The Harvesters - Chapter One: The Winter Harvest 

(an alien invasion story)

by Zapped!

Note: The following tale was inspired by numerous “Alien Invasion Themes” ranging from Dr. Who to Star Trek. There have been similarly-themed mind control stories that have stuck with me throughout the years, as well. Stories such as: Golden by Trilby Else; Rouge by Tabico; Invasion by Mind Bender; and the time-stop saga Colonel Chronos and the Time Bomb by Rodin.

But it wasn’t until I purchased and read an old copy of Robert Heinlein’s The Puppet Masters that I finally decided to write my own “invasion” tale.. . . Although this was primarily written as a mind control tale for the Erotic Mind Control Story Archive, I thought there might be enough cross-over appeal for the LTBSA.   

This is just one chapter from an entire series, that I’ve been working on for quite some time now. I should also mention that although the first few chapters will involve elements of male mind control, (essential to the plot), I can assure you that this is primarily a female mind control tale. You’ll just have to be patient . . .     


   In the sleepy little township of Rossville Kansas, the traffic lights shift from green to red. The streets were completely deserted at this early an hour, and the only sound was that of the brisk central plains wind, which gently sways the lamps from side to side. There was a light coating of frost on nearly everything around, but the townsfolk of Rossville didn’t mind; they lay fast asleep beneath their cozy bed sheets. However, on that fateful night of February 12th, at sometime around 3am, that peaceful silence was abruptly broken . . .

   First came the low rumble of an unseen craft. Then a dark object appeared over the clock tower at the center of town; the hum of it’s powerful turbine engines shook the town below. Those vibrations were so powerful, that they caused china to rattle inside their cabinets and silverware to jingle within the drawers. Family pictures began to fall from walls, as family pets began to pace nervously back and fourth. Dogs began to howl or whimper, and household cats hid beneath couches or beds. In the midst of all this  disturbance, those that managed to get out of their beds, found their cell phones dead and the lights in their homes only managing a pathetic flicker. The even braver few that bothered to look outside, spoke of a large vessel that was a football field in length, with powerful searchlights that scanned over the frosted ground below. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the vessel crept off; it’s low rumble fading off into the distance.

   The story made the headlines on the local six o’clock news, later that very day. But as days turned into a week, and then weeks turned into a month, the stories about that mysterious humming sound in the middle of the night, eventually faded away. Oh sure; you might be at the local diner having a cup of coffee, and just happen to overhear a couple of the locals debating about what it was. But eventually, life went on as usual.

   That was the Kansans first mistake . . .


March 16th, 2009 …(approximately one month later).

   It was around 2:00 am in the morning. A light, late winter snow had just fallen on Shawnee County. Out at the old National Guard barracks on U.S.75, the temperature was well below freezing. With the exception of a few on-duty guards, most of the cadets that were stationed there, were sound asleep in their cozy barracks.

   At a location some thirty minutes west of the armory, a platoon of alien shock troopers were far from getting a good nights sleep. In fact; they were now reviewing their orders from their ship captain. The time of attack would be carefully chosen; with exception of the nighttime sentries and a few personnel watching the radars, there would be very little resistance. The alien’s current mission would unfold in four carefully planned stages: block all outgoing transmissions; stun the guards; swarm the armory; and then achieve their main objective - all with a minimum of casualties. This would be only one raid, among the several, that would take place throughout that week. The offensive strikes were planned out to be low-key and swift, while the timing would surely be critical.

   The first of these offensive sweeps would involve the armory; the second Brewers Air Force Base; the third to neutralize the state police barracks. (It was obviously important to take out these three locations first, as they would be the most likely to strike back). The fourth stage required careful planning and would most likely be the biggest challenge; to infiltrate society. Only when these tasks were accomplished, would the aliens be able to carry out the main and final phase; to setup a supply line and harvest the unsuspecting civilian population!


There’s something out there . . .

   The sound was like a low droning rumble. It was somewhat indistinct at first, but you could feel it in your feet and sense in your bones. The entire guard shack was starting to vibrate. They could feel it up in the communications tower too.

