The Things

By Herb Cunningham

They came not in spaceships of flying saucers, but in microscopic spores drifting through the infinitude of space. 100 billion stars, 100 billion solar systems in SB galaxies like our own milky way galaxy.
Why did they have to come to our solar system?
Somehow they made it past the powerful gravitational fields of the huge frozen outer planets Neptune, Uranus, Saturn, and Jupiter. They made it through the asteroid belt. They avoided being burnt up on Venus, Mercury, or on the sun. Somehow they manage to land on the only planet in the solar system teeming with life our planet Earth.
They were monstrous, hideous, snakelike, vinelike parasite things that attacked, entered, possessed, then duplicated the bodies of the terrestrial life forms. We humans are terrestrial life forms.
Dr. Fugate discovered the alien things, but no one believed him. The alien things send assassination teams against Dr. Fugate, because he knows something that can be used against them. Dr. Fugate realizes that, but he has forgotten what it is. He believes that the answer might lie in the small, now deserted town in Western Kentucky where he first discovered the alien things. Somehow, he will have to return to Kentucky. And he is sure that the alien things will be waiting there, for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490728858

Herb Cunningham

The author was born on July 4, 1943, in Earlington, Kentucky, to Herbert Cunningham Sr. and Elsie Cunningham. He studied in the Gary Community School System, and then in Indiana University in Gary and Bloomington. He also went to Purdue University Calumet in Hammond, Indiana. He has a master’s degree in education, and he went to medical school. His employment consists of twenty-six years in teaching in the Gary, Indiana, school system.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T hey seemed human, and they lived and walked among us. They were indistinguishable from us, but they were monsters, and their numbers were increasing.

It was almost midnight. It had been a long, hard day, and the old man was extremely tired, but he was too afraid to sleep, or even sit down and rest until he had thoroughly searched his tiny apartment, which, like all of the other apartments in the complex, had as few potential hiding places as possible. There were shelves everywhere, but no drawers or cabinets. There was no closet door, no utility room, nor any of the usual out of the way storage places that one would expect to find in a house or apartment.

He lived in a walled, gated community that was heavily guarded, and periodically painstakingly searched. Supposedly everyone who lived there was human, but despite all of the safeguards and assurances, the old man did not feel safe there or anywhere else. Sooner or later, somehow, the alien things were going to get him just like they had his friends and relatives and neighbors back in Kentucky.

Frantically, he searched—first inside his washer and dryer, which were both too small to conceal what he feared. The refrigerator was empty. So was the oven, and there was nothing but dust under his bed. He sat down, took off his shoes, and tried to relax. It was no use. His fear continued to grow until his heart raced, his teeth chattered, and his hands and whole body shook with fear. Desperately he searched the apartment again, and again, and again. Finally, he forced himself to stop and began to undress.

His anxiety attack grew worse. Those things were in the building now! He could feel them getting closer and closer. He could hear their thoughts. Desperately, he wedged a chair between the doorknob and the floor.

He had forgotten to take his medication. Maybe this was all in his mind. He searched through his clothes for the pills that his psychiatrist had given him. They were in the inside pocket of his gray sports coat. He gulped several, then cowered in abject terror until the powerful, psychotherapeutic drugs began to take effect. Long minutes later he finally began to relax and feel what he knew was a false sense of security.

The things were spreading rapidly, infesting the whole country. Very soon now they would be coming for him. He was number-one on their enemies list, because he had beaten them before. Had it not been for him, they would have easily conquered the world by now. His end was near.

Even with the medication, the old man found it hard to fall asleep. Sometimes a man and his entire life can be defined by one single event, usually a failure. The old man thought of Richard Nixon and Gerry Faust; he thought about Bill Buckner, and he thought of the place-kicker who missed the winning field goal in Buffalo’s first Super Bowl. He thought of other failures, and he thought of himself, for he too, was a failure.

He never played in the World Series, Super Bowl, NBA finals, or the Olympics, but he had run and won a footrace to warn the world of an invasion by things from outer space. He had saved the world, but he had failed to save the woman he loved. He had failed.

Later that night he woke up screaming. One of those vine things was in the bed with him! Then he realized that he had been dreaming. He was safe—at least for a while.

