Stranded in New Mexico

By Arlan Gerig

Pastor Shantel peered through the little window of the flying saucer purring at three hundred miles per hour. Tsulee, the leader of the blue alien children, sat beside her, watching the screen track their progress to Area 51.

The craft flew high enough to be a speck from the ground but low enough to escape detection by air traffic control. Shantel watched the stars in the icy blackness of space, their sharp lights bright and cold.

“The heavens declare the glory of God,” she whispered, then sighed. “Why am I once again dashing into trouble? I can’t rescue these children’s parents. It’s impossible.”

Loud beeps made her turn. Red lights flashed and the engines sputtered, coughed, then sputtered again. Tsulee’s three-fingered hand touched Shantel.

The right thrusters are giving up.

Shantel’s brows creased. “Giving up? You mean they’re malfunctioning?”

A brief smirk crossed the smooth, blue face. Could obsidian eyes sparkle? Net corrects me on that too, but I think the thrusters need encouragement.

Net, the spacecraft’s computer, communicated through telepathy, as did the alien children. Shantel preferred to speak. Slower, maybe, but familiar.

The domed flying saucer still needed repairs from the first crash. Shantel took a deep breath to slow her heart rate, but her hands gripped the chair arms.

“We’re still three hours from Nevada. Does anyone know how to fix them?”

Tsulee shrugged. We tried to cheer up the thrusters, but they only whined and growled.

Shantel exhaled slowly. The children’s parents had been taken by the FBI when they crashed in the Bahamas, and the American government had hidden them from the public. As a result, Shantel hid the alien children from the Americans, but Tsulee had convinced her to rescue their parents.

Can God repair our saucer?

Shantel sighed and stared at the curved metal ceiling. “God doesn’t repair spacecraft, not even human devices. He’s only concerned with the spiritual, not the physical.”

Although something felt wrong about that statement, she shoved it aside to focus on the malfunctioning thrusters. The flashing red lights didn’t help.

Shantel glanced at the screen display. “Net, we’re in danger of crashing in the middle of nowhere. Can we reach Area 51?”

Without the right tools, I’m doing my best.

The display changed to a diagram of power being diverted to the thrusters.

We left everything behind on Providence Island.

Shantel glanced around. Thirty alien children looked to her for protection and direction, but all she had was a petulant computer. Her attempted prayer was brief: “Please help us.”

A tumultuous grinding shook the ship, as smoke and a burning stench crept from the back. Shantel’s stomach shifted into her throat as the craft dropped. She glimpsed the screen, then shut her eyes. The ground rose quickly.

“Hang on!”

The saucer slammed into the earth, skidding along the desert sands. Shantel flew forward, along with the thirty alien children colliding into her like sacks of apples.

Shantel ached in every muscle and joint, but nothing felt broken. The children lay in crumpled masses, crying softly.

“Net, where are we?”

Finally, she asks! We’re five miles south of Corona, New Mexico.

Shantel groaned. Her fear deepened her aches. They’d landed in the same place where a UFO supposedly crashed nearly eighty years ago. Not good. Even Bahamians knew the stories. She inspected the children, grateful for no serious injuries and the cloak of night.

A tap on the hull made her skin prickle as a dark figure appeared on her screen. “Everyone okay in there?”

“Net, open the hatch.”

Are you sure, Shantel? We’ve tried to stay undetected.

“Well, we’ve been found. We can’t stay here and no one else is coming.”

The hatch opened to a smiling blond man with a broad smile, illuminated by his car’s headlights. “First time I’ve seen a Black woman flying a saucer.”

“We all have our secrets,” Shantel said and forced a grin.

He laughed. “I’m Ben. Looks like you need help.”

“There’s no way you can fix this.”

Ben seemed far too calm about finding a crashed flying saucer in the middle of the night. On the other hand, they were close to Roswell, alien capital of the world. It probably looked staged.

“Maybe I can. I’ve seen things like this before. Love the alien masks.” Ben winked at Tsulee.

Tsulee stayed close to Shantel as he strode to his faded Datsun. Shantel followed, drinking in the cool night air. Ben opened the trunk and rummaged through it, emerging with a strange tool resembling an unusually twisted wrench.

Shantel leaned against the car, relishing the perfume drifting from cactus flowers. “How did you find us? The sun won’t be up for hours yet.”

Ben slammed the trunk and strutted to the right thruster. “Don’t you believe in luck?”

“I believe in divine providence, although I don’t understand why I’m stuck here in the middle of the night.”

The Datsun’s headlights shone on his face. He pulled at his beard, and his face slipped off, revealing a bald blue head with the same obsidian eyes as Tsulee.

Shantel blinked several times before finding her voice. “You’re one of them.”

Ben smirked. “My family crashed here many years ago when I was very young. My father didn’t survive, but my mother hid us and created disguises so we could blend in with humans. We even learned to speak.”

His odd tool fit the curve of the thruster, removing the cover with a quick twist. “You never know when a drunshiv will come in handy.”

“I still don’t know how you found us.”

Tossing the thruster cover on the ground, Ben glanced at the Datsun. “Call it what you will, luck or a higher power, but I’ve been waiting a long time for my people to return to Earth. There’s a modified radio under the dash that picked up Net’s signal a couple of hours ago. It led me right to you.”

Shantel watched the glittering stars, sensing a divine smile beyond them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arlan Gerig has stories published in Havok, Every Day Fiction, and the Animal Kingdom anthology. Arlan recently fulfilled a goal: a Bahamas mission trip to help Haitian refugees. When he’s not reading a great book, writing flash fiction, or bringing wizard apprentice Gwynfar to life in a YA fantasy novel, Arlan enjoys walking his two pit mixes around his Ohio neighborhood.

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