Rayguns Over Texas by Michael Moorcock
“You do not come into my county and offer disrespect.” With his boot, Cothron shoved the corpse’s shoulder and rolled the body fully onto its back. “You do not start issuing orders like you own the place.” He moved to stand by Ayers’ feet and prodded the dead man’s legs apart. “You don’t own the place. I do.” He planted a hard, vicious kick into the man’s crotch.
Then, finally, he smiled. “I know you’re dead and all, Hoss, but I like to think that somewhere, your ghost is folded over in pain, puking.”
He took his phone from his breast pocket, noted the lack of signal strength, and replaced it. Instead, he clicked the button of the walkie-talkie mike on his collar. “Doreen.”
“I gotcha, Hank.”
“I’m on Bull Dog Run, a few hundred yards west of the turnoff. Send Bubba out here. I need him on his scooter.”
There was laughter in Doreen’s voice. “He’s gonna hate that. What’s up?”
“Nothing I can talk about.”
#
Stanley “Bubba” Saldaña made an incongruous picture--a big, muscular man in a sheriff’s department uniform and cowboy hat, precariously steering an undersized yellow motor scooter out along the bumps and rises of Bull Dog Run.
He pulled to a stop between the parked cars, killed his engine, and stood, obviously grateful to be stretching his legs out to their proper proportions. He wiped dust away from his eyes and turned to the sheriff. “Hey, Uncle Hank. What’s up?”
Cothron, sitting on the hood of Ayers’ car, leaning back against the still-cool glass of the windshield, gestured toward Ayers’ body. “Peckerhead was determined to bring strife into our beloved county.”
Bubba’s face fell. “It’s my turn, ain’t it.” It was a statement, not a question.
“It sure is.”
“Aw, Hank, I’m going to be sweated through afore I’m done hauling his body around.”
“Just think about what this nice limo will bring us when you sell it to your guy in San Angelo.”
Bubba brightened. “Okay, I’m on it.” He put down the scooter’s kickstand then headed off to strip the Washington man’s corpse.
Everything valuable, but not unique, would go in the sell drawer in Cothron’s office. Everything remotely identifiable as Ayers’ would be burned.
Then there was the question of the body itself. Amateurs made the mistake of burying their kills in shallow graves. This tactic kept wild animals from eating the remains and preserved loads of forensic evidence, meanwhile leaving the corpse close enough to the surface for disturbed earth or infrared equipment to give away the grave’s location.
But Cothron was no amateur. He knew his county even better than he knew the contours of Miss September’s airbrushed backside. One corner of his memory was dedicated to places so devoid of attractive scenery, so far away from places where people went, that no human being was likely to set eyes on them for months at a stretch. That’s where Ayers would end up. Bubba would load both his scooter and the body into the limo, then take the body out to one of those distant places and dump it. In two weeks, Ayers would be nothing but a scattering of bones, gnawed clean and sun-bleached. Nature, properly utilized, was Cothron’s friend.
While Bubba stripped the body, Cothron got to work looking through the limo’s trunk and interior. The car was as scrupulously clean, as if it had been detailed by shoemaker elves who’d switched to a new profession, and reeked of spray-on new car smell.
He only found one item of interest. Under the driver’s seat was a firearm--a strange firearm. Shaped something like a competition silhouette pistol made of anodized purple metal, it had a fold-back barrel that added a good twelve inches to its length. When Cothron folded the barrel forward, it locked into place, no seam visible where it joined the base, and the weapon began to vibrate and hum in his hand. He almost dropped it.
He’d just found the catch that allowed him to fold the barrel back, putting an end to the hum and vibration, when Bubba called him. “I think you need to see this.”
“Hold your horses.” Still studying the purple weapon in his hands, Cothron ambled toward his nephew and the corpse.
“This guy’s wearing a toupee. And a mask. And he ain’t right.”
“Isn’t right. Come on, Bubba.” Cothron rejoined his nephew and looked down at Ayers.
Bubba had gotten Ayers’ clothes off and put them, folded, in a neat pile. Ayers lay naked in the dust, and Cothron could see what Bubba meant.
