Lost in Magadan: Extraterrestrials on Earth

Dale’s breath was knocked out of him by his impact with the wall. The monster had flung him 10 feet with all the ease of a teenager flinging a soda can. The monster grabbed him by his collar and lifted him off the ground. This large, gray, hairless beast was solid and strong. Dale stared into his large, black, bug-like eyes.

This thing is bullet proof and I don’t even have a gun.

The creature’s hands started to squeeze around his neck. Dale knew he only had seconds left. He reached down to his belt and wrapped his fingers around his US-M3 Utica combat knife. He gripped the leather and steel handle of the double-edged knife and flicked the snap button that held it in the scabbard.

He’s bullet proof, and you won’t get two swings with the knife.

With all his remaining strength, he rammed the combat knife straight up between the creature’s arms and into its neck, just below the chin. He crashed back down to the floor as the creature released him. The seven-foot-tall Nazi general stumbled back, holding both hands over his neck. The creature stabled himself, and still holding his neck, started lifting his elbows upwards and shifting so that his chest plate was lined up on Dale.

Shit. He has that energy beam thing on his chest. He does not even need his hands to burn a hole through me.

Tom, standing ten feet from the creature, fired 15 rounds directly into the creature’s head. It dropped to the floor. Dale was gasping for breath when he saw a shard of light zip through Tom’s chest, leaving a gaping hole where his heart was located seconds before. Tom fell over, dead.

The creature that had drank the blood of the woman at the altar was standing 20 yards back in the tunnel. Tom’s flashlight had fallen in such a way that it illuminated the M-9 bazooka. Dale knew the magazine in his Thompson machine gun was empty and that Tom had just about emptied his M-2 carbine. His only hope was the M-9 and the last M6A3 rocket. Dale lurched towards the M-9. Surprisingly, he was able to shoulder the weapon and spin around to face the creature before the creature could lay hands on him. Staring down the sights of the M-9, he saw the creature standing ten yards away. The creature was in the middle of the tunnel, arms to his sides like an old western gunslinger, the heat-beam weapon in the center of his chest faintly glowing, pulsing, and waiting to spit out a deadly shard of light.

“Sergeant Matthews,” the creature said in a raspy deep voice.

How in the hell does it know my name? It speaks English?

“How do you know my name?” Dale asked.

“Does that matter at this moment? You have a rocket aimed at my chest, and I have a particle beam incinerator pointed at yours.” The creature took a step forward.

“What are you,” Dale challenged.

“Your language has no word that describes me. Suffice it to say, I am not from this world. Since we have been standing here, I have calculated the odds of your survival. If I fire my particle beam, there is a ninety-seven percent chance you will die.”

“Yeah, is that so? Did you forget that I have an anti-tank rocket pointed at you?” Dale boasted with insincere confidence.

“I have calculated that I have a twenty-seven percent chance of surviving your next attack. The odds are in my favor. Even if your rocket is successful, my weapon is thought controlled, I need no hands to fire it.”

“If you are so sure of your odds, then why all this talking? Why not just shoot?” Dale grasped his weapon tightly and shifted focus from the creature’s chest to his feet.

“While my chances of surviving this duel are greater than yours, a twenty-seven percent chance of survival is not a gamble I wish to take today,” the creature stated in a matter of fact way, as if he were considering going ‘all-in’ with a pair of queens.

“What do you propose? I’m not putting down my weapon,” Dale said defiantly, somewhat relieved that there may be a way out of this situation. He knew he could not trust this otherworldly beast, but he figured the beast was pretty damn close on the odds.

“No need for you to disarm, simply start walking backwards until you no longer see me,” the beast suggested.

Dale knew there were all kinds of problems with that solution. For starters, he could barely see walking forward, walking backward was likely to lead to some tragic slip-and-fall, and not one that could be remedied by some ambulance chasing personal injury lawyer. However, Dale was sure he was not going to get a better offer.

“What is your name?” Matthews shouted.

“I am Nox Bellator,” the creature replied.

“How do I know you won’t come after me when I leave?” Dale asked.