Living
Proof
by
Peter J. Thompson
_________________________________________Prologue
IT MUST BE the Aliens, Howard thought. He’d heard about
them from a man at the shelter. The man had talked about Aliens
with bug eyes that came at night to harvest bodies and take them
back to their spaceship. Howard had never seen them, but it made
sense to him. How else could you explain the things he’d
seen? The man with the weasel’s head that worked at the
newsstand for example. Or the building on Market Street that breathed
fire and oozed slime, though no one else seemed to notice it.
There were some strange things going around and he was sure that
the government was behind them; but the more he thought about
it, the more he realized that it very well could be the Aliens.
___Howard pushed his shopping cart
through the empty street, scanning the curb for aluminum cans.
He moved through a canyon of concrete and glass. Buildings and
streets that bustled with life in the daytime now seemed to be
inhabited by spirits. ____Dark ghosts
that made themselves known by the occasional brightly lit office
in an otherwise black expanse. Downtown Houston was deserted at
this time of night, all the workers having headed home to hide
in their air-conditioned suburban houses. The only people left
were the Street cleaners, an occasional patrol car, and those
like Howard who lived on the Street.
___The night was hot, and the air
so humid it felt like he was breathing through a sponge. Howard
pulled the hood of his sweatshirt tighter over his head. It made
him sweat more, but he felt safer. It protected him from the creatures
of the night, possibly even the Aliens.
___God, I need a drink.
There was an all-night convenience store over on Rusk Street close
to Tranquility Park. Maybe he could buy a bottle and head over
to the park. It would he cooler at this time of night with the
trees and all. Other people slept there, and the cops hardly ever
came by. He could rest, maybe even sleep. Howard reached deep
down into his pocket and pulled out his change, one dollar and
seventy-nine cents. Not even enough to buy a pint of Thunderbird.
That was a major disappointment.
___He walked farther on down the
street, peering into the doorways, constantly on guard against
anyone, or anything, that could be lurking there. Night was dangerous.
He had to be careful. As he turned the corner onto Lamar Street,
he saw a figure walking rapidly toward him. He gripped the bar
of his shopping cart tightly and debated about whether this figure
posed a threat and if he should charge at him. As the man came
closer he recognized him. It was a guy that he sometimes saw at
the mission, an old black guy who called himself Carmichael. He
held a bottle inside a paper bag and was excited about something.
___“Man, this is your lucky
day,” Carmichael said as he stopped right in front of the
cart. Howard wondered if this was really Carmichael or maybe some
being who had taken over his body.
“Man, you been living right or some thing, ‘cause
you are one lucky fool.”
___“Don’t you call me
a fool, old man,” Howard replied
___“What else should I call
you, fool? Anybody who gets good luck falling flat onto his head
and is too damn dumb to know it, I call him a fool.”
___Howard loosened his grip on the
cart. “What kind of luck are you yapping about?”
___“You listen and I’ll
tell you, fool. There’s a guy just around the corner there
who’s giving away free hooch. He just gave me this bottle
and he told me he’d give me ten dollars if I brought him
three more people. You the third.”
___“Why would he do that?”
Howard asked. “Nobody gives away nothin’ for nothin’.”
___“Then don’t come,
fool. You be the one missing out. They’re preachers. They
wants to get some folks to come to their church service.”
___ Howard didn’t like the
idea of having to go to a church service, and the free booze seemed
too good to be true —he’d never heard of preachers
giving out liquor. Still, he was awful thirsty.
___Carmichael peeled away the paper
bag from the bottle, revealing a Wild Turkey label. “Look
at this, he’s even giving away the hard stuff.”
___ That was enough for Howard. His
thirst was now monumental and he could imagine the taste of the
warm liquid streaming down his throat. Together they marched around
the corner and over to the waiting van. It was just as Carmichael
had said. There were three of them, dressed in black like preachers
do, only they weren’t wearing their collars. Probably because
of the heat.
___ They gave Howard his bottle;
he snapped open the top and took a huge swig of the fiery nectar.
It tasted even better than he’d imagined. His throat burned,
his eyes watered, and he felt normal for the first time all day.
___ The three preachers helped him
into the van along with two other vagrants that were already there.
Carmichael stayed behind. The van was comfortable and the whiskey
was an unexpected treat. Maybe he was lucky, Howard thought. Fortune
had definitely smiled on him tonight. He could put up with a church
service, he’d yell out his amens and be thankful. He took
another hard pull on the bottle and fought back a yawn. He hadn’t
realized how tired he was. He could hardly keep his eyes open.
___ As the van’s doors closed,
Howard got a good look at the head preacher. He was tall and lean
and radiated authority. But it was curious. He wore mirrored sunglasses
even though it was the middle of the night. The man looked somehow
familiar but Howard wasn’t sure why. The answer was right
on the edge of his consciousness, trying to peek through.
___The reason came to Howard as the
van pulled out into the street. A cold panic rose up from his
stomach. The mirrored glasses shining back at him looked just
like the eyes of an insect, seen up close.
______________________________________ Chapter 1
LENA DRYER DIDN’T know what to expect; she’d
never watched a man die before. She didn’t think it would
bother her much, though. This was a story, just like any other.
And as such, a sense of detachment was necessary. In her time
as a reporter she’d seen enough forms of suffering that
she wasn’t easily shocked. One time she was first on the
scene after the drive-by shooting of a twelve-year-old boy, arriving
before the detectives. Her most vivid memory of that event was
of all the blood on the sidewalk. She had to watch her step to
avoid tracking it. On another story, in a hospital obstetric ward,
she’d held crack babies who couldn’t stop crying from
the pain, strung out at birth. And over the years, she’d
done more than her share of interviews with grieving relatives
— asking mothers how it felt to lose their sons and husbands
to describe the pain of knowing their wives had been killed. These
were parts of the job she didn’t like, but had learned to
live with. So she didn’t think this would bother her much.
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From Berkley Publishing in March 2003
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