Bright Eyes

Agents Carson Williams and Ramona Resnick examine the boy’s bodies. The eight victims are residents at the Hillcrest Orphanage and appear to be between six and ten.

“This is how we found them,” F.B.I. agent Spencer Turnball says.

The boys are lying on their backs in their beds, covered up to their necks by white sheets. Their sad, lifeless eyes look up at the ceiling.

A white towel covers each boy’s forehead.

Carson and Ramona have been partners in the service of the Extraordinary Bureau of Investigation (E.B.I.) for four years. They’ve proven that the Zodiac killer was game host Bob Barker; that Gene Roddenberry, credited with creating “Star Trek,” got the idea from three Martian travelers he hired as writers, and that Amelia Earhart was abducted by the Sil, a race of female warriors looking for a queen.

There’s no mistaking that fifty-four-year-old Carson works for the government. He stays clean-shaven, keeps his greying hair short, fights his encroaching pot belly with morning runs, and dresses conservatively in black.

With her bright blue eyes, icy personality, slim figure, and lustrous amber hair, thirty-four-year-old Ramona looks and acts as if she stepped out of the pages of a model magazine.

Police, E.B.I. staff, a forensic team, and a photographer hover over the victim’s beds.

“So, why were we called? This is an F.B.I. case, not E.B.I.,” Ramona complains.

Turnball removes the towel covering the nearest child’s head.

The boy’s brain has been removed.

“That looks like the work of a serial killer, not necessarily an alien,” Ramona comments.

Carson turns to E.B.I. medical examiner John Ake.

“Someone with surgical skill did the extraction. And they did it perfectly eight times.”

“Extraction?” Carson questions.

“It looks like they had a use in mind for the children’s brains.”

“There’s never been a successful brain transplant,” Ramona notes.

“No, not yet. But someone’s got eight chances to make it happen.”

“So, no one else was attacked in the building other than these eight kids?” Ramona asks.

“No. There are approximately thirty-five kids on each floor,” Turnball replies. “The kids across the hall and on the other floors weren’t touched. This room may have been targeted because it's closest to the back exit.”

Carson huffs heavily. “So, no one heard the screams of eight boys having their skulls sawed open?”

Turnball points to a bald, downcast security guard seated in the corner.

“Lionel Strongheart was the only witness,” Turnball says. “He’s in shock. He’s had a few, and he’s not making any sense.”

Carson and Ramona quietly introduce themselves to Lionel, who is shaking nervously.

“What did you see?” Carson asks.

“I was making my rounds. This time of night there’s only two of us covering all four floors. I saw them leave… There were four of them carrying metal cases. I didn’t know what they had inside of them!”

“It’s your job to protect those kids,” Carson says. “Why didn’t you try to stop them?”

“They were lizards! Eight-foot-tall lizards!”

“Now I see why we were called. We may want to question you again sometime, Mr. Strongheart,” Ramona says coolly. Turning to Carson, she whispers, “This is bunk. You can smell the liquor on his breath. He’s looking for an excuse not to get fired, so he concocted a fairy tale. There are no telltale signs that lizards were here.”

“I’d hate to find out that a human being did this,” Carson replies.

***

The following morning, as a sanitized version of the murders begins to circulate, Carson returns to his office at the E.B.I.’s New York City headquarters.

A bearded man with ruffled hair wearing faded, wrinkled clothes patiently sits outside his office.

He gives Carson a tobacco-stained grin.

“Sterling Story? Is that you?” Carson asks, looking at him in disbelief. “How long has it been?”

“Four years. Ever since you partnered up with that shrew, Resnick.”

Carson escorts Sterling into his office, closing the door behind him. “Look at you. You’re a mess. I told you not to retire.”

“It’s a disguise, so they can’t identify me. I’ve been studying them, trying to document their actions and their weaknesses. When I read the details about the murders at Hillcrest Orphanage on the dark web, I knew it was them.”

Carson sits down behind his desk, motioning for Sterling to take a seat.

“So, what’s behind all this research you’ve been doing?”

“Can you keep a secret? In a couple of days, I’m going to blow the lid off something big.”

“My lips are sealed,” Carson replies.

