The Neighbors

By J.S. Frankel

It’s been two years since the Great Incursion, an event that saw the entry of many alien species to our world. Some were friendly, some weren’t. With those that weren’t, wars resulted, leading to millions of deaths.

Darby ‘Dar’ Havens, eighteen, moves with his parents, both scientists who work for the government, to Sinley, Idaho, a tiny town. Once there, Dar finds out that his neighbors aren’t from that state—or this galaxy.

He meets shape shifters, a mole lady, and Pimevar, a young woman with bat wings and a vampiric appearance. Dar befriends the new arrivals, and he realizes that they’re friendly. He also meets the Uncontrollables who live down the block and don’t mix with anyone.

Dar’s relationship with Pimevar develops, but trouble comes in the form of government organizations who think the only good alien is a dead alien. It’s time for Dar to make a choice. If he sides with the government, he’ll live. If he sides with the aliens, chances are he won’t see another sunrise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Jan 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781487437473

Book preview

A new life in a tiny town. Some unusual residents, strange happenings, bias, prejudice, and conflict. Close the windows and lock the doors. Here come the neighbors—and things will never be the same.

It’s been two years since the Great Incursion, an event that saw the entry of many alien species to our world. Some were friendly, some weren’t. With those that weren’t, wars resulted, leading to millions of deaths.

Darby ‘Dar’ Havens, eighteen, moves with his parents, both scientists who work for the government, to Sinley, Idaho, a tiny town. Once there, Dar finds out that his neighbors aren’t from that state—or this galaxy.

He meets shape shifters, a mole lady, and Pimevar, a young woman with bat wings and a vampiric appearance. Dar befriends the new arrivals, and he realizes that they’re friendly. He also meets the Uncontrollables who live down the block and don’t mix with anyone.

Dar’s relationship with Pimevar develops, but trouble comes in the form of government organizations who think the only good alien is a dead alien. It’s time for Dar to make a choice. If he sides with the government, he’ll live. If he sides with the aliens, chances are he won’t see another sunrise.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Neighbors

Copyright © 2023 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-3747-3

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc

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Smashwords Edition

The Neighbors

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, our children, Kai and Ray, and to the many authors and readers who’ve supported me all these years. To Eva Pasco, Toni Kief, Joanne Van Leerdam, Sara Linnertz, Emily, Teresa Eick, Helen Dunn, Gigi Sedlmayer, and too many more to name, I thank you all.

Finally, in memory of my late sister, Nancy Dana Frankel, this one’s for you, sis.

Chapter One: Moving

Sinley Town, Beartooth Valley, Idaho. July seventh, 2029. Sunday. Noon.

You’re going to love it here.

Six words, six innocent words that promised fun and acceptance, along with the thrill of meeting new people and making new friends. My mother, sitting in the passenger seat of our four-door sedan, said them in her usual monotonal voice.

She never got excited over anything. However, to a stranger, hearing those words might have elicited anticipation, the discovery of something new.

Good for the stranger. I’d heard those words too many times to count during the past five-plus years, and every single time, they’d turned out to be empty promises. Would today be any different?

From the age of thirteen until now—my eighteenth birthday would be in two days—my parents had been on the move, trying to find the perfect environment for raising their only child—me. Our last home had been Chicago, and that had lasted about eight months.

People said that when a person was young, the days moved slowly, and as they got older, those days magically sped up, so by the time they were in their sixties and beyond, time moved so fast that it was like a blur.

In my case, call me old before my time, as those days flew by all too quickly, and just as quickly, it was time to move—again. Lots of people in the US had been on the move over the past two years through no fault of their own. They’d had to move... and not by choice.

Blame the Great Incursion for that. A little over two years ago, a rift opened in the dimensional wall between our world and other worlds. Witnesses described the ripples as being like water on a pond when someone tossed a stone into it. Some of those ripple-rifts were just large enough for human-sized beings to step or fly or flop through. Other rifts were much larger, the size of a football field.