CHAPTER ONE

I t was true that reality was the worst possible nightmare the old man thought as he woke up and automatically reached for the pills that he hated, but without which he could not survive. He was paranoid, schizophrenic, clinically depressed, and he was rapidly losing what little control he had left. In his head he could often hear the thoughts of the alien things plotting against him. The pills made the voices go away. His situation was hopeless. He was fighting not only a real enemy, but also an imaginary enemy that existed only in his head. He was losing both battles.

His medical training was the only thing that made him get up every morning and fight the day instead of just giving up and committing suicide or giving in to his insanity, Dr. David Fugate thought as the alarm clock rang and he forced himself out of his bed and into the shower. Even before the invasion, his life hadn’t been that great, even though it had started out impressively. His parents had been so proud of him when he had graduated from medical school, and so happy for him at his wedding. Then his life had turned to shit. The marriage ended shortly after the wedding, and shortly after that both of his parents had died in an auto accident. They’d died so young, but maybe they were better off. Most of their relatives, friends, and neighbors had suffered a far worse fate.

Not only was the doctor’s mind sick, his body was sick, also. He had an arthritic left shoulder, right hand, hip, and knee, and a heart condition. The bathroom mirror was cruel, reminding him that he was a sick old man. Once he’d been rather handsome—five-eleven, a muscular 165 or 170, with coal black hair. Now he had very few strands of black hair left, a rapidly growing bald spot, and his weight has slipped below 140. His once almost movie-star handsome face seemed to grow new wrinkles and deeper wrinkles every day He was 48 years old, but he looked more like 68, and he felt more like 88.

Depression is usually the worst in the morning. As he shaved, Fugate’s depression deepened. His spirit was broken, his back was broken, and his medication was failing. Not that it mattered. The situation was hopeless. The work that he was doing was useless—futile. There was no way that the human race could defeat those alien things. They were too numerous, too powerful, and too intelligent. He desperately wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head, and just hide there forever, but people were depending on him. The whole world was sick, and he was a doctor.

CHAPTER TWO

T he van was late, as usual. The beautiful May morning reminded Fugate of Betty, and his guilt returned and overwhelmed both his anxiety and his depression. It was his fault that Betty was dead. She had depended on him to protect her from those alien vine things, and he had failed because of his stupidity. She begged him not to leave her, but he had insisted on going ahead to see if the way was clear while she hid in an abandoned house. Then he heard the screams. He had to leave her or those alien things would have gotten him, too.

Unlike the beautiful park that surrounded the apartment complex, the land outside the wall was nightmarish and so unlike the earth during the spring. It was devoid of almost all vegetation. Most of the trees had been cut down and the bushes, shrubs, grass, and weeds had been bulldozed, and then the bare land had been covered over with asphalt and concrete, leaving no places for those hidden alien vine things to hide and grow. The whole area reminded Fugate of some mid-fifties, black and white B horror movie.

The Institute building was only three or four miles away. The former University Medical Sciences Building was a brand new, state-of-the-art facility. Supposedly, it was well-equipped to do the research necessary to effectively combat the alien threat. The Institute employed many of the best doctors and medical scientists in the world—MD’s, PhD’s, and double and triple PhD’s, some of whom had MD’s, also. Fugate was a DO, an osteopathic physician. He was one of the rarest of doctors, an osteopathic surgeon. Fugate wasn’t a very good doctor. He had barely gotten through medical school, failing one year. He felt inferior to his distinguished colleagues, but Dr. Fugate had discovered the horror that all of the others had missed or dismissed, so the Institute had respected him, listened to him, and demanded that he take a position. They had wanted him to be the head man, but he felt unqualified and psychologically unfit, so he declined.

Back then he believed that the Institute would defeat the alien things. Now he knew better. The Institute was going to fail. Those things were too strong, too intelligent. The human race was going to lose and become extinct. Soon, those alien things would be coming after him. He couldn’t commit suicide. That was against his religion. He prayed that he would die first, maybe of a heart attack, or in his sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

A s usual, Dr. Fugate was late for work. He hated his job. As soon as he entered the building, he sensed that something was wrong. The building was empty. The corridors were deserted, the library was dark and closed, and the labs on the first floor were empty. Where was everyone?

