We Found Your Name in the Star Registry — Do You Have a Moment?

by Alpert L Pine

[This story is also available in the collection, It's Always the Apocalypse Somewhere]

"I'm sorry. What exactly is this pertaining to?"

The strange fellow on my porch blinked at me from behind massive glasses, which rested on his round nose. He looked down at the book in his hand, then back up at me.

"I'm nice to meet you." He was wearing an over-sized raincoat and a big rubber hat, although it was clear and sunny.

"Yes," I said, "I get it. What exactly are you selling?"

"Selling?" Those big eyes blinked at me. He lowered his head to study the book, flipped a few pages.

"Yes," I said, "selling. You look like a solicitor." I pointed to the sign posted on the side of my house, just beside the front door. "I clearly have a sign here—"

"Your name is—" He stated my name and my address in perfectly clear language. He then proceeded to recite my phone number, bank account number, previous addresses, my first pet's name, my mother's maiden name, the name of the street I grew up on, my childhood best friend's name, the color of my first car, the first concert I attended, and the name of the city I was born in. Flawlessly. Accurately.

He looked at me, blinking.

"Umm. Yes, I'm . . . that's me."

"You buy star?"

"Me buy star?" What the hell did that mean? Buy star? I opened my mouth, then closed it. Wait a minute, I thought. I had bought a star, a year ago—one of those gimmick things through the International Star Registry. Anyway, I assumed it was a gimmick. A neat one, though. To own a star—kinda cool.

"I already have a star," I told him. It was neat, but I didn't need two.

He pulled something from his pocket, a folded-up paper which he began unfolding. "You buy this star." He held up what turned out to be a map, partially opened, and indicated with his finger a dot amongst a multitude of dots.

"You mean that's my star?" I asked, slightly distracted by some weirdness concerning his finger that I couldn't quite articulate. It didn't seem . . . human.

"Your star," the strange fellow agreed. "Here." He indicated a different dot several inches away from the first. "Us here now. You, me, ship."

"Ship?"

"My ship."

"Your . . . ship."

"Need fuel, my ship. Get home."

"Oh!" I chuckled at the misunderstanding. "You must mean 'car'. Ship. Car. You're out of fuel. And you need a gas can." I laughed, delighted to have broken through the confusion. "I'll get you one."

"No car." He thumbed through his small phrase book again, letting the map hang down to the ground. He cleared his throat. "I have spaceship in orbit."

My face fell. "What?"

"Need fuel for go home. You star most close."

"You need . . . "

"Fuel." He blinked big eyes.

"Fuel."

"From star, yes. Star fuel." He lifted the map up. "You star most close. We can get fuel?"

"Are you saying . . ." I couldn't even say it, what he was saying. There was, uh, an . . . alien. At my door. Asking about my star, which I'd bought through—

"Are you saying the International Star Registry is legit?"

The strange fellow blinked.

"And I own that star?"

He waited patiently.

"And you need . . . what? To harvest that star for fuel? Are you asking my permission?"

"Yes. Need fuel for go home. You most close star."

"You're asking my permission."

He nodded.

"Well," I said, "I'll have to think about it."

He dropped the map to the concrete porch and reached underneath his over-sized raincoat. When he brought his hand back into sight, he was holding an oddly-designed gun! Some sort of laser or death ray, no doubt.

"Whoa!" I put my hands in the air. "So, it's like that, is it?"

"We ask nice. Now, we ask again."

"No need," I said, laughing nervously. "It's yours, understand? Take all the fuel you want—I don't need it."

He extended his arm towards me, bringing the bizarre gun closer. I might have whimpered a little.

"For you," he said, holding the gun out. "We no money from this place. Earth. So, instead." He hefted the weapon. "We pay for star fuel for go home."

"Are you serious?" I slowly lowered my hands. I carefully reached out and took the offered weapon. I turned the strange gun over in my hands, digging the radical, alien design. "Far out."

