Kilroy was Here

  KILROY WAS HERE

  a novel

  by

  Jeff South

  © Copyright 2017, Jeff South

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-63302-084-9

  eISBN: 978-1-63302-092-4

  A haiku for you, dear reader:

  This book represents

  A lifelong dream brought to life.

  I hope you like it.

  This is for Mom and Dad. I wish you were here to see this.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART I: THE PROM NIGHT OF WHICH WE SHALL NOT SPEAK

  PART II: ROAD TRIP TO PLANET LLOYD

  PART III: KIERKEGAARD WAS RIGHT

  PART ONE:

  THE PROM NIGHT OF WHICH WE SHALL NOT SPEAK

  CHAPTER ONE

  The love of my life is walking into prom with another guy. Marlene Hunter is the girl who has my heart and tonight she will dance with an oafish Neanderthal in a black tuxedo. She wears a stunning red evening gown with sparkles. Her sandy blonde hair cascades to her shoulders. She is the essence of wholesome beauty. Marlene was my girlfriend and I broke up with her because I’m the dumbest person to ever walk the face of the Earth. I sit here on the school parking lot in the front seat of my crappy-looking but dependable Toyota Corolla loading fresh battery packs into my laser stun guns. My heart sinks and my face is hot with emotion. I feel not so much anger as disgust. I peer out at my soulmate entering our high school gym on the arm of a goon who probably eats raw meat for breakfast. And I made it happen because I have to work tonight. They disappear into the romance of the evening. I think about what might’ve been. I press play on my car stereo and Colbie Caillat’s “Bubbly” starts. I blow out a long, weary sigh of regret and drive away.

  *

  Why am I here?

  Why am I standing on the bank of a river out late at night instead spending the evening captivated by the warmth and intelligence of Marlene? I gave up prom and the girl of my dreams to stand my post on this river bank and protect the Earth from an alien invader because that’s what I’m paid to do. Only a person of suspect mental stability would choose alien combat over Marlene.

  Yet, as I extend my arm and aim my Multi-Phaseable Portal Accessibility Sensor Device at an area over the flowing water, I tell myself I’m a responsible human being who honors his commitments and follows through on a job. Most likely, though, I’m a person of suspect mental stability.

  A job is a job, though, even a sketchy one. I had been hired by a company called Corporate after answering an ad on Craigslist. Some kids flip burgers to make some cash in high school. Others deliver newspapers or mow lawns. I work as a security intern, guarding what is known as a soft spot in the space/time continuum that can be breached by aliens who wish to invade Earth. Cool gig for a teenager. Dangerous. Also, very mysterious. The only name the company goes by is Corporate; even on the business cards. Corporate didn’t give me business cards. I really want business cards.

  On the other hand, I get great toys to play with; however, they are also dangerous when you don’t read the manuals. I always read the manuals.

  “Tony.”

  I turn from the river and face the person calling my name. Randi Williams, my Corporate trainer. She gathers a protective vest from the bed of her truck and walks toward me in her standard Corporate Training attire of khaki cargo pants, dark blue short-sleeve microfiber shirt with the Corporate insignia on the upper left chest. The insignia consists of alternating lines of powder blue and light green forming a swirl. A white ‘C’ rests in its center and the word Corporate sits underneath in all-white capital letters. Her ass-kicking ensemble is complete with black combat boots.

  “Where’s Jeff?” she asks.

  “He went to prom.”

  “He better hurry his ass up.” Randi is a lean African-American woman of average height and lithe build who also dabbles in philosophy, metaphysics, and epicurean pursuits. She often quotes Nietzsche and her poached salmon salad is to die for. I know this because she brought some to work one night.

  “He wouldn’t miss this,” I say. “He loves this job.”

  My partner in crime, Jeff Harper, is difficult to work with because he never reads the manuals. Calling him an irresponsible bonehead is generous. He also chose to go to prom after we agreed we would give it up because our jobs are so important. Asshole.

  Did I mention Jeff Harper is also my best friend?

