An Alien Rescue (24 page)

The pungent odour was even stronger
outside the door, leaving a bitter taste in the mouth. Scott recognised the smell from some of his own past culinary attempts, making an absolute hash of some distant and failed dinner. The thing about burning food, he thought, is it all ended up smelling the same, a carbon-black stink bomb. His belly rumbled loudly, enough to be heard by all.

Belinda placed a hand on Scott’s shoulder while leaning closer to the door. “What do you think might be in there?”

“I’m hoping it’s a kitchen that’s full of grub.” He really didn’t know what to expect, but he knew whatever it was that emitted such a smell could perhaps still be edible. “I could really murder an Indian!” he whispered. “A beer would be nice as well.”

Both women turned to face each other, looking shocked.

“He wants to murder an Indian?” said one.

“I heard,” replied the other.

“Why?” they both said.

They almost conferred by telepathy, until Scott turned to, “Shoosh,” them. “Bloody hell,” he said, you’re both as bad as the women on Earth. They can’t stop yapping too. Yackety-bloody-yak, all the yackety time!” He turned to face them, moving his head close to theirs. “Do you know how to tell the difference between male and female skeletons?” he asked. But instead of waiting for a reply, he added, “The female’s jaws are worn out! Now please keep quiet.”

Silence befell them, with downward facing looks. It was like getting a telling-off for doing something naughty.

“Sorry,” they both whispered apologetically.

Scott turned to them, remaining silent for a few seconds before saying with a smile. “It’s alright, it really is. It’s just that … Well, I’m listening for any sound I might hear. Anything at all to give me a clue as to what might be
in there
. Our lives are in danger while we are here and I must give us the best advantage if we are to avoid being caught.”

They returned his reassuring smile while nodding like donkeys again.

He motioned forward a little further, about to press an ear to the door, when the thing instantly flew open on its own accord. He almost jumped with the fright. The women certainly did. With a swish and a soft end–of-travel thump, the room was laid bare before them. A functional kitchen presented itself. It consisted of polished-silver metal worktops and cupboards. The sight reminded him of a professional kitchen, one that could easily be found in hotels and hospitals. There also appeared to be several cookers, all with dials and knobs and an occasional gauge. There was one in particular that caught his attention, because it had a pile of blackened pots sitting on top, all precariously balanced into a steaming, leaning stack.

Looking carefully around the room with unblinking eyes, he slowly entered the smelly den, closely followed by a hungry duo.

“It’s hot in here,” Scott said. “This place was used only a short time ago. But who the hell by?”

Once all three were inside, as abruptly as it had opened, the door automatically closed. A dreadful feeling of being
snared was shared by all. Was this what it appeared as? A functional kitchen or a well concealed trap? Or might it just be a door doing what it was supposed to do? They turned on their heels while wondering in anticipation, watching and listening, looking for someplace to run to should the worst possible outcome happen. Scott thought about looking for a weapon – like a carving knife, just in case.

Scott placed a finger to his lips, demanding silence. They stood perfectly still, hardly breathing
. Scott heard blood pumping in his ears; such was the silence and level of concentration. Scott listened for any sounds of movement from the other side of the door. One minute passed, two, three; when Scott decided there probably wasn’t anyone or anything waiting to pounce on them after all. However, as the kitchen had recently been in use they should be, “On our guard at all times,” he whispered. Both women did the donkey thing again. Scott couldn’t help smiling at their almost docile antics. Their nodding heads reminded him of the way toy donkeys did when he was a child; commonly seen fixed to a car’s rear parcel-shelf, where a vehicle’s motion would bring the head to life, nodding quite merrily to anyone following. He found the similar motions of his companions amusing. The women couldn’t figure why Scott was smiling at them so much. It was almost as if he was happy to be in this situation.

“Hey, look at this?” whispered Phyllis, nudging Belinda in the ribs
with an elbow.

She had opened the nearest cupboard, hoping nothing would fall or jump out. Scott wouldn’t be pleased if she had made any kind of a sound, she knew.

He turned to see Phyllis already removing a couple of little boxes. He held his tongue when he saw the boxes were actually packets … of food! The large bright letters of the brand name,
Knorr
, stood out like a neon sign that said, ‘
Free food
’, as did,
Colman’s
. He blinked his eyes in rapid succession as if to test the unbelievable image on his retina. Then gave the whole scene a double-take. Belinda had grabbed a few as well, laying them down on a worktop for a better look.

