Friday, February 16, 2024


Al Bruno III
Week One
He woke to the sound of engines and the flashing of lights. Was it the police again? It seemed they got called to this godforsaken neighborhood every night. Rolling out of bed, Gabe walked to the front window and shifted the curtain aside just enough for him to peer outside.

The first thing he saw was the moving van pulled right up onto the sidewalk; its motor coughed and belched, and its hazard lights blinked mindlessly.

New neighbors, he realized. Of course, he didn't remember the previous residents moving out, but that was a pretty common occurrence in this neighborhood, too, along with drunken arguments, drug deals, and missing children. The trash that had lived above Gabe had skipped out on their lease the day before Christmas. The speed and skill they'd employed to empty their belongings into the back of a pickup truck was almost dizzying.

The digital readout on the VCR told him it was a little after five in the morning. Who moves in at this hour on a Sunday? Gabe wondered as he tried to see what the new arrivals looked like. The van's back doors were almost flush with the house across the street, so all he saw were shadows stepping from the back of the truck onto the darkened front porch.

Week Two

Tomorrow was garbage day, so Gabe dutifully dragged his two well-worn aluminum cans out to the curb. He hated those two dented husks of rusted metal, but he knew better than to purchase new ones. They tended to disappear on him. It was just that kind of neighborhood. Gabe looked up and down the block, at the dirty children screaming and running from yard to yard, at the washed-out-looking adults that sat out on their front steps smoking and drinking with their music turned up too loud. At the lawns that were either un-mowed or had half -junked cars parked on them.

It hadn't always been this way; he'd had a house in the suburbs, a wife, and kids, but they were long gone now, and he was trapped here. Trapped here by child support and payments on a house he was no longer allowed to live in. All he could afford for himself now was this, the bottom floor of a run-down two-story tenement.

Gabe shook his head, trying to clear away the unpleasant thoughts; he knew where this would lead, where it always led- to him half-drunk at his kitchen table, glaring at the sheaf of divorce papers and restraining orders. He looked up at the house across the street; his new neighbors were bringing out their trash, including a ratty-looking old couch, a bureau, and a few armfuls of clothes.

They were a good-looking couple with white-blond hair and striking features. They looked like movie stars; Gabe wondered what had landed them here on this dead-end street. Had the Husband's drinking gotten him fired? Was the Wife spending cash as fast as the family made it?

 Maybe, he thought as he watched them maneuver a stained mattress out onto the curb. Maybe they just want to renovate the place. Maybe they think they can turn this neighborhood around. Good luck.

The Husband spied him watching them and offered a genial wave, "Afternoon."

"Afternoon," Gabe called from across the street.

The Wife came out carrying a pair of dripping garbage bags. Her smile was dazzling. "We're remodeling," she said.

"Good for you," Gabe said with a wave. He headed back into the house. They seemed like nice people but a little too chipper for his tastes.

Week Three

It was raining and miserable, and Gabe had left his umbrella back at the office. Shivering and cold, he walked the four blocks from the bus stop to his apartment. The sidewalks here were as run down as everything else. The cracked pavement fostered wide puddles. With every step, his shoes and socks were more and more soaked; with every clammy, he tried to calculate how long it would be before he could afford another car.

 Two years for a junker, longer if I want something nice.

The bags and cans at the end of every walkway reminded him that it was garbage day. He groaned at the thought of dragging the two cans out from the back.

As if I'm not soaked enough.

The pounding noise told him that the morons that were into rap music had cranked up their stereo. Of course, that meant that the half-wit that lived next door to those morons would soon be blasting the screeching speed metal they loved so dearly.

His pace slowed as he approached his house; the couple across the street had their garbage out already. It looked like they were cleaning out their basement; an old washing machine, a love seat, a waist-high pile of books, a few broken chairs, a chest of drawers, and a birdcage were on the curb.

He stood there contemplating the washer for a moment, wondering if it still worked. If it did, it would sure as hell save him his weekly trip to the laundromat.

Why would they throw it away if it wasn't broken? He chided himself and headed inside. The trash could wait till morning.

Week Four

 Another couch. Gabe stood there marveling at it, Another goddamn couch.

But it wasn't just a couch; there was also a cabinet, a lone snow tire, and a box of melted-looking action figures. Gabe glanced at their mailbox; it was still blank except for the dull metal numbers. He wondered what their family name was; it must have been Rockefeller, considering the amount of furniture they went through.