   Private Franklin Richards picks up his radio and calls the tower:

*SSSKRSH* - “Can you guys feel that?”

. . . The young man stares out into the night while waiting for a reply.

*SSSKRSH* - “Guys are you awake up there? …Copy!”

. . . The radio remains silent, before a crackling noise emits from the other end.

*ssskrsh* - “Yeah Frank, we feel it up here too…What the hell is it?”

*SSSKRSH* - “How the hell should I know? …You guys have the damned radar!”

. . . The private continues to study the skies above, searching for the source of the noise.

*ssskrsh* - “We’re not pickin' up anything on radar, but O’Neil just called from down in the catacombs . . . She said the needle on the accelerometer is goin' bananas!”

*SSSKRSH* - “Bah! …What the hell does a damned meteorologist know, anyway?”

*ssskrsh* - “Easy there, Frank - I think the Sarge is down in the hole with O’Neil tonight!”

*SSSKRSH* - “Errr, roger that . . . Suppose the boys from Brewer Air Force base are doing a low flyover?”

*ssskrsh* - “Not scheduled to. But Johnny P. is trying to reach the base on the horn, right now - Over…”

*SSSKRSH* - “Alright, just keep me posted, Mickey. - Richard’s over-and-out!”

   The rumbling sound was growing louder by the second. By now, not only were the windows rattling, but the reverberation was actually setting off car alarms in the private parking area! Even the German Sheppard search dogs were circling around in their cages and barking wildly.

   Private Richards reached for the controls of his massive spotlight. But just as he cranked the handle to search the skies, all of the yard-lights dimmed down low. Within a few more seconds, they would darken completely. The soldier pressed the “speak” button on his radio, but it no longer worked. He immediately tosses the radio to the side, and focuses his attention on the malfunctioning spotlight…

   “What in the hell is going on?” questions the soldier out loud.

. . . By now, the armory, as well as the grounds that surrounded it, were in complete and total darkness. The confused Private was expecting the emergency generator to kick in at any moment, but what happened instead was a total surprise…

   As Richards looked to the west, the sky suddenly erupted into a veil of brilliant white light. Within seconds, the blinding ray of light fanned out like a giant curtain; spanning from the far end of the grounds forward. It crept over the landscape, illuminating everything in it’s path. It washed over the kennels, silencing the search dogs at an instant, before it swept over the west wing of the armory. White light flashed through all the windows of the formidable stone structure, suspending everything within. The menacing force of energy continued onward; flowing out over the yard and illuminating the guard shack to the east. That’s when the mysterious ray of light paralyzed Private Richards in place, right there behind his inoperative spotlight . . .


   Orion shock troopers quickly fanned out across the military base; their increasing numbers thoroughly combing the grounds for any animated survivors. They searched the guard shacks, radio towers and all of the surrounding outbuildings, while others investigated any possible escape routes. Another unit marched up the front steps of the armory, carefully checking for laser-powered trip alarms, as they made their way to the massive entrance doors. One of the lead troopers raised a weapon to his shoulder and fired at the reinforced lock. The stainless steel mortise latch mechanism was no match for the aliens powerful laser; it began to sizzle and smoke until a burnt hole appeared on it’s machined surface.

   The lead trooper orders, “Remember; set all weapons on stun!”

   Several more fighters began swinging a battering ram in unison. They built up their momentum and bashed the doors wide with the heavy tool, instantly providing a path for the unit that waited at the ready behind them. The shock troopers then swarmed the armory; running from room to room in the darkness - their night vision goggles showing them the way . . .

   Multiple explosions of brilliant white light could now be seen flashing inside the various opened doors that stretched throughout the length of the fortified building. Those lucky soldiers that hadn’t been frozen by the stasis ray on the underbelly of the ship, would surely be motionless once the flash grenades detonated.

   In less than ten minutes, the Orions had successfully overtaken the National Guard armory. Once they received the order to restore power, the shock troopers would inspect each and every bunk room, before finally making their way to the cafeteria. It would be here; in the spacious mess hall, that the aliens would prepare for the second faze of their mission . . .