Scott stepped closer, lifting one at random. “Holy-smoke!” he blurted in disbelief. “Hot Chilli Con Carne with added piquant peppers. I don’t believe this. I can’t!” he said loudly, momentarily forgetting the silence mode he was supposed to be in.

“Shhhhhhhh!” whispered Belinda with a bit of a giggle, getting a little bit of revenge and enjoying the feeling.

“Uh-huh,” he answered sheepishly, knowing when he’d been caught at his own game.

“What is ketchup?” asked Phyllis.

“You’ve really got to be kidding me?” exclaimed a wider eyed Scott.

Stretching over to her, he took the bottle from her grasp, reading the label. “Heinz Tomato Ketchup?” He leaned backwards, coming to rest on a worktop edge for support. His mind was trying to work it all out. Human food, in packets, on the planet Mars, stashed underground in a secret base, in a kitchen that appeared human in its origins and awful smell.

“Hang on,” he said. “This can’t be right?” Stepping closer to the cupboard, he reached in and removed another packet. He laughed loudly as he read the box’s label. “Spaghetti Bolognese ... with extra parmesan cheese ... Holy-macaroni!”

“Is this something we can eat?” asked Belinda. “Because if it is, I strongly suggest we make something soon before I die of starvation.”

“And also before we get caught!” Phyllis thought it worthwhile to add.

“I must be dreaming,” he said. “We’re on Mars, for Christ’s sake, another planet. And here we are considering making ourselves a plate of spag-bol or chilli-dog.”

“Wait a moment, Scott,” Belinda jumped in. “What is this spag something? And what was it you said about a dog? I … we know what a dog is, and we do not wish to seem ungrateful but dog is not on our menu for eating, nor is any other kind of meat. We do not eat meat
! It is just the way we are. Anything else is fine, but not me … and definitely not dog!”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Scott. “To begin with, there may not be any meat in these packets, and there definitely isn’t any dog either. And that’s a promise!” It didn’t stop him picking up the packet of chilli to check though, just to be
certain.

“But you just said the word dog in one of the meals you thought we could eat.”

“Erm … yes, you’re right about that. But it is
just
a name.” He was stumped to know exactly where the word,
dog,
came from with regards to the chilli. “I’m sure it’s an Americanism from god knows when,” he added. “There is such a thing as hot-dogs, and they’re only pork sausages. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for the names though, somewhere from the dim and distant past. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if some unscrupulous cooks were selling stuff made from dogs at some time in history.”

The faces and shoulders of both women dropped at the thought, their body language showed they were not at all happy with what might be on offer.

Scott raised the spag-bol packet, studying its list of contents. “Hey, are we not the luckiest diners in the universe tonight. It’s made from Soya-bean flour, with a few additives and e-numbers.
Recommended for vegetarians
,” he insisted. “We’re eating in style today, compliments of
Knorr
.”

“Who is to be chef?” asked Phyllis, looking from one to the other.

“Me!” smiled Scott, while holding the packet high.

“Well, get on with it then,” encouraged Belinda, still wondering what a
spag-bol
might actually be. “I am … as you might say … bloody hungry, for the sake of Jesus!”

Scott could only stand speechless for a moment, before almost collapsing into fits of laughter, trying to hush himself when realising the din he was making and before the others had the opportunity.

Phyllis gave Belinda a friendly elbow knock to a shoulder. They were becoming more like Earth humans by adopting his behaviour.

Their frivolity ended abruptly with a slight scraping sound from the other side of the door. Their smiles disappeared as did their laughter, both dying a
very sudden death. Scott hurriedly looked around for another exit, but there wasn’t one. The faint noise repeated itself, sounding like something brushing against the door outside. All three backed away, the packets of food suddenly forgotten about. Scott picked up the bottle of ketchup, recognising its potential as a weapon. Belinda picked up a pot, Phyllis wanted to but couldn’t.

They watched from a distance, waiting and listening, wondering who or what might be outside. Scott ensured the women were behind him, shielding them with his body and glass bottle. He would use
it should a battle ensue. He was their first line of defence, the front line to meet the enemy head-on, ready to charge … with his bottle of fifty-seven varieties tomato sauce held firmly in as threatening a posture as it could possibly be.

“What the hell,” he said loudly. “We’ll give ‘em hell. We will not be taken alive!”

