(Headline from Weekly World News, January 2000)
Hawk peered worriedly into the falling rain ahead of him. An insufficient pool of light preceded the thunder of his Harley-Davidson through the night, and he worried that he might not be able to stop in time if something were to appear in the road. Hawk always rode alone. Few people sought his company, and he liked it that way. When he rode into a town, he didn’t make trouble for anyone that didn’t ask for it, and usually one look at his worn black leather and hard face was enough to deter all but the most drunken of troublemakers. An hour ago he had spent his last five dollars on gas at a little opportunistic gas station that marked the halfway point of his journey, and now he was roaring through an oppressively dark stretch of road in the heaviest rain he had seen in a long time. The forest was close on both sides, and sometimes the road seemed to end in a wall of trees just ahead, only to break out again in an unexpected new direction just as he reached the spot.
Like many full time bikers, Hawk had modified his ride to reflect his personality, increase performance and comfort, and protect against theft. Hawk had sunk several thousand dollars of inheritance money into custom paint, chrome, and decals, and because of the value this added to the bike, he constantly worried about theft. He had even gone so far as to have a custom anti-theft system put in by an electronics whiz he had met. With a canister of oxygen, an electronic safety valve, two old cell phones, a couple capacitors, and a half dozen other doodads, they had put together what was probably the most lethal anti-theft system in motorcycle history.
If his motorcycle were ever stolen, Hawk would go to the nearest telephone, dial a cell phone number, and then enter a seven-digit activation code to trigger the system. When they system was triggered, an electric signal would open a valve between the gas tank and the oxygen canister tucked beneath. A split second later, the capacitors would discharge a spark into the gas tank, resulting in a spectacular flaming death for the perpetrator.
As Hawk negotiated the twisting road, he amused himself thinking about how if he were inclined to commit suicide, it would be funny to do it by calling his own bike on a cell phone while sitting on it in view of a large group of people. Hawk didn’t own a cell phone, but he had recently acquired one from a bar patron who had gotten on his bad side. The man had wandered into a rough biker bar, drunk out of his mind, and had challenged Hawk to fight. Hawk had bopped the guy on the head, laid him on a pool table, and taken the cell phone as a souvenir. He could feel it tucked away in the inside pocket of his jacket as he rode.
A sudden flash of light from above interrupted Hawk’s thoughts. His first impression was that a very low flying plane had buzzed him. His second thought was that planes make noise, and this one had been silent. Whatever it was swung back for another pass, then curved around behind him and followed just behind him above the tops of the trees. Hawk glanced upward, and then did a double take. Through the driving rain, he saw a blur of lights around what could only be a flying saucer.
Before Hawk could decide whether he should stop his bike or ride like there was no tomorrow, the craft made the decision for him, firing some kind of energy weapon back and forth across the pavement in front of him. Blinding magenta flashes traced from the U.F.O., and the pavement cracked and heaved wherever they touched. Hawk had to slow the bike quickly to negotiate the sudden roughness. Then in a quick decision, he applied the brakes hard in order to get out of the light of the craft above him. When he had come to a halt and while the U.F.O. was turning around from where it had overshot his position, he threw himself off the bike, scrambled to his feet, and dove headfirst into the thick woods beside the road. Once in the trees, he crouched to face the road to watch what happened. His bike was lying on its side, still running, the front wheel turning lazily and the lone beam of the headlight cast off at an awkward angle through the rain.
The U.F.O. wheeled about above the trees for a few seconds, and then slowly descended over the bike. What followed would be seared into Hawk’s memory for the rest of his life. The flying saucer slowly descended over his bike until it was hovering just a few feet above it. Two mechanical arms descended from the belly of the craft and lifted the bike upright. Then six or seven more implements of various sizes descended and took to exploring the rest of the bike, tapping the tires, turning the handlebars, flipping switches and depressing pedals. After a few seconds of this, the lights around the craft began to pulse green, and at least a dozen more mechanical arms and devices descended from the U.F.O.’s innards. The lights around the flying saucer began to flash different colors, and flashed them so brightly that Hawk could only guess what was happening to his bike based on the sounds he was hearing. There was a great deal of noise. His bike was emitting thunderous engine revs, then the engine cut out and there was the only the creak and pop of stressed metal. Hot black sticky fluid was squirting wildly in random directions, and smoke began to rise from beneath the U.F.O., which was lurching rhythmically and flashing and making disturbing metallic-sounding otherworldly noises.
Hawk could only guess that he was witnessing some kind of sick mechanical rape, and the sounds he was hearing suggested a level of violence that wouldn’t leave much left of his bike to fix. He felt in his jacket for the cell phone he had stolen. If his anti-theft apparatus was still intact, he would see if he couldn’t make the abuse being dealt out a little less one-sided. He quickly dialed the number for the device, and then after waiting a few seconds for the call to connect, he dialed in the detonation code. As he was dialing, the racket in the road increased considerably. The flying saucer was bucking back and forth like a possessed pony-ride, and the multi-colored lights became so searingly bright that he had to dial the last few digits by feel.
For a brief moment, Hawk wondered if the device had been rendered inoperable, or if he had perhaps misdialed, but just as the thought crossed his mind, his worries were allayed by the roar of an expanding fireball beneath the U.F.O. The craft reeled upwards with its lights suddenly dim, revealing several of its strangely shaped implements hanging blackened and useless from its belly. It turned slowly in the air, and then moved away from the scene, veering and lurching through the pouring rain somewhat unsteadily.
Hawk watched until the craft was out of site, and then walked out to inspect the scene. Not much remained of his bike. He kicked a couple pieces of scrap off the road. People would probably be confused by the sudden appearance of ripples in the road, and they would be curious about the scorched pavement, but no one would believe a story like this. He would have to come up with something more plausible. Hawk shrugged his shoulders and pulled up his collar around his neck. He had a long walk ahead of him - a long, dark, rainy, miserable walk.
-J.R. Willett