Chapter 1:- What's going on here?
"... you ponder conspiracies, half truths, twisted prophecies, and they swirl around in the skull. Government, aliens, fuck, us passives we're on the side of the road just like that, that, what is that little migrating crab? You know the little red Christmas one?"
Doogie rolled out his web education like a stream of pee. We get stone, probably too much. We do have good reasons though. Even if we didn't you know we'd defend it anyway.
"The red Carapace." said Cleo.
"Right... The red what?"
At that very second an overwhelming blinding flash lit up our front room, there were moans of confusion, sudden gasps, our moods instantly flipped from light hearted depression to the horror of being flash burned alive. I screamed out in urgency.
"It's happening! It's happening now! Oh god this is it!"
"Shit! Get down! Get down! Down!"
Doogie delivered orders, and we held that; oh shit look, into each other's eyes - the exposure lowered, our faces, bodiless, reappeared like strange kabuki masks.
A sub-bass wave hit us hard rolling through like an eight-point-oh. The entire building wobbled as if in the ocean, the floor moved below us, the glass windows, holding on in threatening wobbles. We had dropped to our knees, it being scary strong. The kitchen dishes poured out, breaking and breaking as if some angry demon had been loosened. The sub-blast wave finally passed, moving outwards through the apartment buildings block. It was followed up by every imaginable automotive alarm made - all roaring out at once, a mob of car A. I. People shouted from buildings near us.
"Enough!" up at the skies they screamed.
"Jesus that was close." said Cleo.
"Fuck! The fuck'n kitchen again." I whined.
"And the power… and the water…and…"
"We're lucky though."
"Lucky? Fuck me if this is luck."
"It was just a fractional. Check for the shroom!" said Doogie, waving a hand.
We stumbled over our tossed shit all over the floor of the apartment. Out the front door we went, down the steps, and into the ever present overcast day, which was, of course, sixty three years of geo-engineering gone wrong. Rainfall was a thing of the past in most continents over the globe so water supplies were strictly controlled and distributed. That supply, everyone suspected is purposely tainted with god knows what Agenda twenty-one strategy shit. The death numbers were certainly higher these days and the running total was passed around via word of mouth, used in gallows humor, but always failing, due to the horror of the actual reality that laid before us. Outside, citizens were mushroom cloud gazing. It's a beautiful day in the neiborhood.
"Fucking shit! Bullshit! You assholes! Fuck you!"
A teenage girl shouted out, like she had been in some relationship trouble as she walked past us while wearing some kind of white rabbit cosplay get up. We all spotted three Whistlers, buzzing near us just out of reach in the nearby airspace. In seconds, a massive swarm formed high up above. They were getting coverage of the human reaction to the strike. These tiny but quick quadricopters were no bigger or lighter than a humming bird, and were equipped with powerful digital facial recognition software that interfaced with a corporation data mine - location maybe Virginia. At any given time of day you would expect to see dozens of these damn things hovering around in continuous surveillance and always in formation. The Whistlers fly in groups of at least five to six hundred at a time. The sound they made just freaks you out. To terrorize us, they approached from behind at top speed. Major swarms, three thousand, give or take, would fly off to who knows where, and never wavering, they always returned. They formed strange but proper looking geometric formations at dusk when there was just the right light. The swarm stayed up high, hive in motion, ritual dances, shapes, we all wondered just what kind of person programmed that into them. Sometimes the formations would get real close to that gammadion cross, not exactly that, but just close enough to make you swear to yourself and question the meaning of it all. Those mind-fuck symbolism drones.
To everyone's delight a murder of crows were able to attack a single Whistler. The others zipped away easily in avoidance choosing a vertical climb that the crows could not match. On the ground, parts were torn out, lines were pulled and flung away by jet black beaks. The propellers slowed, stopped, and tiny LED lights faded out. A counter attack on a single drone out of hundreds. They killed it. Such satisfaction as feeble as it was. The crows cawed then waited for it. They had become our accidental allies, it was an unwritten rule to always reward them when they took down a Whistler. A stranger nearby tossed them what looked like a half eaten burrito. They hopped to it and huddled around, pulling and looking at us, a sideways unemotional yellow eye. Crows. It is said that they will most easily remember your face.
"Shit… That was like, three blocks away - no more."
"I wonder who bought it." I said.
"You know who - anyone pushing the wrong buttons is who." said Doogie.
"And a few innocents no doubt." I added.
"There. I see it."