“I know why those boys were killed, and I know what did it.”

“What?”

“The Venara.”

“Never heard of that species.”

“The Venara are extraterrestrial reptilian humanoids with the sole objective of enslaving the human race. They’ve been with us since the dawn of time.”

“And we’re only encountering them now?”

“They can make themselves look like us. They’re our leaders, our corporate executives, our entertainers, and sports figures. They're responsible for many of history's most heinous events, like the Civil War, the Holocaust, and the Oklahoma City bombings. They’re behind secret societies like the Freemasons and the Illuminati.”

“But why kill orphans?”

“To avoid detection. Orphans fall through the cracks and are forgotten.”

“Not if they kill them eight at a time,” Carson notes.

“Sometimes the Venara get greedy, like humans. Adult brains are too toxic for the Venara to digest because we have a lifetime of poisons built up in our systems. Children are also less likely to carry illnesses like cancer or HIV, which makes them safer for the Venara to eat. They also feed off of adrenochrome, which is secreted by children when they're afraid.”

“So, they feed off of our emotions?”

“Especially suffering,” Sterling replies. “That’s why they start wars.”

“Where did they come from?”

“They came here thousands of years ago from Vali, a dying planet. They’ve been depicted in paintings on the walls of pyramids in ancient Egypt. They work with the Harridan, giant cat-like creatures who walk upright, and serve as their scouts. That’s why Egyptians believed cats were sacred. In ancient times, the Venara and Harridan lived in underground passages and temples, using their mind-control abilities to dominate and infiltrate humanity. The Venara’s ability to shape shift helps them disguise their true appearance.”

“Then how can I identify them?”

“They often have piercing eyes that are bright blue, green, or hazel. A lot have amber-colored, perfect hair. They have low blood pressure, and they love fashionable clothes. They also have an other worldly look about them.”

“Like Rasputin, David Bowie, or Andy Warhol.”

“All Venarians. But think on a higher global scale,” Sterling says. “Think Queen Victoria, Franklin Roosevelt, The Beatles. And they’ve infiltrated families like the De Medici’s, the Rockefellers, the Romanovs, and the Kennedys. They control every aspect of our lives, the military, global finances, religion, and the media. They might even be here, in this office.”

Carson watches Ramona pass by. She glances through the glass at Sterling.

“How do we stop them?”

“When they’re hungry, their appearances glitch, and you can see what they really look like. It’s over in a second, but that’s how John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald recognized that Lincoln and Kennedy were Venarians.”

“You just rocked my childhood, Sterling. I admired Lincoln and Kennedy.”

“I’m going to expose them. I’m going to spread the word.”

“Maybe it’s best if you work behind the scenes, you know, low-key your efforts.”

“The world has a right to know.”

Ramona knocks on Carson’s door, flinging it open.

Sterling stands, smiling sheepishly at her.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time, Carson. It was nice seeing you again,” Sterling says, practically racing for the door.

Ramona clicks her tongue disparagingly. “When did you join the hobo of the month tour?”

“That was Sterling Story. You’ve heard me speak of him plenty of times. We were partners for fifteen years. He was my mentor.”

“Did he have any words of wisdom?”

“Just the usual, ‘keep your nose clean’ advice. What’s up?”

“The Hillcrest Orphanage killings have been solved. Lionel Strongheart confessed.”

“He didn’t seem to have it in him,” Carson replies.

“Turns out the kids used to tease him a lot about his drinking. Strongheart got wasted that night, and he blacked out. He said he drugged them, cut them open, and fed their brains to his dog.”

Carson loses himself in Ramona’s stare.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason. Just noticing how blue your eyes are.”

***

A few days later, needing a break, Carson heads out for a take-out lunch and a few moments in the park.

A black Mercedes-Benz stretch limousine pulls up to the Bentley, an exclusive apartment building occupied by New York City’s wealthiest residents.

Curious, he watches the chauffeur open the back door. A tall, well-dressed man with ice-blue eyes steps out.

The man yanks out a little boy who appears to be about six years old.

The boy looks petrified and openly resists the man pulling him toward the building.