No one knew how or why those rifts in the universe had occurred. They simply did. One theory said that the quantum physics boys in the army had messed up. Just another experiment gone wrong, something many sci-fi-slash-fantasy-horror movies had used as their main theme.

Another theory said that the incursion had been started by evil aliens on the other side of reality. Lots of movies in the above category had used the same theme time and again.

And then the usual collection of crackpots, yahoos, and racists emerged from the woodwork, saying that certain religious groups or ethnic groups or racial groups—or all three—had been behind it.

Most people who were logical dismissed those claims immediately, but no one could accuse humanity of being logical. There were always those who listened to the nuts. There were always those who listened to racists because they preached the message that they wanted to hear.

And those disaffected people listened, which led to riots in the larger cities, attacks on minority religious-racial-ethnic groups, and a high number of injuries and deaths, all of which set inter-religious and interracial group relations back a century, if not more.

Eventually, the scientists found out that a few hundred beings—the lab boys and experts called those visitors beings as not all of them could properly be called people—had somehow traversed the barriers between our world and theirs.

Yes, barriers, as in multiple worlds, multiple incursions. Naturally, the world freaked when the first visitors came through and landed on the shores of San Diego, seven octopus-like creatures that sported over twenty limbs each, giant eyes in each of those limbs, and the ability to communicate through telepathy.

After the initial standoff, both sides came to a rapprochement. Our first new visitors, proof of extra-terrestrial life, were friendly enough, although initially, the government—meaning the armed forces—stepped in, ready to eliminate said perceived threat.

After a period of containment, during which our visitors were examined to see if they were carrying deadly pathogens—they weren’t—things settled down, and the government had allowed the creatures to settle in the Pacific Ocean.

They were called Takanites, and they’d agreed to be tagged. While they looked frightening, they were quite amiable in nature, interacting not only with the denizens of the deep, but also with the fishermen, pointing out where the best catches of the sea could be found. They rescued drowning swimmers, and they saved sailors from capsized vessels. In short, they proved themselves selfless and kind.

Our new citizens also performed a public service in eating the seaborne pollution while cleaning the ocean with their excrement. Call that whacked out, but it worked, and everyone got along.

Poaching them and their offspring was also verboten. The US government protected them at all costs, and according to the people who lived in that area, it was worth the massive expense.

However, not all the newcomers were friendly. Landings occurred not only in the continental United States but also in Europe, mainly Germany, Italy, Spain, and across Asia.

And unfortunately, a lot of the newcomers simply didn’t understand the concept of coexistence. While none of them carried any deadly viruses—none that we knew of—they were deadly in another fashion.

Some lived to destroy, and the armies of the world took on the invaders—for what other term could be used—and employed what weapons they had aside from nuclear bombs to halt the enemy’s advance.

In America, the army, the Marines, the air force, and the National Guard fought them tooth and nail, battling winged serpents that breathed acid, crab monsters that lived on flesh of any sort, six-mouthed tentacled marauders, intangible horrors, and more.

Losses mounted in the hundreds of thousands, and by the time the hostile elements were stamped out, over five million American citizens were dead.

While our scientists never figured out how to close the barriers, somehow, the rifts closed by themselves. Good thing, as the damage had already been done. The other-worlders, as we called them, had come through, and they were here to stay.

In a national address, the president said, And it is our duty to fight against the intruders should they pose a threat to our people. Those who are friendly, those who cooperate with our government, will be allowed to co-exist with our civilian populations, as they should. The United States is a haven for all.

Kind words, almost noble... and total BS.

Despite the US government acting nicely, they stayed on the alert. Enlistments to the various branches of the armed forces went up forty percent. Good for jobs in munitions making, uniforms, food, transportation, and more.

War is the health of the nation, a famous philosopher had once said, and he happened to be right. Whenever human existence was threatened, old rivalries and hatreds were forgotten—temporarily—and everyone pitched in to win.

Oh, and of course, the old battle cry of, Gonna get us some aliens, rang out. There had to be a boogeyman, and that boogeyman—or boogeymen—were those aliens who’d entered our space.