"For fuel." The strange fellow made an awkward bow. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, awed by the alien tech in my hands. I was barely aware of him turning and bouncing down my front steps and walking onto my lawn. I looked up at the flash of light—he was gone.

Dumbstruck, I slowly shut my door, admiring the alien gun I held.

"This is . . ." I just shook my head. Unreal.

I needed to try this thing out. Hot damn! I wanted to blast something with my alien gun. But what? Where?

I decided the backyard was the safest place. I hurried through the house, out the sliding back door, and onto the grass. I looked around, scanning for a suitable target.

There. That old tree stump I'd been wanting to get rid of.

I walked up to it, pointed the gun at it. Was it safe, I wondered, to fire this thing? Should I have safety goggles on? Stand farther away?

My excitement got the best of me.

I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.

Cautiously, I opened one eye, then the other.

The tree stump was still there. There was a little flag of some sort hanging out the barrel of my laser death ray gun. I leaned forward to see.

The flag was red, with black capital letters that spelled the word, "ZAP".

What? I pointed the gun at the stump and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Again. And again. Nothing.

That no good bastard! I craned my neck up, looking into the blue sky above. There was no sign of the sneaky alien bastard. Damn!

He ripped me off!

I threw down the useless fake gun and stormed into the house. Worst of all, I thought, the star I owned, which I thought to be just a gimmick, was actually real, but some damn alien had just tricked me into letting him use it for fuel.

Well, never again, I thought. I'd buy another star. And this time, no weird alien speaking broken English on my doorstep was going to get their greedy, con-artist alien hands on it.

I'd use a fake name.

THE END

--------------------------------------

Originally posted here at r/WritingPrompts, as a response to the prompt:

[WP] One year after purchasing a star with the International Star Registry, you are visited by inter-galactic aliens who come to you asking if they can harvest the stars energy for their spaceship.

This is Not a Test

by Alpert L Pine

[This story is also available in the collection, It's Always the Apocalypse Somewhere]

I was eating breakfast when the announcement came on. I paused with a spoonful of Cheerios halfway to my waiting mouth, and listened.

". . . all citizens should remain indoors. Repeat, this is not a test. All citizens should lock their doors and remain inside. Those traveling should find shelter as soon as possible. Again, this is not a test."

It went on like that, intercut with some of those aggressive alarm buzzing beeps. It was the first time I'd actually heard the system used for something other than a test.

The voice on the broadcast repeated, "This is not a test."

I dropped my spoon back into the bowl of cereal on the table, splashing milk. If this was truly an emergency, there wasn't any time right now to wipe it up.

I went to the front door and peered outside. What exactly was going on, I wondered.

***

The street outside appeared normal.

"Do not go outside," said the voice on the emergency broadcast.

"Probably just means, don't drive anywhere," I said aloud, as I opened the screen door and stepped outside. The concrete steps were cool beneath my sock-clad feet.

I bounded down the three steps and walked a short distance along the cement path away from my house. Peering up into the sky, I raised a hand to shield my eyes. The sun was bright; the sky was blue and clear with only a few lazy strands of clouds drifting along.

And there was the massive ship.

***

I gaped.

I might have thought to run if I believed they could see me from way up there, just a tiny little person on the huge round planet Earth. I was miles below them—at least. The ship seemed so enormous, so far overhead—there was no way they could see me.

"Remain inside with doors and windows locked," said the faint voice on the emergency broadcast. I could just barely hear it, still blaring away inside my house. "This is not a test."

No, I thought. This was the real thing. Holy fucking shit it was—

***

—first contact.

What the hell? I staggered back, my stomach bouncing, dropping, rising into my throat, as if trying to figure out which direction was up.

I was standing in a shiny silver room filled with white light, although I couldn't determine the source. The entire ceiling seemed to glow bright white. There was nothing else in the room—only four shining walls and me standing confused in the middle.

A line appeared on the wall to my left. A rectangular outline took shape and darkened. A figure walked through. A tiny person. No, not a person.