The pair wiz past a heavyset Black man sitting at the security desk, who nods, muttering, “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Hello, Dupree,” the man replies.

Dawson Dupree blocks Carson’s attempt to follow the man and the little boy.

The man gives Carson a self-satisfied grin as the elevator door closes.

“Can I help you, Mister?”

Carson backs away, showing Dupree his identification, hoping that, like most people, he’ll mistake E.B.I. for F.B.I.

“That man looked like he was abusing that boy.”

“Him? He’s one of the nicest tenants in the building.”

“Who is he?”

“Jonathan Rothchild. He comes from old money. Lots of it.”

“And the boy?”

“Don’t know who the boy is. But it’s like I said, if he’s with Mr. Rothchild, he’s okay. Maybe Mr. Rothchild adopted him. If he has, he’s the luckiest boy in New York.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Carson mumbles.

***

Later that afternoon, Carson and Ramona receive a tip that a Harridan has been seen in North Salem, an hour north of the City.

They cautiously approach a weather-beaten, seemingly deserted house, hiding behind a row of bushes.

“This could be a real coup for us,” Carson says. “Harridans are supposed to be extinct. They’re messengers for the Venara.”

“Who are also supposed to be extinct,” Ramona replies.

A creature resembling a Saber-tooth tiger peers out from behind a curtain in the living room.

“He’s in there. You cover the back door, Ramona. I’ll rush the front door.”

Crouching, Carson swiftly moves across the front lawn.

Kicking open the door, Carson shouts, “E.B.I.! Put your claws up!”

Sitting on the floor loading a .45, the Harridan springs to its feet. What appeared to be a creature of equal size to Carson becomes a deadly threat that stands seven feet tall.

The Harridan bares its long teeth, licking its lips.

Carson fires his tranquilizer gun. Two needles with enough serum to knock out a dozen mastodons stick in the Harridan’s chest.

It swipes its sharp claws at Carson. He falls backward over a hassock, landing on his back.

Salivating, its orange fur standing on edge, the Harridan draws closer, preparing to slice Carson into pieces.

The concussion from an explosion deafens Carson.

A cloud of tear gas envelopes the room. Carson’s eyes water, and his vision blurs.

Her weapon drawn, Ramona enters the living room.

“Where is it?”

The cloud begins to dissipate.

Coughing, Carson replies, “It ran past me and out the front door. I had it. You didn’t need to toss tear gas in here. It was a matter of seconds until the tranquilizers knocked it out.”

“Really? I don’t see a cat lying unconscious on the front lawn. It would have ripped you to shreds if I didn’t intervene.”

Carson rubs his eyes, noticing the tear gas has had no effect on Ramona.

***

Carson gets a text from Sterling two days later.

“…Tonight’s the night. Going to expose the Venara. Check out Johnny Parr’s program, ‘The Truth Must Be Told’ on Fordham University Radio tonight at nine.”

Carson hurriedly texts back, ‘DON’T DO IT!’ before realizing the futility of his message.

***

“Good evening, I’m Johnny Parr. Welcome to ‘The Truth Must Be Told.’ You’ve heard me talk about the Venara, creatures among us who look like human beings, but want to control the Earth and eat children’s brains. Tonight, we have Sterling Story with us, an expert on the Venarians, a man who worked for a clandestine government agency known as the E.B.I. First off, Sterling, what is the E.B.I.?”

An organization that has more than fifty offices and three hundred agents throughout the United States. The Extraordinary Bureau of Investigation captures, questions, and incarcerates more than a hundred different species of alien visitors every year. During my twenty years with the E.B.I., I captured an Acidicus, a friendly-looking dog-like creature from Venus that spits four-hundred-degree acid; a Gorgon from Alpha Centauri, that, yes, can turn you to stone with a glance; and an Aqrabuamelu, a creature from the asteroid Meso, which has the body of a scorpion and the face, torso, and arms of a man. But the Venara are one of the deadliest aliens, because they’ve been here for thousands of years, and they can transform themselves to look human.”

Realizing it's going to be a long night, Carson pours himself a tall glass of scotch, then several more as Johnny Parr asks about the origin and purpose of the Venara.