   Two of the Orion soldiers approached the captain of the ship. After bowing their heads in respect, one reported telepathically, - The humans in the sleeping quarters, the guard shacks, and the communications tower, have all been successfully neutralized. We are now ready to proceed with faze two of the mission, Captain.

    The commanding officer advises the first lieutenant, - Bring in the conversion chambers at once; we must process the humans in a timely manner, if we are to remain undetected. I want you to separate the males from the females, for a proper inspection and to get the maximum yield.

   The first lieutenant bowed her head in acknowledgement, before rising to beat a fisted hand to her chest. She then turns swiftly on her heals and marches off to carry out her latest task.

   The captain then turned to the sergeant and projected - See to it that your troopers have secured the rest of the building. I want all the exterior doors of this structure effectively barricaded . . . “We must leave no stone unturned” - as these foolish humans would say!

   The sergeant bowed her head in understanding. - Guards have been placed at all of the exists. I also have my search unit scouring the building for any lingering humans, at this very moment. I am quite sure they won’t be hard to locate.

   That’s when the captain furrowed a bushy eyebrow and projected, Then I suggest you check on them personally, Sergeant.

   The sergeant bowed once again, before rising up to beat a fisted hand to her chest. Like the lieutenant before her, she turns swiftly on her heals and marches off to carry out her own given task.

   In the meantime, Kiyar presses the mic on the lapel of his space suit. It was time to contact the mother ship and report what his team has found . . .

   Within fifteen minutes, the three heavy conversion booths were rolled out from the belly of the great ship, and set in place. Within another ten, their additional control consoles and power cords would be hooked up and ready for business . . .


Assuming control . . .

   A pre-recorded audio message had started playing from a set of high-tech speakers. The voice sounded digitized, yet the words were bewitching all the same:

“Attention all members of the National Guard . . . Attention all members of the National Guard . . .There is no need for alarm . . . We mean you no harm.”

“As you hear these following words, let them resonate in your mind.”

“We have assumed control.”

“You now belong to the collective . . . You will be assimilated.”

“The time has come to accept your pre-chosen destiny.”

“ . . .You will be assimilated.”

 “You are now being ordered to report to the commissary, where you will soon be assimilated.”

“Exit your rooms and proceed to the commissary with your fellow brothers and sisters.”

“You belong to the collective…You will proceed as expected…You will be assimilated.”

“We have assumed control . . . We have assumed control . . . We have assumed control.”

   There was a momentary pause, before the recording re-looped and repeated itself. (This same message would continue to play in a continuous loop, until all the rooms of the armory were completely emptied, and everyone was herded into the commissary).

   Before long, National Guardsmen (and women alike) came streaming out from the bunk areas and monitor rooms. They shuffled along in a steady stream; their eyes at half mast in a near catatonic half-sleep, and with most wearing nothing more than their olive-green, “military issue” underwear. Waiting shock troopers gathered up the neutralized humans and sorted them out by male and female, before filing them into narrow rows. Still more troopers received the bedazzled humans and ushered them into the already humming conversion chambers. One by one, the soldiers would be placed into one of the clear compartments, which were Plexiglas booths that stood seven feet tall from the floor. Each soldier was then positioned on the center of the foot plates at the bottom of the chamber, before the perpendicular head unit was lowered onto the subjects head. These high-tech neurological units were electro-mechanical in nature, and featured input from the Orions’ most highly-touted expertise. Each crown - although easily adjustable - would fit snuggly over the head of each subject. An elaborate harness of color-coded wires were attached to each crown, and snaked their way upward into the dome of each booth. It was through these very cables that the necessary information would be downloaded from the mother ship’s main database, and into the recipient’s consciousness.

    Each time an unsuspecting human was ushered into a chamber, his or her crown was lowered and adjusted into place. The Plexiglas door would be closed and the process would begin. The recipients would usually stare forward, a sleepy expression still showing on their faces. But as the crown began to probe their minds, a gradual change would come over each victim. First there was a slight twitch of the finger; followed by two or three more. Then, as the aliens invasive hardware began to search the humans minds and align their thoughts, the victim’s began to tense up; you’d see it from the sudden arch of the back; the outward thrust of the chest; the curl of their toes; and the fluttering of their eyelids.   . . . Then all at once; their eyes would go wide in alarm - their voices sometimes screaming out in horrified shock . . . And yet; as the victim’s minds began to slowly soften, and their thought processes began to affiliate with their keeper’s programming, the tension in their bodies would begin to take on a much more relaxed appearance.