Oh, God. An alien! I was on the massive ship. I was really seeing an alien. Like, what? My mind reeling, I staggered back.

The little alien, looking disturbingly similar to a walking baby wearing a strange, green and silver padded suit, came forward. It was pointing something at me, which I had to assume was a weapon of some sort. It was shaped roughly like a gun, with a handle the alien held in its fist, and a longer, tube-like extension which it pointed at me.

"Don't shoot," I said.

The alien laughed. "Yes," it said, in pretty clear English.

It shot me.

***

I woke up lying on my back.

I was strapped to some sort of hard metal surface. Around me, several of the infant-like aliens stared down at me. I tried to figure out whether I was very near the floor, or if the aliens were gathered on some sort of platform surrounding the surface I was strapped to.

This room was similarly bright white and silver.

There was much chattering amongst the little creatures in some language other than English. Oh God, I thought, that guy speaking on the emergency broadcast hadn't been kidding. This was no test!

After a moment of lying there, waiting for something to happen—I assumed that whatever the aliens were trying to decide probably had to do with me—the assembled little baby things grew quiet.

Above me in the air, an image appeared. A sharp red triangle, floating on a solid background of white.

"Circle." One of the aliens was leaning its creepy baby-face towards mine.

"What?" I tried pulling away, but I was strapped in pretty tight. Even my head was secured.

"Circle," the alien said again.

The image of the red triangle dropped towards me, filling my field of view.

"Circle."

The red triangle was all that I knew. It filled my sight, loomed overhead, threatening and sinister and angled.

"Circle."

"NO!" I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Okay, next." I peeked with my right eye. The alien was looking up into the air above me. I risked looking with both eyes.

Over my supine form, where the triangle had been, there was now a soft, blue circle. It was floating on the same pure white background.

The alien noticed me looking up.

"Red."

"What?" I looked at the alien.

"Red."

As before, the image swooped down, seeming to physically impose its presence on me, threatening to roll over me and crush me beneath its rotundity.

"Red."

"No!" I yelled, eyes shut tight to block out the brilliance of the image. "Not red," I whimpered.

I heard chattering among the assembled aliens.

"Okay, next," said the one beside my head.

Oh God, I thought, opening my eyes a crack. Overhead, a hefty, green square floated on a background of pure white light.

"Two," said the alien.

I began to sob.

"Two," repeated the baby thing. I felt the surface of the square threaten to squish me flat.

"No," I said. A whisper. "Not two."

The alien made a noise which sounded like approval. I began to sob.

My God, I thought.

It is a test.

THE END

----------------------------------------

This story was written in response to a writing prompt at r/WritingPrompts:

[WP]Please remain calm, stay in your homes, and do not look outside. This is not a test.

Absolutely the Worst Day To Have a Life-Changing, Prophetic Dream of the Future That Also Happens to Be Time-Sensitive

by Alpert L Pine

[This story is also available in the collection, It's Always the Apocalypse Somewhere]

I woke up with a gasp, rising into a seated position, the covers dropping into my lap. The image in my mind remained crystal clear—a series of numbers. A dream. A prophetic dream. I'd never had this sort of dream before; there was no reason to assume that this was one either, except for the absolute certitude with which I felt it to be so. Knew it.

I scrambled from bed, found a notebook, and flipped to an empty page. I scattered stuff across my desk, tossing things out of the way, onto the floor, until I found a pen. It didn't write at first and I panicked, sensing the dream begin to recede as dreams do, like a plug had been pulled and the contents of the vision were circling down some cosmic psychic dream-drain. At last, after scratching furiously at the top of the page, the ink began flowing. It never felt so good to see red ink!

Hastily, I scribbled down the information from my dream before it could evaporate into the psychic aether. When it was done, and I'd successfully copied all that I remembered, I leaned back, weary. With a sigh, I tossed down the pen, and picked up the notebook.

