Sheriff Dale Harmon became aware of being submerged in stages. First, the cold. Not water-cold but something thicker, gelatinous. Then the pressure in his lungs—not drowning exactly, but a sensation of intrusion, like something had crawled down his throat and made itself at home there.
His eyes snapped open to orange. Everything was orange, viscous, and pressing against his eyeballs. A thick tube filled his mouth and throat, stretching his jaw past comfort, pumping something into his lungs that wasn't air but somehow kept him alive. His mind registered this foreign invasion with immediate, primal panic.
Dale thrashed, his limbs moving with drugged slowness through the jelly-like substance. His hands found the sides of what felt like a bathtub—smooth, unnaturally warm plastic. The tube in his throat pulsed like a living thing. He gagged. His body convulsed, trying to expel it, but the thing remained firmly lodged.
Sounds reached him through the liquid—muffled voices, footsteps. A shadow fell across the orange glow. Hands plunged into the substance, grabbing his shoulders. Dale felt himself being pulled upward, the suction of the gel fighting to keep him under.
His head broke the surface. The burning cold of the air hit his wet skin. The tube in his throat began to move, sliding upward of its own accord. Dale retched as feet of rubbery, muscular tubing extracted itself from his lungs, his esophagus, his mouth.
The final length of it came out with a wet, obscene sound. Dale doubled over, coughing violently, body desperate to expel whatever alien fluid remained. A young man with haunted eyes held him by the shoulders, keeping him from collapsing back into the tub.
"Breathe," the man said. His face was spattered with dried blood. "You're okay now, Sheriff."
Dale's vision blurred, then focused. The man looked Hispanic, mid-twenties, wearing clothes stained with what could be motor oil but Dale knew wasn't. Behind him stood two more men.
The taller one, with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jawline and three days' worth of salt-and-pepper stubble, clutched an M16 with the familiar ease of a veteran. The other man, shorter and much stockier with fat hands and permanent blushed cheeks on a terrified face, held a hunting rifle that Dale recognized as Tony Whitman's Remington 700. Both men wore mismatched tactical gear—pieces that looked salvaged from hunting shops and army surplus stores.
"Wh-what—" Dale tried to speak, but his throat felt flayed raw. Cold air filled his lungs properly for the first time, sending shocks of pain through his chest.
His brain struggled to make sense of his surroundings. They were in Kelvin's Meat Packing Plant—he recognized the steel walls, the industrial freezer units. But instead of pig and cattle carcasses, the meat hooks held—
Dale's stomach heaved. Nothing came up but more orange fluid.
"Morning sleeping beauty," the young man—Javier, his mind suddenly supplied from nowhere—said. "Your body's been in stasis for three days."
Three days? Dale's mind reeled. The last thing he remembered was responding to a disturbance call at the Henderson farm. Lights in the sky. Reports of strange noises. Standard rural sheriff stuff that usually ended with telling teenagers to take their partying elsewhere.
His eyes tracked to the sides. More tubs. At least a dozen, arranged in rows. Each contained a body suspended in the same orange gel, each with a tube down their throat. Through the translucent substance, he recognized faces—Donna from the diner. Pete Mitchell who ran the hardware store. Mayor Gladwell's teenage son.
"I need to—" Dale tried to stand, legs buckling underneath him.
Javier caught him. "Take it slow. The paralytic takes time to wear off."
A thunderous crack echoed from somewhere outside the building. Gunfire. Then another, louder and closer. The two armed men tensed, exchanging looks.
"We don't have time," one of them muttered. "The Infiltrators will have that door breached in two minutes, tops."
Javier nodded grimly. He reached behind him and produced a revolver—Dale's own service weapon, a Colt Python .357.
"Sheriff Harmon," Javier said, pressing the weapon into Dale's hand. "I know you're confused. But I need to know: can you use this?"
Dale stared at the gun, then at the young man. Questions flooded his mind. Who were these people? What were those things in the tubs? What was happening to his town?
Another explosion rocked the building, closer this time. Dust and frost drifted down from the ceiling. From somewhere beyond the freezer doors came sounds that weren't quite human—a chittering, clicking noise that raised the hair on Dale's arms.
In that moment, the fog in his mind cleared. Twenty-seven years in law enforcement, eighteen as sheriff. Muscle memory took over. His fingers wrapped around the familiar grip of his service weapon. He checked the cylinder—six rounds, fully loaded.
"Yeah," Dale said, his voice still raw but stronger now. "I can use it."
Relief flashed across Javier's face. "Good. That's real good."
"What the hell is going on?" Dale demanded, struggling to his feet. His nakedness registered belatedly—someone had draped a blanket over his shoulders.
"Short version?" Javier handed him a pair of pants that looked like they'd been taken from the plant's locker room. "Aliens. They've infiltrated your town, been replacing folks. These people—" he gestured to the tubs, "—are the originals. The things wearing their faces are out there, and they know we're freeing you."
Dale stared at him, waiting for the punchline. None came. In the silence, he heard that chittering sound again, closer now.
"Aliens," he repeated flatly. "Like... little green men?"
"No, sir. Not little. Not green. And definitely not men." Something dark crossed Javier's face, a shadow of grief or rage. "actually, they are kind of little, but they are more grey than green. At least until you poke 'em full of holes."
"Jesus" Dale gasped in fear. "And you saved me from them?"
"Exactly." Javier helped him step into the pants. "We've got a van outside. We're taking as many of these people as we can, but we need to move now."
The door at the far end of the freezer shuddered under an impact. Metal groaned. The two armed men took up positions behind stacked crates.
As adrenaline cleared the last cobwebs from Dale's mind, he found himself accepting this insanity with surprising ease.
"What's the plan?" Dale asked, checking his revolver once more.
Javier's mouth set in a grim line. "Stay alive. Get these people to safety. Wait for orders from the Commander."
"The Commander?"
"No time to explain," The young man moved to the next vat and hit the controls until a panel on the top slid off. "you'll see in a second."
Dale wanted to ask more, but the freezer door buckled inward with a screech of tortured metal. Through the widening gap, he caught glimpses of figures, one in particular, wearing a face he saw every morning in the mirror, his own.
At least until the man with the Remington blew a hole in it. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, half in shock, half in excitement. He looked even more excited than the pudgy man who had taken the shot and seemed surprised of actually having hit something.
It was kind of a secret, but Dale had deep down always wished for something exciting like this to happen, and when others would be in panic and fear, Dale felt like a kid seeing his birthday wish coming true."
"Welcome to the resistance, Sheriff," Javier said. "Hope you're a good shot."
Dale thumbed back the hammer. "HELL YEAH!"
The door gave way with a final, shrieking tear. A dozen people that Dale had knew all his life poured in, wielding farming tools, hammers and axes, and Dale's first reaction?
He aimed at the one looking like his ex wife and pulled the trigger. "You took the house, the boat, might as well take this too!"
The recoil jolted through Dale's arm with familiar comfort. The thing wearing Meredith's face jerked backward, a perfect hole appearing between eyes that were almost, but not quite right. The not-Meredith dropped like a puppet with cut strings, twitching once before going still. An electric thrill ran through Dale's chest. There was no guilt, no hesitation—just the pure, uncomplicated satisfaction of seeing his ex fall.
"Always wanted to do that!" He laughed as his fake-ex-wife melted in a puddle of skin and turned to dust.