The invasion took place at two-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon. By two-thirty-one, nearly the entire Earth was under their control. No one knew it—not yet.
I was in my office, listening to Mrs. Handsworth complain about her husband’s inadequacies. There was a moment when she stiffened and then put a hand to her temple, as if a migraine had come on. “You all right, Lydia?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
The rest of the session went by as normal. After I sent Mrs. Handsworth home with an appointment in two days, my secretary motioned to two burly guys in cheap suits. “These gentlemen are here to see you. They’re police officers.”
“I see,” I said. It wasn’t unheard of for the police to ask for my opinion on a case. They did usually call before they showed up. “What can I help you gentlemen with?”
“You can come with us downtown. We got some questions to ask,” the one said with a voice like gravel being ground under a car tire.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“You going to come quietly or we got to get rough?” the other cop asked. From the way his fists were clenched, he would have liked to do the latter.
“There’s no need for threats,” I said. “Mabel, cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. And tell Denise I might be late getting home.”
“Yes, Dr. Cauffield.”
The two cops were polite enough to let me put on my coat and hat before they led me down to an unmarked car waiting by the curb. I still hadn’t noticed anything different, but that was the beauty of their tactics; they were so subtle that ninety-nine percent didn’t even notice.
“So what’s this about?” I asked once the car was underway.
“Just keep your trap shut,” the burly cop in the passenger’s seat said. His tone made it abundantly clear that he would waste no time silencing me if I didn’t comply.
The first strange thing I noticed was when we went past city hall. The US, state, and city flags were there, but a fourth one rose above them all, a yellow flag with a pair of black triangles on it. I hadn’t ever seen a flag like that before, but I knew better than to ask these two cops.
When we cruised past the police station, I knew something was wrong. “Wasn’t that—?”
“Pipe down, Doc,” the cop in the passenger’s seat growled. He reached into his jacket for his service pistol. “One more word and I splatter your brains over the car.”
I sagged back against my seat, not daring to make another sound; I didn’t doubt this cop was serious and that he had probably carried out the same threat before. The car finally stopped at an old slaughterhouse on the outside of town. A slaughterhouse was appropriate because of what they were doing inside the building wasn’t much different, though less bloody.
The cop on the passenger’s seat got out to tear open my door. He yanked me out of the car before I could try to make a break for it—though I hadn’t really considered doing so. I made the mistake of asking, “Are you going to kill me?”
The cop cracked me across the jaw with the butt of his pistol. Pain flared in my jaw. I went limp in the cop’s grasp for a moment, not that it mattered to him; he kept dragging me along, through a side door.
The hallway I would come to know so well was metal polished to a high shine, contrasting sharply with the outside of the building. The other cop opened the door to Room 5 to let his partner sling me onto a rough wooden chair. “What the hell is going on here?” I shouted. “What are you going to do to me?”
“They aren’t going to do anything,” a woman said from the doorway. With a wave of her hand, the cops shuffled away. The woman was ordinary enough: short brown hair, lavender pantsuit, and reading glasses on the bridge of her nose. On the left breast of her suit jacket was a silver pin stamped with a number: 47. In her hands she held a folder
I was in my office, listening to Mrs. Handsworth complain about her husband’s inadequacies. There was a moment when she stiffened and then put a hand to her temple, as if a migraine had come on. “You all right, Lydia?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
The rest of the session went by as normal. After I sent Mrs. Handsworth home with an appointment in two days, my secretary motioned to two burly guys in cheap suits. “These gentlemen are here to see you. They’re police officers.”
“I see,” I said. It wasn’t unheard of for the police to ask for my opinion on a case. They did usually call before they showed up. “What can I help you gentlemen with?”
“You can come with us downtown. We got some questions to ask,” the one said with a voice like gravel being ground under a car tire.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“You going to come quietly or we got to get rough?” the other cop asked. From the way his fists were clenched, he would have liked to do the latter.
“There’s no need for threats,” I said. “Mabel, cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. And tell Denise I might be late getting home.”
“Yes, Dr. Cauffield.”
The two cops were polite enough to let me put on my coat and hat before they led me down to an unmarked car waiting by the curb. I still hadn’t noticed anything different, but that was the beauty of their tactics; they were so subtle that ninety-nine percent didn’t even notice.
“So what’s this about?” I asked once the car was underway.
“Just keep your trap shut,” the burly cop in the passenger’s seat said. His tone made it abundantly clear that he would waste no time silencing me if I didn’t comply.
The first strange thing I noticed was when we went past city hall. The US, state, and city flags were there, but a fourth one rose above them all, a yellow flag with a pair of black triangles on it. I hadn’t ever seen a flag like that before, but I knew better than to ask these two cops.
When we cruised past the police station, I knew something was wrong. “Wasn’t that—?”
“Pipe down, Doc,” the cop in the passenger’s seat growled. He reached into his jacket for his service pistol. “One more word and I splatter your brains over the car.”
I sagged back against my seat, not daring to make another sound; I didn’t doubt this cop was serious and that he had probably carried out the same threat before. The car finally stopped at an old slaughterhouse on the outside of town. A slaughterhouse was appropriate because of what they were doing inside the building wasn’t much different, though less bloody.
The cop on the passenger’s seat got out to tear open my door. He yanked me out of the car before I could try to make a break for it—though I hadn’t really considered doing so. I made the mistake of asking, “Are you going to kill me?”
The cop cracked me across the jaw with the butt of his pistol. Pain flared in my jaw. I went limp in the cop’s grasp for a moment, not that it mattered to him; he kept dragging me along, through a side door.
The hallway I would come to know so well was metal polished to a high shine, contrasting sharply with the outside of the building. The other cop opened the door to Room 5 to let his partner sling me onto a rough wooden chair. “What the hell is going on here?” I shouted. “What are you going to do to me?”
“They aren’t going to do anything,” a woman said from the doorway. With a wave of her hand, the cops shuffled away. The woman was ordinary enough: short brown hair, lavender pantsuit, and reading glasses on the bridge of her nose. On the left breast of her suit jacket was a silver pin stamped with a number: 47. In her hands she held a folder
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