Reading back what I had written, I thought: This is it. This is my key to the future I've always wanted. It was about time.

Time!

Shit, what time was it? I glanced at my alarm clock and paused. That's odd. The display was blank. I walked over to the clock, picked it up. Fiddled with the buttons. Nothing. I leaned over, peered behind the dresser. It was still plugged in. So that meant—

I swept my hand across the light switch. Nothing.

Great, no power. What was going on? I grabbed my phone to check the time. I'd better get going, just in case.

As soon as I turned my phone on, an obnoxious alarm began blaring. I nearly dropped the phone in shock. I pressed the display, but the terrible bleating wouldn't stop. The volume control had no effect.

"This is not a test," said a robotic male voice. "All citizens should remain indoors. This is not a test. Those living near major population centers are most at risk. Seek shelter indoors. Preferably in a certified bomb- and fallout-proof structure. Repeat. This is not a test. This is a real attack."

I dropped the phone. If anyone could have seen me, I bet my mouth was hanging open the way they draw characters in cartoons: jaw on the floor by my feet, and me, bending down to scoop it up and put it back in place there on my face. Except no one could see me; I was alone. Eventually, I bent down and picked up my phone.

The grating warning alarm was going again.

But this was supposed to be my day, I thought, miserably. The notebook where I had written down my prophetic dream numbers lay on my bed. I picked it up now. Damn it, nothing's going to stop me from making this happen. This is going to change my life. Carrying my phone and the notebook, I hurried through my house to the garage.

Standing there, staring at my car in the closed garage, I swore. The power was out. After five minutes of struggle and strain, I manually lifted my garage door and managed to keep it up so that I could pull my car out.

***

The same blaring emergency warning was on the radio. I swept through the stations until I found one playing some other programming. Christian Talk Radio.

"I just don't understand it," the man on the air was saying. "I'm a good Christian. I always did the best I could. How could I have been left behind?"

"I'm right there with you, caller," said the host of the show. "Clearly, Our Lord has made some sort of clerical error. After all, there are hundreds of millions of Christians in the world. It's to be expected. A mis-filed soul here or there. He'll straighten it out. Or perhaps, this was simply the first round of the Rapture. The first of many Raptures, if you will."

"Maybe you're right . . ."

Christ! What the hell were they talking about? The Rapture? On the same day that a nuclear war breaks out? What the hell was going on?

I pulled out my phone—the annoying warning still blaring—and managed to get into the menu so that I could make a call. My mother was a Christian. If there was some sort of Rapture going on, she'd know about it. Or, maybe—

The phone rang and rang.

Maybe she wasn't nearby to pick up. C'mon, the Rapture? That was fairy tale stuff. I mean, she was probably just in the shower or outside or something. Or had her ringer off, or—

Too late, I slammed on the brakes. A loud thud, and a body bounced across the front of my car, rebounded off the front windshield and flipped over the car, to the ground behind me. I sat there, foot on the brake, the car and I both breathing heavily. Steam was shooting from the crumpled front end. The window was a web of cracked glass.

Jesus! I'd hit someone.

Not today, I thought. Why today? I looked at the notebook with the scribbled numbers, and then shifted into park and stepped out of my car.

The man I'd hit, looking pretty ragged and ill, was trying to get up.

"Oh, good," I said, "you're okay. I'm really sorry. It's just, you know —the nukes, the Rapture, and whatnot."

He groaned, regained his feet, and took a step towards me. He seemed dazed and unsteady.

"You sure you're okay?"

He groaned again. Shuffled towards me. Just over his shoulder, I saw another person approaching. Great, I thought, a witness. Now we'll have to stand here and all of us exchange info.

The man groaned again. There was a similar moaning answer from the other side of my car. I glanced over. Another person, a woman, looking as though she'd also been run over by something, was shuffling towards me.

"I didn't hit you," I told her. "I'm sure I only hit this guy here."

I jerked back. The guy whom I'd crashed into was snapping his teeth at me, trying to take a bite.