. . . That’s when two robotic arms swung out from behind their heads. Although constructed from stainless steel rods, the jointed arms appeared delicate and looked like they belonged in a high-tech science lab. They also seemed to have a mind of their own, as they daintily moved about their subjects heads and inserted a pair of metallic ear-pods into the beneficiaries ears.

    With their metallic ear-pieces now thrumming inside their heads, the first of the glassy eyed converts step from their booths and walk stiffly forward. Three new candidates would immediately be ushered inside to take their place . . . 

   The aliens operate with great efficiency; over the course of the next three hours, human after human were loaded; processed; and then unloaded, to be sent on their way. Even those very few that somehow managed to escape the merciless stasis ray, and the flash grenades that shortly followed, soon found themselves being lead into the Orions mind-altering, Plexiglas booths.

. . . All except for two.

   Beneath the armory, was a series of tunnels that had been built during the cold war. These fortified passageways would undoubtedly provide enough protection from the Orions stasis ray, as it froze the armory’s sleeping occupants above…

   Payton O’Neil was a Private First Class, that was currently studying climatology for the military. The twenty one-year-old meteorologist had been stationed down in what was known as “the catacombs” for the night, alongside fellow forecaster and Staff Sergeant Abigail “Abby” Whittaker. The two would be observing various weather-related instruments, and recording their readings for government documentation, throughout the entire night.

   It was just over an hour into their shift, when the soldiers felt the ground begin to shake. Noticing the needles bouncing around on the accelerometer, O’Neil quickly made a call to the communications tower. The young soldier had gotten only one reply in return, before the power went out and the line went dead. No power meant that the armory would go into “full lockdown” mode. Fully expecting the generator to restore power, the pair insisted on fiddling with the controls of their equipment, (even checking their cell phones from time-to-time), just to see what went wrong. When it became apparent that the power wouldn’t resume, the decision was made to stay put in the darkness for as long as they possibly could.  

. . . Or at least until the intruders finally found their way into the catacombs.

- That’s when the soldiers’ survival instincts kicked into high gear!

   The pair fled in the darkness to the boiler room nearby. It was here, that a series of metal air ducts directed both heat and air to the many rooms throughout the structure above . . .

   “Alright, now look: it’s obvious that some serious shit is going down up there,” advised Sergeant Whittaker, (now directing her cadet towards a large maintenance panel in the ceiling). The young woman shone her flashlight on the perforated steel cover that was just above. She then directed, “I want you to climb up in that heating duct and stay there, until you hear from me.”

   A look of concern quickly spreads across Private O’Neil’s face. “Wait a minute, where in the hell are you going?”

   The determined sergeant is already dragging a large metal desk directly beneath the panel, when she quickly replies, “I’m going to run through the tunnels and head for the storm drains. With a little luck, I’ll make it through to the other side and be able to make a break for the parking lot . . . If whoever…or whatever is actually blocking our transmissions, maybe I can get to my truck and drive far enough out of range to call for help . . . Maybe I’ll even get a better look at just what the hell is goin' on up there!”

   Private O’Neil questions, “Well, why don’t I go with you?”

   “You stay up in that damned air duct, O’Neil - and that’s a direct order!”

   Sergeant Whittaker was already on top of the desk, and pulling the perforated panel downward. In a lowered voice, she urges the private to “Come on!” from above . . .

   Private O’Neil gets a hoist around the waist from her superior, and the young woman manages to pull herself up into the metal ductwork. She rearranges her body inside, before turning her head to urge her comrade, “Be careful Sarge!”

. . . But it was too late. Sergeant Whittaker had already closed the panel and vanished into the darkness . . .

- That was almost twenty minutes ago. Now the young soldier found herself evading the enemy, and quietly peering through a louvered ventilation panel, that’s several floors above!


