell was horrid and he fought the urge to retch. The feeling of nausea passed after a few minutes, and he reminded himself that spending the night there was safer than trying to dodge the patrols for that last, crucial city block.
Not that it mattered. The master locks in his apartment promptly engaged at curfew. All of his neighbors were safe inside their homes, spending time with their families and worshiping Channel Zero for the required two hours.
Colt reached into his pocket and pulled out the FM transmitter. He affixed it to his ear and thumbed the dial in search of the right frequency. Suddenly his head was filled with the rants of the self-proclaimed Mad Man.
Authorities were still trying to track him down. Rumors circulated that he never transmitted from the same location, and never with the same encryption. After the collapse of the nationwide radio network twenty years ago upon federal implementation of the FCSA and SmartCam installations, the “Mad Man” set up a single broadcast. He brought back the music of the previous century, before it was “tainted by lack of creativity.” He preached, he hounded, he ridiculed the Network and the Government and the apathy created by both.
Colt liked him. He took a drag from his cigarette and lifted up the lid to exhale the smoke.
The Mad Man screeched in his ear.
“–and what do they do for ya, people? You sit at home at night, after you’ve worked yer ass off for the man all damn day, and they expect you to watch this so-called ‘Channel Zero’. They say you’re doing the country a favor. Well I say you’re spying for the man. You’re spyin’ on yer fellow countrymen. It’s sick. It’s disgusting. And if you agree with it, then you’re no fuckin’ different.”
Colt bit his cheeks and fought back laughter. He wanted to cheer on the Mad Man, but the dumpster was already vibrating from a nearby patrol.
“And speaking of spying, people, did any of you catch the broadcast over a Network secure channel a few hours ago? They say there was a murder on Grid Four. Guy knifed to death right there while everybody wat–”
A series of pops erupted in the background. The Mad Man gasped.
“Looks like my cover’s up, ladies and gentlemen. ‘Till next time, I bid you all adieu—and wake the fuck up!.”
The frequency went dead. Colt sighed, finished his cigarette and put it out against the wall of the dumpster. He wrapped his arms around himself, positioned himself as comfortably as possible amid the bags of rotting garbage, and closed his eyes.
Without the voice of the Mad Man in his ears, it would be a very long night.
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by featured writer | Sep 6, 2007 | Story
Author : Todd Keisling, featured writer
From: Mason, Ed
Sent: Saturday, August 22, 2154 8:02 AM
To: Mason, Brandy
Subject: RE: When are you coming home?
Dear Brandy,
I told them this was a bad idea.
After over a hundred years of planning, the eggheads in Houston finally sent us to Mars. We get there, set up a solid base, and conduct tests. Then some genius decides to go dig at one of the ice caps. You know, to see if they can find some kind of geological evidence of extraterrestrial life.
They expected to find some frozen microbes, bacteria, or even a frozen bipedal creature at best. What they did find, though, wasn’t in the guidebook.
When I was a kid I thought Mars looked like this giant ball of rust and dirt. And, to be honest, that’s what it is—rust and dirt. On the surface, anyway. Go about a mile below ground, and you’ll stumble upon an intricate network of metallic tunnels and tubes. You’ll find what looks to be an intricate propulsion system powered by an advanced form of fusion.
Or something like that. This was twenty years ago. I’m just one of the gearheads they shot out here to get it working.
Most things were up and running by the time I got here. The only thing they hadn’t figured out was how an advanced civilization had managed to construct—and move—a craft the size of a planet. Something so large it has its own moons. To be honest, I really don’t give a damn. I’m just here to do my job and get back home.
There’s a single chamber a few hundred clicks from the first entrance point. The eggheads have dubbed it the “control room†due to a large panel with several asymmetric shapes that glow in the presence of an EMP charge.
So when I took a look at the crude drawings and blueprints they’d provided and came to the conclusion that none of us had a single clue as to how to operate this thing, I told them that maybe we shouldn’t mess with it.
Maybe we should just let Mars be a planet. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
They didn’t listen. Instead they told me to press the big oblong-shaped thing on the panel with an EMP emitter. Since these guys are signing my paychecks, I figure hey, what the hell, you know?
So I push the button.
That was four hours ago. Reports came in from several other outposts that some volcanoes spewed to life around the same time they made me push the button. That solved the exhaust enigma.
Now the eggheads are running around, barking orders and figures and trajectories and shit. Now they say planet-side effects of this sudden gain in momentum is going to screw with the gravity and cause surface-wide destruction.
They’re telling all surface-dwelling associates to head underground.
So all that rust and dirt, well, it kind of makes sense to me. Let’s say some advanced species built a big spaceship. They took it out for a joyride several billion years ago and ran out of gas. There sure as hell wasn’t any AAA back then.
Anyway, from the looks of things, these intergalactic geniuses didn’t understand the concept of brakes, because the eggheads can’t figure out a way to slow it down.
Looks like I’ll make it home in time for Jimmy’s birthday after all. I know he wanted a hovercar, but you tell him Dad’s bringing him something even better. He doesn’t even need keys to turn it on.
Love you,
Ed
[-MESSAGE DELIVERED-]
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