"What the hell, buddy?" I shoved him down and retreated back into my car, slammed shut the door. The man's hands pressed on my window. The woman on the opposite side banged her arms against my car, too. I could see the other person, whom I assumed earlier to be a witness, coming closer. The same shuffling gait, the same ragged appearance.

Oh, God. I know what this is, I thought. I shifted into drive, sent the gas pedal to the floor. My car shook and protested and then squealed away down the street, steam billowing from under the hood.

Not zombies. Couldn't be zombies. Zombies aren't freaking real. This is probably just an insurance scam. Guy probably threw himself in front of me, and the others were going to act as witnesses for him in court.

Bloody psychos.

I sped on towards my destiny. Nothing else was going to get in my way.

***

Traffic grew worse as I approached downtown.

At one point, I had to swerve into the opposite lane to go around four clowns on horseback, standing right there in the middle of the God-damned road. I mean, not literal clowns. These guys were actually all pretty gnarly-looking and grim. Although two of them looked rather sickly, a dark miasma of despair and danger seemed to hang about the four riders; they weren't anyone I wanted to mess with.

I was thankful when they were well in my rearview.

I drove on; I was on a mission to change my life. I patted the notebook on the seat beside me. But would I make it in time? Surely, the universe was throwing all of these varied obstacles at me as a way to test my worthiness. I grinned madly. Bring it on universe.

The clock display in my car had gone all weird. Probably broke something when I hit that guy—or rather, when that guy jumped in front of my car. My phone was stuck on the weather forecast screen, but all the information was mixed up and incorrect. It was claiming the temperature for each of the next five days would be 666, and although I suppose that the little weather icon was meant to be the one for Sunny, it looked more like an all-consuming hellfire. My phone display was admittedly small though, and it was hard to tell. Probably just Sunny.

Eventually, the traffic jam was so bad, I came up against stopped cars and trucks blocking the entire road. In the distance, I could see the glimmering, spinning sign of my destination. I was so close now. I didn't have time for this.

Shutting off my car, which shuddered and creaked in relief, I exited the vehicle, notebook tucked under my arm, and ran to the sidewalk. There was a huge mob of people already moving in the direction I was going, so I joined the procession and let them carry me along with their momentum.

They were moving awfully quickly, I thought, glancing around at several of the scared, fear-filled faces. What if they were all heading to the same place I was?

I needed to get there first. I began pushing and struggling, trying to force my way through the press. I was making very little progress. In fact, the push from behind me seemed to lift me up like the swell of a great wave and carried me forward. I swung my head around in an effort to figure out what was going on.

Then I saw it.

Behind me, coming down from the clouds above the mass of people: some sort of strange flying craft. I don't want to be hasty and say it was a UFO (although technically, that's what it was, I suppose—unidentified, at least by me), or that it was piloted by aliens—there was no way to verify or disprove the idea—but it was certainly made to resemble what any reasonable person would describe as the stereotypical flying saucer.

But there wasn't time to ponder the source of the craft or the species at the controls. A ray of green light flashed from the bottom of the ship, striking a portion of the crowd a few yards away from me. They were instantly turned to charred, smoking skeletons, and apparently reduced to fine dust which then blew apart, scattering into a cloud of former humanity.

The panicked crowd crescendoed into a state of mindless freak out. Clawing, punching, fighting to get away from the death ray hovering above us, we turned into a crazed mass of roiling, frenzied fear-driven individuals.

At some point, I was knocked to the ground.

I was certain I'd be crushed, but a blast of that green death ray saved my life by disintegrating many of people nearest to me. I struggled to my feet, still clutching my notebook, spitting out with disgust the dust of the pulverized men and women struck by the death ray—dust which invaded my mouth and tickled the back of my throat.

After that, I was able to fight my way pretty quickly through the chaos of the fleeing, disorganized people, and continue towards my goal. It was within sight, and thankfully seemed to be undamaged. The street grew strangely quiet and barren, as the bulk of the crazed mob dispersed in every direction. The death ray continued to fire down upon those unfortunate souls whom couldn't escape.