It wasn't that he cared what they did, but still, it was a little odd. So much stuff. Well, at least they picked a good neighborhood for it. He thought. Back in the suburbs, there had only been one or two days a year set aside for heavy trash pickup, but here, the garbage men seemed willing to take away anything at all. Maybe, Gabe thought. Maybe they do it because they know that if they don't, this crummy little town will start looking like the full-fledged junkyard it really is.

The front door swung open, and Gabe quickly pretended to be adjusting his cans. It was the Wife. She was wearing a clingy top and a pair of white shorts. She bounded down the front steps, got into her minivan, and drove away.

Damn, but her husband's a lucky guy. Gabe thought.

"Whatchoo lookinat?" his boozy next-door neighbor called at him.

"N-nothing," Gabe said. Blushing furiously, he retreated back inside. When the door was safely barred and bolted behind him, he allowed himself to whisper, "Nothing, you scumbag."

Week Five

From the first moment, the blind date had been an unmitigated disaster. From Gabe's first look at the woman, he'd known it would go badly. What had Homer been thinking?

Gabe sat in the back of the taxicab, fuming. He was almost mad enough to call Homer right now. When he'd described her as having a wonderful personality, that should have been warning enough, but Gabe decided to try his luck anyway. He'd been away from the dating scene for too long.

The cab slowed before his house. Gabe paid the fare and strolled up the walk. He wanted to kick something. He couldn't believe the bitch turned him down. How could she afford to be discriminating? Of course, she waited until after he'd picked up the tab from dinner before she dropped that little bombshell.

Speaking of bombshells. Gabe thought as he paused on his front porch. His eyes strayed across the street. He wasn't sure what they did, but every light in the house was on till all hours of the night. Whenever Gabe peeked out the curtains, he saw silhouettes flitting across the Venetian blinds. It was almost like they were dancing. Sometimes watching them, he imagined he was up there with the Wife and the Husband living down here in this crappy tenement.

Embarrassed at the thoughts filling his head, he turned to enter his front. His keys fumbling in the lock, he took one last longing glance at the house next door and did a double take.

Was that another couch he saw sitting on the curb?

Gabe couldn't help himself; he crossed the street and gazed at the cigarette-burned Davenport sitting there; one of its cushions was missing; in its place sat a record player that looked to Gabe like an antique. A bureau with wobbly legs rounded out this week's pile.

He paused a moment, thinking to himself, This is nuts. What if someone else sees? But the impulse was too crazy, too strong for him to deny it. He walked up to the bureau and pulled out one of the drawers.

It still had clothes in it, all neatly folded. Panties and socks, were they hers? How could that be? How could he not know she was tossing out all her undergarments? This was too weird. Gabe glanced up at their house, wondering if they had seen him out here. Wondering if they'd care the man from across the street was going through their garbage.

It was just their garbage, after all; if they had really cared, they wouldn't have put it out on the curb, would they?

He pulled out the second drawer, more clothes, sweaters and ties, expensive looking by the feel of them. The kind he used to be able to afford.

Not certain what he was looking for, he pulled the third drawer out. A gagging scream caught in his throat. He shoved the drawer closed again and stumbled back across the street, tripping on the curb. Sobbing with fear, he scrambled to his feet and ran into his house, where he slumped to the floor and tried not to be sick.

"It was just a toy, just a toy…" He whispered to himself, "It was a trick of the light. It didn't move."

There was a knock at the door, and a neighborly voice was calling Gabe's name.














Thursday, February 15, 2024




 Al Bruno III

Five figures stood around the cold metal table. Everyone else in the morgue of Bodie Village General Hospital had been ordered away. Dr. Gerald Becker, consultant for the Center for Disease Control leaned over the body on the table watching as its mottled gray flesh puckered around the tip of the scalpel and slowly gave way. Blood, long gone cold welled up half-heartedly around the edges of the wound. With practiced ease he made an incision from sternum to pubis. Returning the scalpel to the tray-table he grabbed the rib spreader. This, he thought, this is where one of these Department Of Defense bastards faints.

But, as the bony cage snapped and yawned open, not a one of the four men observing the process fainted or even so much as stifled a gag.