Lurking in the shadows . . .

   Private O’Neal emits a loud gasp, before cutting the outburst short with a quick cup of her hand. From her hidden position up high within a heating duct, the young soldier looks on in confusion. Three of her male comrades were now being guided into some mysterious Plexiglas booths, right there in the mess hall below . . .

   I couldn’t believe my eyes, as I witnessed grown men and women being shuffled about like livestock into different rows. They all appeared to be in a daze and showed very little, or even no reaction to the intruders that were arranging them.

. . . And then there were the intruders themselves: they resembled people. Not normal people, though. They looked like aliens to me, with their distinctive green skin color, (which I couldn’t decide if it was some sort of camouflage, or not!) They all had these purple lips, and the hair on their heads was shoe-polish black. The males, (whom were noticeably muscular in build), wore some type of jumpsuits that were metallic gray in color and looked like they came straight out of a science fiction movie! The females wore these white cat suits with puffy winter jackets over them. The heavy coats were trimmed with a grayish/black fur, (much like the kind that skiers would wear).  Their hoods were pulled up over the helmets on their heads, and they wore night-vision goggles with dark lenses over their eyes. Each carried a light saber-like weapon within their hands. (For some unexplained reason, I immediately picture them as a hit squad of Russian beauties on skis; they’d be on some secret mission for the KGB, and chasing 007 down some snowy landscape to their ultimate and impending death!)

. . . What the hell kind of invasion force was this?    

   The doors on the booths suddenly began to reopen, and I redirected my attention from the green-skinned ski-babes, to my fellow comrades. Three more captives stepped out and walked stiffly forward.   . . . I could see that although their expressions were noticeably blank, these soldiers walked proudly and with a newfound purpose; as if they’d somehow accepted plans for some unknown mission that needed to be carried out.

. . . Just what the fuck is goin’ on here?

   Expecting the worst, I repositioned myself in the ductwork to get a better look, as three more prisoners were led into the Plexiglas chambers. (This time being two males and a female). I expel my breath and focus my attention, as I watch the intruders align their captives’ legs and strap them in. Next they made some minor adjustments to the wired crowns they were now lowering over the humans’ heads. The Plexiglas doors soon closed with a hiss, and the soldiers within arched their backs in sudden reaction. Whatever was pulsing through their bodies was causing the soldiers’ hands to jerk about at their sides. The female in particular, seemed to contort her frame against her confinement. The brunette arched her back once really hard and thrust her breasts outward to their fullest extent; their bountiful curves stretched the material of her olive-drab T-shirt to it’s outer limits!

. . . I took another deep breath and held it in, trying desperately not to allow a scream!  

   Then all at once; the tension seemed to be lifted from their bodies. The victims’ postures seemed to take on a relaxed appearance . . . That’s when two robotic arms unexpectedly swung out from behind their heads and clamped something in place!

   The Plexiglas doors hissed open and three more of Payton’s comrades step stiffly forward: their eyes were noticeably glazed over; their expressions now showing a calm look of acceptance. On each of their ears were these silver, clam-shaped pods, that had a single red light that’s flashing on the side . . .

- Three more unknowing victim’s are quickly ushered in to take their place. 

   The young soldier looks on with mounting terror. She mouths the words “Oh my God…” when she witnesses the end results . . . “It must be some sort of mind control!”

   With her legs starting to cramp from her squatting position, the private carefully maneuvers herself around into a different position . . .

   I got down on my hands and knees, just as quiet as I could be. From my hidden spot behind the louvered panel, I began to study the unidentified enemy just a little more closely . . .

   The male aliens (?) - (For the life of me, I still couldn’t make up my mind on just what they actually were!) - were much taller, and far more muscular than even the most fit of my fellow human soldiers. Their hair was crudely trimmed in “bowl-cut” fashion, and they wore the same silver-colored ear-pods on their heads as their captives. These brutes would stomp around rather clumsily, like the brooding apes that they were. Occasionally, a few of them would let out these chauvinistic grunts, when over-looking the half-dressed human females that were shuffling past them in a daze…

- Fucking pigs.  

