Claws

For three days the aliens clicked and clawed at them. Never hard enough to break the skin—and that unnerved some people the most, because their talons were sickle-sharp and serrated, the ground gouged beneath their feet. It implied the aliens could hurt them, and they were just choosing not to. And the act of choosing meant they were capable of certain mental faculties that elevated them above the average domesticated pet. Given that they looked like football-sized rabbit-lizard hybrids, this was what everyone hoped them to be, and it was greatly disappointing that the potential to own one might prove a little too complicated after all.

At the end of the third day, by which point none of their linguists were able to make heads or tails of the clicking, and the echolocation specialists delivered nothing but empty conjecture, the president readied himself to flip the kill switch. This was fanciful shorthand; there was no switch, but a fleet of tanks and nozzles ready to spew noxious gases, and a line of incinerators to dispose of the evidence. But on the fourth morning, one of the aliens—bigger and fluffier than all the rest—reached into a pocket of furry flesh located on the underside of its body, in the crease between its thigh and groin, and handed Tim a small device.

The device was hook-shaped and perturbingly warm. Suddenly overcome with a feeling of paranoia, Tim turned his back to his colleagues. Plenty of the aliens were gamboling about with the dozen trained officials who had been brought to the field. But as far as he could tell, he was the only one who had been given something, the only one, for reasons he could not discern, who had been singled out.

But what was the thing?

There was a clicking at his feet. The big alien had gone, and another had taken its place. It clawed at his pant leg, hitching and catching like Velcro, never tugging hard enough to rip. With its other front claw, it rubbed repeatedly over its ear, like a cat cleaning itself.

Tim stuck the device into his ear, and had to clap a hand over his mouth, for the clickings had suddenly sharpened, like the tuning of a radio dial, into the clearest of conversations.

Red yellow green blue red yellow yellow—

Three hundred kilometers! Three hundred and seventy-five! It’s three hundred kilometers and then three hundred seventy-five and if we dig, all dig together we’ll find—

But look at this one! So many claws, none of them sharp. We can make them pointy. We can help! We can make them shine—

Red yellow green blue red yellow yellow—

“Tim?”

Tim jumped. Spun around, faced his coworker Lindsey. Lindsey was also a personal assistant, but unlike Tim, didn’t think much of her job. It had been handed to her as a result of personal favors and family ties. If she lost it, she would simply make a phone call, and find herself in another position and with possibly even better pay.

“Tim? Hello? Earth to Tim!”

Why doesn’t she play with us? So many claws! One two three four five—

The alien nipping at Lindsey’s ankles wove between her legs, causing her to stumble.

—six seven eight nine ten! One two three four five—

Sweat broke out on Tim’s neck. The alien had reached up, pawing at her hand, clicking all the while.

Was it counting her fingers?

“Tim!”

“Y-yes?”

Lindsey paused, giving him an odd look. Crossed her arms, clipboard against her chest. “Nothing. You just looked a little scared is all.”

The alien attached to Lindsey—it noticed him now. Was aware that he was looking. Knew very well—he realized with a chill—that he could understand.

“If you’re done spacing out, do you want to take your lunch with me?”

Tim blinked. Nodded, and followed Lindsey out towards the ops tent that had been pitched at the far end of the field.

All the aliens—usually batting, scratching, or rolling about—were standing stock-still, watching him all the while.

He wasn’t very good company for Lindsey. It wasn’t her fault. Like everyone else, she had been born into circumstances outside of her control—generational wealth, and the parliamentary power of her father, which manifested material benefits including but not limited to waiving parking tickets, brushing off DUIs, and expunging petty larceny. They were both well aware of their differences, but made do with what they had, which was each other. When it came to Tim and Lindsey versus the rest of the team, there was simply an insurmountable age gap, and the two of them were nowhere near mortgages and daycare and what to do when one’s estranged spouse refused to evenly divide custody.

Lindsey wasn’t a bad person.

She just wasn’t Tim’s kind of person.

And even if she wasn’t the greatest person, Tim nevertheless would have whispered precisely what he had: “Lindsey. Don’t. Move.”

