Chapter Text
Bluish-white light wafted across his face in the otherwise pitch black room. It tinted his skin a ghostly pale color, and nullified the colors of the tattoos painting his neck. Keyboard keys clicked softly, connected to different monitors stacked haphazardly on the desk. Large bunches of wires ran underneath, snaking and tangling in neatly tied off sections. He stared intently at the bottom center computer, typing away on a forum.
The website was decorated in old black and white photos of blurry shapes. Everything was bathed in a mustard yellow, margins decorated with rusted signs. There were links to popular theories at the top, including government snake people, birds being spies for the bourgeoisie, and other stuff in that vein. The other four computers were open to similar websites, what most would call conspiratorial.
Many websites in this niche have stories of Bigfoot, the Jersey Devil, the Chupacabra, and the like. Those are all, of course, just stories locals tell. Point is, conspiracies are mostly just that—stories. Convoluted tales made up by delusional skeptics to convince themselves that the end times are coming. Maybe to attract tourists as a side effect. Joel didn’t support junk like that ninety-nine percent of the time, except for one subject.
He scrolled back to the top of the page and leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in response. With his arms behind his head, he compared the articles on each of the monitors. The websites all showed the same image—A low quality photo taken of a large creature hunched over its mangled prey. Its eyes reflected red from the camera flash, and the beast stared directly at the viewer from over its shoulder.
The headlines portrayed a clear image: “Aliens in Arizona” “Alien spotted in Arizona” “Aliens are real and they’re in the USA”. Out of all conspiracies, Joel wholeheartedly believed that aliens were real.
He had loved all things sci-fi and space from a young age. Otherworldly machinery, interspecies wars, glass-raining exoplanets, every bit fascinated him. He’d researched biology extensively just to imagine what extraterrestrial life could look like.
With a few clicks, the printer next to him clicked and whirred to life as it scanned the photo. He scrolled down to a comments section on one website, there weren’t many. Some were pleasantly surprised by the alien proof, while others called it fake. He leaned over and set his chin on his hand, going over the words. A particular comment piqued his curiosity. He scrolled back up to the photo, then down to the comment, then back.
“Isn’t this the alley next to Gianni’s pizza in Gormond?” Joel quietly read aloud. He could easily play it off as a weirdly specific, unsuccessful attempt at a joke, save for one small detail—Gormond, Arizona was where he lived. He sat back in his chair, scratching his chin. Gianni’s was a place Joel had been to a number of times. In fact, he considered himself a regular. He particularly loved their Hawaiian. One last whir came from the printer before shutting off with a small beep.
Turning up the brightness on the main monitor, he squinted his eyes and studied the photo closer. The background was almost indiscernible from the blackness, but he could very faintly make out a brick wall behind the creature. His heart quickened with silent excitement as he spotted some graffiti in the corner of the image. He’d been skeptical of the validity until then, but that graffiti had been there for years. It had become somewhat of a historical landmark among locals. Joel pulled up a photo of the restaurant just to be sure, and sure enough, it was the same.
He sighed, pleased with himself, and gently kicked against the desk. The chair eased into a spin towards the wall behind him. It was covered in cork board, with photos strung about in a web more intricate than Henry the Eighth’s marriage history. It looked as cliché as you can get. Red thread, Polaroids and all. He took out one tack strategically, and several photos fell onto the carpeted floor. He bent down to pick them up, tsking quietly. The restringing process took a few minutes, but finally he pinned the newest photo. Standing back, the final piece of the puzzle shone in all its glory. The light from his computers backlit his silhouette onto the wall, reflecting his proud stance back at him. For years, Joel had seen weird things happen in this town, and no one believed him despite the obvious proof. The claw marks, teal scales, teeth made of thick glass. Of course, he never got the creature on film. Until now. He smirked and crossed his arms triumphantly. Now they had to believe him.
Riding his bout of conceit, he flipped his phone out and punched in a number he had long since memorized. Joel laid back into his chair while the obnoxious dial-up sound played in his ear.
“Hey.”
“What’s got you in such a good mood? The Purge isn’t scheduled for another week.” The man on the other end remarked.
“Ha ha, very funny. I’m in a good mood because I finally found a picture of that fuckin’ alien.” Joel said. He heard a sigh through the receiver.
“I don’t believe you.”
“The fuck do you mean, you don’t believe me?!” He snapped. The unimpressed voice repeated his statement.
“I just don’t believe you.” Joel rubbed his temples.
“I have a photo of the thing now! Does your ignorant ass need to see it in person?”
“Yeah, I kinda do. It could be photoshopped, or be a guy in a suit or something.”