To start with, Ayers had no genitalia, nor was there any sign that he ever had any.
In one meaty hand, Bubba held the wig that had been Ayers’ immaculate hair. In the other, he held a droopy mass of skin-colored stuff that had probably once been Ayers’ face.
What Ayers now had for a face was mottled, scaly, and olive green, with an overly wide mouth lined with sharp, needle-like yellow teeth. Ayers had no supraorbital ridge; his forehead angled up and back, like a ski jump. His head reminded Cothron of a snake’s, if one could be shortened by being run into a wall enough times.
Ayers was still dead. With the mask off, his exit wound was even more obvious.
Thoughtful, Cothron prodded the corpse with his boot toe. “I think I’m extra glad I killed the sumbitch.”
“Yeah. So what do we do now?”
“We look through his stuff, then we get our asses over to Sandstone Holler. I expect there’s something going on there.”
Bubba tapped the .44 Magnum revolver holstered on his belt and nodded significantly. “Are there any hunting restrictions--” His attention drifted back along the dirt trail toward the turnoff. “Oh, shit.”
Cothron turned to look. Headed their way, kicking up a cloud of dust, was his daughter’s little, white Honda sedan. “Oh, shit.” He looked down at the corpse. “Finish getting that fake skin off him. And when Jayline asks anything, I’m the one who answers.”
“Got it.” Bubba bent over the body.
Cothron trotted toward the cars, reaching them moments after the Honda pulled to a stop behind them. The cloud of dust trailing the car flowed across Cothron, a miniature sandstorm. He lowered his head, letting the brim of his hat keep the stuff out of his eyes.
Jayline waited until the cloud was past before she emerged from the car. Cothron felt his heart skip a beat from pride. Smart, fit, smiling, she looked as though--once she got her high school diploma next spring--she could jump straight into a sportscasting booth, a college track and field program, or a professional sports team’s cheerleading squad, all of which, Cothron was determined, would be among her options. In designer jeans, snakeskin boots, and a sunflower-colored tank top, she wore her long, blond hair in a practical ponytail. A Permian Panthers billed cap kept the sun out of her eyes.
She stood by her driver’s side door and flashed her father a lot of teeth. “Hey, Daddy. Someone said there was something interesting going on up here. So I brought my camera.”
“‘Someone’ said? Sweetheart, I’ll give you two hundred dollars to go back to the station and kill Doreen for me.”
Jayline giggled. “Seriously. What is it?”
Cothron took a look at Bubba and the corpse. “Well, I was attacked by a big reptile, shaped like a man. He tried to kill me with this, so I had to shoot him.” He held up the purple firearm. “I think he’s from outer space. It’s kind of gross. You probably don’t--”
She already had her camera out and up on her shoulder. No miniature thing fit for a purse, it was a computer with a flip-down optic and about fourteen inches of lens. “You’re not kidding, are you? This isn’t like the time with the jackalope breeding farm?”
“Sweetheart, you were five. At eight, you got kind of hard to trick.”
She trotted toward Bubba. “Oh, jeez. What is that stuff, fake skin? Daddy, you made a real mess of his head.”
&nb
After that, Jayline couldn’t have been persuaded to get back to town for thirty million dollars. Cothron stuck with his negotiations until he won a concession from her: she wouldn’t be in the front car when they approached Sandstone Hollow. Cothron and Bubba, Bubba driving, would take the sheriff’s cruiser there, Jayline following in Ayers’ limousine.
They drove past Amelia Stone’s big-ass ranch house, built with oil money by her grandpappy, then reached the spot where Bull Dog Run became hilly and even more rocky. Half a mile beyond that, they topped a hill and looked down into the narrow ravine that was the northern end of Sandstone Hollow. Bubba stopped there.
Their angle wasn’t good. Most of what they were looking at was set up beyond the point the ravine widened, so it was largely masked by ravine outcroppings. What they did see down the slope looked like a big canopy, a canvas circus tent with no banners. Cothron could see, peeking out from under the canopy, a curved metal hull. Men and women in work clothes, a dozen at least, moved out from and then back under the canopy, carrying orange plastic crates the size of large ice coolers, stacking them at the bottom of the slope.
“Hey.” Bubba scowled, looking down at the workers. “That one’s you. And he’s coming this way.” He turned to stare at Cothron, accusation in his eyes.
“Of course it’s not me, dumbass. It’s one of them made up to look like me. So he can replace me, I’ll bet. Four thousand dollars says that’s why Ayers was luring me out here.”
“Prove that you’re you.”
“If I was one of them, I wouldn’t have killed one of my own kind and called you, jackass.” Seeing a determined glint in Bubba’s eyes, Cothron relented. “Okay. Try to take my mask off. But if you so much as bruise me, I’ll kick the crap out of you. And you know I can.”
Bubba pinched Cothron’s cheek and tugged, looked closely at Cothron’s teeth, groped the man’s face for a moment, then leaned back, satisfied. “Okay, you’re you.”
By now, the other Cothron had reached the top of the slope. Bubba turned toward him and rolled his window down.
The other Cothron leaned in and stared between them, looking surprised at Bubba’s presence.
Bubba grabbed the man’s head, yanked him partway in through the window, and began twisting. He also let off the brake. The car drifted forward, losing its view of the canopy tent.
The fake Cothron struggled, emitting a shrill noise like a pocket version of a steam whistle.
The real Cothron grabbed the steering wheel and made sure his car stayed on the road. “Dammit, Bubba--”
“Sorry, Hank, he’s strong. Jeez.” Bubba applied more torque.
There was a noise, a muted crack, and the false Cothron went limp. His facial features were now askew.
Shaken, his hat half off his head, Bubba held on to the fake Cothron, dragging the body along as they rolled downhill. Cothron steered until they were fifty yards from the crest before angling the car to block the road and telling Bubba to put the brake on. Jayline brought Ayers’ limo to a stop right behind them.
All three emerged, Jayline already taping. White-faced, she kept her camera on Bubba as he pushed the dead replica of her father off the car door. “Daddy, that’s so sick.”
Cothron drew his revolver. He fished a hollow-point round from a belt pouch, his store of loose ammo, and replaced the round he’d expended on Ayers. “You need to get back to town, sweetheart. This is kind of bigger than I expected it would be. I definitely think this is an alien invasion.”
“Well, duh.”
“So you get that car turned around and get your hiney back to--”
“Too late.” Bubba pointed up the hill. Just cresting it were six figures, half of them apparently human and half naked reptile men, all of them carrying weapons. Cothron saw four purple hand weapons with their barrels already folded forward and two long arms with wicked, curved lines like European sniper rifles made of salmon-pink material.
“Crud. Get down, sweetie.” Cothron dove behind his cruiser’s hood. Rising, he braced himself against his cruiser and took aim at a reptile with a rifle.
He fired three times, taking the creature twice in the chest, once in the head. The reptile fell backward, rolling out of sight down the slope into the ravine.
Bubba, rising just to Cothron’s right, nodded in appreciation. “Nice grouping.”
“Shut up and shoot, peckerwood.” Cothron glanced toward his daughter. The girl was behind one of the limo’s rear wheels, peeking just far enough over the car trunk to tape the oncoming aliens.
Now the invaders returned fire. Their weapons put out incandescently white, fuzzy-edged beams of light, accompanied by screech noises that sounded like a pickup truck being torn in half lengthwise. The pistol beams slammed into the sheriff’s cruiser, making craters the size of soccer balls in the doors and side panels.
“My car. You pricks.” Cothron aimed for another shot.
Then a rifle beam hit the cruiser. The vehicle’s trunk disappeared, replaced by a smoking crater, and the car actually slid a couple feet forward, knocking Cothron down.
Not Bubba. Still in a crouch, he stayed on his feet, boots skidding backward through the dirt. As Cothron struggled to stand, Bubba returned fire, swearing all the while, carefully placing six shots.
Upright again, Cothron saw one more rifle-reptile and one fake human with a pistol down, bleeding, unmoving. Cothron opened fire again--two rounds to a reptile’s chest, one to its head. All of a sudden, the six attackers were two, and they had the smaller weapons.
But another reptile topped the crest. This one wore a helmet that looked like someone had tried to do something arty with the image of a tiered Aztec pyramid in polished aluminum. The reptile touched the right side of the helmet. Something like lightning danced across its shiny surfaces, then leaped from the helmet to smack Bubba in the forehead.
Bubba jerked upright but didn’t die or even fall. He just stood there, more slack-jawed than usual, his eyes glassy. He froze, caught partway through the act of opening his cylinder and dumping his brass.
“Bubba?” Cothron kept a close eye on the helmeted reptile. It stood where it was, no lightning now flickering on its headgear, and all its attention was on the sheriff. The two fake humans with it, emboldened, began to advance, firing again, their shots further demolishing the car.
Cothron cursed and ejected his own brass. He popped snaps on his belt, coming up with a speed-loader. “Bubba, this is not the time...”
Now another reptile topped the crest. It had a salmon-pink firearm too, but carried this one on its shoulder. The weapon was as long as a man and looked like it weighed a couple hundred pounds. The reptile swung it in the direction of the cruiser, Bubba, and Cothron.
“Oh, shit.” Cothron hurtled sideways, slamming into Bubba.
Had Bubba been alert, Cothron never would have moved him. That was Bubba’s gift, the one that made him a star on the Permian Panthers’ offensive line back when he was in high school. He didn’t budge when people hit him. But tackled from the side when dazed, he went down readily enough. Cothron hit the sun-baked, grassless ground with him, grunting from the impact.
The big weapon screeched like a naval frigate giving birth. Peering under the cruiser, Cothron could see light play across the back and left side of the cruiser. The car crumpled into a black ball. Smoke rose from the wreckage.
His .357 lost and Bubba’s .44 nowhere in sight, Cothron elbow-crawled to his left and looked toward Ayers’ limo, toward the purple weapon he’d put back under its seat. But if he ran that way, the reptiles would track him--bring their weapons to bear on the car that was his little girl’s cover.
Cothron stayed where he was, continued looking for his handgun and Bubba’s.
“Daddy, they’re coming--”
“Working on it, sweetheart.?
“Oh...piss.” Jayline set her camera down on the dirt. She reached behind her, under her waistband, and brought out her 16th birthday present--a beautifully compact, snub-nosed, five-shot .357 with a brushed stainless steel finish. She raised it in two hands and fired four times, the recoil of the lightweight weapon kicking her barrel up hard with each shot.
Cothron hazarded a look over the wreckage that had been his cruiser. The reptile with the helmet was down with two rounds in its chest. The one with the shoulder weapon was also on the ground, its right eye gone, the weapon lying atop it. The two fake men with purple pistols were flat on the ground, elbow-crawling away.
“Great shooting, sweetie. I’m so proud of you.”
“No, it sucked.” Jayline sounded furious. “I was aiming for its chest. And I missed once.”
“More than forty yards and a snubbie, baby.” Cothron spotted his revolver, lying half under Bubba. He dragged it from beneath the big man and dumped his expended brass. By touch, he located his second speed-loader on his belt.
Now there was a new noise, like distant thunder coupled with jet turbine whine, and the ground vibrated under Cothron’s knees. Pebbles began vibrating atop the ground. Cothron cursed. Back at home, his wife’s yappy Chihuahua, which could somehow detect storm clouds at forty miles, would now be going crazy with thunderstorm fear, running around and barking incessantly.
“Hey, what?” Bubba’s voice was slurred, his eyes still glassy, but he seemed to be coming around.
Cothron slipped his new load into the revolver, snapped the cylinder closed. “Bubba, get your ass out there and commandeer that bazooka for us.”
“Yes, Master.” Bubba lurched to his feet and tottered toward the shoulder weapon.
Now a new shape topped the hillcrest--another reptile, another shoulder weapon--but the creature rode atop a silver disk, maybe five feet in diameter. It floated over the ground, rising to an altitude of twenty feet above the ground as it approached, giving its operator an improved line of fire down on Cothron and Bubba.