Cleo pointed over a tree line where the blast cloud was rolling slowly up. They were non-radioactive detonations but the country was always on high alert for the Super-Tsars. That is, the sixty megaton dirty ones. Yes, there had been three limited exchanges already however the details of those theaters didn't add up. It is widely accepted that those detonations were the brainchild of the long standing plan of 'The Great Culling' of the populations. Yes. I believed it as well. We were, in effect, wondering when our keepers would do the same to us. These bombings, near us now, were called USTRs; Urban Surgical Threat Removals. Little clean bombs. Fractional nukes. Built with A.I. at their hearts. The core reactions pressure was directed downward, into the earth. That targeting achievement was controlled by the A.I. during the detonation. Of course it was all insane where they were heading with the science of killing us.
A roaring fire burned within the lower part of cylinder cloud. It lit up the white sky in blues and crimson reds. There was no wind so the cloud held it's mushroom shape. All eyes on the street watched. It's hood rolled under, the fire bubble billowed, driving it even further skyward, it churned and churned. So mesmerizing. I could see imagined faces in that stirring cloud. Souls, that had just been taken away, their last glimpses, of us, just tiny ants, dots on the streets, as they are lifted skywards to the heavens. They were the lucky ones, set free from this place. In some bizarre way the detonations become beautiful. You fall into a fascination, not the way a pyromaniac has, but more like you know that one day you will become a part of the event itself. A type of communion, a knowing of your undoing with said explosion that would bring on your transformation - sending you into the Great Went. This, a part of a religious belief, a sick and twisted reaction from the presence of the insanity of our lives. You would hear people conversing about those involved with the belief at underground parties. They spoke of the bombs themselves as some type of a divine gateway.
Sirens filled the air. They were coming. The state. They wanted to view their handiwork up close. A lawnmower sound was distant but obvious. The big missile carrying drone had that, doppler-changing lawnmower pitch. It was ironic for some reason that they sounded like lawnmowers. Lawnmowers that cut down people.
"A Husqvarna." said Doogie.
"Yeah." I said.
Bombers were Husqvarna's. Searchers were Toros. There were others but It was time to go and like slapped sheep we would march back into our pens and like it. Back to our consumer programming boxes. The street dispersed, our good neighbors left, downtrodden, vacant eyes on vacant eyes. I stood for a moment at the doorway looking out. The only ones outside now were the crows up in the trees. Far above, in the geo-engeneered sky, were the Whistlers, hovering, three hundred feet above us all. Our mechanical overlords.
How did my life get this way? The sociopaths were running the asylum.
In my world dear reader you are born owing three million to the system. Yes owing three million. That is the price of the gift, of being born into this world. Only one in two hundred thousand ever pay it all back and that happens in old age if ever. As long as you make the minimum monthly payments you stay free. If you miss enough payments they come for you. You are taken to the Fema camps where you are put to work, and there you shall stay until death. The majority of the population just lives with this debt and horror consequence. I was born into this hole. I don't blame you for my birth but I ask O' dear reader, O' would-be illuminator of this world gone dark, if only I could trade places with you. If only I could step out of these sentences and be you, reading these words right now. Yes. I would trade you for your problems. It is only then that you could feel this insane burden of this world gone hard against humanity.
I have ventured past the house of the rising sun, beyond the void of whispering trees during an LSD night and have awakened, crying for the loss of my mother's passing. Wounded souls reveal the unspeakable.
I will not damn you for inexperience. I would only ask from you a slight measure of leeway, a gift of latitude, an agreement between us that you might access, that you might unscrew, that tiny thing holding the facts of your perception tightly together. Just peek into this parallel earth as it is and discard along the way that which might disturb you or bend you wrongly.
Only with the company of my friends could I remain functional here. I plugged in to my little purple player, listening to singer-less soundtracks. I was sick of the web T.V. and the music videos full of narcissism, and endless commercial programming, notions of what we're supposed to be, as long as you don't give up on yourself - more consumer nonsense, ugh, I rejected it all, we all did, in this small apartment dwelling. But we were all living in a pen. It was fear that kept us in line. We rebelled when we could, but without weapons we were pigs - to be used, slaughtered.
I wore my square, narrow, dark blue shades looking like some lost white dude wannabe Ray Charles throwback from an underground forgotten cyberpunk flick. I was bullshit, I had really checked out. Slacker extraordinaire. I hid like an enochlophobic on a mission. Don't fucking approach me sales people. The banks and their greed, the government's killing for energy. Our country had become a self perpetuating war machine selling weapons and looking to start wars and being known and viewed as the world's biggest bully. Congrats. All of the other countries on the planet hates us, hates Americans. A hate filled earth. But all the countries were living in a state of fear. This is the failed Earth.
Our only reliable news source came from a long standing, but subverted Wikileaks site, and those that dared to keep it current. Doogie had secret online contacts that seemed to move about the web, disappearing like neutrons and surfacing in unlikely places. This is also where the rest of the disgruntled parallel survival population goes to read on how our foreign relations are actually doing. That being the eternal small scale wars and the trimming the populations. And you had better have some serious encryption on your search engine lest big brother take an interest in your interests. Do I sound bitter? Things do stray down the path of apprehension here, that Twilight Zone-like premonition, that slow march toward a nuclear nightmare that surely must arrive.
