#44
(Author’s Note: What if First Contact happened…but it wasn’t the army, or the government, that made it? – Welcome to my fictional town of Old Mill, NC)
Lester stoked the fire at the base of the still and stomped a couple of times on the bellows to get it good and hot. The mash needed to be stirred, and they were short on jugs. He glanced over at the path leading up from the hollow and frowned.
“Damn it Cletus,” he muttered.
His partner, Cletus Bigelow, was late. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence; it was the norm. Cletus would be late for his own funeral, probably from trying a little after-death bender. The still wasn’t a one-man operation, though, and there were folks below waitin’ expectantly for the fruit of the corn, so to speak. They were cranky folks, and Lester didn’t mean to make them any crankier.
He left off the bellows and grabbed the handle of the canoe paddle they used to stir the mash. It bubbled nicely, and he grinned. Cletus or no Cletus, this was shaping up to be a damned potent batch. If his partner wasn’t already on the way, the scent of this would surely draw him up the mountain, hopefully with a case of empties.
Lester gave the paddle a few more turns, checked the various gauges and copper pipes, and slid one of the three remaining empty jugs beneath the spout of the still. Once it was in place and the first few drops of distilled heaven had dripped from the spout, he flopped down against a tree to do his part. There were only a couple of inches of shine left in his own jug – if he finished them quickly, he could slide it into line and hold out one gallon longer waiting on Cletus.
He was three sips in when he heard a strange buzzing sound and glanced up. He didn’t see anything, and he frowned. It didn’t sound like a hornet, quite, or a bumblebee. It was a bit like a mosquito, but way too loud. He took a long swig off the jug and glanced around. Could be revenuers with video cameras. They’d been damned careful picking and hiding this spot, but there was no place totally safe. Lester stayed very still and just watched.
He heard the sound again, louder, and something flashed past his face. He nearly snorted shine, which would have been a disaster at any time, and he banged his head painfully on the tree at his back.
“Christ,” he croaked. He blinked, put his hand up to shade his eyes, and scanned the clearing. At first he didn’t see anything. Then he spotted it. Hovering just above the receiving jug, which must have been about half full at that point, a small glowing ball floated in the air. Lester started to rise, then sank back against the tree to watch. “What the hell?” he asked no one in particular.
The ball circled the jug slowly, dipped under the copper spout, then darting up to hover about a foot over the jug’s opening. The color of the thing’s glow shifted from a sort of greenish blue to a deeper blue, and something shot out from the bottom – something long and thin. Whatever it was disappeared into the mouth of the jug. As Lester watched, fascinated, the little floating ball shifted through a rainbow of hues . Then, after a few moments, the long, thin tube – that’s what it looked like, Lester thought, a damned straw — slid back up into the ball and it hovered.
Just then, there was a crashing sound from the direction of the trail, and Cletus tromped into the clearing, a wooden crate of empty jugs in his arms, looking only about half alive. Lester stared at his partner, startled, then glanced back at the floating ball. It was still there.
“Put it down, Cletus, and get over here.” Lester said.
“Huh?” Cletus replied eloquently.
“Put the double-d goddamn jugs DOWN and get over here.”
Cletus didn’t feel like arguing, and his only other option seemed to be to listen. He put the crate down. Meanwhile, Lester stood up. When Cletus reached his partner, Lester took him by the shoulders and spun him toward the still. It took a minute, even with the little blue ball floating right in front of his face, but finally Cletus clocked in.
“What the hell?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Lester said, “but it’s been sippin’ out of that jug over there.”
Cletus glanced at Lester, then at the ball.
Without warning, he stepped closer to the thing and leaned in, so his nose nearly touched it.
“That ain’t free,” he said. “We get twenty bucks a jug on a good day.”
“Get back,” Lester warned. He grabbed Cletus by the arm — and that’s when it happened. The glow around the ball expanded. One second, it was a tiny, softball-sized light, and the next it was a huge, ten foot colored bubble. Lester tried to let go of Cletus and pull back, but he was too late. He felt the glow seep over and through him. His thoughts fuzzed, and grew still.
Cletus, still hung-over, took longer to snap out. He managed a “Holy sheep shit,” before his mind blanked.
When they came around, they were standing just as they’d been. The tiny ball was gone. The jugs that Cletus had hauled up were lined up neatly beside the spout. The fire was out. Everything had changed.
* * *
Epilogue:
Lester followed the trail up the mountain until he came to a point between two crooked pines. He grinned, pressed a button on the cell-phone sized device on his belt, and stepped between the trees. His hair raised slightly on his scalp – it tickled. Then he was through. On the outside, the path turned right and wound up to an empty clearing. The new bi-dimensional security system had been flawless since Cletus installed it.
Lester stepped into the clearing and grinned. The new still was a work of art. It still depended heavily on copper tubing and gauges, but there were modifications. It was heated by a carefully regulated natural gas system, and the output was filtered. There were two raised platforms above the still. On one, a tiny red glowing sphere rested…it’s proboscis-like fueling tube extended into a clear glass tank. Lester waved, and the sphere glowed brighter, then dimmer, in answer.
Lester put his tool box down and looked around. It was time to get busy. He had him a plan to get live satellite TV for free, and it was going to take most of the morning to get it into place. That was fine. Smackdown didn’t come on until late afternoon; there was plenty of time to advance the human race in time for the opening bell.
Above, the air rippled, and two more tiny craft popped into view. Lester grinned. Business was good. Another month, and they’d be ready to start on their new facility…maybe start their own cable TV company, or sponsor someone on the NASCAR circuit.
The air rippled, and Cletus stepped into the clearing. He held something in his hand, and the way he was grinning, Lester knew it was going to be good. Lester stepped closer and saw it was a bottle – an empty bottle with a brand spankin’ new label. Lester read it and busted out laughing.
The label read “First Contact Whiskey – Reach for the stars” There were stars arrayed around the letters, and the bottle itself was in the shape of a tiny space ship. Cletus tucked it up under the new chrome spout and twisted a valve, filling it with white gold.
“Best shit in the galaxy,” he said.
All around them, tiny orbs glowed and beamed in agreement.
Thus began the Old Mill Intergalactic Treaty and Federation of Space Folk. And that’s a no shitter.
Written by David Wilson - Visit WebsiteFollow me on Twitter