They’re all in the auditorium, Dr. Fugate, the elderly security guard smiled reassuringly. The president’s giving a speech.

Fugate tiptoed in through the rear door and took a seat in the back. His paranoia was getting out of hand. Those alien things hadn’t taken over the building. The staff was just having a meeting. It is disrespectful to call the President of the United States a liar, but the president was not telling the truth. He was telling the American people that the researchers were making good progress and that the federal government was slowly but surely weeding out and incarcerating more of those things—slowly but surely getting the alien problem under control. But then, Fugate thought, what else could the president say? Tell the truth and admit that the aliens were winning? That they were too numerous, too powerful, and too intelligent for mankind to defeat? And most of all, the president couldn’t tell the American people that once again, as usual, their government had fucked up, had done everything asshole backwards, and had botched the job. And now it was too late.

The antidepressants made him drowsy and Fugate drifted off to sleep. Half an hour later he woke up, terrified. It was an unwritten rule nowadays that you didn’t sleep anywhere but in your own bed unless it was absolutely necessary. Nervously, he glanced around. The speech was over and the auditorium was empty. The elderly security guard watching over him smiled and Fugate forced himself to return the smile. He tried to relax, but the terror within him continued to grow. His heart raced even faster, his lightheadedness grew worse, and his hands and whole body began to shake even more violently. Mankind’s end was near and Fugate realized that his own end was near, too. Physically and mentally he couldn’t last too much longer. He was extremely exhausted and steadily losing both his control and his mind. Very soon now he would have a complete physical and nervous breakdown. He accepted that. What else could he do?

CHAPTER FOUR

T he next day, Wednesday, was another depressingly beautiful day. The soft, deep-blue sky was dotted with scores of fat, fleecy white clouds, and the overhead sun was warm and bright. Yes, the sky above was beautiful, but the world below was hideous; denuded of its natural beauty. What was the word they used? Defoliated. The world had been defoliated.

Dr. Fugate felt a little better, but he knew that his medication was giving him a false sense of well-being. Psychotropic drugs dull the mind and alter the behavior. They also affect the memory. Dr. Fugate had been keeping a terrible secret to himself. It was a secret that he could keep no longer. It was tearing him apart both mentally and physically. He had to tell someone, but whom could he trust? The terrible truth had suddenly come to the old man a few weeks ago, and what he had suspected had been so bloodcurdling, so horrific, a conspiracy of such monstrous proportions, that his mind had simply dismissed it as impossible, as a figment of his insane imagination. And panic-stricken, shaking with fear, he had taken a few extra pills, prayed fervently, and then used logic and common sense to convince himself that what he feared was so farfetched, so preposterous, that it could not possibly exist. But the evidence continued to mount until he realized that it was true. Then, somehow, his mind had simply erased the terrible truth. But weeks later the memory returned and the terrible, tickling, tingling of fear began at the back of his neck and spread slowly down his spine into the small his back, then back up his spine to the back of his scalp, ears, face, and into his brain, where it had exploded, then traveled back down every nerve in his body, permeating every cell with cold, abject terror. Wave after wave of ice-cold, absolute fear crashed over him as his feelings of despair, helplessness, and utter hopelessness increased exponentially.

Dr. Fugate did not go to work that day. As his fear and paranoia grew, he sat at his desk and forced himself to write down everything he knew about the terrible secret in a large, thick notebook. He started early that morning. When he finished, he realized that it was dark, his whole body was shaking, and he was crying. Then he felt relieved and drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep. Then suddenly in the middle of the night, Fugate woke up screaming and shaking uncontrollably with fear—not from his recurring nightmare this time, but from something far more nightmarish. He remembered that there had been another secret, but this one was infinitely, unimaginably more horrifying than the first. This secret had been so terrible that to save itself his mind had simply blocked the knowledge out. Fugate couldn’t remember what the terrible secret was. He wondered how he could possibly forget anything so overwhelmingly nightmarish—so monstrous? Maybe he didn’t want to remember. But even an insane person like himself should have been able to remember something so traumatic, so evil. Then he became even more