Pit Bulls vs Aliens (5 page)

“Ben, you know it’s a proven fact that people can have dreams that give them a glimpse into the future. I’ve read about it.”

“Proven?” The colonel smiled. “Just because someone with letters after their name said it doesn’t make it fact.”

Belinda sipped her coffee. “You should believe in premonition.”

“Well, I don’t,” he said. “But I have this strange feeling someday I will.” He chuckled at his joke even though he had told it a hundred times.

His wife rolled her eyes. She looked down at Angel, who still sat at the colonel’s feet with a look of anticipation. “At least you’re still sane, aren’t you, girl?”

The colonel put his dish in the sink and walked to the living room, sat in his recliner, and turned on the TV.

“Is that your plans for today?” she asked.

“Affirmative.” He turned it straight to the news.

The screen displayed a map of the United States, and the female newscaster was motioning with one hand and holding a stack of papers with the other. “At least thirty-eight states will experience record high temperatures today,” she said. “If you live in the southern states, a heat advisory is in effect until 7:00 p.m. tonight. Do not leave pets outdoors, and make sure to drink plenty of water.”

The colonel’s wife came into the living room and sat to watch.

The newswoman continued. “Do not leave pets inside cars, not even to run into the store for a minute. A catastrophe was averted yesterday when a woman left two dogs in her car at Perimeter Mall. As the temperature neared dangerous levels, one of the dogs, a pit bull named Roger Dodger, took matters into his own hands by breaking the driver’s-side window and freeing himself and his Chihuahua brother.”

The colonel looked down at his feet at Angel and wondered how people could be so careless with their pets.

“The hot weather is not just affecting us here; it’s also having an effect on fishermen. Let’s go live to the Gulf.” The scene changed to one with an ocean background. Another reporter, this one a young man, was holding a microphone and standing next to a beautiful Asian woman.

“Thanks, Andrea,” the male reporter said. “I’m here with Sally Xie, who is a marine biologist. Dr. Xie, can you tell us what is happening to the water temps?”

Sally nodded. “The water temps have become unpredictable. We’re experiencing record highs all around the globe, and so far there is no pattern to explain why certain areas of the world’s oceans are getting hotter than others.”

“And how does this affect the fishing industry?”

“In a very bad way,” Sally said. “Shrimp need cooler waters just to survive. Shrimp fishers are having to go to deeper waters to find them, but aren’t having much luck. Plankton cannot thrive in warm waters, and if the plankton disappear, it causes a chain reaction. The crustaceans that feed on the plankton disappear, along with the smaller fish that feed on the crustaceans, and the bigger fish that feed on them.”

“It sounds pretty serious,” the reporter said. “How can this be fixed?”

Sally shrugged. “I truly don’t know. I don’t know if it can be fixed. I think we have to determine if this is simply a natural planetary cycle, or if in fact humans are causing it. Either way, we can’t do anything until we know the cause.”

“Are there any other problems being caused by the heat?”

“Yes,” Sally said, looking directly into the camera. “There has been a behavioral change in the sea life as well.”

The reporter looked at the camera, then back to Sally. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, the migration for many of the larger whale species we monitor is very erratic. And many of the mammals, such as porpoises, have begun to show aggression never before documented. This might be due to the diminishing food supply. It might be just competition and survival of the fittest. We simply don’t know.”

“Well, Andrea,” the reporter said, looking back into the camera, “it doesn’t look good. My advice: stay out of the water. Back to you.”

The colonel muted the television. “You don’t have to tell me twice. I’m not going anywhere near the ocean.”

“Like you ever did,” his wife joked.

“It sure is hot, ain’t it, boy?” Darren Mitchell switched hands with the leash and plastic bag of groceries he was carrying. He lifted his hand with the plastic bag to his forehead and wiped away the excess beads of sweat. He nodded to the few people he saw on the street, even though he didn’t speak Spanish. Well, his last and only girlfriend did teach him one line so he could, in her words, explain anything to her family. The line was
“Yo soy blanco,”
which means “I am white.”