  It wasn’t enough for me to cancel prom, though. I broke up with Marlene under the guise that this job could potentially endanger her if she ever found out about it. Really, though, it can be attributed to the whole suspect mental stability thing.

  The wind blusters and pushes the trees back and forth along the opposite bank and a few stray leaves are swept up in the growing storm.

  I check my watch. 11:48 p.m. I retrieve my Multi-Phaseable Portal Accessibility Sensor Device from my pocket to again check the readings. It looks like a smartphone except it reads the stability of the portal opening. I aim it at the river, and tap the touchscreen. Negative.

  “Are we sure there’s going to be a breach tonight?” I ask Randi. “Sensors are showing no disturbance on the portal.”

  I remove my backpack and pull out a training manual for a new weapon, a glove that fires energy bolts from the index finger. This is my first time using the glove in the field. Corporate didn’t supply one to Jeff because during training he nearly shot off his penis while scratching himself. The illustrations in the manual instruct me to aim the glove like a finger gun when firing. I practice aiming and pretend to fire. This won’t look stupid at all.

  “The intel from Max contained evidence confirming a breach was imminent.” Randi fastens the vest around her torso.

  “I’m applying to Eastern Missouri State.” I blurt it out because I don’t know how you insert college plans into a conversation about a potentially cataclysmic galactic event.

  “Good for you!” Randi seems genuinely happy for me. “Going to college, then?”

  “I dunno. I guess.”

  “What about Jeff?”

  “He didn’t apply. He wants to keep doing this…” I can’t find the right word. “…stuff.”

  “He depends on you.” Randi walks to me and gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “You’re torn, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. A little.” I gaze at the ground, troubled once more by the prospect of making a difficult decision.

  “I see it all perfectly,” Randi says. “There are two possible situations – one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it. You will regret both.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s Kierkegaard. It means no matter what you do, you’re screwed.” She smiles, pats my shoulder, and returns to gathering her supplies for whatever is supposed to happen.

  I nod my head the way people do when they want to give the impression they understand, but don’t. “I worry about Jeff. He’ll struggle. He loves doing this. And he’s a good guy. He’s just a little undisciplined.”

  “Undisciplined?” Randi inspects a laser pistol and places it in a holster on her vest. “Do I need to remind you of the rocket boots?”

  No, Randi does not need to remind me of the time Jeff attempted to leap from the top of the water tower on the outskirts of town in Corporate-issued rocket boots to show off for his girlfriend.

  “He involved a civilian.” She paces and flexes her hands like she wants to punch something. “You know the Corporate stance on civilians.”

  “Civilians ca
n’t know what we do,” I recite. “They could get hurt.”

  “Exactly. And then Max gets involved.” She shakes her head and emphasizes. “Max.”

  “Paperwork.” I nod.

  “Exactly. Don’t mess with Max.”

  Max Gentry is our director and Randi’s boss. The mere mention of his name fills me with a kind of Voldemortian dread.

  The sound of tires screaming from the road interrupts our conversation. We turn and hear the gate of the electrified fence separating this area from the public slide open and close again about one hundred yards away. A vehicle races toward us. Randi grips her laser pistol but then lowers it and rolls her eyes. The sound of Styx’s “Mr. Roboto” blares from inside a red 1976 Chevy Vega station wagon with a wide white strip on its hood. The car skids to a stop a couple of feet away in a nebula of dust. The driver emerges wearing a maroon tuxedo with tails from a bygone era of formal wear, a top hat, and a white shirt with matching maroon-trimmed ruffles. As he zips up his pants, the effects of cheap, illegally-purchased beer show in his slight stagger.

  Ladies and gentlemen, Jeff Harper.

  “Did we have a breach? Are there aliens?” His wiry frame wobbles up to Randi. “I brought my rocket boots.” He points to his feet to prove he is, indeed, wearing a pair of bright silver leather rocket boots. He also holds up a small remote control for the boots and sneers like the overconfident idiot he is.

