Stories

Infection in '84

At one hour and ten minutes past sunset, something that looked like a meteor slashed through the black-blue sky, provoking the teens on the beach to turn their faces to the heavens and cry “Whoa” in awesome amazement. The “meteor” slipped behind a dark hump of mountain and vanished. And the teens turned up the boom box and continued to party like it was 1984—because that was the year. And beer cans fitzed open, and the sexed-up teens sniffed at each other with jerking, anxious eyes.

            On the other side of the mountain, Dr. Larry Seamons and his drinking partner, Hal Sloan, exited the car and slowly approached the steaming crater. Crickets and soft crunches of feet upon dried pine needles and the clacking of a burning shrub were the only sounds…until Hal Sloan slurred, “ Look at…what the…?”

            For like a plant sprouting and growing to adulthood in quick, time-lapse photography, a monstrous alien spacecraft erected itself from the crater. It looked like the biggest rotten banana the two men had ever seen. They tilted their heads back as far as they could without falling backwards and stared at the banana thing with mouths open.  It was as tall as the tallest skyscraper, or as “tall as God,” as Dr. Larry Seamons would later say to reporters, as he clutched a warm, sand-encrusted beer and waved a cigarette to the sky.

            A rip appeared at the base of the spacecraft and began to ooze grey gelatin. The tear grew and widened, until it became a sphere. The gelatin foamed fiercely from the orifice. And Dr. Larry Seamons turned and streaked away like a discovered house mouse.

            Hal Sloan said, “I think we should get out of here” to the vacant space left by the good doctor, just as the aliens burst through the gelatin. 

            They were triangular in shape, had long, snake-like arms and, instead of legs, had a single flesh-wheel that provided unicycle mobility.  The aliens, of course, were very big—the size of garbage trucks. And their heads looked like pinecones with hundreds of eyes attached. An obscene, pulsating pucker served as a mouth.

            Yes, like Evil Knievel shooting through a paper hoop on his motorcycle, three aliens shot from out of the foam and skidded to a stop before Hal Sloan.

            Hal had time to whimper and give the peace signal with a shaking hand, before the lead alien grabbed him and swung him into the air. Hal was upended and his head was put to the monster’s mouth. The alien popped open the top of Hal’s head with its tongue and swigged down all the blood, fat, and soft tissue in a few gulps. The empty Hal container was thrown aside as the alien wiped its mouth on the back of its arm and said telepathically, “These free-range Humanoids taste a little gamey to me, but they’re still good.  Let’s check this place out.”

The aliens then roared down the mountain road—white exhaust trailing from their anus pipes.

Dr Larry Seamons kept running. He would have been amazed at his own stamina, if he hadn’t been so afraid. He could have taken the car, or run down the road, but the closeness of the trees made him feel more secure and safe in the primitive hiding sense. He was now an animal, being hunted by some big mean thing that meant to kill him—of this he was certain—and to run away through the thick green was his one way to survive. He had to get away. Sneak away. Death was behind him.

At the top of the mountain, our good Doctor crashed through a curtain of trees and entered a topography of wild grass and bush. Before him was the open sky with its cold white stars, and, there in the distance, the ocean could be heard. He took three deep breaths, calmed himself a bit, saw a trail, and began to walk quickly down the mountain path to the coastline below.

From a helicopter’s perspective you could see that the aliens were road hogs and were driving above the speed limit. And that there to the right and below, slowly and serenely cruising up the curving road—on a collision course—was the Johnson Family Mini Van. And you could see, from that cunning vantage point, an accident in the making. And some of you would have been terrified. And some of you would have been secretly thrilled. But none of you would have had long to wait….

Mr. Johnson turned a corner and his field of vision ballooned with advancing alien horror. He hit the brakes, twisted the wheel, and slammed headlong into the mountainside. The van then rolled and rolled until it hit the stationary wheel of a bemused alien…. Superior unicycle bioengineering allowed the aliens to stop on a dime….

The creature with the crumpled van at its “foot” turned to look back at its compatriots and gave what could have been a smile. It then leaned over the wreckage and began to gingerly peel off the roof. “Aw crap,” thought the alien as it rummaged through the wreck, “they’re all broken…. Wait, here’s something. Oh, I don’t think it’s ripe enough.” It pulled a two-year-old child still strapped to its safety seat from the wreck.

One of the alien’s pals read its mind and thought/said, “I’ll try it.” It took the offered infant and sucked the sip’s worth of child-portion. The alien twisted its mouth and tossed the empty to the side of the road. “Ugh, yeaach—bitter!” it said in its way.

The aliens laughed and took to the road again.

Not so far below, he could make out the white raised relief of the ocean waves hitting the beach, and saw an orange glow signifying the bonfire of the partying teens. He kept up his rapid pace down the coastal mountain trail, past manzanita bushes and fragrant bay trees. His mind was filled with fear for the race of man. For Dr. Larry Seamons was no fool—he was familiar with the works of H.G. Wells; he had seen the old movie too. He knew that these alien creatures were the masters of man: technically and intellectually. He knew that our military and scientists would not be able to stop them. That our only chance to defeat these conquering monsters lay in something small and unknown—in that something we take for granted and that is peculiar to our world and selves. That little special human thing was our salvation. Oh, how he hoped that was the case. Oh, how he hoped for a good science fiction ending to this science fiction nightmare hell!