Carson groans when Parr says, “So, they live among us. Who are they?”

“Vladimir Putin is a Venara. You can tell because he never blinks. General Amyl Johnson, the head of our armed forces, is one, and sadly, so is the President. You can tell by the way he waffles back and forth on issues that he’s purposely trying to cause chaos and that he’s manipulating the government so he can take sole control over us. Many local politicians, most notably Senator Graham Clonenworth, are Venarians. Taylor Swift, Katy Perry, and Brittney Spears are Venarians. They’ve infiltrated sports, too. Patrick Mahomes and Tom Brady are Venarians. How else do you explain their excellence?”

“But most of these creatures look and act normal.”

“Their eyes give them away,” Sterling replies.

***

Carson’s car pulls up to the radio station’s door as Sterling exits the front door.

“Come to congratulate me?”

“You’re lucky a Venarian hit team wasn’t waiting for you. We’re going back to your house. You’re going to pack a few essentials, then I’m going to take you to my cabin in Whaley Lake until we can find you a better hiding place.”

“Nonsense. The Venara only kill for food.”

“I don’t want you to be the exception. Get in.”

***

Carson slows his car down as he turns onto Sterling’s street.

An immense figure speeds across his front lawn.

Sterling gasps. “I must be seeing things. Was that a Harridan?”

An explosion rips through Sterling’s house. Carson’s car is showered with debris.

“You were right, Carson. I should have fought this battle from behind the scenes. But I’ve still got my laptop, which has all my files. And now the Venara think I’m dead. Blowing my place up has actually given me an advantage.”

“You mean us,” Carson says.

***

Two more days pass before Carson gets permission and a warrant to search Jonathan Rothchild’s penthouse apartment.

Security guard Dawson Dupree is gone, replaced by a bright-eyed, redheaded woman.

“Where’s Dupree?”

“He’s been transferred.”

“Is Jonathan Rothchild in?”

“Why?”

Carson flashes his identification.

“Sorry, Mr. Rothchild no longer lives in the building.”

“Did you see him leave?”

“Yes, a couple of days ago.”

“Did he have his son with him?”

“Mr. Rothchild doesn’t have a son. He has two daughters.”

“Do they have blue eyes?” Carson asks.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact, they do. Bright blue. Just like their father.”

“By the way, your emerald eyes are quite striking.”

“Thanks. Can you keep a secret?”

“Certainly.”

“They’re contacts. My real eye color is black. Boring!”

“My lips are sealed. Keep wearing them.”

***

Carson turns on the television, watching the debate between Senator Clonenworth and his opponent.

Carson nearly dozes off when the picture glitches. Senator Clonenworth’s head shrinks, his ocean blue eyes become elliptical, and he appears taller, with green scales.

The transformation happens so fast that by the time Carson sits up to take a second look, Senator Clonenworth’s appealing beach boy appearance has returned.

“Gotcha.”

***

After winning a second term, Senator Clonenworth makes his acceptance speech a week later at the Algonquin Hotel in front of thousands of supporters. Standing at the podium, he gives the crowd a thumbs-up.

Three shots ring out. Clutching his forehead, Senator Clonenworth crumples to the floor, bleeding profusely.

The crowd panics. Supporters and bodyguards are trampled. Hundreds of people rush for exits designed to accommodate only a few at a time.

Senator Clonenworth’s assailant is swallowed up in the pulsating crowd.

***

When Carson enters the squad room the next day, he immediately notices that the familiar faces of the agents he’s worked with for years have been replaced by much younger, bright-eyed men and women.

Everyone is watching a recording of Senator Clonenworth’s assassination.

Ramona stops the recording, isolating a man pointing a gun at the Senator. Despite the blurry image, there is no mistaking who the assassin is.

All eyes in the room focus on Carson.

Ramona moves toward him, saying, “You know I care for you, Carson. I’ll always keep an eye on you and look out for you.”

The young strangers surround him, their bright stares bearing down on him.

“I’ve got some news,” Ramona continues. “I’ve been promoted to Director. I’ve brought in some new agents to assist me. A lot of the older agents have transferred or retired. I was thinking you might want to leave, too.”