The Tow Job

A First Contact story by jinnis

I discovered my cousin's ruse when it was too late, either too drunk or too desperate to blow his obvious game.

"Running a roadhouse ain't for the weak," he insisted. "Needs guts and a generous portion of shrewdness, not your piece of cake."

I craved to prove him wrong. Only to realise he played me like the idiot I am and tricked me into replacing him during his half-year adventure break. Now, he's climbing Mount Everest, swimming the English Channel, or wrestling polar bears for all I care. Though probably he sips drinks by the poolside, flirts with the ladies, and worries about the perfect tan.

And I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere drawing beer at ungodly hours, cleaning tables, throwing out drunken customers, and filling the icebox. True, I wanted, nay needed, to get out of town for a wee while. But the boring reality is far from the dream job I signed for. All right, the scenery is nice. Nice, lonely, and smouldering in the heat wave of the current drought. The customers—don't get me started about them.

Cheery honeymoon couples, tired parents with cranky kids, bleary-eyed truckies craving a quick coffee fix. Sure, a few regulars drop by to chat, and I make the odd fun acquaintance, but the creeps prevail.

I run a torn, sticky rag along the counter, idly wondering where cousin hides the replacements when the door opens. A gust of hot air invades the empty taproom.

The lanky, dishevelled visitor stops in the doorway and scrutinises the premises. Or at least that's what it looks like, his eyes hidden behind a pair of large, dark sunglasses. I throw the rag into the sink and dry my hands.

"Mac, come in or stay outside, but shut the blasted door. The night is a furnace."

It's a stupid remark, he's the one who enters from the heat. But half an hour before closing time my wits already called it a day. Mac, one of the rare locals, hesitates before he steps up to the bar. He is a semi-regular, living in a cottage thirty kilometres out. What he does there is another question. Illegal mining, perhaps, but it's none of my business.

"How can I help?"

He rests his work-worn hands on the counter and stares at nothing. Or perhaps at the shelf filled with exotic bottles behind me, I can't tell with the shades. Why does he wear them at night? Something seems off. I swallow and pick up a glass.

"What do you drink, mate? Beer?"

The slight movement of a bald head on a scrawny neck could be the nod of an ancient turtle. I interpret it as one and work the tap. When I set the foamy beer in front of Mac, he curls his gnarled fingers around the frosted glass.

"Mike, would you do me a favour?"

"Hm, depends. What kind?"

"There is this stranger. Broke down. Needs a truck to pull him out of the ditch."

"Geez, Mac, sure I'll help. Tonight? Is he fine?"

Another nod. There goes my beauty sleep. But leaving some poor, broken-down bugger to pass the night alone at the roadside is out of the question.

"I'll close shop. Drink your beer. I'll be driving."

He looks too shaken to let him ride his cranky motorbike. What happened out there? I reach for the first aid box under the counter, preparing myself to witness nasty injuries.

~

Ten minutes later, we're underway. My cousin's tow truck is a historic affair, perfect for this backcountry. A powerful engine, a frame built to take hard bumps, no frills. I follow Mac's short instructions eastwards. Soon, he points out an unpaved side-road leading into the dense bush. I slow down and curse when branches scratch along the faded paintwork of the cabin.

"The hell are we driving to, Mac? How did a tourist stray this far off the highway?"

I'm too busy fighting the wheel to check for my passenger's reaction. Perhaps he shrugs, but he doesn't mutter a word. Moments later, I see it.

My foot slams the brake and the truck shudders to a stop with choked engine.

"What the heck..."

The beams of my headlights illuminate a shiny semi-sphere emitting an eerie, purple glow on the upper, domed side. Blue light sizzles along the flat base. Almost twice the size of a car, one edge buried in the dirt left of the track, its bulk stands up at an awkward angle.

The closing of the passenger door shifts my attention back to Mac. He shuffles up to the object while I struggle to release my seatbelt.

"Mac? What's this bloody thing?"

He keeps going without sparing me a glance, his movements almost robotic. A step away from the shell, he reaches out a hand to press it flat against the faintly glowing surface. Under his touch, a bright purple light springs up and penetrates the old man, making his wrinkled skin shine from within. After a few moments, the effect fades and Mac looks at me. His voice is steady, but through dark glasses, purple eyes burn like two miniature suns.

