Arrival
Two battered wipers swished over the yellowed windshield, splattering rain onto cracked asphalt in heavy sheets. The steering wheel thrummed under my fingertips as Ol’ Rusty rumbled down a desolate stretch of road, dim headlights barely illuminating the interstate. Even in the cab with heat blasting, every breath turned to fog. Although I wore the winter jacket my daughter had sent a few years back, the cold made my stomach turn. They usually stayed away in weather like that.
I was alone out in the rainstorm, coming home after a month on the rig and clenching an unlit Newport between my teeth. The radio wailed static; this was gonna be a long ride. Halfway home, I stopped at a gas station, hoping the rain would clear up.
The cashier’s name was Carla, written out on a silver tag in blue-black calligraphy. She was young, maybe twenty-five, and probably from the next town over: North Creek, about forty miles out. As she scanned my things, I speculated.
Maybe the pay is good? Maybe She has a kid at home? Maybe she’s desperate? Maybe she’s alone. Maybe anything.
Carla smiled as she printed my receipt—two packs of Newports, a Slim Jim, and sixty dollars on pump eight. After I had paid, I went and lit up on the curb, hiding from the rain beneath an awning. Car was full, and my jacket was thin, but I didn't want to keep driving. I just wanted to sit out in the cold and smoke.
I did a lot of smoking. When I first saw them, I had been lying on the softball field, high off my rocker. I thought it had been a hallucination, which had happened before, but it was real. The cops didn't believe me, but it was real. I was just the only one who could see them. That didn't make it any less real.
Parents made me see a therapist after that. Therapist thought I had a problem—what a load of bullshit. I still wonder about him. My high school therapist. His job must have been hard. He must've hated looking at kids and thinking they were just starting up on that slow trajectory to madness. He was probably already feeling it burning in the back of his mind.
And I was thinking about the therapist and about Carla, a girl whose story I had already made up in my head. And I was thinking they might never show up for her. Or maybe the cold would be enough to keep them at bay. Or maybe nothing would ever be enough.
And that’s when I saw them, because they came. They always came.
Two of them, circling in the sky like stars. They shined about half as bright, but the light was a vibrant red, so you knew they were there. You knew they weren't just stars. They seemed to orbit each other with some gravity that was different from the known. The whole scene—the lights, the rain, the orbit—seemed special.
Fuckers.
Part of me wanted to just start driving, but it was better to wait it out. They got angry when I didn't stay to watch, and last time they’d been angry, I’d had to replace Rusty’s whole engine.
I lit another smoke, this time from the safety of my truck, and watched quietly as they circled closer to each other, falling nearer and nearer to the ground. I had theorized once—back in my theory days—that they needed a partner to perform the lift. After all, people weighed a lot. Less after the arrival, but still a lot. I figured maybe the extra weight and the force of gravity was too much for one of them to handle alone.
The whole thing took maybe twenty minutes, which seemed like a long time. For them, time passed differently. For them, it must’ve only been a couple passing instances.
They collided in sparks above the dim parking lot, and the world raged in a sudden pound of wind. Rain shrieked through the air, striking against Rusty’s ruby body with intentional violence. From across the concrete, Carla emerged from the station, fearfully clutching her coat in the storm. And she looked right at me, crying out the way they always did. And I didn't say anything, just watched her face contort in pain from the heated cab of my truck.
And then she was gone. Inhale, exhale. They took her particles with them, but her smell hung amplified in the air long after they had vanished. The smoke made the smell go away, so I lit another Newport, and another. And another.
Rusty’s radio was playing this shitty song about love, and I thought I would never love because I was toxic and she would never love because she had disappeared.
When her smell had dispersed, I went back into the gas station and yanked the keys from behind the register. She was smart not to bring them. Smart for me; sometimes, the responsible type would bring the key with them, and I would have to pick the lock.
In the control room, I took the fire hatchet to the monitor system. Smoke poured. Alarms wailed. Cameras all defaulted to black as Ol’ Rusty and I wheezed down the road.
Maybe she’ll wake up in a field tomorrow. Maybe she’ll be okay. Maybe they’ll come for her every month. Maybe they’ll never come for her.
Maybe there will be no one to come for.
It was best not to think about this. This, most viable explanation.
The following month, there was a new cashier at the register. He grinned as I walked in, telling me about all the new deals they had. Hot dog and drink combo, only two bucks. As he took my cash—nothing traceable—I looked up to see Carla’s name removed from the staff registry.
“Can I get two, actually?” He replied with a ‘sure thing,’ and added another combo to my bill. It seemed like the least I could do.
Usually, I didn't hit the same place twice, but I was irritated that day. There wasn't a reason for it. Things had been good that month. Big promotion at work. Food was better than usual. But the irritation throbbed in my mind all the same.
As I sat on the curb of the gas station, watching the sky, I had to smoke twice as many Newports to keep the edge off, and it seemed like a while before I saw red.
But they came. They always came.
Reese Dains is an avid fan of science fiction, theater, and horchata tea. Currently, she's studying Computer Science in New York City. You can find more short fiction and poetry on her Instagram, @rhiannadains.