She frowned at him over her phone, which she was using as a mirror to pick out a shred of arugula from her teeth. “What?”

We can make them good, we can make them useful and better—

One of the aliens had crept up silently, along the back of the tent and behind the rigging, the crates on which they sat. If not for the earpiece, Tim might not have known, but through it the omnipresent clicking had translated into an insistent whisper. The alien slunk up towards Lindsey, a forked tongue escaping its whiskered mouth to lap at her ankle.

One two three four five six—

Upon finally noticing the alien, Lindsey shrieked, tucking her knees up to her chest. Between the surprise and Tim’s pallid face, she burst into laughter. “What’s your problem today? You’re acting weirder than normal.”

“I don’t think we should be doing this. Any of this,” Tim stammered. Everywhere—the aliens were everywhere, dotting the field as far as the eye could see. They’d tried to tag them when they’d first arrived, but the tagged ones kept disappearing, with new ones to take their place. That, or they’d found a way to shrug the plastic tags off. Either they possessed powers none of them could register or understand, or their population was in near infinite supply. Or all of the above, the prospects of which terrified Tim to no end, especially now that he could hear everything they were saying. “There’s too many of them,” he insisted, as if that was enough to clarify anything. “Have you noticed they’re always trying to touch us? Like they’re trying to itemize us. To take stock. Like we’re cattle! We tried to number and file them but it’s us, it’s us they’ve got penned in.” The fences around the containment zone, though encircling an area of dozens of square yards, suddenly seemed to be closing in. “What are they looking for? What do they—”

In Tim’s hysteria, he’d risen from his crate. So had Lindsey, who was slowly backing away.

Between them sat the great alien, the one who had given Tim the device. It rose up onto its hind legs, its whip-like tail swishing through the air.

I know when your world will end.

“Tim, I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but—” Lindsey began.

“Wait,” Tim said, holding his hand up to silence her. He looked intently at the alien. “Say that again.”

Lindsey opened her mouth to speak, realizing belatedly who Tim had addressed. Jaw dropped, she stared between them.

I know when your world will cease.

Tim’s hands went clammy. “When?”

Do you really want to know?

“Of c—”

“Tim? Are you… talking? To that thing?” Lindsey’s arms were locked around her clipboard, her eyes wide with fright.

Tim nodded.

“But—how?”

One two three four five—

“Leave her alone,” Tim said to the alien who had crept up to prod at Lindsey’s hand. There were just too many, all of them creeping closer, out from his peripherals and directly into view.

They were waiting. Watching. Listening.

Wanting?

“What did it say?” Lindsey asked, eyes darting back and forth. She, too, had noticed the aliens beginning to converge.

“It said—” Tim’s throat had gone dry. “It said it knows how the world ends.”

Lindsey broke out into a fit of nervous laughter. Tim couldn’t blame her. If not for the great alien’s eyes upon him, he would have doubled over at the idea.

Come closer, it said. I can tell you.

“This isn’t a trick, Tim?” she asked. “Not some kind of silly game? Because if it is, it isn’t funny.”

He shook his head.

“Then—why you? Why do you get to be the one to speak to them?”

He shook his head again.

I will tell you how, and when. And what you can do to stop it.

“Tim—what’s that in your ear?”

Lindsey was suddenly standing right beside him.

“Nothing—”

She snatched at him. He tore away, stumbled back, falling into the grass.

Red and yellow! Blue and yellow and yellow and blue and—

Three hundred, three hundred seventy-five! And all together, if we go together, if we look, if we dive, if we—

We can make them stab. We can make them razors. We can pinch and press—

He swore. She scratched. Around them rose the whispers, the hisses, the lash of forked tongues and grating of claws against stones.

And then the words vanished, and clickings came in mad chorus.

Neither of them had won. Between them, crushed in the dirt and crumbled into irreparable pieces was the device.

Tim looked helplessly from the broken machine to the great alien and its somber gaze, who had remained standing all the while.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The alien clicked in reply.