Another sound was heard, long and scratching, sounding much louder than previously. It was in fact quieter, but as they had become so quiet while concentrating on listening, it sounded much louder. Their beating hearts thumped their eardrums like a demented big base drummer hell-bent on destroying his percussion instrument.

Another sound, then another, just before the door swept open in a flash. Both women jumped backwards in fright, bouncing off
each other. Scott motioned forward with the bottle raised, ready to take the battle to the enemy. There’s nothing more intimidating than an advancing attacking force. One step, two, three… He stopped just short of the doorway. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. The door was wide open with just the silence of the outside gloom pouring in. A longer silence ensued for what seemed like an eternity, keeping all three on their toes and as quiet as was humanly possible. Scott turned to check the women, who both looked to him, eyes meeting eyes, full of questions and concerns.

A very hairy head and part of one shoulder appeared
at the door’s edge, looking into the kitchen at a very awkward angle. The hairy owner didn’t want to just openly walk in as he didn’t know who or what was in his kitchen. He had attempted to listen at the door without making it obvious … inadvertently brushing against it. Those were the sounds the others had heard. He slowly stood upright and moved into the doorway, filling it with his bulk. His legs were visibly shaking, ready to run should whatever was in there make an attempt to grab him, or worse. He spotted Scott with the bottle held threateningly above his head, and was about to turn and flea when he caught a glimpse of the shielded women. His eyes almost popped out of his skull as he registered a feminine presence. His legs stopped their Elvis Presley gyrations and without any hesitation stepped through the doorway to face his newfound visitors with a grin. No one made a move, until Scott broke the ice with, “Who the fuck are you?”

A quick answer didn’t follow his question, so Scott asked again. “Who … are you?” He hoped by asking the question without a curse might make it sound better, making it easier to answer.

The man’s eyeballing face was obscured by the scraggiest beard Scott had ever seen. It screamed for a razor
and scissors, while the long matted hair on his head immediately demanded a brush. Both were well on their way to turning completely grey, suggesting an autumnal age had already been reached by the well hidden owner. The beard had a gaping hole, showing a furry tongue with grotty yellow teeth through the mangy mane. The guy stepped forward, hesitating slightly, as a pungent stench of sweat and body odour reached the group as he lessened the distance between them. The stink easily overcame the smell from the pots.

The mouth closed and the man cleared his throat before speaking. “I might ask you the same question, buddy? Just who in the name of goddamned hell are you?” His voice was husky and rough, matching his personal appearance. Clearing his throat once more, with a barking sound, he spoke again. “And what ya’ll doin’ with my goddamned motherfuckin’ ketchup?”

The wind was severely knocked from Scott’s sails. He never for a moment expected to be confronted by another human, and a man at that, complete with a fur-like beard, stinking sweat and knock-out bad breath. Scott instinctively stepped backwards, whether to regroup or to protect the women was uncertain. It might well have been to avoid the smell of decay, dirt, grease and muck. His sense of smell shouted in no uncertain terms, ‘
Keep back or die
!’ What
was
certain was that a stranger stood in front of them, between them and the only exit. It was the only door into a kitchen where a dinner had gone badly wrong; and every living soul on Mars must have been aware of it.

Belinda tried to squeeze past Scott to get a better view. “He’s wearing one of our suits,” she exclaimed
loudly. Phyllis managed a quick glimpse past Scott’s protective stance, enough to confirm Belinda’s statement.

“Bloody hell, so he is,” agreed Scott.

Belinda pushed her head through the space beneath one of Scott’s arms.

“
Where did you get that suit
?” she demanded to know from the dumb-struck guy who looked almost afraid to answer. “
Well? I’m waiting!
”

He was
stuck for a reply. Embarrassed too. One moment he had been trying to salvage a plate of burnt black rice and soya meal, sorting the lightest carbonised flakes of food from the rest, before hearing the strangest noises of an opening and closing door followed by restrained laughter. He had initially thought his mind was playing mental games … again, or his captors were playing with him … just like before. He had seriously considered he might be hallucinating by eating the burned food, or perhaps the rations were poisoned or drugged, but that hadn’t happened for an age. And even then it had taken quite a while before it had taken affect. This was much too soon.

“Belinda, wait your turn,” insisted Scott. He returned his attention to the filthy guy, who now stooped like an old man. “I asked first,” Scott argued. “Who are you?”

