Frankentown (9 page)

A sudden flash of color from above sent streams of light, like tractor beams, projecting colors like spotlight down in areas people crowded around.

Then mouths flew agape.

Chapter Nine

At the Same Time

Rushing down a freeway at ninety miles per hour,
Al Cohen drove his ’52 Cherry red Bel Air Chevy.
Former mayor of San Francisco, who had now taken up drinking. He couldn’t figure out which way to go. Tonight, wanted to go home where he could lose count of his whiskies on rocks.

Everything stank to high heavens.

But it was all his fault and he knew it.

Corruption and mob bribery that went public, left him in his term, without out a chance for a second run. There were only two petitions for impeachment.
Tonight, he headed home where he could lose count of his whiskies on rocks.

Everything stank to high heavens.

His wife had just left him last week and was looking to take him for everything. Because of this, his re-election campaign was as good as dead and most of his campaign staff quit on him already due to anticipating of lack of job security. Losers.

Nobody believed in him. Not even himself,

so even he would admit it wasn’t unlikely.
 

Now it all got to be a little too much to handle, so when he ran out of “free will”, he was about to flake on a new bottle-free life yet again. He had tried doing it many times and now was
the
time.

It was a sacrifice he felt he had to make for the good of the city, but he gave up.

 
He may have even lost his spine in the divorce.
Now that he lost control of the future altogether, there was nothing left to do than drink himself blind, rinse and repeat. It was now or never, and even with ‘never’ always lurking around the corner, peeking,
it was simply now.

He went to drown the pain.

To put it out of its misery.

Jetting between bird-flipping cars, the image of gulping, not sipping, until he lost consciousness sounded like the only way to conclude the evening. It wouldn't take long; he hadn't slept in days.

The meaning of his life which, to him, has now all expired, making him question his doings in retrospect. Everything he's ever done and has defined his own success with, was, in one way or another, "inspired" by someone else.

No way did it matter, there were no original ideas anymore. Everything has been explored, searched and visited. Done.

Like his life.
Rainbow-colored lights discoed to his right, momentarily distracting him as an old lady didn't look over her shoulder when switching to a faster lane at 50 miles per hour.

 
It was almost the lady’s time to go, but not yet. Miraculously, she only suffered bruises, but Al's days were numbered. Right before Al turned mostly to apple sauce, he had hoped for all the cliches of the world to come true. He would've given anything for a happy end. He wouldn't even forego his life passing before his eyes. But for that to happen, he would've had to have lived one for himself. All these years the lights were on and nobody was home.

His front trunk pushed against the heavy granny-mobile, while the motor completed the momentum. His whole car crumpled like red tinfoil, turning it,
with him, into a huge jam packed lunchbox.

He lost his head across all the interior,
the one last headache of his life.

And then he was gone.

No excruciating pain.

It was quick.

He hung 30 feet above the flaming wreck, not feeling the heat rising from the fire. No longer an inhabitant of his own human vessel. Now that he left his physical form, his new perspective made him see the error of his ways.

A little too late.

None of that matters now that the slate’s wiped clean.

No more lawsuits.

No more divorce lawyers.

No more impatience at work,

No more bills.

No more wild goosechases.

The smashed car, along with its former passenger, slowly lifted 30 feet into the air without much of a warning and started heading south, toward the Oakland lights. A foreign force guided the car through the air, around obstacles, slowly peeling parts off the pulverized victim inside.

It was at this exact moment that the two lights hanging above Oakland projected beams down at twelve lanky being with bulbous heads materialized, too startling to look at.

The kind of stuff that turns thoughts deep indigo and fill your sleep with ominous, razor sharp dreams.

The crowd that stood there was vast and all eyes were locked on the uncrumpled car and the aliens.
Within 30 seconds, Al Cohen climbed out of the car, alive. He appeared quite confused, and he ought to have been. Only several minutes earlier, he had been mostly the consistency of ketchup.
Otherwise not much going on inside his refurbished and reassembled head.

He’s seen sci-fis, but none of the monsters ever looked quite like this. Some looked similar, but no movie he’s seen ever came close to accurately depicting the oddly misshapen resemblance to us, people.

Their skin was translucent and sickly, and covered in thousands of thin veins. Each being glowed both from inside, as they healed Al Cohen back to life, and outside, in red and orange halos.

If you looked carefully,
you could see every bone,
every muscle,
every tendon.
The entire being looked very vulnerable and exposed, not unlike a snail without a shell.

Like they had nothing to hide.

Chapter Ten

Induction

The ocean of cultural diversity filled the Oakland docks and swayed and waved like one big organism.
Within, people formed clusters along what they foresaw happening at any minute; whether it resulted in screaming out in panic or some kind of a reforming of life as we know it. Reset.

People’s hearts pounded for ascension,

and for forgiveness.

Everyone on edge,

cutting edge of anxiety.

Let it not be for the worse
∴
When Frank looked, he could see any emotion on the face of people he passed. People cried and laughed, some were nervous, some sang hymns in hope for forgiveness.

Then the beings materialized; four per light.
Tall skinny creatures with black, deep eyes towered above the floor the heads of the crowd made.

Varying in all aspects, their torsos and heads rose tall above the crowd. Their long skinny bodies hid in the bright light of their own production, which was more than enough for the moonless night.
All at once, they raised their hands, high up above their heads and their enormous palms glowed from the inside.

The sea of people held its collective breath.
Either they will now all get killed or something else. Miraculous things have, may and will have happened.
Frank felt quite significant knew at least that much.

Several locals readied trigger fingers.

Few hearts gave out and their owners

went into painful spasms.

Many fainted.

Many wept, for fear or joy.
Many started praying on their knees, for they knew they were witness to the second coming and, in an overzealous display of humility, begged for mercy from the Almighty, in tears on their knees.

