An Alien Rescue (39 page)

Scott had to think about what she had said for a long moment before he remembered what it was that Belinda was resurrecting. “Oh yes, I remember now. She used a story concerning a couple of chickens, no less. They were stranded on an island and she used the scenario to warn me about Earth’s future. That it will be the end of us all, if nothing changes.”

“If nothing changes?” she asked.

“Erm, yeah. If we, as a human population, don’t get ourselves off our lazy, ignorant and greedy arses to sort ourselves out before the proverbial hits the fan.”

Both women looked at each other for support or an interpretation. They had each followed part of his explanation, but lost it when he had said something about a proverbial fan, or whatever.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he apologised, smiling. “I know I keep saying things in a way you find difficult to comprehend.”

“No!” quipped Phyllis sarcastically.

“Yes!” stated Belinda, in no uncertain terms

“Mmm. It’s a yes,” said Scott, feeling
highly embarrassed.

“But why did she use chickens to explain your world’s problems to
you
? In the past we have always used primates as an adequate example when explaining the possible problems facing your population, because of the morphological similarity. But Frell chose something much different, she chose chickens. There must be something in her choice of creature that is relevant to you and you alone.”

Scott stroked his chin as he recalled what he had been told concerning Earth, and that of its resident human population’s future. “I remember her using an island full of chickens to put across what might go wrong with Earth. I remember it sort of shook me up as I listened, while I couldn’t help wanting to laugh at the same time. I know she could have used
apes as the focus for our problems, or monkeys or baboons; but she chose bloody chickens.”

Belinda demonstrated a serious look as she said, “I have read your file, Scott. You had a grandfather with a farm, a farm where he bred chickens. The point of using these birds to drive the message of a warning to you was to
possibly use something you could associate with through personal experience. Might this be the case?”

“Erm… I suppose that’s right. He used to
rear the birds, having hatched them in large incubators, collecting the eggs to sell them... and the birds too of course. But to use them to help me understand a warning?”

“Yes, that’s right. What do you recall about the farm and the chickens that might be of use in thinking about what will happen if your planet becomes overpopulated?”

His shoulders slumped slightly as he fought to remember the times he often spent on his grandfather’s farm. He was just a boy, small and youthful with blonde curly hair and a tanned complexion from spending so much time out of doors. He’d climb the forest’s trees for birds’ eggs and fish in a local burn for trout. He smiled as he remembered those happy times. Then the mental pictures of the hens in their segregated enclosures surfaced from some of the furthest regions of his long-term memory. “The hens were sectioned, kept together in seperate flocks of a certain age. From the moment they were chicks they would remain in close proximity until slaughtered.”

Belinda sighed at the thought of his mentioned killing.

“Yes, that’s right,” he stated, while imagining the field as it was all those years before. “I remember it all now. There were wooden sheds, all of the same design, where the hens roosted at night. Each shed was within an enclosure, separated from the others by wire fences. I guess that’s where the name chicken-wire comes from?”

Neither woman commented
.

“Anyway, each enclosure contained
lots of chickens, where they would lay eggs until a time where they would be taken away to market by the lorry load.”

Belinda raised a hand to stop him. “You said taken away by the lorry load, when earlier you said they were slaughtered. Which is it?”

“Ah, you got me there, Belinda. It
was
slaughtered, but I didn’t want to use the word again after I heard you sigh. A lorry would pick up the carcases after the foul deed was done.”

“It is okay, Scott. I understand. And thank you for considering my feelings.”

“Sure. Anytime, Babe. Anyway, as I was saying. The hens lived in these compounds, where they would scrape the dust with their feet while looking for worms and clucking away to each other. Scott added a bit extra to give the listeners a better picture of what it was like. “This was a pre-battery henhouse time, which is to say they were allowed to roam freely in the open air with warm straw nest boxes at night, instead of its modern counter-part wire-mesh and inhumane metal boxes within a building that doesn’t allow daylight to enter.”

He had said it with such conviction that Belinda understood he felt genuine sorrow for the birds that were totally confined. She nodded her understanding, which he acknowledged with a nod. He continued. “The birds would normally be quiet, just scratching around for
any unlucky worm that might pop its head through the soil, or stuffing itself with grain.
Plump chickens always bring the best prices because they look and taste better
, my grandfather used to say.”

Neither lady spoke, but each understood the inference.

“The birds would get restless from time to time, with a flurry of squawking and feather fluttering that would arouse my grandfather’s attention. He was always aware of foxes in the area, culling them several times during a year before they could gain entry into his henhouses.” Scott raised his head in memory of the luxurious fox-stole his grandmother enjoyed. He had never once connected its presence with his grandfather’s occupation. He felt like laughing at his stupidity. He continued. “I used to spot some of the birds having a bloody go at each other, usually within the same flock and occasionally through the fences. Other birds would gather around them to watch, clucking like the blue-blazes while making a real racket to almost egg-them-on, no pun intended,” he added with a grin. “Yeah, honestly, the surrounding flock almost pushed the squabbling birds
into
a fight, building up the confrontation with a series of loud calls and wing-flapping gestures. I often tried to do what I’d seen my grandfather doing, rushing in to break up the fight. But being so small, just a little boy in shorts, the other birds turned on me to keep me away. And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t reach the birds that were actually fighting. They really attacked me when I’d tried to intervene, you know? They were actually stopping me from gaining access to the fighting birds; and having a real go at me to keep me back. That’s right; those little feathery bastards were attacking me so the fight would continue unabated. I experienced that lots of times. Saw lots of fights too. The fighting birds would aim their beaks at their opponent’s eyes, trying to blind them with a deliberate stab. And when they were successful, the winning bird’s beak would pulverise the blinded bird’s head until it was nothing but a bloody mush. The other birds would get really worked up too, all squawking and screeching at the death match and at each other, just as if it was gladiators fighting to the death or bloody glory.”

