By Jack Carol Crowder the Third

Mission Report

[14] 00 [November] 1998
Transmit Origin: Operative K
Transmit Destination: Operative waiting to read
Subject: Coverage over the past week of departure
Document Classification: Alpha/00000




[GONE TILL NOVEMBER]
[PART ONE ]

Beatrice Pymm died because she missed last bus to Jersey. Twenty minutes before her death she stood at the dreary bus stop and read the timetable in the dim light of the street single lamp. In a few days would be extinguished to conform with the blackout regulations. Beatrice Pymm would never knew of the blackout.

For now, the lamp burned just brightly enough for Beatrice to read faded timetable. To see it better she stood tiptoe and ran down the numbers with end of paint-smudged forefinger. Her late mother always complained bitterly about the paint. She thought it unladylike for one's hand to be forever soiled. She had wanted Beatrice to take up a neater hobby-music, volunteer work, even writing, though Beatrice's mother didn't hold well with writers.

"Damn," Beatrice muttered, forefinger still glued to the timetable. Normally she was punctual to a fault. In a life without financial responsibility, without friends, without a family, she had erected a rigorous personal schedule. Today, she had strayed from it-painted too long, started back too late.

She removed her hand from the timetable and brought it her cheek, squeezing her face into a look of worry. Your father's face, her mother had always said with despair-a broad flat forehead, a large noble nose, a receding chin. At just thirty, hair prematurely shot with gray.

She worried about what to do. Her home in Jersey was at least five miles away, too far to walk. In the early evening there might still be light traffic on the road. Perhaps someone would give her a life.

She let out a long frustrated sigh. Her breath froze, hovered before her face, then drifted away on a cold wind from the marsh. The clouds shattered and a bright moon shorn through. Beatrice looked up and saw a halo of ice floating around it. She shivered, feeling the cold for the first time.

She picked up her things: a leather rucksack, a canvas, a battered easel. She had spent the day painting along the estuary of the Hudson River. Painting was her only love and landscape of Manhattan was her only subject matter. It did lead to certain repetitiveness in her work. Her mother liked to see people in art-street scenes, crowded cafes. Once she even suggested Beatrice spend some time in France to pursue her painting. Beatrice refused. She loved the land and the views, broad and vast this city: New York.

She reluctantly set out toward home, pounding along the side of the road at a good pace despite the weight of the things. She wore a mannish cotton shirt, smudged like her fingers, a heavy sweater that made her feel like a toy bear, a reefer coat too long in the sleeves, trousers tucked inside Wellington boots. She moved beyond the sphere of yellow lamplight; darkness swallowed her. She felt no apprehension about walking through the dark in the countryside. Her mother, fearful of her long trips alone, warned incessantly of rapists. Beatrice always dismissed the treat as unlikely.

She shivered with the cold. She thought of her home, a large house on the edge of Jersey left to her by her mother. Behind the house, at the end of the garden walk, she had built a light-splashed studio, where she spent most of her time. It was not uncommon for her to go days without speaking to another human being.

All this, and more, her killer knew.

After five minutes of walking she head the rattle of the engine behind her. A commercial vehicle, she thought. An old one, judging by the ragged engine note. Beatrice watched the glow of the headlamps spread like sunrise across the grass on either side of the roadway. She heard the engine lose power and being to coast. She felt the gust of wind as the vehicle swept by. She choked at the stink of the exhaust.

The she watched as it pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

The hand, visible in the bright moonlight, struck Beatrice as odd. It poked from the Driver's-side window seconds after the van had stopped and beckoned her forward. A thick leather glove, Beatrice noted, the kind used by workmen who carried heavy things. A workman's overall-dark blue, maybe.

The hand beckoned once more. There it was again-something about the way it moved wasn't quite right. She was an artist, and artists know about motion and flow. And there was something else. When the hand moved it exposed the skin between the sleeve and the base of the glove. Even in poor light Beatrice could see the skin was pale and hairless-not like the wrist of any workman she had ever seen-and uncommonly slender.