From the north, a crumpled bloody mess of a car approached, gliding toward the people, lower and lower. Droplets of blood rained from the wreck as it passed overhead, spilling several front rows falling over in attempt to flee the punishing rain, trampling half a dozen people over. As the wreck drew nearer the spotlights, red hail fell from the derelict and hot breath turned to vapor.
 

The car started remotely uncrumpling it with their hands with unpredictable agility. Quickly and loudly. They gestured their hands outward.
The blood outside the windows seemed to drip inside at once, and that which has first stained the innocent bystanders in the crowd below, some only had bruises, which were now being healed.
Within seconds, the car was restored back to its
almost-good-as-new condition again.
As was its still drunken, live passenger.
Al’s head spun violently, ready to vomit as he reached for the door handle of his midlife-crisis mobile.
The second he opened the door to get out,
his nausea rapidly subsided.

I’m alive
∴
He thought.

The tall beings lowered their hands down, along their elongated torsos. Their enormous eyes changed from black slits to wide open.
Many people felt saved, for they felt they were in the presence of God’s angels.

Some fainted.

Some cried.

Some lost bladder control.

Most gasped.

Al stumbled, lightheaded, unaware of what happened.
He fell to his knees before a small Norwegian family, who kindly helped him sit down on a chair they brought.

With red flashes, the messengers disappeared upwards, along with the lights, both on the ground and in the sky.
The crowd continued to gasp and wail and scream and laugh with joy. Those who saw, felt saved.

It took nearly three further hours until the crowd thinned enough for Frank to start heading back.
His mind was completely blank, unable to process what had happened that left him unafraid.
As he left, he caught a last glance of the one man who was miraculously brought back to life moments earlier.
Al Cohen sat on a chair while depicting his newfound respect for life to a news anchor.

What a story
∴

Frank was somehow able to squeeze in to the second stuffed Bart early that morning.
Shudders still ran up and down his spine, and despite the recent event, it was from two sweaty guys pressed fast against his back. One of them had a poignant body odor.
Commute.

If only he could scratch where one of the fat men’s suspenders was itching him on his back.

No, that could put someone’s eye out
∴

Downtown Berkeley was pretty busy but Frank cut across the UC campus to get home. Clouds have torn and the changes from deep dark indigo to first hints of luscious purples foretold of the sun’s imminent rise.

Frank couldn’t expect his students to come to class today, even if they did, he couldn’t mind.
Then again, it was only four-fifteen in the AM.

It was as if everything had changed, but nothing physical will until that very night, when mankind’s history will start being rewritten by scholars and plain folk alike.

But whether the change was inside him or in the surroundings, it felt like it was a good thing.

As the sky grew pinker by the second, birds sang like they were on speed. Most cars were still somewhere on blocked highways, hopelessly trying to get home.
 

Friendly contact with extraterrestrials.

This is so insane.

As a scientist, he was baffled, but at leasst he finally knew that his head was not the stuff of high-budget cinematic science fiction.
He wasn’t crazy.

Walking up the hill he was surprised by how the streets were empty, save for the occasional staring bird.
When he finally was around the bend from his father’s house, large, dark green cars lined the usually vacant parking spaces along the street. Boxy looking vehicles undeniably belonged to the military. Unassuming but alarmed, he continued to make his way home.
At its front, a humvee stretch-limo was parked along with two cop cars behind.

This is another fight or flight situation
∴
 

Maybe they’re here for someone else
∴

Frank decided to stay.

Hitting the road may have seemed like an attractive option, but any possible consequences were inevitable, and soldiers seldom come around to ask for favors.
Alarmed, he continued up the street to his house,
more afraid than he had been hours earlier.

His heart beat intensely increased as he ran up to the front door to open the door as quickly as possible and get inside the safety of the house.

A yell from the kitchen nook gave him two second notice before a dart sent him to the ground, foaming at the mouth in violent spasms, vision blurring.
Someone pulled a bag over his head and two men carried him by his arms.

Then he passed out.

He came to with hot breath condensing on his face, still inside the bag, no telling how long he might’ve been out. The air around him was no longer moving.
Cold sweat. Chills.
By the coldness of the ground he was lying on, he guessed it might’ve been concrete. Maybe a warehouse.
The chamois bag flew off Frank’s head as quick as it had trapped him before. Everything was still coated in a haze of divided conscious blur.

They were in a behemoth
 
pitch-dark hall.

To their side was an enormous closed door.
It was a giant warehouse. Save for a few lights, it was dark, and Frank, who had been hard rapped in the head hard a few times, now had blurry vision.
He was on his knees surrounded by half a dozen guards with semi-automatic weapons.
But it wasn’t an action movie.

This was HIS LIFE.

Happening.

After a brief moment, too soon for Frank’s eyes to adjust to the scarce lighting, a man’s voice poked him with a sharp question.

“What have you seen?”

The question came rather quick.

Shit!
he thought.

“What have you seen?!”

“Aliens?”

Because he didn’t say anything, guilt was assumed.
A slight nod between guards and one of them left his post to get closer to Frank.
The situation felt very threatening, to say the least.

Then the first thud on the head came, temporarily robbing him of vision.

And then the second. Frank was too distracted to notice the warehouse’s ceiling lamps, what with his retina absorbing all the guard’s punches. The guard stopped to withdraw his baton to speed up the rate of pummeling.

Frank spat an ounce of blood onto the concrete, but it kept rushing into his mouth.
When the guard drew near again, he spat in the face of the blurry shape to his side.
Then one of the shapes spoke a dry, cold voice.

“Are you a patriot?” said the gray shape with glowing tops, waving something shiny around.

“Depends what my patry stands for.” Frank said, playing tough-guy.