   The female commandos, (which seemed to considerably outnumber the males), almost seemed more human, in comparison. Their cute little bottoms were all sheathed in these stretchy white pants, that kept them poised for action - regardless of what kind of stance they were in. On their feet were high-top-style combat boots; their black surfaces impeccably polished to near gleaming condition. Some of them, were still carrying the spacey-looking weapons that I noticed before.   . . . I make a quick study of the guard that was currently standing below my position, and watching over a row of my mesmerized female comrades. Moving my head at more of an angle, I could see that the weapon appeared to be part light-saber, and part hand-held scanner. At the saber end was a clear cylindrical tube that was approximately a foot-and-a-half long. There was a molded rubber hand grip on the other end, with a small readout window at the top of the handle. This was a touch screen that contained a keypad for controls. Some of the other aliens were going about the entranced female victims, and scanning the sabers over their bodies. When the scanning  was complete, the aliens would monitor the results on the readout screen, and then occasionally lead that female to yet another line.

. . . God, I wish the Sarge was here to see this!…Hopefully she’s made it to the parking lot by now.

   I carefully maneuver myself around in the ductwork once again, (my palms and my knees were already killing me!) It was then, that four of the female troopers carried a large metal ring into the mess hall. The chrome-plated girdle was the same circumference as a hula-hoop, but appeared to be six inches high, and had walls that were several inches thick. There were various blinking lights around it’s plated edges.

. . . Now what the fuck are they doing? 

   There was suddenly an audible *beep* and the entire group of invaders paused in place. They remained frozen like statues; the LED lights on their ear-pods were now blinking red in unison. The pods beeped a second time, and that’s when the invaders collectively unfroze. One of the female troopers then announced, “Clearing the immediate area for Princess Theramea’s arrival!”

   I watched with anticipation - my heart nearly beating out of my chest - as a wall of smoke arose from the parameter of the ring. A dazzling array of colored lights began to illuminate the circle as well, as the troopers around the room began to fix themselves at attention.

   As the brilliant lights continue to illuminate the room, the young soldier’s expression brightened in amazement. Payton’s mind couldn’t quite comprehend what her eyes were now seeing:

   A cloaked figure soon emerged from the glowing column of light. Although somewhat indistinguishable at first, it soon became apparent that this mysterious individual was the aliens leader!


Arrival of the princess . . .

   From somewhere beyond the settling haze, someone orders, “All hail the princess!”

   The brooding ape-men and the green-skinned snow bunnies alike, all bowed forward in unison, before rising back upward. They all raised a fisted hand and hit their chests with a collective thud. Then from within the crowd of aliens, a hooded figure steps forth. He was a fairly tall man, with a young and muscular physique, much like the others had. Yet as he lowered his cowl, a head of close-cropped, silvery-gray hair was revealed. His face was weathered with age; as if he were much older, and possibly more wiser than he first appeared. The old man smiled, displaying a full row of bleached-white teeth.

   “Ah your highness,” he boomed, “I’m quite glad you could join us. Please come and observe our latest catch.”

   The man waves a meaty hand in the direction of the prized captives, then leaves it there to linger in an open invitation . . .

   The preoccupied leader ignores the invite at first; choosing instead to study the rather simplistic and uninspiring construction of the room. A brief moment later, she shakes her head in disappointment and reflects, Such boring and unimaginative creatures, these poor humans are . . .


   Meanwhile, from her hidden location above, Private O’Neal studies her latest opponent and her provocative attire:

. . . This mysterious new arrival was dressed in such a ridiculous getup, that she reminded me more of a well-paid dominatrix, than some wholesome story-book princess!   …The woman appeared to be an astounding six feet tall, (no doubt an end result of her six inch stiletto-heeled boots!). She was dressed in a black leather bustier that cinched inward at the waist, and featured criss-cross stitching in blood red. Two under-wired cups, (also red in color), uplift and mold her bountiful breasts into two bulging and delectable mounds. Her long legs were wrapped in matte-black leather, that clung to her limbs like a second skin. (The tender hide was stretched so tight, that I could  actually see her thigh muscles flexing as she moved!) Dangling from her neck was a feathered red boa, while a  flamboyant black cape hung from her shoulders and nearly touched the floor. A full complement of jeweled rings and bracelets brilliantly sparkled from her wrists and fingers.