Truer words were never spoken. He was a short, thin fellow with a severely receded hairline for a man in his early thirties. What little hair remained was red, very red, and he sunburned easily. Even for this short trip he used an entire bottle of sunscreen and wore his oversized Atlanta Braves ball cap. There was hardly a square inch of his arms and bald head that wasn’t freckled.

A physicist and comic book buff, he was the newest administrator of the SETI complex about two miles out of El Triunfo, a small village near the southern border of Mexico on the edge of the Sierra Madre. He had been there only a week and the stored-up supplies were running low. There was a small truck there for emergencies, but it seemed like such a nice day, he decided to walk Roscoe to town. The sweat ring across the front of his shirt testified to the fact that he wished he had brought the truck.

His pit bull, Roscoe, didn’t slow down or look around. He was happy that they were out walking. This was only the second time they had come into town at all. Roscoe was a very large brown-and-white pit bull, weighing over eighty pounds, who loved everyone, people and animals alike. Darren had found him living in the wild in Alabama on a trip visiting his parents. His tail and ears had been cut, and he looked rather vicious, albeit undernourished. He was living in a wooded area full of coyotes—and surviving. Of course, now he looked like a coyote would be a snack for him.

Darren had not actually been looking for a dog at that point in his life, especially not a full-grown pit bull, and he had tried to explain to his parents that he didn’t have the time or the room for a dog right then, but they were relentless. So he brought the scrawny, filthy mongrel home with him, and it was the best decision he ever made. Roscoe was the best dog he ever met and he loved him dearly.

He neared the last building in town where the dirt road turned to go toward the SETI radio astronomy lab, which rested inside a fenced encasement. On the top of the building was the large satellite dish used to scan the heavens for any faint sign of a signal not from this world. As he turned down the side of the building, however, he almost stopped. There were five young men dressed in what appeared to be gang clothes.

Roscoe kept walking without a care in the world until the young men stepped in front of him. Roscoe looked back to Darren.

“Hey,
güey
,” the leader said. “Where you going?”

Darren removed his rim glasses and wiped away the perspiration. “Oh, hey fellows. We’re just headed back to the lab.”

Another of the young men laughed. “Yeah, man, he’s the one out there looking for aliens.

Can you believe that?”

“You don’t like aliens,
güey
?” the leader asked. “What’s your problem with aliens? My uncle was an alien and you arrested him in America.”

“It wasn’t me,” Darren said weakly and tried to walk on by.

The leader grabbed Roscoe’s collar. “Are you dissing me? Did I say you could go? This here is my street. You want to use my street and not even take a little time to be friendly?”

“That’s a nice pit bull,” another of the gang said.

The leader patted Roscoe on the head. “Yeah, he a big boy all right. He likes to go for walks, eh?”

Darren nodded. “Yes, he does.”

The leader began to run his hand up the leash. “Tell you what, alien hunter, we’re gonna do you a solid. We love dogs. We’ll take him for a walk for you and bring him back to your place when we’re finished. How about that?”

“He’s already tired,” Darren said. “I’ll just take him home.”

“Mande?”
the leader snapped. “Did you hear this
sangrón
?”

The others began to laugh.

“Just give me the leash. I’ll treat him like he was my own dog. Don’t worry; we’ll bring him to you when we’re finished.”

Darren stood fast and held firm.

The leader’s eyes squinted. “Let me make it clear, little man.” He raised his shirt to reveal his pistol. “You understand now?” He pulled on the leash but Darren wouldn’t let go.

“You gonna die for this mutt, man?” one of the others asked.

Darren didn’t know what to say. He was scared to death, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Roscoe’s leash. He knew it would be the last time he ever saw him.

The leader suddenly jerked the leash and it leaped out of Darren’s hand, leaving a rope burn in its departure. He started walking off with Roscoe in tow. Roscoe looked back toward Darren as if wondering what was going on. Darren took a step toward them, but two of the gang members stood in front of them.

One pulled a switchblade knife. “Don’t even think it,” he said.

The other reached down and yanked the plastic bag of groceries out of Darren’s other hand. “We probably gonna need this to feed your dog while we watching him for you.”

The two laughed as they joined the exodus.

