Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by John M. Floyd

Sightings

Jack Crowe was waiting with the engine running when his partner came out of the McDonald's restroom.

"Get in," Crowe said. "We got a call."

Officer Linda McBride jogged around to the passenger side and climbed in. "What kind of call?" she asked, as their cruiser rolled out of the lot and into the late-night traffic.

"A UFO sighting."

"You're kidding, right?"

Crowe shook his head, but couldn't help smiling. "Lady says it flew over her house. Something big, fast, bright, and loud."

"Sounds like the Channel 5 News chopper."

"This one had green lights."

McBride chuckled. "To match the color of its passengers, probably." She turned to watch the dark city drift past outside her window. "This lady the one we're going to see?"

"No. She wouldn't give dispatch her name."

"Then where are we headed?"

Crowe held up his notepad. "Her neighbor's address. Fred Hargroves. She said whatever it was landed in his back yard."

"Why didn't Fred call us himself?"

"Who knows? Maybe he's asleep. Or not home."

"Or kidnapped. That's what aliens do, isn't it?"

Crowe grinned, hung a left, and headed west on Rosecrans. "How should I know? You're the X-Files guru."

"Am not. I didn't even like the show."

"Then why'd you watch it all the time?"

"I liked Agent Mulder," she said.

Fred Hargroves's house sat on a corner lot ten blocks from the beach. The front yard needed mowing; the back was fenced. They parked in the street, put on their hats, and walked through the weeds to the front porch. Crowe rang the doorbell. No answer.

"Let's check the back," he said.

The gate in the six-foot cedar fence was unlocked. They peeked inside, looking for (worst case) a dog and (best case) a spaceship. What they saw instead was a bald guy in a T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, sitting in a lawn chair on a lighted patio.

"Mr. Hargroves?" Crowe said.

The man turned to look at them. His face was blank, his eyes faraway. On the table beside him was a can of Bud and a paperback novel. He showed no surprise at the sight of two of L.A.'s Finest standing in the dark at his back gate.

They crossed the yard to the patio, Crowe watching the man and McBride the house. You couldn't be too careful. "Are you Fred Hargroves?" Crowe asked.

No reply.

Crowe and McBride exchanged a glance.

"We were told you might have seen something unusual here tonight. Any truth to that?"

"Feenydoodle," Hargroves said.

"Excuse me?"

Hargroves just stared at them. His expression—lack of expression, really—was spooky. "Zockyjabberdoo," he said. "Googlepollywog."

Crowe studied him a moment, then looked at McBride. "What do you think?"

"I think that's not the only beer Fred's had tonight. Isn't that right, Mr. Hargroves?"

"Crinkendiddlebaum," Hargroves said.

Crowe sighed. "Let's get out of here."

Ten minutes later they were parked in their cruiser on a palm-lined street near the airport, sipping coffee from a Wendy's drive-thru. "Want to know my theory?" McBride said. "My theory is, the whole country tilted a little once, a long time ago, and all the nuts rolled to the West Coast."

"That would explain it," Crowe agreed. He took a swallow from his cup and rubbed his eyes. "What do we do if we get another report of a sighting?"

"We let Jones and Kanosky check it out. Those two could use a little—"

She never finished her sentence. A low hum filled the air, and then a roar like a hundred jet engines. The palms beside the road tossed and swayed as if in a hurricane; the police car rocked on its shocks. Thirty feet from its front bumper, an oblong ball the size of a doublewide trailer appeared, hovering just above the pavement. The entire scene was bathed in green light.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone again.

Officers Crowe and McBride sat staring at the windshield. Both their coffee cups were empty, the contents soaking unnoticed into uniforms and seat-covers. The only sound was the metallic voice of their radio:

"One-tango-fourteen, come in please. One-tango-fourteen?"

The cruiser sat dark and silent. The officers' faces remained expressionless, their eyes unfocused. Overhead, a fingernail moon rode a cloudless, purple sky.

"Calling one-tango-fourteen, do you read?"

Very slowly, never once moving his head or his eyes, Officer Crowe reached down and unclipped the radio mike. He raised it to his lips.

"Come in, one-tango-fourteen. Answer me."

His face calm and dreamlike, Crowe thumbed the transmit button.

"Feenydoodle," he said.

© Copyright 2003 John Floyd

About the Author:
John Floyd's short stories and fillers have appeared in more than 120 different publications, including Strand Magazine, Grit, Capper's, Woman's World, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Two of his stories were recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and another for the Derringer Award.