"We must pull it upright."

His tone doesn't allow rejection. I want to tell him the thing looks too precious, too fragile and ethereal to handle with my gear. But who am I to argue in the face of his stoic, solar gaze and—whatever this impossibility is. Mac lifts a hand to his glasses. Not caring to know what hides behind them, I hurry back to the truck.

To turn the vehicle in the scrub and darkness of a moonless night is challenging. At least the light-show in the rearview mirror facilitates backing towards the disturbing apparition. Broken down stranger, my arse!

When I'm as near as I'll get, I release the tow cable and hand Mac the snap hook. I won't touch the semi-sphere, not after I've seen Mac's glowing scalp. He ignores me and opens a sliding panel with the touch of a finger. Expertly, he fastens the towline to a clamp.

Glad he doesn't need my help, I climb into the cab to wait with an idling engine for his signal to release the clutch. This calls for all the prudence I can muster and a low gear. The tow-load is heavy, but the tyres grip and metre by slow metre, I free the glowing dome of its precarious situation. In the mirror, I observe it tip, fall flat onto its base, and crush several bushes. My breathing is strained, and my shaking, sweaty hands on the steering wheel are ghostly pale in the purple light.

I gather my wits to go look for Mac who stands like a statue beside the half sphere, a dreamy look on his weatherbeaten face.

"Mac? Everything fine?"

He turns his head in my direction as if noticing my presence for the first time.

"Mike? What's up?"

A deep, low hum spares me an answer. We both stare at the purple dome, now hovering a handbreadth above the ground on a cushion of blue light. The sound's volume increases, sends a vibration through my teeth and down my spine. Mac lifts his once more glowing hands. I step away from him, shivering despite the heat, while the humming grows in a mighty crescendo. The light intensifies, engulfs Mac and reaches out for me. A longing ache to touch the sphere and be one with it floods my consciousness. But before I give in, the alien ship—I can't longer deny what I know for a fact—takes off.

The screech of misused metal tears me out of my reverie.

The cable!

I turn towards the truck, fearing the worst. It's back wheels no longer touch the ground, and it almost dangles from the hovering dome, tethering it to the ground. The heavy cable breaks with a hiss while I run to the cabin. Like a blue-and-purple lightning bolt, the ship zips towards the stars.

Pure luck saves me from the severed cable whipping the spot I stood a second ago. The truck rocks on its shaking suspension in a cloud of dust.

Beside it, Mac silently crumples to the ground, the weary wreck of a burnt-out, old man.

~

Mac snores on the couch while I stare into my empty glass. At least the old bloke seems fine, all traces of purple light gone for good. Guess he's lucky he can't remember anything. When he came to, he rambled about reckless tourists roaming the outback till they needed rescue. Then he declared himself too tired to drive home. I had to carry him to the truck.

Me, I remain shaken. That ship, the teeth-jarring vibration, the light and the longing...

In search of something to tear my thoughts from the experience drowning my mind and body in tidal waves of dread and ecstasy, I switch on the tv. The news channel isn't what I want, reporting yet another war and further victims of the lasting heatwave. A zap brings on the weather channel. I'm about to click forward when the anchor's unforced, happy smile catches my attention. She's pretty.

"... unexplained reasons the jet stream moved north and picked up speed. In consequence, the high-pressure area stalling over the central continent moves again, promising considerable cooler temperatures and the first rain this summer. The cause of this shift remains a mystery. Perhaps some environmental activists' rain dance succeeded. Call it a miracle — your theory is as good as mine."

I run a hand over my stubbles, my own theory forming in my head. How would an alien visitor show his gratitude for a tow-job? Or is this pure coincidence? If I'm accurate, Mac and I saved the world from disaster, tonight. But I guess miracles are easier to believe in than crashed space-travellers. I doubt even Mac will buy my story after a good night's sleep. Less so my cousin when I'll try to explain a broken tow cable.

With a shrug, I stand up. Time to catch a few hours of rest before reopening the roadhouse. Another three long months in this forsaken place will allow me to construct a plausible lie.