Chasing Cthulhu (Urf Oomons #2)

“Ok, Miss Navarro, tell me again about the ‘Spider Alien’.”

Agent Howard is my least favorite agent. I don’t know what agency she’s with, but that’s how she introduced herself, Agent Howard. She is always dressed casually, today it’s jeans and a baby blue T-shirt. She has long, shiny blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail and her big blue eyes are wide and blameless. “I’m just one of you girls,” her look tells me, “You can trust me.”

I frickin hate her.

It’s been at least two weeks since I was rounded up with all the other abductees and we’ve all been detained in this facility. At least, I think we have. I haven’t seen any of the other women in all that time.

And they took Peach.

I hate this fucking place.

“I’ve already told you. I’ve already told Chadwick and Smith and Johnson. I’ve repeated the same story at least fifty times,” I say.

She has one of those babyish, little girl voices that some women have. And her way of speaking is overly cheerful. She explains, “The problem is that your story doesn’t match up with the other abductees.”

I shrug. I’ve answered them honestly. I’m not hiding anything.

“So the spider-alien—”

“I’m not answering anymore questions,” I interrupt her. “I want a lawyer. I want to know why I’m being detained.”

“You’re not being detained, silly,” she answers brightly. “This is quarantine.”

I roll my eyes straight up to the ceiling and sigh.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” she’s all eager earnestness, “you interacted with aliens. Who knows what sort of viruses, bacteria, or other microorganisms you might have picked up?”

“If I’m not being detained then bring me a phone so I can call my parents and my lawyer. I have the right to an attorney.”

But, shit, even if she were to miraculously agree to bring me a phone, I don’t have the numbers to call anybody. They are programmed into my cell. I haven’t memorized any of them.

“No,” Agent Howard argues in her silly, fake, annoying way, “Miranda Rights don’t apply because you aren’t under arrest. You have been admitted to this medical facility, not a prison.”

“I better not get billed for this shit!” This concern pops out of my mouth as soon as I think it.

She laughs. This awful, annoying woman laughs at me.

“No, ma’am, you get free government healthcare here,” she quips.

“Can I have that in writing?” I’m serious. Wouldn’t it be just my luck if I get out of this situation somehow and I’m sent a $75,000 bill that wipes me out?

“I’ll write it down for you when you leave,” she promises, and it sends a shiver through my body. I can just tell that she doesn’t expect I’ll ever leave.

After Agent Howard gives up on interviewing me, she leaves through a security door. That door never opens for me, but it just opens right up when she walks to it. I know for sure there’s some sort of video surveillance in here. I haven’t seen an obvious camera anywhere and I wonder why they bother hiding them?

And what’s with these agents? They all introduce themselves the same way: “I’m Agent blankety blank and I’ll be interviewing you today.” They’ve never said what agency they’re with. And the only other person I’ve seen here is a silent male nurse. He’s slim, around my height, 5’5”, dishwater blonde hair, and gray eyes. He never speaks, not one word, as he takes my vitals and samples every day. One of the agents is always there for these checkups to boss me around, so the nurse doesn’t have to say anything.

I’ve been trying to puzzle out why the nurse doesn’t talk and all I came up with is that there must be a very specific script that the agents are following when they interview me, and the nurse isn’t a part of it. Or maybe he has social anxiety. Or he could be mute.

I have a lot of time to think about the nurse and the agents because there is nothing to do here. No TV, no radio, no windows, nothing. I have a check-up in the morning, an interview after lunch, and then nothing. For hours, I’m here staring at the ceiling, pacing back and forth. Sometimes I do some exercises like lunges, jumping jacks, stretches, etc. But not often. I don’t particularly enjoy it, so why add that unpleasantness to the tortures of solitary confinement?

I wonder how the other women are doing? Are they going through the same thing? I think maybe I’m getting particular treatment because I was up close with more aliens than the others.

I hope they were let go and made it home and are living their lives right now. I hold onto that happy thought extra hard even though I know it’s unlikely.

My thoughts drift to Lu. I wonder what his home is like? Hopefully, he’s all right wherever he is. I think about him a lot. It’s not every day I make friends with an alien, after all. I should have stayed on that spaceship, not gotten on the shuttle. Everything happened so fast, and I was overwhelmed, but if I had thought about it, really weighed the pros and cons, I would have tried to stay.

I could be out in space right now. Lu seemed pretty attached to me. I don’t know why, but he was very sweet and protective of me. For an alien. When I remember all of the things that went down and how violent it all was, one thing was constant: Lu kept me safe.

I lay on my bed and daydream. There’s nothing else to do.