. . . Then there was the hair.

   The “do” on this chick neared diva-like proportions; it was long and shimmering black, with tapered ringlets that danced about on her shoulders. A thick roll of elegantly braided hair, was circling around her head, while an elaborate gold headpiece was perched in the middle. The intricate looking crown contained rubies and sapphires of various sizes, as well as an assortment of pearls. It appeared to be priceless, even by earth’s standards . . .

   The pretentious female flips her feathered boa back over her shoulder, before haughtily stomping forth. There was a certain power and confidence that this female exuded when she walked; it was in the cadence of her steps, and in the way that she moved her body. And with each of those movements, her skin-tight leather would emit these faint little squeaks, (serving as a rather odd accompaniment to the constant echo of her clicking stiletto heels).  

. . . Although this bitch was admittedly sexy, I couldn’t help but sense this sinister, almost “Svengali-like” air of mystery that she had about her.   Maybe it was that ominous sparkle within her piercing black eyes.

- I don’t know. 

   “So I see you’ve made quick work of these pathetic human soldiers,” the woman observes aloud, while strutting across the tiled floor.

   The old man that had lowered his cowl earlier, quickly answers, “Yes, your highness. I’m afraid they were no match for our superior weaponry.”

   “Very nice, Kiyar,” said the leader approvingly. “Keep it up, and my mother just might assign you admiral of the entire invasion fleet.”

. . . The old man flashes his brilliant smile at the comment, before bowing appreciatively.

   The Orions’ latest harvest stood waiting in a drill line, just a few feet ahead. Princess Theramea took those few steps forward, and began assessing the fresh crop of female cadets with an experienced eye.

“They all have such remarkably odd coloration.”

   Kiyar remarks, “Yes, your highness . . . It’s due to the pigmentation of their skin.”

   The wise old man considers explaining the unusual pigmentation of the humans flesh, but thinks better of it. Their skin color could always be changed, if necessary . . .

   “Not a bad yield, for a couple of hours worth of work,” Theramea remarked, as she sized up the first female in line. She was rather plain looking, with a rounded face and a soft and somewhat pear-shaped body. The soldier wore a drab-brown t-shirt on top, while olive-green boxers covered her bottom. The leader looked unimpressed . . .

   “The paralytic ray managed to freeze most of them,” explained the elder captain. “We used the flash grenades to suspend the rest.”

   “Yes, well…we certainly don’t want to damage the goods,” reminds the female leader, before moving on to the next captive inline. This cadet was attired the same as the last, but had a squared jaw and reddish-brown hair that’s tied into a bun. She was big boned and had the slight muscular build of a farm girl. (And from the looks of her husky shoulders, she’d surely thrown around some hay bales in her youth!)

   Theramea frowned and moved onward. She passes several more female cadets with similar builds, casually glancing at them with disinterest. At one point she even comments, “They all have such manly-looking physiques.”

   Kiyar remarks, “Yes, err . . . These are, after all, military trainees, Your Highness.”

   The captain of the ship tries to explain that they weren’t expecting to find any - what they’d often heard referred to as - “Supermodels” …Yet, his comments fall on deaf ears. The Royal Highness seems to have taken-up interest in a bedazzled young lady, whom appears to be of Mexican descent…

   “Hmm…Now you might do,” Theramea considers out loud. The alien reaches out and lift’s the dog tags up from the soldier’s ample bosom. “It says here; Private… Anita… Juarez…”

   Private Juarez was an adorable, but somewhat petite young woman, peaking at just five feet tall. The Latina had cocoa-hued skin, as well as a cute and perky build, (which could clearly be seen beneath her clingy olive-green tank top and government issue briefs). She had shiny black hair that was pulled tight to the back of her head, while a beauty mark dotted the middle of her right cheek. She had a rather thick nose with a rounded off tip, while her lips were full and supple. A set of long flirty lashes framed her glazed brown eyes . . . (Those same eyes didn’t manage a blink, even as Theramea began to grope her C-cup-sized  breasts!)