“I guess.” He grumbled. Joel loathed when skeptics had a good point, especially when it was Wes. It was so late, Joel nearly forgot people tried to apply “critical thinking” to these kinds of things.
“Besides, you didn’t even take that picture so how do you know it’s real?” He said, then lowered his voice. It sounded like he had his hand cupped around his mouth. “Normally, I’d give you the benefit of the doubt, but I have this really hot girl over and I don’t want to sound like I have a tinfoil hat on.” He said.
Joel rolled his eyes. Obviously, Wes couldn’t see him, but it seemed like the message was received either way.
“Look,” He started, talking at his regular volume. “I bet you two, no, three hundred dollars if you can make me believe you.”
“Deal. Also, isn’t that the fifth woman you’ve had this week?” Joel asked.
“Isn’t this the fifth conspiracy you’ve had this week?”
“Touché.” He said through gritted teeth.
Joel knew he’d come through for him eventually. But until he did, he had someone else in mind. It was the middle of the night though, and the person he wanted to see wouldn’t be available until morning.
He clicked his phone off and slid it in his pocket. The chair rattled as he drug his foot across the carpet, sliding himself back over to the desk and flicking off a light. The only thing left he could see was the glow of the computers. After flicking a couple switches, each monitor powered off, leaving light pollution on the screen for a few moments before draining to its normal, reflective black. He flopped onto the mattress, which lay fitted with a lone bedsheet on the floor, and finally went to sleep around three AM—a reasonable hour by his standards—with Professor Meowingtons curled up by his side.
——
When the sun came over the horizon, he rubbed his crusty eyes and rolled out of bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. Grabbing a hefty bag, Joel shoved all of his evidence into it. Jars, samples, and all. He slid a few photos into a side pocket before slinging the bag over his shoulder with some notable effort.
Keys jangled as he locked the door, whose rusty doorknob let out a whiny protest when he checked it with a little twist.
Even just breaking dawn, the desert sun beat down on the metal roof of the house. Wavy heat distortions were already fuming from it. This early, mountains blocked part of the light, but in a few hours it would be scorching.
Gormond was a relatively small town. Small enough to where most people knew each other, but not so small that there weren’t things to do. There was a mall, several restaurants, bars, and cafés, plus some essentials like a hospital and a few seven-eleven’s. Most of the bars had implemented saloon doors for that old west feel. That gave it some extra charm.
Being a mid-state town though, there weren’t many hotels, as the major tourist cities were close—at least by American standards—and had their own obnoxiously ostentatious resorts to stay at. Phoenix was three hours south, Flagstaff and Sedona were an hour west. Gormond didn’t have any tourist traps either, so the only reason most people stopped by was to take advantage of killer gas prices. Joel particularly loved the isolation if it meant that no one would come near him with a ten foot pole.
Only a few minutes’ walk from his house would land him at his destination: the Gormond police station.
The police station, along with a few other buildings like city hall and the small hospital, were in an area aptly named Central Plaza. They were laid out around a large stone fountain, framing it in a wide semicircle. That fountain hadn’t run in years because of the area’s constant need for water conservancy.
The station was a distinctly square building dead center in the plaza, with a shingled roof laid at a precarious angle. Most of the paint had faded and peeled from decades of sun exposure, but the entrance was still a vibrant blue thanks to a metal awning.
Joel ducked under the large overhang and stopped for a moment to relax in the shade.
Joel had one particular person he wanted to see, and one person he absolutely did not. He hoped, and almost prayed for him not to be there. He huffed and mumbled something to himself, something to keep the unwanted man away, but he could only hope luck was on his side.
A rinky dink little bell jingled as Joel pushed the door open. Stark ceiling lights lit the lobby, and every wall painted a boring white. The area was completely void of life save for a few fake plants, and a tall, stocky woman manning the front desk. Just who he wanted to see. She appeared to be filing away paperwork, and didn’t look up when he entered. As he approached the desk, she brought her gaze up and suddenly looked exhausted, rubbing her temples like a headache had come on.
“Hello Joel.” She grumbled. Her tired expression deepened as he plopped the duffel bag on her desk.
“I have irrefutable proof now, Martha.” Joel said, tugging the zipper open.
“I’m sure you do.” Already fed up, she could only watch helplessly as he spread his collection of photos out in front of her. She tried to ignore him and go back to filing papers. When she looked back, she made an exasperated hum, combing her hands through her hair. A wall of photos, bags, and formaldehyde jars nearly blocked her view entirely. Joel picked out the new photo and thrust it around to her.