I’ve figured out a few things about my detention. The first thing is that these agents don’t have any idea what to do with me. At first, I thought they were giving me the “white room treatment.” You know, where the subject is deprived of stimulation to drive them crazy? My room here is all white. There are no windows or any form of entertainment or anyone to talk to. I don’t have any shoes, just thick white socks with grippy tread on the bottoms. But the agents and the nurse have regular shoes that they wear these soft booties over. Everybody’s steps are silent. In my mind, this all added up to sensory deprivation and it had me worried. Like, what other “enhanced interrogation techniques” are they going to try on me? And I’m not going to lie, it’s getting to me. I’m bored out of my skull. But I don’t feel tortured. And a couple of days ago I realized that it’s not white room treatment because they’re giving me regular food. Regular, colorful food. Peas, carrots, gelatin. Not rice, potatoes, or other bland fare. I listened with rapt attention to a podcast about enhanced interrogation (i.e., torture) a couple years ago and I remember specifically that the bland white food is a key factor.

So, they’re giving me a half-assed, maybe accidental, white room treatment.

And the interviews are half-assed too. They don’t care how I answer. They just talk to me for forty minutes then leave. Every day.

Those other enhanced techniques haven’t happened either.

So, I’m just guessing, but it seems like there is no real plan where I’m concerned. No goals, no information they’re trying to get out of me. Just routine. Just endless, boring detention.

I’ve had a lot of time to think. I think about the decisions I’ve made in my life that have lead me to this. I can be really hard on myself and if I’m feeling particularly down, I think that this could all have been avoided if I had been a better person. I could have stuck it out in college, went to med school, and made my parents proud. I didn’t need to play video games and post on social media all the time. I didn’t have to be so self-absorbed and attention-seeking. If I was living the kind of life I ought to, I wouldn’t have been at that beach house by myself.

If I hadn’t been so engrossed in recording video games walk throughs I would have never caught the attention of those Men’s Rights guys. I had no idea the reaction I’d get at the time. I just made a joke about an NPC (non-player character) wearing skimpy clothes. She was wearing a tube top and shorts cut smaller than underwear. I thought it was funny to take few moments out of my walk-through and ask her if she needed help finding clothes.

I was just entertaining myself, it wasn’t even really funny. But apparently it came across as scathingly witty feminist commentary on misogyny in video games. That’s not how I meant it! But I couldn’t really say that video games aren’t misogynistic because they can be. You never see NPC men running around mostly naked.

A clip of that video ended up on TikTok where it was shared, duetted, and commented on more than a million times.

And then the worst part happened. The makers of the video game changed the NPC woman I had made fun of. They put her in jeans and a t-shirt. I never asked them to do that! Misogynistic or not, I like that game. But these Male’s Rights Activists hated it and blamed me. And that’s where all of the harassment, threats and everything started to spiral out of control.

These guys who are after me are no joke. It is ridiculous that they are so worked up over video game commentary. I didn’t take it seriously at first. But I looked into them, and two shooting sprees have been attributed to groups affiliated with them. They are dangerous and I’m scared of them. Funnily enough, I’m safer here than I have been anywhere else since this started.

It’s not worth it though. This detention is miserable and there’s no end in sight.

Most of the time I try to be kind to myself. Aliens didn’t abduct me because of my TikTok presence. They didn’t know anything about my background before taking me. None of this is my fault.

To keep myself from spiraling into self-pity and self-doubt, I tell myself stories. Not out loud, I just imagine all kinds of scenarios in my head. I’ve made up backstories for all of the agents and the nurse. I’ve come up with all kinds of things that could be happening while I’m trapped in here. There could have been a coup. There could be guillotines erected in the streets. There could be a new, worse virus. Maybe I’m better off in here than out there, you know? Maybe a super volcano erupted. There could be wooly mammoths. I read an article a few months ago about how recent breakthroughs in gene editing now make it possible to resurrect extinct animals. No joke, look it up. There could be a wooly mammoth ranch down the road.

I’m not sure if all these wild imaginings are a healthy coping mechanism for a crazy situation or not, but I keep going with it. There is absolutely nothing else to do.

I go through every nutty scenario in my head, fleshing them out. Wild escaped mammoths rampage through downtown Atlanta. A super volcano erupts sending tons of ash into the atmosphere.

Anything could be happening. How would I know?

And my favorite story to tell myself over and over is the Alien Invasion. Not the gray aliens, the tentacle aliens. They arrive in force and invade Earth and I’m appointed as Earth’s alien liaison because I have experience dealing with aliens. They give me back my translator and my dog. Peach and I go convince the aliens to give up their invasion and leave Earth in peace. And they invite me to leave with them and spend the rest of my life in space, visiting strange planets and having adventures. And of course, it’s Lu who scoops me up in his tentacles and carries me onto his ship and into my new awesome life.

I’ve found that I can make stuff up and daydream for hours if I have to. It doesn’t have to make sense.

When the interviews happen, they are getting kind of disjointed. I’m not even trying to hold it together anymore. Like, if they’re trying to make me crazy then fine, I’ll be crazy. I’ll just lean into the crazy.

“Tell me about the gray aliens again?” They ask this question a lot. Gray alien, spider alien, tentacle alien. They just want me to keep talking about them.

“Gray aliens?” I ask, “I don’t know. Maybe I imagined them. Aliens aren’t real, are they?”

“No, you didn’t imagine them. What do you recall about the gray aliens?”