Scott paused, dropping his glazed look while he remembered the battles that took place in that picturesque dusty-brown field. He’d never given any thought to his memories concerning the chickens before, not even when Frell had used his own experience and knowledge to convey the message that human life could be in trouble by using it as an appropriate example.

“Those little bastards tried it on through the fences as well, really pushing against the wire in an effort to stick the pointed tip of their beak into the eyes of another.” Then the details of Frell’s message hit home. “The factions she mentioned. The separated factions of chickens, where they would battle with each other for supremacy, surviving on what resources there were to be had, to fight and to win, to use and enjoy at another’s expense. And then of course, eventual oblivion.” It was his turn to release a loud sigh. “I never fully appreciated the meaning behind her warning. The use of chickens to tell me what might happen. It was cleverly brilliant, I must admit; but perhaps lost in its cryptic implications.”

“But you remember her telling you the story, Scott.” said Belinda.

“Yes. Sure I do.”

“Then it did what it was supposed to. If she had used apes or monkeys to tell you, you might have forgotten it. Might that not be the case?” she enquired.

“Mmm, yeah, I guess so.”

“And what of the chickens at the farm? Did you consider them violent? Do you consider them to be a good example of what might happen?”

Scott thought about the hens, the blood and the gore from the battles that occurred between them. The bickering and in-house fighting, the sight of mutilated bodies and flapping wings with heads that were left unrecognisable. The proud stance portrayed by the victor and the others that milled around them to glory in the win. He likened the memory of those horrible bloody battles to pathetic punch-drunk boxers in a roped-off ring, egged on by the bloodthirsty betting crowd, bright lights and television cameras.

“They were really nasty little creatures, when I think about it. I’m going to enjoy eating chicken tik
ka all the more when I get the chance. Chicken is now top of my most favourite list of eats! The spiteful little bastards!”

Belinda almost scowled at him for that offensive statement and would have verbally blasted him
- if he hadn’t beaten her to it by adding he'd been wrong to say it. She had felt surprised at herself for feeling the way she did. It was so unlike her to feel a reaction of this sort; and yet putting his story aside, she felt a sense of fury against those who would enjoy eating another animal out of revenge. She hoped the feeling would never return.

“I hope we can get ourselves sorted
out,” he said with conviction.

Belinda replied on behalf of them both. “We can only say, Scott,
that you are doing your best to help, which is appreciated by many.”

The submarine was underway at last. Its HQ and the Pentagon had been fully informed; who had, in turn informed the Azores island group of
its imminent arrival. Plenty of beer and good food for all was the order of the day. The golf clubs had been flown out by USAF fighter jet from RAF Leuchars, in Scotland, all polished and wrapped in eye-catching glossy plastic. What was incredible, in this instance, was the fighters from the USA usually arrived
with
golf clubs, and never to arrive just to take a set away. The RAF handling ground crew had given a knowing wink to the departing fighter crew as the clubs had been carefully loaded and stowed into the vacant bomb-bay. What they didn’t understand was the clubs were part of a forthcoming celebration, and not the usual yank outing and return from playing golf at its most celebrated home.

The coke was finished and trampled crisps covered the floor as each of the trio relaxed. Scott still munched away to his stomach’s content

“Did you find anything else of importance,” asked a shuffling Belinda, looking quite uncomfortable in her seat.

“Oh, yes,” replied Phyllis, having forgotten.

“Yes, a toilet adjoining the kitchen, would you believe?” continued Scott.

“On a Grey ship?” asked Belinda
, taken quite by surprise.

“Yes. And exactly like Mike’s kitchen and toilet on Mars. The same type of grub as well. Eh, sorry. I meant food… which is grub
by another name.” Scott felt he should explain his badly chosen words when he could to help prevent misunderstandings, of which there had already been plenty. “I have an idea,” he said while stroking his hairy chin. “It’s a theory of sorts, which might explain the need for the kitchens and toilets.” He turned to face Phyllis. “Besides the ramp that we used to enter this ship, there is also a bay for levitating people on board as well. It’s entrance is circular and situated on the centre of the underside. Do you think we could locate that area?”

Giving his request some thought, she replied, “I see
no reason why we cannot.”

Belinda raised a hand, indicating she wished to speak. “Would you both mind waiting until I visit the toilet? I seem to be in urgent need of using its facilities.”

Scott let out a stifled giggle. “Are you trying to tell us you’re bursting to visit the bog?”

Belinda was lost for words to answer him immediately. Then
replied. “I do feel as if I am about to burst, yes. But as for a bog, no. The toilet will do… Did you find a bog on board as well?”

Half-chewed crisps splattered the wall nearest Scott when he almost choked. What the Greys would make of the new pebble-dashed decoration remained to be
known. Phyllis was as confused as Belinda, but kept quiet.

Phyllis stood up. “I will show you the way, Belinda. I could probably use them again too.”

Typical
, thought Scott.
Women always seem to go to the toilet in pairs. I couldn’t imagine myself having to go to the toilet with another guy all the time. I would certainly get some peculiar looks if I did.

“I’ll hold the fort while you two are away powdering your noses.” He deliberately said it to confuse them, to give them something to discuss on the way to the
bog
. They already had enough to discuss without his additional input. Belinda wanted to tell Phyllis about the lack of Grey communications and what might face them when they arrived at the Earth base. They were much wiser than Scott was concerning the chances of a trap and what to expect. And what if Frell and Drang were already dead? They needed to think what they would do if that was the final outcome of their rescue attempt. And what about Scott, they both wondered? How would he cope?