Notebook in hand, I crossed one final road, which was strewn with the fiery wreckage of dozens of vehicles, and coated in a fine powder that I knew to be the remnants of all of my fellow—(former)—neighbors and citizens.

Just before I pulled open the door that I had sought since I left my house, I saw on the distant horizon to the west, a brilliant flash of light. It was followed by the slowly building, billowing formation of a perfect blooming mushroom cloud.

I spared just a second to watch it grow—it was set against a sky suddenly transformed to the staggering colors of a brilliant sunset, one of the most beautiful I'd ever seen if one could forget the horror of the thing—then I pulled open the door, and stepped across the threshold to take hold of my destined future.

***

I rushed forward to the counter and the waiting cashier. There was no one queued up ahead of me. It was meant to be.

I slammed my notebook down on the counter, making the cashier flinch, and then I grinned wide.

"I'll take one ticket for tonight's Mega Super Millionaire Lottery drawing!" I slid my notebook around, so that the cashier could see what I'd written. "I want to play these numbers, right here."

The cashier looked briefly at my notebook, then up at me. He shook his head. "No can do, friend."

"What! Why not? Is the power off here, too?" I glanced around, but all the lights seemed to be blazing, the hot dogs still rotating on the roller. "You have power."

The cashier nodded.

"Is it the nuclear war? Has the lottery been called off because the government needs all available funds to fight World War Three?"

"No, the drawing hasn't been cancelled."

"Then it's the Rapture. It's the Rapture, isn't it? All the lottery officials have been swept up into the loving embrace of the Almighty Lord Himself. That's it, isn't it?"

"Hardly."

"Then it's the zombies."

"There are zombies out there?"

I slammed a fist on the counter. "The aliens! Of course, it's the aliens. They've taken over our planet, and they're trying to teach and guide us and better our society, and so they're stripping away vices like lottery games. Oh, God, the aliens are communists! They don't give away cash prizes, do they?"

"No," the cashier said, "the planet's still in our control, last I checked. The lottery still pays out . . . let's see"—he glanced down at some papers near the ticket machine—"three-hundred seventy-five million dollars."

"Then, what?" I cried. "Why won't you sell me a ticket?" I fished in my pocket, pulled out a wad of crumpled up bills. "Look, see. I've got the money. Here, quick, ring it up."

"I can't," the cashier said again, shaking his head.

"Why not!?"

"Because," he said, pointing to the side of the lottery machine. The time was displayed there in green, digital numbers. Oh, God. I felt faint. My knees were buckling. "It's too late. The drawing just happened."

"Just happened?" I said, dazed.

"Here," said the cashier. He pressed a few buttons and the machine spit out a ticket. "Here are the numbers they just drew."

He placed the readout on the counter beside my notebook. We both leaned in, comparing my numbers to those on the ticket that had printed.

I felt myself slipping down the counter.

The numbers.

I landed on the ground, head spinning.

They were the same.

The numbers. I had them. Consciousness seeped out of me. I had the winning numbers

The winning numbers.

The winning numbers . . .

***

". . . ning numbers."

With a start I jerked awake.

What the hell?

I was sitting up in my bed, covers lying across my lap. Some crazy dream, I thought, shaking my head. I could feel it disappearing to wherever it is dreams go, even as I tried to hold onto it. The dream transformed to sand, slipped away between my fingers.

And was gone.

I glanced at my alarm clock; the time was displayed there in bright red digitals. It was time to get up. Get showered, and get to the gas station. Another day, I thought, pulling aside the covers.

Just another day, working for minimum wage.

THE END

------------------------------------

This story was written in response to a writing prompt posted at r/WritingPrompts:

[WP]Aliens are invading! Coincidentally, the dead are rising. And its the Rapture. And the completely unrelated Apocalypse. All during a Nuclear War.