With the ribs spread wide, Gerald lifted the lungs from the within the chest, letting them hang over the edges of the cavity, then he removed the heart, liver, and stomach. There was a scale beside the ray table, he piled the organs there and stepped back. “There’s your evidence gentlemen.”
The government men stepped forward in unison and peered thoughtfully into the chest cavity. The four of them could pass for brothers, each of them tall and broad-shouldered, with pasty complexions and stark expressions on their nondescript faces. They each wore charcoal-colored suits and sunglasses. Only the leader of the four, Special Agent Douglas stood out, and that was because he wore a dark brown fedora that didn’t really go with his ensemble. Gerald wondered if the man was trying to look like some kind of old movie detective or if he was going bald.

After about five minutes of staring intently at the body Agent Douglas asked, “How did you find out about this?”
“As you know,” Gerald couldn’t believe how calm they were acting but then again maybe this wasn’t their first autposy, “I was dispatched here to investigate an outbreak of what appeared to be a new strain of Cholera. At the time my superiors weren’t sure if this event needed a full team. After all, Bodie Village is a small town and the infection only seemed to be impacting the elderly.”

Agent Douglas adjusted his hat and commented “I’ve read your report on the subject.”

Gerald looked back to the other three Department Of Defense agents, they were watching him- No, not watching, studying him. It was like college all over again, a team of professionals waiting for him to say or do something dumb.

“Please continue Doctor Becker.”

“When I arrived here I got right to work, I didn’t notice anything odd at first I was too busy trying to explain and deal with this new strain of Cholera. It wasn’t until my third night here that I realized what was happening…”

Agent Douglas stared into one of the refrigerated cabinets used for storing bodies. Its door had been torn off and there were bloody fingertrails all along the inside of the cubicle.
“Please go on."

Gerald continued speaking, “Twelve people had died by then, and I was exhausted. My motel was in walking distance so I decided to try and wake myself up with a brisk walk back. I was tired and I wasn’t really paying attention to my surroundings. Someone was walking down the middle of the sidewalk and I never even saw them. They knocked me on my ass and kept going. I would have said something but I recognized them. How couldn’t I? It was an old fart I’d performed a postmortem on a day ago!”

“Did you tell this to anyone? The local police or the hospital staff?” Agent Douglas asked.

Gerald shot him a glare, “Tell them what? That the dead were coming back to life?”

“What did you do next?”

The other Department Of Defense agents were wandering about, one was flipping through Gerald’s papers, another was using the phone and the third was looking at the other samples that Gerald had floating in formaldehyde.

“I don’t remember inviting you to go though my notes.”
Agent Douglas walked into Gerald’s field of vision, “Did you contact the local authorities?”

Gerald shook his head, “Didn’t have to. They contacted me. After what I saw I turned around and headed back to the hospital. The Sheriff was there. The power had gone out in the critical care wing. For some reason the back-up generators had never come on line and eight more patients had died. The Sheriff was there and he told me that he was dealing with a rash of home invasion style robberies. The mayor’s family and several other prominent townsfolk were missing.”

“Had there been any ransom demands?”

“No, and at this point we weren’t expecting any.”

Special Agent Douglas regarded the doctor oddly as he itched under the brim of his fedora, “Why?”

“It made no sense, why kidnap the citizens of a tiny little Oregon town? Certainly not for money. The Sheriff and I both suspected something far worse.”
“And when were those suspicions confirmed?”
“The next morning. At the cemetery.”
“The grave robbings.”

“Desecrations,” Gerald spat, “Every grave less than a decade old had been dug up, the coffins destroyed the bodies removed. I knew it was all connected somehow.”



Agent Douglas frowned, “I don’t believe in intuition.”

“Good for you,” Gerald peeled off the stained surgical gloves, “Why are you so damn calm? What’s our next course of action? The dead are coming back to life and attacking anything with a pulse!”

“I understand you helped the locals find a way to kill these beings?”

Gerald growled with frustration. Was this guy even listening? “It all started when I was talking to one of the Sheriff’s deputies. We were all milling around the hospital conference room. Then I noticed that the pinky finger on his right hand was bent at a weird angle. There was a nub of bone protruding from the skin. He was just standing there casually talking to the receptionist girl. She had just brought us some snacks.”

“That must have looked odd.”

“Very odd. When I confronted him about it he tried to put his hand behind his back but I grabbed it and got a better look. The fingertips were blue and his lips were a pale color. He was dead. Dead and talking about the weather. I shouted for something to restrain him. That’s when he went crazy.”