Still, she felt no alarm. She quickened her pace and reached the passenger door in a few steps. She pulled open the door and set her things on the floor in front of the seat. Then she looked up into the van for the first time and noticed the driver was gone.

Beatrice Pymm, in the final conscious seconds of her life, wondered why anyone would use a van to carry a motorcycle. It was there, resting on its side in the back, two Jerry cans of petrol next to it.

Still standing next to the van, she closed the door and called out. There was no answer.

Seconds later she heard the sound of a leather boot on the gravel.

She turned her head and saw the driver standing there. She looked to the face and saw only a black woolen mask. Two pools of pale blue stared coldly behind the eyeholes. Feminine-looking lips, parted slightly, glistened behind the slit for the mouth.

Beatrice opened her mouth to scream. She managed only a brief gasp before the driver rammed a gloved hand into her mouth. The fingers dug into the soft flesh of her throat. The glove tasted horribly of dust, petrol, and dirty motor oil. Beatrice gagged, then vomited the remains of her picnic lunch- roasted chicken, Stilton cheese, red wine.

Then she felt the other hand probing around her left breast. For an instant Beatrice thought of her mother's fears about rape had finally been proved correct. But the hand touching her breast wasn't a hand of a molester or a rapist. The hand was skilled, like a doctor's, and curiously gentle. It moved from her breast to her ribs, pressing hard. Beatrice jerked, gasped, and bit down hard. The driver seemed not to feel it through the thick glove.

The hand reached the bottom of her ribs and probed the soft flesh at the top of her abdomen. It went no farther. One finger remained pressed against the spot. Beatrice heard a sharp click.

An instant of excruciating pain, a burst of brilliant white light.

Then, a benevolent darkness.

[PART TWO]
The smoked floated in the air as the Camels cigarette was smudged out in the ashtray. The footsteps were soft and heard by none, yet only a light snore was heard in the office. Kay was not a big man, though he gave the impression of size greater than his sturdy five ten; his pale pockmarked features had a somber blank beauty, an unlikely melding of innocence and worldliness, his eyes hard and dark and bright, partly hooded, almost sleepy-and yet they rarely blinked. Kay could not afford to blink-he might miss something.

His dark features matched with his custom tailored, plain black dress business suit with a black silk lining. As he finally reached door, he slipped on his Ray-Bans with a hum and opened the door. Stepping out into the hall, he scanned the hall for anyone worth seeing, but saw none. He gently shut the door to the office labeled W, and felt a tap on his shoulder. The humming ended.

"Fancy meeting you on the N through Z hall, Old friend." The man in which Kay's eyes were pinned upon wore the same attire as K, the features of the man placed a good fifteen years or so in age, and even a tad of an animal feel: A bear. Often rookies would compare him to this mammal, although the character could be compared to many other animals. Depends what mood he was in, then again, he was never in the mood.

"Just saying goodnight to my partner, Zed." Kay slipped off his Bans and placed them in his pocket. The two began to walk down the hall together.

"Sure ya' were, slugger. Anyhow, I need you follow me to the Eye. This asteroid belt earth has entered is becoming a pain in the ass. A meteorite has crashed to Earth just below the Great Lakes two days ago. The meteorite had a cloaking device attached, to avoid detection by the MiB, it contains a creature called a tsukuda, and was sent purposely by the Deshyr so that it may feed on the plant and animal life on Earth and propagate it's species. The tsukuda will break free of it's containment after impact and immediately head east, towards New York, to search for food. Tabloid Reporter by the name Nikes, has already written an article on the meteorite crater and the mysterious mutilation of several cattle on a farm nearby. Now I know, 'I want to go with my partner on this one' line is gonna pop up. So here goes it: to cover up the tracts for the Deshyr to get this puppy earth bound someone is doing one hell of a job killing folks. We have had ten deaths in the Manhattan area over the past forty-eight hours. All wounds reflecting some other races' killing techniques."