“You’re in my bloody kitchen,” he counter-argued.

“Where did you get that suit?”
repeated Belinda, even louder than before.

Scott recalled the story of a missing ship, told to him the previous year. He, like the women, wondered if there might be a connection, and might he also be part of the story. Deciding he wasn’t getting anywhere with his question, he decided on another avenue of exploration.

“He’s a Yank,” added Scott. ‘He’s speaking with a Yankee accent.”

“And you’re a Limey, goddamn it. A Scotlander too, if I aint so wrong.”

“Well I’ll be damned! He
is
a friggen Yank. Bloody hell and soggy sawdust.”

Scott took a couple of steps forward as the ‘Yank’ moved further into the kitchen, meeting him almost half way.

“Hey buddy, or whatever you’re goddamned limey name is, would you mind putting my ketchup down. It’s the last bottle so be careful, will ya?”

Scott looked at the bottle in his hand, before gently placing it on a worktop by his side and well away from its edge. He didn’t want to break the guy’s last bottle and start another war of independence, and all because of ketchup.

“And less of the ‘
friggen
’ in ‘Yank’ as well, goddamn it.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” apologised Scott. “But only if you have less of the Scotlander too, I’m a Scot,” said Scott, thinking of things like tartan kilts and mountain glens. “I’ve been known to accept being called, Jock, but only on certain occasions.”

“Is this one of those occasions?” the Yank asked.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

Because there isn’t anyone else here called Scott, unless
your
name is?”

The bearded Yank smiled back, and even though Scott couldn’t see his mouth he knew he was.

As a token of friendship, Scott offered his right hand, introducing himself. “Hi Yank, you already know
my
name, and behind me is Belinda and Phyllis,” indicating the girls behind him with the thumb of his clenched left hand pointing backwards over his shoulder. Two timid hellos were uttered from behind. Their partially hidden faces tried to get a better look past Scott, wanting to get a better view of the Yank.

A cautious hand reached out to Scott’s, pale to the point of deathly white and visibly shaking.

With an enthusiastic shake from Scott, the American accent became a little bolder. “I’m Mike, Mike Schwartz, from Chicago.”

“How do you do, Mike… Schwartz? I’m pleased to meet you. Surprised as hell mind you, but still pleased nonetheless.”

Scott noticed Mike’s hands were extremely soft, cold and uncomfortably sweaty. Their hands seemed to stick together like a potter touching wet clay. Mike released his grip as soon as the handshaking was done; there was definitely no hanging around for him. Scott was more than happy to get his hand back, wiping it on his suit without thinking. He often viewed anyone who would hold onto his hand for longer than necessary with suspicion, wondering why anyone would try to hold onto his hand when by all accounts the formality of greeting was all said and done with.

“Yeah, me too buddy. But what’s with the far-out party hats?”

“Heh? answered Scott, looking confused.

Mike pointed at what he saw on top of Scott’s head. “The hats you’re all wearing. They all look like kinder party hats to me. What’s the story then? Have I missed some kind of celebration? Is it the fourth of July, or what?”

“Oh, the tools,” Scott said as he moved his hand towards his own, but stopped short just prior to making contact, remembering the strict instruction of never doing so.

“Tools? They’re goddamned hats, unless my mind’s gone kinda lame over the past while or so.” Mike wore a serious look of confusion by Scott’s reference to it being a tool.

Scott looked at Belinda and Phyllis, saying, “Yeah, they do look a bit like hats, I guess, but they’re not. Each hat, as you refer to it, is an environmental tool to protect us when in dangerous environments.”

“You mean to say that li’l ol’ hat thing, tool or whatever, actually helps keep you alive?”

“Yep,” replied Scott, aware he must have sounded American with his reply. “I’ve worn one on the surface of the moon and I’m still here to tell you about it. I also used it to protect me on the surface upstairs too.”

Without any warning, the door behind Mike slammed shut. Both women jumped
back while Scott’s nerves and muscles tensioned as if preparing for action. Mike hardly seemed to notice but smiled at his unannounced visitors’ antics.

“Where in God’s name have you sprung from Mike? We never for a moment expected to meet anyone else on Mars.”

“Holy mother of God, so that’s where I am!” The red mouth reappeared amidst the bushy beard, complete with the stained teeth and bad-breath fumes. Scott was in a better position to see his face, wishing he wasn’t. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone, human that is. I just didn’t know where the hell I was … Until now!”