Agent Douglas nodded thoughtfully, “And that is when Jessica Zelman was killed?”

“Yeah, the receptionist. The dead deputy hit her with so much force it broke her neck. She wasn’t even blocking his way, he just did it. The Sheriff didn’t even think, he just drew his revolver and opened fire, The first shot blew a hole right though the dead deputy’s head. It should have killed him but instead he started running. The Sheriff fired twice more, hitting the son of a bitch in both legs. He went down but he still kept moving, crawling away. The Sheriff and the other deputies caught up to him. They emptied their revolvers into the dead deputy. That stopped him. One of the bullets blew a hole into the small of his back and out the stomach. That’s when we saw the foreign matter. There wasn’t much but I preserved it as best I could.” Gerald nudged the body on the table, “You can get a better look at the creature in here.”

Agent Douglas looked again into the body, staring dispassionately at the ugly shape wrapped around its spinal cord. The creature was like a cross between a centipede and a lobster. He said nothing.

“You’ve…” Gerald felt his intuition kicking in again, “You’ve seen this sort of… this sort of corpse-thing before haven’t you?”

“I can’t comment on that.” Agent Douglas almost smiled, “But please continue with your story.”

“After that the Sheriff deputized a bunch of good old boys and got to work. They set fire to the funeral home and captured or killed as many of the corpse-things as they could. I kept cutting them up as fast as the deputies could get them to me. It didn’t take me long to realize that these bug parasite things were enough like insects that they might be vulnerable to chemical attack.” Gerald Becker gave the agents a self-satisfied smile, “We got a volunteer to get up close to some of the corpse-things and spray them with a mixture of DDT and other dangerous chemicals. They collapsed within ten seconds of exposure. We commandeered one of the trucks they used for the annual mosquito spraying and got to fumigating.”

Agent Douglas frowned, “Weren’t you worried about the after effects on the population?”

“Look what we were up against!” Gerald stood next to him and pointed at the thing entwined around the corpse’s lower spinal cord. It didn’t look dead as much as it looked coiled, prepared to leap out at them in retaliation for being disturbed. “We had to act quickly before they spread. Think about it, we could be fighting an enemy that would never need to eat or sleep and could replenish its ranks by simply by raiding the local cemetery or murdering anyone they came across!”

“Do you or the Sheriff or anyone else have any idea where the things are coming from?”
“No,” Gerald waved his hand dismissively, “That’s why I called my superiors but all I got is you… And I gotta say so far I’m not impressed.”

One of the other agents spoke, it was the first time Gerald had heard his voice, it sounded like a wet cough, “Then the queen is safe.”
“Queen?” Gerald eyes flared with rage. That rage faded once he realized the other agents were began closing in on him, “You do know what’s going on here!”

Special Agent Douglas removed his hat revealing that the front third of his skull had been torn away. The exposed ridges of his skull were yellowish-gray. His brain had become a writhing nest of maggots. They boiled out of the wound to crawl down over his pasty features. He said, “Bodie Village was merely a test to see if our invasion plan was feasible for a species like yours. It is obvious that despite our growing control of your civil authorities the capacity for your species to combat us is going to make our invasion a considerable challenge.”
There was a crash as Gerald brushed past over the tray table in his attempt to run. The four corpse-things caught him easily and pulled him down to the floor. They held him fast. Their cold hands tore at his clothes stripping him to the waist. The corpse-thing that called itself Special Agent Douglas retrieved the dirty scalpel from the floor. “I do this out of respect for your intelligence.” He said as he loomed over Gerald raining grubs onto the struggling man’s bare chest. “We release you from the burden of having to see your woefully limited species conquered and enslaved. You may rest in peace.”
The quivering pink flesh of Gerald Becker’s neck puckered around the tip of the scalpel and slowly gave way.

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Eight: Grave Robbers From Outer Space

", for the first time, we are bringing to you the full story of what happened on that fateful day. We are giving you all the evidence, based only on the secret testimonies of the miserable souls who survived this terrifying ordeal: the incidents, the places. My friends, we cannot keep this a secret any longer. Let us punish the guilty. Let us reward the innocent. My friend, can your heart stand the shocking facts about grave robbers from outer space?"

'Grave Robbers From Outer Space' was written by Al Bruno III

It was read and produced by Auravoice

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

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