Darren couldn’t believe what was happening. He thought of rushing them but feared he’d get them both killed. The moment was surreal. He wasn’t sure if it was real or a heat-induced hallucination. Was he about to lose his beloved Roscoe forever?

He started walking toward the gang. “Hey, I can’t let you take my dog,” he yelled.

The leader turned around, apparently out of patience. He reached down and caressed his weapon. The rest of the group turned around also, and all of them began walking back toward Darren. As they got within five feet of him, they all stopped. The leader removed his hand from the pistol and stared past Darren. All of them seemed to be looking beyond him.

Darren heard a noise and turned to look in the direction of the stares. An older Chevrolet Impala had turned down the alley and was slowly approaching them. It pulled all the way up to Darren and stopped.

Another Mexican man got out. A faint mustache and goatee accentuated his taut young face. He was short and thin, with dark eyes and olive skin. He wore a sleeveless shirt, and his arms displayed several tattoos, among which were satanic symbols. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Nothing that concerns you, Francisco,” the gang leader answered in a friendly tone.

“They’re stealing my dog,” Darren blurted out.

Nobody moved for several seconds. Finally Francisco walked right up to the gang leader, took the leash from his hands, and walked Roscoe over to Darren. As his back was turned, the leader’s face turned beet red and his hand once against found its way to the pistol tucked into his jeans.

“You sure you want to do that?’ Francisco asked without looking around.

The leader laughed and threw his hands up. “
Chido
. It’s all good.”

With that they all turned and walked away.

As they turned the corner out of sight, Darren finally breathed a sigh of relief. He looked around to thank his rescuer and smiled. Francisco was on his knees getting kisses from a grateful Roscoe. “What’s your name, big boy?”

“He’s Roscoe.”

“That’s a good name,” Francisco said.

“Thank you, my friend. You just saved our lives,” Darren said.

Francisco stood up. “Are you loco? What are you doing here?”

Darren explained his job.

“Then stay out there. Some people here are not too fond of outsiders.” Francisco started to walk away.

“Thanks again for saving us,” Darren offered.

“They didn’t want to kill you,” Francisco explained. “They wanted your dog to sell for fighting or breeding.”

“He’s been neutered.”

Francisco shrugged. “That don’t matter. He’s got good genes. They can use him for cloning more fighting dogs.”

Darren realized his other hand was empty. “Oh shoot. They took my groceries.”

Francisco walked over and took a pen from Darren’s pocket protector and wrote on a small piece of paper. “Here; this is my aunt’s store. Tell her I gave you the number and she’ll have someone deliver the stuff to you.”

Darren thanked him again and watched him drive away. Then he got himself and Roscoe out of town as quickly as possible. When he got back to the lab, he unlocked the gate and then the front door to the two-story block building. It was almost like a fortress, so he wasn’t too worried about them trying to mess with him here.

Turning on the lights, he let Roscoe loose and the dog ran straight to the water dish. Likewise, Darren rushed to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold bottled water. He turned it up and finished it without stopping.

After a shower and change of clothes, he prepared Roscoe’s dinner and fed him. Then he checked out the printout from the spectrum analyzer. “No calls,” he said jokingly.

Roscoe looked up, then returned to eating.

“Aliens are so rude,” Darren continued with the joke, possibly because he was still shook up from the earlier events.

After he ate his own dinner that night, he checked all the instruments before going to bed. “Let’s try something fun tonight, Roscoe. Let’s do a three-sixty scan.” Darren entered the commands into the computer. The huge dish on the roof began to move slowly, causing a creaking noise as the static friction of the giant cogs came to life, then settled into a dull hum.

Darren climbed into bed with a comic book. Roscoe jumped over him to take his place on the back side of the small twin bed. Between the walk earlier, the reading, and the moan of the giant dish above them, Darren was soon fast asleep.

Several hours passed as Darren dreamed of little green men. Suddenly he was awoken by Roscoe barking ferociously. He jumped out of bed and fumbled for the light switch, thinking the gang members had come calling. But Roscoe was not barking at anything on the outside; he was concentrating solely on the large speaker beside the computer screen.