His shoes touched the hard-packed sand and crunched down. And he looked down the beach at the bonfire and the swaying shadows that lined it. He would have to warn them! He moved his tired legs and made them run.

He was about 50 feet away from the kids when he started to yell, “Hey! Hey! Kids—Listen up! I’ve got to tell you something. You got to listen. Hey! There’s monsters coming! Monsters!”

…. The drunk, stoned kids, with layered hair and pastel-colored clothes, danced to Van Halen’s “Jump” and paid him no mind.

He ran forward, waving his arms, screaming, “Kids…Kids!”

One particularly good-looking preppy teen, wearing a blue and white pinstripe motif, turned and said, “Who is that asshole?”

Now all the teens checked out the weird guy running at them, and were working their wits for put-downs…when the aliens silently rolled up behind them.

The doctor’s arms fell limp. His knees hit the sand. He covered his face with his hands and shook his head.

“Hey, what’s wrong Faggot?!” shouted an oblivious teen.

The doctor ignored the taunt—expecting the voice to be screaming in death-agony at any moment. But the taunts still came. He looked up and saw that, still unnoticed by the teens, the monsters looked oddly uncomfortable and were slowly edging away from the beach.

“Hey you Faggot—You wanna come here? Faggot?”

“I’m gonna put my tape in now. Ok, Danny? It’s that new Huey Lewis everyone’s listening to.” The girl knelt to the boom box, hit a button, and fumbled in her bag for the important tape.

The music stopped. The aliens stopped. The monsters then began to roll forward….

And the good doctor put two and two together and found the answer he was looking for. He got to his feet and ran toward the bonfire, shouting with a note of panic in his voice, “Kids! Kids! Don’t stop the music! Don’t stop the music!”

The Huey Lewis fan found her tape and popped it into the slot. She was just about to hit “play”, when she looked behind and screamed. She was then pulled up and away.

Now all the teens joined the scream-your-heads-off chorus and began to get pulled up into the air.

And this time the good doctor ran towards the danger. He knew what to do. He dodged swinging alien arms and panicking teens and skidded like a baseball player stealing home—to reach the boom box. He made it. He grabbed that boom box with both hands…and then stared at it. There was no tape. He felt a shadow and a chill at the back of his neck. “Oh god,” he yelped as he began to beat the box with his hands and…and a radio station playing the hit singles of 1984 blasted out. And the hit song blasted the air clean and strong.

The aliens were stunned. It was as if they had smelled something terrible—so terrible that they could not comprehend it—and had to smell it again and again. Then one of the aliens retched.

The lead alien thought/said, “Oh, that’s hideous. Oh! I’ve never heard anything…what is that?! Oh, let’s get out of here. Let’s Get Out Of Here!”  In disgust, it tossed away all the teens it was holding, spun on its wheel and rolled hurriedly back up the mountainside. The two other aliens gratefully threw their kids and did the same. And Dr. Larry Seamons lay in the sand, and, although he hated the song, let it play on….

The aliens returned to the ship with a case of humanoids. They had lucked-out and intercepted a Greyhound bus on the road home. And everything seemed fine enough, until later that night, as one of our earth-exploring aliens lay on its bunk and tried to sleep….  That tune! That horrible tune kept going through its head. It could not understand the lyrics—but it hated them, “What’s love got to do, got to do with it? What’s love but a second hand emotion? What’s love got to do, got to do with it? Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?” And then this horrible little synthetic instrumental would start—and then the chant song would go off again. And Again. And Again. It just wouldn’t leave its mind. The alien sweated, turned colors and vomited over the side of its bunk.

It staggered to the ship’s doctor who, upon entering the ailing creatures mind, yelped, “Ugh, what is that? That? Phrasing? Ooh—what do you mean? That—oh no!” The insidious song now entered the doctor’s mind. The captain rolled into the sickbay for a little chat and was instantly infected.

The aliens quickly left earth with the sick-making song stuck in their collective minds and headed for the nearest colony for medical help. And, within a week, that colony was infected and quarantined.

This type of musical mental affliction (what we call “earworms” or “musical hallucinations”) was new to the aliens, and they had never built up the immunity. They had no concept of music, or “Pop Music,” for that matter. Nearly 2 million aliens got sick, lost their minds and committed suicide due to the mind infection. Another 3 million had to be euthanized. A red dot was placed over planet Earth on all interstellar space maps. No one would ever visit it again, for fear of going mad.

And there by the pool, meditating after doing her Yoga exercises, sits Tina Turner. Her mind, a calm, blank place—aware only of her own breathing and growing contentment—unaware of her singular role in saving the earth with her simple, catchy, shitty song. Don’t you think we should thank her? How could we thank her? Perhaps, in tribute, we could just throw our heads back and sing her song to the stars. You know how it goes…”What’s love got to do, got to do with it? What’s love but a second hand emotion? What’s love….”