I shake my head. “I’ve been imagining a lot of things lately. I probably made up those aliens.” I tap the side of my head. “In my mind, you know? Maybe I’m imagining you telling me that I’m not imagining things.”

“Ms. Navarro, three weeks ago you were abducted by aliens. There are many witness statements all attesting to this fact. You did not imagine—”

“Three weeks?” I raise my voice at him.

Agent Chadwick tilts his head in confusion or concern. I can’t tell. “Yes, three weeks.”

“That’s not right.” I’m shaking my head. “It must be a lot longer than that.”

He’s nonplussed for a moment. He pulls a phone out of his pants pocket and scrolls around for a second then says, “Yep, twenty-two interviews. That’s three weeks and a day.”

“What’s the date?”

He just closes his phone and puts it away. No one will tell me things like the date, the time, the weather anything like that.

Chadwick is my favorite agent though because he lets his mask slip sometimes. Like how he took his phone out just now. And when I brought up white room treatment a few interviews ago, he laughed, a real spontaneous laugh, and said, “No. Darlin’ you don’t know anything about white rooms.”

I just watched him for a second and he glanced around then said, “I see what you mean. Why you could think this is white room, but it’s not. Not at all.”

Then he got back to asking me about aliens.

I don’t think the other agents have let themselves slip once. They don’t genuinely laugh or smile.

He’s continuing with his questions, asking about the same things they’ve asked over and over. I let my mind drift.

There is a loud slapping sound that is so jarring it takes me a moment to place it.

Plap! Plap! Plap!

And then I see that it’s someone walking. Just walking in regular shoes on the tiled floor without booties. What the hell. It’s so loud! This place is really, seriously messing with me.

I cringe with every step.

It’s an older white guy with a gray mustache and a shaved bald head. He makes a waving gesture at Chadwick, and the agent leaves without a word. Then this new guy sits down. He’s got a five o’clock shadow and wrinkles in his suit. Nothing like the agents I’ve been dealing with who are all cool as cucumbers and well-put-together. This guy is obviously harried and stressed.

“Ms.,” he looks at a sheet of paper, “Navarro.”

I nod.

“I’m here to brief you on some recent developments.”

“Mammoths?” I ask excitedly.

He straightens and squints at me. Then says, “Young lady, I know you’ve been through some—”

“Enhanced interrogation?”

“Christ.” He rubs a hand over his face. “No. You’ve been through some—” his eyes dart around the room as if the word he’s looking for will be painted on the wall somewhere, “—disorientating experiences.”

A single humorless laugh escapes me. “Huh. Yeah. Disorientating.”

“Well, you need to snap out of it.”

“Okay.”

He gives me an assessing look, draws in a breath, then explains, “We’ve received a message—”

“Who’s we?” I ask.

“The department.”

“Which department?”

He sighs and that sigh is weighted with frustration. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“We have received a message,” he starts over, “from an extraterrestrial source.”

“Neat.”

Another silent, pinched stare, then he continues, “this extraterrestrial source is demanding to speak with you.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed. we need you to get dressed and accompany us to—”

“No.”

“Miss Navarro, you don’t have a choice.”

“Then why are you explaining things to me like you need my understanding and cooperation?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“This source seems to be under the impression that you would be willing to speak with them. That you have some kind of connection?”

Lu! It must be Lu and he came back for me! I try to keep a straight face and a cold expression.

“Meh.”

“What? What does that mean?”

I fake a bored sigh then explain, “The last time I spoke with an extraterrestrial source I ended up in here. Detained. It’s kind of been a raw deal for me. So I’m going to have to decline.”

“Jeezus-fu—” he does another calming breath, “Ok, what do you want? How can I get you to this rendezvous?”

“I want my dog.”

“Done.”

“And I want some real clothes.”

“Agreed.”

“And my translator.”

“Of course.”

“And I want to be free. Free to go back to my old life when we’re done.”

He nods.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, when this is over you’re free to go.”

“Alright.” I stand and stretch my arms overhead then shake them out. “Let’s go rendezvous with aliens.”

I change into an outfit Chadwick brings in and sets on the table. Khaki pants and a navy polo shirt and gray sneakers. Not my usual style, but it sure beats white scrubs and grippy socks.

Then I follow the bald guy out to the car. That’s what I’m calling him. He never introduced himself and Chadwick calls him Sir, and I’m not going to call him that.

When we get outside, it’s overcast, and I can’t tell what time of day it might be. Day time. And we’re in an office park. I didn’t get a good look when we were brought in. But it’s just a nondescript office park.

Bald Guy walks me to a gray sedan and Agent Howard is standing there holding Peach, who is happy as a clam, wagging her tail and yapping at me. Wherever she’s been kept, she looks to have been well-cared for. She’s groomed and a little fatter, so someone has been indulging her.

Howard hands her off to me and pats her head one time, saying, “She’s a sweet dog.”

I nod. I just really don’t like Howard.

Bald guy taps the top of the car and says, “Let’s go.” Then gets in the front passenger seat. There’s already someone in the driver’s seat. I slide in the back.

And we’re off.