The Native American Indians were right about me, the white man and our likeness. They were right about my ancestors. The end of humanity on this world is nigh. The only wildcard left were the aliens. What I like is this: 1. Our government cannot stop or control them in any way. 2. My enemie's enemy, is my ally, unless they try that anal probe shit. 3. If our government is working with the aliens, then we're all fucked royally, and the endgame will likely be deeply horrid.
Aliens, the new colonials at our shores.
We wondered around in the apartment defeated. My co-conspirators lived with me in this two bedroom doing the things people do when trapped like rats in a controlled mess. If someone cooked or got food the rule was to share but that was frequently ignored and we all suffered a little malnutrition. You had to weigh yourself each week just to make sure dizzy spells were kept away. Beer cans appeared on the scarred black coffee table at any hour of the day along with the ever present three foot bong that laid sideways underneath. It's bulbous curves held a shallow marsh of bongwater stench that hung in the stale air. It reminded us of our broken existence.
The alien question came front and center after my little Hawaiian vacation. After returning I made the mistake of leaking what I had seen there to Cleo. He is the educated one. He is the one Doug, Doogie, Doogs (sounding like noob) always likes to swear at - cause Doogie thinks Cleo sold out to the system by going to school and getting a degree.
Cleo owes thousands for it and there aren't any jobs, not jobs that he was schooled for anyways and he wouldn't take the shit jobs. Since we are all in debt anyway it didn't really matter to him. But he wanted no part of the FEMA camps. They, the State, were likely after him, for his school loans. He is in hiding, living with us. He has to swallow the wet cat poop Doogs throws at him every day. Not literally, I mean the slander of their relationship. Cleo sleeps on the sofa, our public litter box. Sadly very dirty because we don't vacuum much, but it beats the Fema camps.
Doogie could be convincing. But the problem was, as always, proving facts. The wonder smoke that he got from his contacts at the clinic tended to blur those facts. We never really knew what we were smoking, it was probably as tainted as the water. I.D. cards,chip implants. all of it was archived for some soul branding purpose of the likes only a Gestapo mentality can celebrate. Of course Cleo, Doogs and I, didn't mind the baked part, the highness. It gave our conversations a smoke-and-mirrors narration, a blurry crust that shielded us from the possibility of the situation of being too real and uneatable. Life here was a constant wall of fear waiting just outside our own god damn door.
"... that triangle that you saw Jim, I bet that was one of the Grays..." Doogs was doing a yoga move, the warrior, he stood up straight and looking up, brought his arms overhead - smoke shot out from his perched lips.
The first time I saw something, yes a UFO, was way back in two thousand twenty one. I had just got off the job. It was dusk. My co-worker and I were walking out to our cars. The company building was located on top of a hill so we had a beautiful view of the area as far as the chemtrail haze would allow. He noticed it first and pointed. It was as if a solid black line, the length from your thumb to your pinky, had been painted there, in the white sky at about two o'clock. It looked like a black felt marker. It was just frozen there in the sky, spooky, silent. Zero movement. Zero sound. I felt my stomach tighten like a bag of ice was placed on my spine. And then, as if it had noticed that we had noticed it - the thing blurred at speed, across the horizon and out of sight. Gone. Zip. Just like that. The whole moment from when I saw it lasted maybe three seconds.
We looked into each other's eyes. Roger seemed to swallow before speaking.
"You saw that right? Tell me you saw that."
"I saw it... I did. Wait... what the fuck did we just see?"
"Maybe it was military. Just... don't ever forget that you saw it."
Working at that company together I never mentioned it to anyone else and neither did Roger. It had become this weird little secret that we couldn't share. Society's vibe was, if you have seen one, then you're on a specific political side. That was of course a form of intimidation. You knew of them, or, you were brainwashed. The media had projected this rare conflict into the public mindset. If you were aware, you were awake, but avoided. Awake meaning, aligned with a political value. So to bring it up had become admission of taking a side. Admission cornered you somehow.
Now, not to get too far off track, there is a strange comparison to make here. When you grow up in a society you kind of get used to things. Like, the way things are here, and the way it is here maybe you would believe that it should be this way also in other countries. Things can get a bit foggy. When all you know is consumerism, and that's all I know, then anything else seems wrong. The hardest thing to do is identify the problems that your own system can have on other systems in other countries. And it seems like our own system is eating it's own tail. because livin' in these times is serious.
Talk of (that thing the UFO) was in private around trusted friends only. We tried to explain away what it might have been but it would not fit into any experience or in any explanation except for, our own military or absurdly advanced beings with superior technology. After months we stopped talking about it. Of course it was forever burned into my mind. But I would never confide in anyone that was not deeply trusted, not in this place - this world.
