They Want One of Us
There was never anything wrong with calling a female flight attendant a stewardess, as far as Ray Spencer was concerned.
Ray’s flight from John Wayne Airport in Orange County, CA to Boise, Idaho seemed less like a ride on an airplane and more like a bus ride straight into the dirty part of town. You know, that part of town where the green belts in the center of the road suddenly turn brown. The part of town where stray dogs proudly strut along the sidewalk with no owner in sight.
The Internet “airfare wars” were surely to blame for the sad depreciation in the quality of air traveler. Ray remembered the days when people changed out of their pajamas and put on some goddamn shoes and socks before boarding an aircraft. When a woman would board a plane, she would be dressed to the nines in stockings, a skirt suit, with her hair done up like Jackie O. When a dame like that pranced by, Ray would smell Chanel no. 5 up and down the aisle for a nice long while.
Ray looked to his left to witness a disheveled man wearing flip-flops and eating Cheetos while licking orange gooey Cheeto crust from his fingers. The man’s bratty brood of kids drew on the back of the seat in front of them with crayons. Holy Christ.
The pilot took to the speaker to give a detailed, blow-by-blow commentary about how he would fly the plane and where it was going. Let me guess, genius. You’re going to scoot this hunk of tin up into the air, slap on the autopilot, then waste the next 2 ½ hours jawboning with your co-pilot about how your wife keeps breaking your balls to have more kids. Then you two morons are going to trade notes about which one of the stewardesses is the best in the sack.
Ray dozed off after his third Stolichnaya on the rocks. After a vivid dream about blue snails and flying checkerboards, Ray peeled his crusty eyes open to the deafening white glare of the midday sun. His tongue was burning from the dryness. Fluffy white clouds passed by like drunken marshmallows wandering the streets of Tijuana at three AM.
The sky quickly grew dark, as if God had lowered the dimmer switch before telling a scary story. It didn’t quite look like nighttime, but it would have been dark enough to make the streetlights flick on in Ray’s neighborhood.
Ray spied through his window a massive object expanding at least two hundred feet in all directions from the top of the plane. A loud, deep THUMP rolled through the heart of the aircraft. Women screamed, children cried, and men grunted. A woman struggling through the less forgiving part of her forties crossed her chest and started praying. She was holding one of those books from the Oprah Book Club about going to heaven and having a fantastic party with dead relatives.
In the center of the roof, a perfectly round pothole was cut. The circular piece dropped squarely into the aisle. There was much mumbling and finger pointing at the new hole in the center of the roof. There was no suction coming from the hole, just sounds of things bumping and tossing about at the top of the airplane.
A round, living object peeked down through the hole. It was an upside down, oval-shaped head with massive black eyes and a tiny mouth no larger than a piece of Trident chewing gum. The head bobbed and weaved and the face grimaced. The creature was struggling. The dummy cut a hole that’s too small. Now he can’t fit his entire body through!
The head disappeared, then two skinny, pale arms were thrusted through the hole. Each hand had just three skinny, long white fingers. The tips of each finger were bulbous, covered with suction cups. The arms and hands were hairless, but were shiny and glistening. They just want one of us.
Ray felt himself standing up and walking aimlessly toward the two skinny, shiny hands poking through the hole in the center of the airplane. The hands could sense Ray’s movements. A single finger started to motion toward Ray, enticing him to keep taking steps forward. Ray followed the motions of his feet without any questioning or doubt.
Ray stopped abruptly once he reached the hole. Three slimy fingers gently caressed the top of his skull, making their way down to his forehead, eyes, nose, nostrils, and lips. The middle finger passed back and forth along Ray’s lips over and over again, before entering his mouth and massaging his tongue and teeth. The fingers made their way down to Ray’s neck, where they gently massaged the muscles and ligaments around his spine. Ray found himself becoming increasingly dizzy and sleepy.
The three fingers seized control of Ray’s head with a firm and determined grip. Ray felt himself moving up toward the hole in the ceiling, noticing that his feet were no longer touching the ground. A warm, buzzing sensation cascaded over Ray from head to toe, distracting him from the blinding bright white lights hovering over the airplane.
Maybe it won’t be so bad once I get to where they’re taking me. Maybe folks will be nice there. Maybe the aliens will worship me like some sort of God from the far reaches of the universe. Maybe everyone on their planet has tiny little brains, and I will be able to assert control over them with my superior human intelligence. Maybe I can become King of the Dummies.
THE END
Read another sci-fi tale by J.S. Lender here:
