Palmdale Must Be Destroyed

By Richard Mueller

Roy Felker is with the National Security Agency. Pascia Tepec is a cop who works with dead people. It’s only natural that romance would blossom while they’re fighting to stop Los Angeles from being engulfed by the army of murderous, self-replicating aliens that’s sweeping down on the city from the Mojave Desert. The government can’t do it. The military can’t do it. Only Pascia and Roy and their band of brilliant geeks have a chance of winning. Only they know that Palmdale Must Be Destroyed. But can they do it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Mueller
• Release date: Feb 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465839695

Richard Mueller

Richard Mueller served in the U.S. Coast Guard before moving to Hollywood to work as a writer, first in science fiction and then television and film. He also runs the “best open mic show” in L.A.”

Book preview

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COPYRIGHT

Copyright 2009

All Rights Reserved

Edited by Yvonne Dauphin

Smashwords Edition: February 2012

Smashwords Edition Photo Credit: Dan Coffey. Used by permission.

Smashwords Edition Cover Design Credit: Shannon Muir. Used by permission.

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DEDICATION

For Yvonne Dauphin

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DAY ONE – SUNDAY: 1

2

3

4

5

DAY TWO – MONDAY: 6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

DAY THREE – TUESDAY: 14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

DAY FOUR – WEDNESDAY: 34

35

36

37

38

39

40

DAYS LATER: 41

MONTHS LATER

AND EVEN LATER THAN THAT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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DAY ONE – SUNDAY

1

Larry Lourk hated his shoes. His feet were killing him. It was the shoes, the damned pointy felt shoes that someone had decided were appropriate for a Sunday afternoon Prince Charming to wear; shoes that had been trodden on by hyperactive children so often that he was beginning to think that the little monsters did it on purpose. Rotten, green-felt, faggy, elf shoes with soft bottoms that seemed to attract every errant toy and misplaced stone to his bruised feet. Why couldn’t he wear boots, or loafers? But no, some fairy tale fashion swish had decreed that handsome princes wore soft pointy shoes, and that’s what the privileged moms of the spoiled children expected to see.

He wanted to sit down under a tree and have cake and watery fruit punch, or better yet a little of whatever the moms were drinking, but as the Prince he was expected to wait hand and foot on little Princess Birthday Girl. Prince Charming, my ass. I’m nothing but the Royal Butler, Busboy, and Punching Bag.

Larry Lourk hated kids’ parties with every fiber of his being, which was a shame because he made a reasonably good living entertaining at them. Most of them were on weekends, which left his weeks free for acting classes, auditions, or new headshots, and he could play the majority of the male costumed characters that were currently popular with the sub-teen set, in costumes he could either cobble together from resale stores or rent on a three month basis from the good folks at Clown Town. He was a walking advertisement to the popularity of animated films. Instead of scrambling for jobs, he should be getting a retainer from Disney, but such was the life of a minimally-talented actor in twenty-first century Los Angeles — a city with fifty thousand out of work actors at any moment — not that Larry would have considered himself as an artist of less than potential greatness. In his heart of hearts, he was as gifted as Mark Ruffalo or Ethan Hawke. Hell, Josh Duhamel was engaged to Sarah Ferguson, and what did Prince Larry rate? A party for Her Highness Princess Melinda Schulthies of Erewhon Lane. It wasn’t fair, and someday he and Jay Leno would laugh about his early career, but right now, like many among the self-motivated, Larry Lourk was just a legend in his own mind.

He especially hated little girly birthday parties. The pampered darlings tended to screech and squeal from the first sugar rush to the last party game, and Larry was certain that he was damaging his hearing whenever he subjected himself to one. Just try and get Kaiser Permanente to pay out for that as a job-related ailment. That and smashed toes.

And so often lately, thanks to the perfidious influence of the ingrates at the Happiest Place on Earth, he had to dress as Prince Charming and escort the Birthday Girl (some little overdressed, spoiled snot-monster with a trendy name like Kylie or Brielle) to each game and treat, while the parents watched him like a hawk, wondering whether he was a secret child molester come into their midst to ravage and ruin the family’s potentially valuable breeding stock.

That, at least, had never entered Larry’s curly blond head. He often thought about kicking or drowning them, but the idea of sex with one of those screeching, energy-sucking moppets was too gross to contemplate. He’d much rather settle in for an evening with a porn DVD, a handful of lotion, and a comprehensive agenda of self-abuse.

He was 26, and he’d had indifferent success with girls his own age and older. Hollywood was full of young, poor, good-looking actors and he was just another drop in an already glutted sperm pool. He had even considered changing leagues — becoming gay or a Scientologist — if he figured out a way to make it further his career, but sex, as an obsession, seldom manifested itself as more than nervous frustration. The moms, however….

His buddy Jerry, who did the same sort of work, claimed to have gotten a good deal of milf-booty from the moms present, married and single. (Jerry, a Southerner, insisted on calling it poontang.) BJs, pussy, wild scenes in the upstairs bedroom while little Tiffany was playing party games, even invitations to come over later for an evening of flat-dancing when hubby was out of town. It sounded great, but so far Larry had scored nothing but flirtatious looks and a few dud phone numbers. He’d asked Jerry how to improve his score, but his friend only implied that it was not something you could learn. It was a matter of instinct and chemistry, that Jerry had and Larry did not. Jerry was a shit.

However, Larry Lourk’s luck was about to change, radically. The little barracudas were in swimming so he had a break, and had gone to the downstairs bathroom to wash peanut butter icing off the plastic crown Prince Charming always wore to state functions, when a sexy, smoky voice behind him straightened the hairs on his neck. So, Prince Larry, just how long is your sword?

Startled, he attempted turn around smoothly while composing his features, and accomplished neither. It didn’t matter. Heather Someone-or-other, mother to a child who was too busy to notice her absence, had obviously been drinking heavily. She flashed a feral smile from under a tangle of dirty blond hair, stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her with a flounce of her ass. Larry swallowed hard. Uh, hi, uh…Heather….

Abromowitz, she cooed, making it sound like an unnatural act. Hi yourself, Princey. She flowed up against him like hot molasses and stuck her improbably long tongue down his throat. Larry almost passed out, as his scepter came to attention against the embrace of his costume. Wow, he thought, grabbing her ass and pulling her loins up against his, I’m in the big leagues now. She reached up under his doublet, tugged down his tights and briefs, and pushed him down hard on the toilet seat. Then, without a word of preamble, she lifted her short red knit dress and sat down astride him. She was not wearing underwear. She was a good fit.

Think of something else, quickly, his mind reeled. Baseball, Shakespeare, Rush Limbaugh, math tests, anything, but it was too late. Unnh, was all he could say, shaking like a man who had just taken a Taser hit. Drool collected on his lower lip. Heather focused her bleary eyes on his and smiled as if she had just discovered the Source of the Nile.

Don’t worry, hon, she crooned, licking his ear with a thoroughness that made his butt cheeks clench. You just won me a bet. But you better get that sword sharpened, ‘cause I’m not the only one here who wants to play The Princess and The Penis. She laughed at her own wit then wriggled on his lap. Larry almost fainted as the blood left his brain for parts south. And that was when the sky fell in.

It sounded as if a fighter jet had gone on afterburners and broken the sound barrier in the backyard. A deafening sheet of noise hit the house, putting a diagonal crack in the window, and making Larry bite his tongue. A glass shelf shattered, pitching nostrums and doodads into the sink. Heather reacted to the sudden screaming and crying of the children outside by jumping up, catching a foot in Larry’s tights, and falling backward against the door.

Struggling to his feet, ears ringing, Larry tried to pull up his soiled tights, but first he had to untangle Heather’s stiletto heel. What a mess. And how do I hide this stain from the party guests? He put out a hand to help Heather, but she slapped it away. Don’t touch me, you idiot, she screeched. Scrabbling up the door, she pulled it open, and disappeared into the hall. So much for true love.

Larry straightened his disheveled costume, pulling down the hem of his doublet to conceal his wilting lance, and followed Heather past the frightened caterers chattering in the kitchen and out to the yard. To call it chaos would have been kind.

Little girls were holding their ears and crying, their mothers and nannies trying to comfort them, and one end of a table full of treats appeared to have collapsed, adding to the general mayhem. A few people drifted toward a corner of the backyard, Heather among them. Not knowing else what to do, Larry followed, stepping over the prone body of the hostess, Mrs. Schulthies, who appeared to have fainted face-first into a tray of pink-iced cupcakes. What happened? Larry asked, pushing his way to the front of the gawkers, as yet another child trod on his foot.

I don’t know, Heather mumbled, looking suddenly sober and much more composed than he felt. What is that?

In a slight depression in the grass lay a spherical metal object, and at first glance Larry mistook it for a cannon ball. Had someone’s PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN-theme party down the street gotten out of hand? But then, what had made that incredible sonic boom?

Mommy, one of the moppets cried. It’s buzzing. She was right. A sound was coming from the metal ball, a series of frequencies that seemed to rise and fall, hunting for a scale, and something told Larry Lourk that this was not a toy. He took a step to back away but Heather misinterpreted and grabbed his arm.

Don’t touch it, she whispered, digging her fingers into his bicep.

Not a chance, baby, he decided. Then he perceived a tiny red flash on the surface of the ball, like the distant wink of an airplane at night.

Is it a toy, Mommy? someone asked. As if in answer, a bright red pencil of light shot out, and a child screamed wildly, a high and horrible howl of pain. Larry turned to look at Heather, who had suddenly lost her appeal, a splatter of blood drops across her face, a black hole gaping where her left eye had been. More red lights flashed out, and Larry felt an excruciating pain in his chest.

He turned to run, so slowly, and then his vision was flooded with a harsh red light. And as that light faded, so did Larry Lourk.

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2

The narrow winding streets of the Hollywood Hills are difficult to traverse in the best of times, but during a major criminal investigation they become completely impassable. Three Black-and-White Crown Vics, their doors open, their lights turning hypnotically, were pulled up before the house on Erehwon Lane where, until recently, a children’s party had been in progress. Two other prowl cars had sealed off the ends of the block. Farther out, police control points were limiting neighborhood access to residents only.

Though ambulances were clustered up before the house, there seemed to be no real sense of urgency, and that was a really bad sign. Cops and EMTs were standing in small groups on the lawn, or sitting on the front porch steps, their heads down or staring at nothing, mostly silent. One older officer was wrapped in a blanket on the back step of an ambulance, being treated by an EMT, who was administering oxygen. The older cop kept