And since they’d entered our space, some yahoos who wanted to join the army for the sole purpose of killing aliens shouted out their feelings, loud and proud, as they went to the nearest military induction center. Every one of those yahoos was rejected outright. To the armed forces’ credit, they vetted their enlistees well.

We are here to protect our nation against any alien threats, five-star General Greg Loggins said, the head of the armed forces. We are not out to kill aliens for the sake of killing aliens, and the safety and well-being of those who wish to co-exist with us is our responsibility.

Middle-aged, tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, Loggins personified the kind of military leader people wanted. He also sounded sincere when he delivered his message, and that resonated with everyone.

Again, those were kind words—noble, even. But the public didn’t forget over five million people being massacred. They didn’t forget the damage to the infrastructure, and they didn’t forget the lost jobs, time, and the loss of their lifestyle. They wanted blood, or at the very least, revenge in some fashion.

They got their revenge in two ways. First, they passed a law that anyone aiding aliens that had been deemed to be a threat would be tossed into jail. No exceptions.

Revenge came in another form when the public demanded that our government monitor all alien life on our planet. Earth for Earthers was the cry, so the politicians set up a unit called by the acronym BPIC—the Bureau for Paranormal Intervention and Control.

In short, they were alien hunters, and while that sounded beyond violent, their mission was to find aliens who were hiding out and then relocate them to safe areas, assuming they were friendly to begin with. Those that weren’t friendly got the proverbial excised-with-extreme-prejudice treatment.

We are not an execution squad, Morris Angstrom said as the head of the organization. It was his answer when questioned by citizens groups who’d sided with the aliens and pushed for their rights. We are here to help, but make no mistake, if we are threatened, we will shoot back.

So far, from what information the government had made available—it was limited, obviously—the experts estimated that between two and four hundred alien elements were living in the United States. They’d gone into hiding after the wars, fearful for their lives, and no one knew where they were.

As for my parents, they worked for the government as scientists. Both had degrees in biology, and they’d been contacted by Angstrom after the wars with the aliens were over. Finding data and examining it was my parent’s domain which necessitated our moving around a lot. That was their life, they enjoyed it, and they took me along with them...

We’re almost here, Dar, my father said from the driver’s seat, interrupting my trip down memory lane. Just a few more minutes.

Take those few more minutes, and... never mind. Those were minutes of my life that I’d never get back. We’d been driving on the empty highway in the middle of nowhere, and I wondered if we’d ever see any semblance of civilization again outside of the occasional farmhouse or vehicle that was headed the other way.

How anyone could live in this wilderness was beyond me, but my thoughts came back to Earth when he took a right up a bumpy gravel road that was bracketed by lots of high bushes festooned with tiny yellow flowers. Look at all that nature, he said. A big change from Chicago.

Whoopee, lots of shrubberies. Isn’t that special. After that intro, saying our new living area was special was all I could get out.

Be nice, son, my father rejoined, somewhat testily this time. We had a long drive from Chicago, and we still have to unpack.

It had taken over a day. My parents didn’t like staying in hotels, so we’d stopped at rest stops along the way, snacked on sandwiches and cola, and I felt bloated and filthy, not to mention cramped from sleeping in our car. Rest stop toilets were the pits, but since I had no choice, I shut my mouth and put up with things.

I glanced behind me at the hauler we’d rented. We didn’t have much in the way of furniture, just suitcases with our clothes, a couple of dressers, a couch, and some electronics equipment, mainly my laptop and portable DVD player.

Oh, and no beds or futons. My parents didn’t believe in sleeping soft. They always slept on the floor. I got used to lying on a hard floor as a kid, but it was a given that as a kid, I’d never get to invite friends to our house for a sleepover.

All right, time to act like a responsible, respectful teen. My parents had always been somewhat distant, not to mention having strange sleeping habits. When I was younger, I wondered if I’d been conceived on wood or tile... and then I decided not to think about it.