  He turns to me, produces a big smile, and reaches out his arms. “Kilroy and Mr. Roboto on the scene again!” Those are his nicknames for us, inspired by his favorite Styx song. Jeff Harper may be alive and well in the 21st century, but his musical tastes are locked in the late seventies to early eighties. He launches into our personal handshake and I reluctantly join in: High five, low five, side-to-side, fly away birdy, turn away from each other, turn back, point at each other.

  “You’re drunk,” Randi says to Jeff.

  “Nuh-uh,” Jeff grunts. “I’m energized.”

  I look at Jeff, holding his shoulders to steady him. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I live for this,” he says with a confident sneer.

  The passenger door of the Vega, affectionately dubbed Miss America by Jeff in another nod to a Styx song, opens and Leigh Ann Cantwell, a lovely brunette in a striking white formal dress, emerges. A wispy laurel wreath rests tilted in her wildly unkempt hair. Still, her stunning contemporary elegance shines next to Jeff’s anachronistic attire.

  “Jeff,” she says. “How long is this gonna take? I wanna get some waffles. You promised me waffles.” She stumbles barefoot around the front of the car and stands beside Jeff, leaning on him to brace her drunken wobble. He leans in to kiss her. She giggles coyly, kisses him back and soon the two are engaged in a full-scale make-out session. Randi grabs Jeff by the lapel and pulls him away.

  “How does Corporate feel about civilians?” She is in full-scale scolding mode.

  “Oh my god,” Jeff rolls his eyes. “Civilians, bad. Paperwork. Max. Max, bad. Blah, blah, blah.”

  Randi emits her working-with-Jeff-sucks sigh and looks at Leigh Ann, who is trying hard to keep her round, wide eyes open. “Leigh Ann,” she says, “I need you to take Jeff’s car back into town where you’ll be safe. We’ll bring Jeff to you later. Right now, you’re in the way.”

  Leigh Ann scowls and pouts her lips. “In the way?”

  “Baby, it’s ok,” Jeff says, “this will just take a minute and then I’ll come to you.” He brushes her cheek with the back of his hand. I want to puke.

  “Jeff!” Leigh Ann cries out. “Waffles! You promised waffles! Waaaaahhhh. Fffffffff. Uhhhlllsss!” Her voice sounds like the wail of a starved wildebeest. I am impressed by her ability to convert waffles into a three-syllable word.

  My Multi-Phaseable Portal Accessibility Sensor Device beeps at me and lights a yellow indicator, the standard color for caution. Someone or something may be trying to breach.

  “Um, guys,” I announce. “I’m getting something.” A bubbling kaleidoscope of clouds over the river growls and deep in its center, a small white light grows. The mocha colored river water rushes past.

  “Get her outta here, Jeff!” Randi points at Leigh Ann. “She is in the way!”

  “In the way?” Leigh Ann stomps a few paces to Randi. “You need to stop saying that to me, lady.”

  “Not now, baby!” Jeff flips a switch on the hand held remote causing his rocket boots to ignite. “Kilroy and Mr. Roboto have to save the world.” It sounds so dumb when he says that. I secure the laser pistols on my belt. I flex my hand inside the new glove weapon and thumb through the training manual one more time. I walk to the river and stand next to Randi. The wind blusters around us and low thunder rolls from over the river. I hold out the Multi-Phaseable Portal Accessibility Sensor device with my now trembling hand.

  “You okay?” Randi asks. “You seem anxious.”

  “Oh, you know,” I say. “The usual pre-alien invasion jitters.”

  Jeff joins me and Randi at the water’s edge and hands me a flask produced from his jacket pocket.

  “Here. Drink this. It’ll calm your nerves.”

  “What is it?” I sniff the contents and find nothing concerning.

  “Relax. It’s only green Kwench-Aid. We always have green Kwench-Aid on the job.” He squeezes my shoulders and eyes me with fierce determination. “And remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “We own the night.”

  I roll my eyes at the stupid catchphrase Jeff insists on uttering every time we’re on a mission.

  I swig the Kwench-Aid, hand him back the flask, and take a few steps back to prepare my weapon when Leigh Ann grabs my arm. I shouldn’t be surprised by her strength. She is rather statuesque and cannot be categorized as skinny. She has somehow managed to achieve an ideal body proportion.