“See this shit? That’s the alien. This whole fuckin’ time you didn’t take me seriously, but I’d like to see what your excuse is this time.” He said. Martha stood up and rubbed her eyes with one hand, the other balanced on her hip.
“I don’t care how much ‘proof’ you have,” She snapped, swatting the picture away, “until a group of little green men walk in here, there are no aliens!”
Joel’s expression grew almost comically irritated.
“Every time you come in here, you have more ‘proof’ to show me, and it’s always just blurry pictures and weird containers of toenails you found in the woods!” Martha spat. She gestured towards her desk and the rooms behind her.
“We have real cases here that we’re working on, Joel. With real, proven, tangible dangers! None of us have time for your crazy conspiracy!”
He gestured towards himself in mock offense. “Conspiracy? Please, I have some dignity.”
“Besides, do you really think I’ll believe a photo that’s so clearly photoshopped?” Martha asked, crossing her arms, badge catching the light.
With a contemptuous sigh, Joel began to put his things back in the bag. Martha grabbed one jar and shoved it into the bottom of the bag. Joel flinched as it audibly clinked against something.
“Jesus Christ, watch the specimen.” He scolded, checking it for cracks.
“Just take your junk and go, it’s way too early for this.” She said, massaging the bridge of her nose.
Right when she finished, as if to punctuate her sentence, the sheriff emerged from farther inside. Joel felt eyes bore into him. Martha has always been stubborn about his theories, but Sheriff Keszler seemed to think his existence was a crime in and of itself. The man crossed his arms and continued to glare at him. Joel returned the unwelcome gaze, looking daggers at him from under his brim.
“What “evidence” have you brought this time, Mr. Zimmerman?” The sheriff asked in a low and condescending tone, crossing his burly arms. This hardass was the person he didn’t want to run into.
“Do you think just ‘cause you call me by my last name, you want me to think that you respect me or some shit?” Joel questioned. He knew how dumb the question sounded as soon as it left his mouth.
“Do you think I respect you?” His voice was calm and level. Annoyingly so.
“One day you’ll come running to me after the fuckin’ thing comes running through town. Then you’ll see how real it was.” Joel said, pointing an accusatory finger between the two of them. He felt cool saying that.
As much as he wanted to rub in the sheer dumbassery of their disbelief, the sheriff’s presence was, more often than not, his queue to leave. So Joel left, hearing the bell chime as he pushed the door.
The bit of pride he’d gained from that interaction faded quickly as the cheesiness of his comebacks set in. He walked out and stopped at the last step, set his bag next to him, and perched on it with decidedly bad posture. He drew out a frustrated sigh. Why wouldn’t these idiots just listen to him? They never gave him the time of day, even the first few times he brought in evidence.
Joel glanced up, then fully snapped his gaze forward. A little kid and their mom stood several yards away, just staring at him. Great, as if the day couldn’t get worse, now he had to deal with children. He could faintly hear them say something.
“Mama, why does he look so sad?” The kid asked, tugging on the mother’s sleeve.
I’m not sad. Fuck you. He thought before flashing them a large, menacing grin. She burst into tears and shoved her face into the mom’s dress. Joel snickered to himself, to the disdain of the mother. They began to walk away when the child looked over their shoulder at him. Joel blew a raspberry and flipped both of them off. Her mom covered her child’s eyes and briskly walked away, glowering at him. The ends of Joel’s lips quirked up in a small, but genuine, smile. Children were a blight on the face of the earth, but they were fun to scare. The woman marched herself and her kid away from him, and he watched.
However, this joy was short-lived.
“You’re still here?” Martha asked, with an irritated intonation. The door slammed hard behind her, and she stomped down the stairs until she stood in front of him with her arms akimbo. At first, Joel didn’t say anything. She blocked the glare of the sun perfectly with her head.
“Yup.” Joel said simply.
“Well, Mr. Zimmerman,” She began, echoing the sheriff. “We can’t have a disheveled man blocking the entrance, so you have to scoot.”
Joel pretended to examine himself.
“I know I’m not the pinnacle of human beauty, but disheveled is a little harsh.” He remarked. Martha leaned her head to the side, letting the sun shine right into his eyes.
“Ok, fine, I’ll leave. Fuck!” He said, snatching up his bag. Martha eyed him for a few seconds before going back inside, apparently deeming him far enough from the building. Joel stopped and stared at the station. He became almost pouty.
“Bitch.” He cursed under his breath.