Zed led Kay onto the main floor, where a giant video screen hung on a wall like a billboard. A pair of aliens sat at the control console in front of it. They were small, bony creatures, each with eight arms and a single eye atop a central stalk. they waved at Kay, two or tree arms apiece.

"Bring up the Deshyr file."

Kay read along the now blue outlined letters on the Eye. The Deshyr - This distant race was responsible for the near extinction of the tsukuda. To absolve themselves of this mistake, the Deshyr sent the last remaining specimen to Earth to feed and multiply [the tsukuda is asexual]. The Deshyr consider earthlings to be not only a primitive race, but a barely intelligent one. They have many human samples on their own world, and therefore think nothing of exterminating entire populations of humans to keep the tsukuda off the endangered species list.

Kay simply smirked and yawned lightly. "Another late night."

Zed turned to Kay, "Another long week."

[PART THREE]

The LTD gave a luster in the moonlight, as the driver side door opened. He ran his hands along the steering wheel, letting the sleep fade from his body, and slipped on his seat belt. He set the purring Ford towards the Great Lakes, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Ah hell, forgot to fill my baby up ... better do it now."

The smooth vehicle pulled in the nearest Shop 'n Go, and came to a perfect stop. The door opened, as a Camel was lit, and placed upon Kay's lips. The name tag on the Clerk's chest was Naomi Dunbar. She was short and not too fat or skinny. Her hair was short, straight and brown. Her eyes were brown and she wore small, wire framed glasses and kept a pencil in her hair. She wore an apron that bears the logo of the gas station: Shop 'n Go.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, could you look right here?"

The light echoed as the car drove along it's past, as time itself echoed as the light and darkness together mixed. Until finally the LTD pulled against the last reports upon this huge creature. Kay took off his Bans, as a red glow came in sight, from a barn up the road.

Police officers are parked against the same road, screams were called in to the local police department. The LTD door swung open, as Kay stepped out of the car. The police glanced at him. "What happened here?"

Based on the opinion from the man in the suit and tie before them, they took he was an FBI agent or a representative of some branch. "We sent four men in about ten minutes ago, sir, they haven't came back."

"Well, shit sheriff, I'd hate to see that happen so I guess I'll take over your investigation." Kay closed the door to the LTD and began to walk towards the officers.

"What?!!" The leading officer could not believe this, they were here from the start, this was their operation.

"Jason, he is from a higher branch than us, let him deal with this. Come on, let's go deal with another case." His partner spoke to him, his blue uniform blending in with the light: dim.

Kay opened his coat and opened up his holster. Nodded to them, and stepped down the path towards the house. "Good! Some of you boys have been paying attention. I thought you were all sittin' there dreaming about chasing women. Get out of here. Dismissed."

As his shoes walked along the path, the mud made a slight squish sound and then a crimson line was drawn from the the mud. The door of the house was open slightly, enough for the light from the house to send out a ray to the dark red before it. "Its getting better in the worst way," Kay muttered to himself, drawing the J2 to his side. He could hear the Police's cars peeling off the road towards another scene. He was alone, he liked those odds. Finally reaching the door, Kay slipped his foot in the doorway, and scanned what he could. The bodies of three men lied before him. Only the flesh not "tasty" to the alien was there, mainly their clothes and weapons. A drop of blue blood led a trail beyond the front room, one of them had shot it. It could be hurt.

Kay stepped into the next room of the house, and took in what he could. Reptile cuts, perhaps claws, tore through the walls as it broke into the forest. The trail led down into the Great Lakes themselves. Zed was wrong, Why would it want to head to the City to get more food, when it could stay here and feed?

The next few days was spent reporting in with Encounter/Exposure Containment Division, Advising Hostile Response Division - Armed Extreme Countermeasure, and Surveillance Coordination Division - Monitoring Platform. Finally this creature was captured, and the case was closed.

"Reptiles are abhorrent because of their cold body, pale color, cartilaginous skeleton, filthy skin, fierce aspect, calculating eye, offensive smell, harsh voice, squalid habitation, and terrible venom; wherefore their creator has not exerted his powers to make many of them." --Linneaus, 1797

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