  “Hey. You. Tony? It’s Tony, right?” She jerks me in and whispers loudly as if telling the world’s worst-kept secret. “Tell Jeff I need to talk to him. About waffles.” Her breath stinks of stale cigarettes floating in cheap wine. She pushes me toward Jeff, urging me on with a shooing gesture. I don’t want to be rude. She seems like a nice girl, but, really, it is getting dangerous. Once again, I try to convince her to take cover.

  “Leigh Ann, not now.” I turn her back toward Miss America. “You need to get in the car and leave. Please.” I walk away and she starts yelling at us.

  “Hey!” She stamps her feet. “Hey! Heeeeyyyy!” She staggers into what I assume she thinks is the center of attention.

  My Multi-Phaseable Portal Accessibility Sensor Device begins to chime a series of alerts and the display moves to red. This is not good. I shove the sensor in my pocket and ready my weapon.

  “I’ve got something to say!” Leigh Ann wears a cocky Billy Idol-like sneer that suggests we might want to watch the hell out. She straightens her laurel wreath, looks at us, and vomits onto the ground around her. After a brief pause, she bursts into tears. My gag reflex kicks in and I double over to suppress it.

  “Perfect,” mumbles Randi.

  A rousing clap of thunder pulls our focus back to the river and a brilliant light seeps from the edges of the dark bubbling clouds.

  “Shit,” Randi says. “No time to worry about that now. We have an unauthorized party attempting to breach, gentlemen. Ready yourselves.”

  I look at Jeff. “Where’s your laser?”

  “My locker, I think. Maybe.” He presses a button on his remote and the rocket boots lift him off the ground about a foot.

  Suddenly, the force of a rip in the atmosphere where the light had been knocks us to the ground. The clouds split to reveal more of the brilliant light. Dust particles rush into the void and a fog of sparkling matter forms a funnel migrating from within. The funnel cloud spins faster and for a moment I think the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character is coming, but a spectacular explosion of light momentarily blinds us instead. The light dissipates, the explosion wanes and, the void collapses in on itself. A lar
ge metallic cube the size of a motorhome spills out, tumbles about, and skids to a stop. The dark gray object rests as we circle it, weapons poised. A single door with a round window sits on one wall. A bumper sticker with the phrase “Eat My Anti-Matter” is displayed in one of the top corners. The door slides up and we jump back.

  All is silent.

  A humanoid, nearly eight feet tall, dressed in a tacky purple and green jumpsuit with matching cape emerges from the cockpit. His large head is shaped like a football on a tee and is covered by a pointed helmet with wings painted on it. He steps out onto the short wing and then hops to the ground. A basketball-sized metallic orb floating above the being, buzzes with electronic beeps and hums.

  “Sonofabitch!” the alien cries out. “Why will my ears not pop! I hate it when my ears do not pop!”

  “State your identity and the purpose of your presence.” Randi sounds very authoritative as she speaks verbatim the standard greeting for an alien who has breached the portal. I’m glad she is in charge because I’m frozen with fear.

  “I am Grandor.” His voice booms like the world’s most overwrought Shakespearean actor. Grandor gestures toward the orb. “This is my valet, Jackie.” The orb chirps.

  “You speak English?” I feel the need to address the 800-pound gorilla on the river bank.

  “My capacity for language is exceptional!” He smiles widely and claps his hands a couple of times. “Oh, I have finally arrived. It is the Earth. The Earth, Jackie!”

  “Yes it is,” replies the orb in an unimpressed female voice.

  “Oh, it is marvelous! Isn’t it marvelous, Jackie!”

  “I’m going to need to see some documentation,” Randi barks. “If you come through that portal, you have to have documentation.”

  Grandor ignores her as he surveys the surroundings. We fix our weapons on him, anticipating any movements of aggression. Jeff, who has no weapon, performs a clumsy ballet of maintaining his balance in the rocket boots while striking a faux kung fu pose. Grandor catches sight of it and tilts his head quizzically. He steps toward Jeff and leans down to him.