As Joel made his way back to his house, he received looks not unlike the disdain that the mother had given him. Even excluding the local police force, he wasn’t well liked, which certainly didn’t help his cause. That was fine, though. It wasn’t like he cared for the other denizens of Gormond anyway.
After getting back to his house in no particular hurry, he immediately flicked on the air conditioner. Whoever had originally built this house clearly wasn’t thinking. Who in their right mind gives a house a metal roof in the middle of the desert? Honestly, Joel was lucky that all his computers and assorted technical junk hadn’t melted yet.
He set down his bag on a little desk right next to his floor mattress, and exhaled, sliding into his rolling chair. The duffel bag sloshed as he put it down, and Joel’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He tried to unzip it as fast as he could, but his hand kept slipping off. Once it was open, he plunged his hand into the mess of jars and samples, and in less than a second, he touched something wet.
“Shit. Shit Shit Shit Shit.”
He whipped his head around, looking for something to drain the liquid into. His eyes landed on a plastic bucket up on a shelf.
“Where did I even–? Doesn’t matter. Come on.” He muttered to himself before warily climbing on top of his swivel chair. It shuddered beneath him, despite his attempt to steady himself as he stood up. His hand barely grazed the bucket as he reached up to grab it. With just that touch, it was already teetering on the edge. The chair shook under him, and he lurched towards the shelf, grasping at the edge until he managed to grab it, just barely holding on. Needless to say, Joel found himself in a rather precarious position. He could feel the almost ninety degree angle his body stuck out at. Sweat began to form profusely above his brow.
He took in a sharp breath and snagged the bucket, which toppled over the side and took him with it. He crashed onto the matted carpet, arm pinned under his ribs. He managed to push himself up, but it wasn’t an easy feat. A large bruise went down the length of his forearm and up his elbow. It hurt, obviously, but he had a chemical spill that took precedence.
Placing the bucket next to his desk, he started unloading everything from the bag and was instantly hit with the fetor of formaldehyde. Joel scrunched up his nose, but reluctantly kept digging. The more things he pulled out, the wetter they were. Photos had soaked partway through, and several jars were dripping when he pulled them out. Finally, he grabbed the culprit. The jar that Martha had so carelessly thrown in had cracked and burst. It was supposed to house what Joel suspected to be the alien’s left foot, preserved in the substance. Now it just sagged against the hole in the container.
“Of course.” Joel muttered, carefully placing it down into the bucket.
He flipped the bag over and let the preservative run out. Life just hated him today, didn’t it? Joel sat on his bed while the bag drained. His bruise was already turning a purplish-red, and touching it, surprise surprise, hurt.
Inhaling sharply, he got up and took out a white pencil and blueprint paper. Joel cracked his knuckles, regretted it, and winced as he sat at the desk.
Deciding that the day hadn’t had enough alien related excitement, Joel began to pull out some drawers and sift through them. He took out a few drawings and scanned images and spread them out on one side of the desk. He went through his notes and took out one specific one. He sharpened the pencil, then looked at it, then at his notes, then at the paper.
Joel let the pencil fall out of his hand and clatter onto the desk. He itched with motivation, but he couldn’t get his hands to respond to his mind’s wishes. It was like his controllers disconnected.
Leaning back against his chair, Joel groaned and held one of the scanned images above his face. He looked intently at the diagram, a detailed image of a Winchester model 70 featherweight—a standard sniper rifle meant for hunting large game.
Joel had been researching different types of hunting rifles to one day mod one to hunt down this alien. All this information was primed and ready, but it had just sat collecting dust. Joel leaned against his uninjured arm and sighed. He stared at the blank blueprint for minutes, just thinking, but he just couldn’t get himself to begin. Sauntering over to his computers, he booted up Steam. Maybe inspiration would strike later.
—
Straightedges, erasers, and a multitude of other supplies lay strewn across his desk around him. A bright lamp illuminated his work, the only light in the room. Joel’s hand arced over the blueprint. White scratches of pigment marked the paper as he drew out his masterpiece. Soon enough, a fully designed gun lay in front of him. Joel took a good, long stretch and rubbed his aching neck.
2:16 AM.
After a longer nap than he’d intended, inspiration struck. God, it struck like a damn semi truck. It felt like only twenty minutes, but Joel had worked nonstop for a few hours.
Now all it needed was a badass name.
“Alien Fucker.” Joel thought aloud. Too horny, but something along those lines could be awesome. “Alien Destroyer. Extraterrestrial Annihilator.” He ideated, then his eyes popped open as he bent over to scribble something. He scrawled it in the corner with the neatest handwriting he could muster. Joel was quite pleased with himself.
‘E.T.’s Kryptonite’