He fell silent for a moment, thinking about the time he’d spent there, on his own, before falling to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, crying like a baby, trying to hide the fact there were tears running down his cheeks, but it was more than obvious. His stressed-out mind was in tatters, having suffered from clinical depression for years. It was all too evident to Scott and the women as his sobs were uncontrolled and unconfined. They all pitied the poor guy that squatted at Scott’s feet, knowing he was just an ordinary man who had been abducted by the Greys;
but for what reason
, they all asked themselves.

Scott reached down, gently touching Mike’s shoulders with one hand. “Hey, Mike,” he said. “We’re kind of new in town and were wondering if you might give us some sort of breakdown as to where the hell we actually are.”

It was a while before Mike could compose himself enough to answer. “Sure buddy, whatever.”

It was a couple more minutes before his sobs were under control, his hands back-wiping away the last of the tears. To Scott, his soggy unkempt beard resembled that of a Scotsman’s sporran, having been caught in a lashing rainstorm on a typical Scottish summer’s day. Scott gave him another reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, saying, “We’re really surprised to meet another human here.”

He replied sarcastically. “Not half-as-surprised as I am.”

“But where did you get the suit?” continued Belinda. The puzzle of finding a man within the Martian complex was confounding enough, but to see him wearing a colony suit was very suspicious under any circumstances.

“Hey,” Mike answered with irritation in his voice. “What’s with the gravity? Anyone would think I’d stolen the goddamned thing the way you’re behaving. If you want it, you can have it, just so long as you give me something to wear in its place. I aint walkin’ around butt-naked for no-one. No siree.”

Belinda bit her lip to prevent her throwing the same question again. She looked at her own suit, then that of Phyllis and Scott
’s. Turning back to Mike, she said, “Our suits are only used by us, worn for protection. Each and every suit is accountable, especially as they are made from the same metal that our ships are. They must never be allowed to be scrutinised by Earth’s authorities and that is why they are so important.”

“It was given to me by the little guys, the little grey-coloured dwarves that can often be seen scurrying around the place. They used to scare the heebie-jeebies outa me when I first saw ‘em. But now, ah, they’re okay. They don’t bother me an’ I don’t bother them. We’ve got this understanding see?”

“I see,” she said. “And how long have you been here and where did you come from?”

“Phew, you are full of questions for me, aint ya? I can’t blame you cause a’ have a few I wanna to ask
you. However, the lady’s asked first so I’ll give an answer. But before a’ do, how’s about us having something to eat? Is anyone hungry? Or is it just my belly that’s rumbling?” Mike smiled while holding his stomach with both hands as if to suggest it might shake him to pieces.

Belinda stepped forward, squeezing herself between the worktop and Scott. She asked, “Would you happen to have a spare horse?”

Phyllis looked at Scott, and he back at her, before they both turned to look at Belinda. A loud ripping roar of laughter filled the kitchen before Mike butted in with a hushing sound. He explained he didn’t want the little guys to know he had company. Using his hands, he indicated they should quieten themselves down. The muted giggles continued unabated though. Mike remained silent, wondering what it was all about, and why the hell they asked for a horse.

“I’ll supply the goods if the ladies will cook some kind of meal for us,” Mike offered.

“Sure thing,” Belinda answered. “But we don’t know how to cook.”

“Heh?” blurted Scott. “I thought all women could cook!”

Both women folded their arms in silence. They may not live on Earth where sexist remarks are commonplace, but they could still spot them from any distance. Their silence and stance told Scott he’d ruffled a few feathers on a couple of tidy looking birds. He thought he’d better dig himself out of the hole he’d dug himself into by offering some kind of goodwill gesture. “Hey, don’t you worry about a thing, I’m the chef remember? And I can cook a meal fit for a King. Just watch this space.”

Rubbing his hands together, as if warming up for some kind of a fight or financial deal, he scoured the room with his inquisitive eyes. “Right Mike, I’ll need your help. Where
are the pots’n pans?”

Mike pointed at the overhead units. He pointed where the cooker was too, which wasn’t
really necessary, and the high level grill and micro-wave oven. It was a complete kitchen with a small dining area right at the back and off to one side. It consisted of metal seats with a round table.

“It’s just like a typical kitchen,” observed Scott. “Bloody filthy, mind you, but fully functional.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mike. “But it still doesn’t stop me from burning everything I throw on the stove!”