One day, seven years after I left that particular job (I stupidly) reported the sighting to a UFO agency online just because I felt some strange urge and obligation to do so after watching a show on the web about unidentified flying objects.
Now, I had blabbed to the world what I had seen. So now they have me on record. Obviously I wasn't thinking clearly. In retrospect I realized that the sightings haunt you, urging you into doing things. Things you shouldn't be doing if... you were on that other side of the political fence.
Then it happened again.
I had saved for years. I was driving in Hawaii just recently with my girlfriend at night. It was around eleven thirty PM, we were heading south. In L.A. the stars are nearly faded out, from the chemtrails, but on the Big island there is wind and it clears randomly, the white blanket parts for a short time, and it's as if you are marooned on a distant space station. The Milky Way dots across the night sky as clear as a polka dot dress in the sun. My hand kept walking over to her thigh, but she kept pushing it away, but I couldn't keep my hands off of her, it was going to be a wild sex night and I was thinking deeply about it worried that the day may have tired her beyond my twisted plans.
I jumped in my driver's seat. She unnecessarily pointed through the windshield, her voice was shrilled, alarmed. I had already spotted it as well. I was in shock more at her sudden outburst, not knowing this side of her either, but "There" was all she needed to say.
For a moment, a single, bright, deep green light hung in the sky directly in front of us about a half a mile ahead up in the sky. Our windows were down on our rental car and the air was cool and fresh. Looking through the front windshield that single light became three, then six , then nine lights, forming a triangle. Connecting lights came on to all three corner lights. Little rows of greenish yellows. I felt numb at that moment.
This was an altogether different feeling than the first one that I saw so many years ago. My girl's hand gripped my arm at the steering wheel. This triangle was roughly the size of my hand held up to the windshield. The triangle slightly rotated slowly. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck as if a mild current was being applied. She felt it too, her worried face looking into mine. Suddenly we jumped, as tiny infrequent blue sparks crackled over our arms, legs, and faces. It was like, one of those mosquito zappers. I did all I could to stay of the road. I let up on the gas, the car slowed.
"What? Don't slow down!"
The sparks stopped. But I felt as if I was in a spinal mercury radiology hospital test or something. It had frozen me for a few seconds. I finally managed press my foot down on the pedal. The object did not seem to get larger or smaller. Now doing fifty-five, it was matching our speed... staying distant but within reach, and we were the only car on the road. The craft, like the other, was dead silent. The car passed through the night, the wind noise was at the windows as it had been for hours. But now it seemed vacant, dream-like. The triangle moved away so fast that we could not perceive it's location. It was simply no longer there - like it had winked out.
"Grab my little camera just in case."
Just in case. In case of what? In case in comes back. Please don't come back I repeated in my mind. And I knew my girlfriend was thinking the same thing even though she had removed her seatbelt, her eyes glued, she was perched at the edge of her seat like an English Setter.
There was something sinister about it's actions. I mean, if they were friendly wouldn't they just appear in the daytime so this phantom-like appearance would be less of a shock?
A second UFO sighting in nine years. That's what started me off. I wanted to know more, I needed to know more. I obsessed. Like a virus we all caught the UFO fever.
When by chance I ran into that co-worker Roger from years ago, Cleo and Doogie were with me. It was all meant to be, they immediately asked him. And that did it. If they hadn't believed me before, hearing Roger's account - set them in stone, pun intended.
"... from what I've read the Grays are kind of just reps, you know? Not really in control, like they are being controlled by someone else and all. A sort of mind control from another alien from someplace else."
Doogie reached over, grabbing the mini zeppelin from Cleo's fingers.
"Great, great, now that doesn't complicate things." Cleo smiled that little smile he had when he smelled bullshit.
"Regardless, and I know, you both agree we shouldn't pursue it."
Doogie stood in front of us stepping up on the coffee table again. We were his imaginary fan base. He wore dark brown multi-pocketed cargo shorts that hung past his knees with black laceless sneakers and the ever present black burglars hat that covered his Howard Stern-like, long black curly hair.
"In my worldly wisdom and rock solid spite I hold for this system, I will determine the measure of our progress by... the amount of resistance we receive on our quest for the truth in this otherworldly subject, if that's what it is."
"Um what else would it be if not otherworldly?" Inquired Cleo.
"Military secrets? Indigenous craft with help from..."
He turned his finger pointing up.
"I hope that you would expect me to undertake this assignment with a healthy draw from the oxygen of scientific skepticism and logical explanations. Without that leveling, our revelations, if any, will feel empty."
"Aye aye." We replied while puffing on our blunts.
He stepped off the table and flopped into the stained orange easy chair, something I picked up from Good Will for a measly ten bucks. I had no idea that what we were about to do would send us all down a trail of tears.