My father, six-one, slender yet muscular, with a hangdog face and a permanent five o’clock shadow, and my mother, short and skinny, with a pinched and pretty face that never cracked a smile, made up my parental units.

And then there was me, their son, Darby Havens, tall like my father, slender and muscular, with pinched features like my mother. They had blond hair. Me, dark all the way, including dark eyes. In short, I was totally unprepossessing as a person, but looks didn’t matter, not in my universe.

In fact, I didn’t really have a universe. I’d never lived in any city long enough to establish a universe. No, my universe consisted of accompanying my parents to a place in Idaho that was out in the middle of nowhere. Beautiful scenery, a large valley, plenty of trees and fresh air, and... nothing else.

As we cruised down the silent main street—it was called Main Street—my first thought was where were the stores? Where were the supermarkets, the movie theaters, the shopping malls, restaurants, and everything that made up a city? Oh, wait, we weren’t in a city, just in the middle of butt county. This is Sinley Town? I asked.

It is. It’s part of Hallis County, Dar, my mother said from the front passenger seat and proceeded to recite the stats of our new home. Sinley Town has a population of only thirty people, according to the government census. It’s one-hundred-forty years old, and it’s considered to be one of the smallest towns in the country. Hallis High School is in Hallis Town, which is in Hallis County. That’s about a twenty-five-minute bike ride along the highway.

Highway riding—that was a euphemism for becoming road-kill—but why mention that to her? Uh, how many people live in Hallis? I asked.

Around twenty-five-hundred, she replied promptly. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, but you’ll find plenty of friends there. Anyway, school won’t start until September, so we’ll have some time to meet the neighbors.

Meet the neighbors? I’d have to cross a mountain to meet them. Crap, this was going to be the worst move of all time. I didn’t bother replying, for when there was nothing to say, it was best to say nothing.

I only looked out the window as we slowed down and idled at a stop sign. The road ahead led to the highway, but instead, we took a left and turned the corner onto a street that had ten houses on the left side of the street, and twelve houses on the opposite side.

The street also had the most appropriate name in history—Bleak Street. Wonderful, I’d entered hell. My father then stopped in front of a two-story house, number twelve.

He should have kept going, but it was too late for that.

We got out, and I got my first look at our new residence. Cookie-cutter time—all the houses were made of wood, each of them with white trim and picket fences in a faux-Georgian style. Graceful gables and eaves completed the picture of country life, although the houses had to be at least fifty years old and were in questionable condition.

Neglected lawns made the picture less homey, for lack of a better word, and only a few yellow, red, and blue flowers bloomed in small beds next the doors. Well, if someone liked the country life, this was the place to be...

Time to unpack, my father said, breaking into my ruminations on country life.

Right. Between us, we unloaded the hauler. Our house had a living room, a tiny kitchen just big enough for two people, creaky floorboards, and peeling wallpaper... in short, it was a real fixer upper.

My mother got to work right away, grabbing a bucket we’d brought, a sponge, and a mop. The water worked, so she filled the bucket, swabbed the decks, and managed to put the wallpaper in place with some glue while my father and I carried in the furniture.

It took us almost six hours to clean up and get everything situated just so, but at the end, we sat on our used furniture, panting and tired, but with a sense of satisfaction.

Job well done, my father said.

Praise from him was a rare thing. He usually found fault with everything everyone did, especially me, but today, he was in a good mood, a rarity for him.

I’ll echo that, my mother said as she brought out five sub sandwiches. She’d stocked up on them at our last rest stop, so now, it was time for a mini feast.

I had to get clean first. Upstairs, in the old but serviceable combo bathroom-toilet, the shower beckoned. A cheap shower curtain covered the tub, which was covered in a light film of dust. I stripped, ran the water—it came out brown at first and then turned clear—and after cleaning the tub, I got in and hosed myself down.

Better. Towel wrapped around my waist, I went downstairs, found my suitcase and pulled out some fresh clothes, changed, and tossed the towel into the hamper by the washing machine.

I was still thirsty, so I went into the kitchen to plug in my computer and grab a bottle of