Close Encounters on the Border

Prologue
Crashing through space. Frigid rock slamming against the metal of the single occupant pod. The coldness of space gives way to extreme heat as it breeches the atmosphere of the alien planet.

Noise.

Flames.

The pod vibrates uncontrollably as the metal glows an angry red. Its inhabitant remains frozen, the chemicals used to place it in deep sleep still coursing through it's body.

Final approach. A desolate landscape passes underneath as the pod slows its descent. The pod still strikes the surface with a thunderous crash, carving a deep groove into the terrain. The metallic cylinder comes to a final rest on it's side, a half mile worth of shallow canyon left in its wake.

With a sharp hiss a deep crease opens horizontally along the center of the pod and its inhabitant awakens sleepily. He stretches his powerful body, pops and cracks exploding from his long dormant joints. Clawed hands clutch the side of the pod and he drags his powerful frame into a standing position. He sniffs the air and his scaled face wrinkles up, revealing rows of serrated teeth.

With a slight bend of his knees he leaps into the air, landing with a soft thud in the wet dirt. He was sent here with a mission, find a planet suitable for consumption by his people and that mission would not wait. Some ten miles away, a light burns softly in a large ranch house. The creature runs his forked tongue along his teeth and he bounds towards the unsuspecting residence as the sun rises over the looming mountain ranges.

Chapter One

The gravel and clay of the ill-maintained county road pops and spits out from under the tires of Border Patrol Agent Mark Darby's green and white Chevy Tahoe. The extreme desolation of the Animas Valley passes by. Nestled in between the massive Peloncillo and Chiricuahua mountain ranges the valley is home to only several large ranches and sits hundreds of miles away from the nearest small town.

Mark's nose wrinkles slightly as he catches a fresh whiff of the three individuals handcuffed in the backseat of the Tahoe behind the steel cage. The three men had been walking for two days through the mountains and they certainly smelled like it. He breathes a sigh of relief as he crests a hill in the dirt road and sees the large transport van waiting for him a short distance away. In remote areas like this, Agents live in old FEMA trailers for weeks to months at a time, working areas that are simply too far from the nearest station.

As such, when apprehensions are made a unit will be dispatched from the nearest station to transport the subjects to a detention facility. Contrary to public belief the border isn't all San Diego and El Paso. The majority of it sits several days worth of walking to the nearest highway and requires these Forward Operating Bases to effectively patrol.

A smile creases Mark's face as he sees his academy classmate Ramiro Valenzuela leaning against the side of the van, smoking a cigarette. He eases the Tahoe up to the van and opens his door, already prepared for what he is about to hear.

"What the fuck Mark. Don't you know some of us are trying to get some reading done out here?" He moans in mock indignation.

"Shut the fuck up already, I need to get back to camp so I can call your wife."

The two old friends laugh and shake hands.

"Let's get this shit over with huh? Storm is coming in." Ramiro states.

Mark looks up at the darkening sky and sees the curtain of dark grey and black approaching from the south. In the early dawn light the approaching monsoon could be seen from ten miles awat. While the Animas Valley remained as dry as much of the southwest throughout the year, for a small period of time in the spring it received a deluge of rain. The rain coupled with the ground's inability to handle the unusual amount of water essentially shut down the region. The "camp" he'd spoken of was already prepared for being cut off from the rest of the world for a week or two. Extra water and food had been shipped in and the agents had turned smuggler themselves, secreting away some bottles of booze and even a keg of beer.

"No kidding, see you in a week or two. Tell the missus I said hi." Mark states with a wink as he leads the prisoners from his Tahoe into the back of the van.

Before Ramiro can fire back a retort, the radios squawk from inside their respective units.

"L-283, emergency beacon activated at the Harris Ranch. Are you available to respond?" The dispatchers voice cackles from the speakers.

Mark grabs his microphone and keys the "transmit" button. "10-4, I'll be en route, ETA of 30 minutes." Mark hangs the microphone up and turns to Ramiro. "See ya in a bit bud."


"Be safe amigo."

The two men shake hands once more and Mark roars off down the dirt road, heading towards the storm and the Harris Ranch. The emergency beacons were installed at the nearby ranches to keep them safe in these remote areas. The memory of a cattle baron in neighboring Douglas, Arizona being murdered on his property by a cartel member hung heavy in the Valley, despite being nearly a decade past. Sometimes the beacons were activated by curious children, sometimes it was a simple malfunction, but usually they were activated by ranchers who had detained groups of aliens trespassing in their buildings. Due to the lack of cell phone coverage in the area the beacons were the only way the ranchers had of communicating with the Border Patrol.

Mark drove the main clay county road before forking off on the rockier Harris Ranch Rd. He was grateful to be responding now instead of in a few hours when this road would be completely impassable. He'd seen units buried up to the windows when inexperienced Agents had attempted to defeat the soaked clay of the Valley. As he rolls up to the main ranch house Mark immediately knows something is wrong. The heavy oak door hangs wide open and despite all the vehicles being accounted for in front of the house, no one stands on the porch waiting for him.

"Any available unit in the Valley, I'm going to need backup at Harris Ranch. That emergency sensor appears to be valid."

A chorus of "10-4! En Route!" rings out over the channel but the nearest Agent is some 20 miles away. Knowing that time lost could mean lives lost, Mark unholsters his service .40 pistol and approaches the open doorway. A coppery smell hangs in the air and Mark steels himself for the worst as he crosses the threshold.