   “Mmm, very nice Private Juarez,” the alien leader purred, “Very niiiice . . .”

   Theramea continued to enjoy the feel of the soldier’s tits within her cupped hands: judging their firmness; evaluating their size; and calculating the cadet’s overall worth. “This one will do,” she stated, before releasing the Latina’s breasts. (They jiggle back in place, as Private Juarez stares forward with indifference . . .)

   “And what do we have here?” Theramea asks, as she steps in front of the next catch. This soldier was a dark-skinned African-American woman, with powerful legs and a nicely sculpted backside. Her torso was trim and tight, and she had the physique of a track runner. The woman’s black hair was cut short in a “bob” style, which not only framed her defined cheekbones, but drew further attention to her full and generous lips. Her eyes were coal-black; they were glassy and distant…

   Theramea palms the soldier’s dog tags and reads aloud, “Corporal…Shawna…Turner.”

. . . The alien runs a hand across the Corporal’s shoulder, and then down over her arm, enjoying the feel of Shawna’s firm bicep muscle beneath her touch. “You’re a dark-skinned one,” the princess mused. “And a powerful woman too…”

 That was good. Theramea liked to be in control of powerful women.

   Corporal Turner had been taken in her sleep. Like so many of her female comrades, the soldier slept bra-less. Her nipples were already pressing lightly at the fabric of her olive-green t-shirt. Theramea couldn’t help but noticed this. The alien cracks a devilish grin, and teasingly scratches her long red fingernails across both of the tips, before moving onward. She leaves a pair of straining nipples in her wake . . .

   Throughout this entire time, Private O’Neal was watching in horror from behind the louvered cover:

. . . I observed in total disgust, as this perverted female groped and prodded at my fellow comrades. I honestly couldn’t believe my eyes, and knew without a doubt in my heart, that they just had to be under the influence of mind control.    …They all just stood there, unwavering - staring off into space without so much as a blink. Once brave soldiers, now reduced to mindless zombies.   …I kept praying - urging beneath my breath for just one, or even all of them to somehow awaken from the spell they were under . . .Waiting for that one brave soul that would turn from the hypnotized formation, and immediately drop-kick the nearest green-skinned guard that was lurking behind their backs!

. . . God I hope Sarge made it out of here to get help!

   The female leader was inspecting yet another cadet. I didn’t know her name, but I had noticed her around the base more than once. The brunette was a shapely little thing, that regularly worked out to keep her trim athletic figure. Occasionally we would pass each other at the gym entrance; she’d be walking out, just as I was heading in. She’d always held the door open for me, with this very bright and youthful smile. The gal was very pretty too: with greenish eyes; an adorably-cute face; and with dark-brown shining tresses that curved in at the nape of her neck.

   She looked so helpless and childlike, as the leader methodically rotated the poor girl around at the waist to critique her backside. She wouldn’t be disappointed: the brunette had one of those cute, athletic little asses that one could bounce a silver quarter off of.

   Theramea reaches out and grips the bubbled curves of the cadet’s tush and gives them a good squeeze, before cracking an appreciative smile. “Mmm-hmm; nice 'n tight - just as I thought it would be…”

   From just beside her, Kiyar flashes his own toothy grin full of approval. He liked it when the princess was pleased.

   But before Theramea can carry on with her advances, there’s a scuffle from somewhere just outside of the room. Her glorious headpiece turns sharply, her eyes glaring in the direction of the disturbance. Three of her shock troopers were roughly shoving along a female soldier who’s attired in green fatigues.

It was Sergeant Whistler.

- From behind the louvered cover of the air duct, a loud gasp can be heard . . .


A brave soldier’s last stand . . .

   Sergeant Whittaker had done her best to struggle against the powerful hold of her alien captors, but her efforts proved to be futile. The belligerent soldier was forcefully escorted through the cafeteria, where she was brought before the almighty Theramea.

   One of the three shock troopers stepped forward, before bowing her head. The only female in the group straightens and reports, “Your highness; we found this soldier attempting to start a machine with rubber wheels outside. She agreed to come peacefully, but then kicked my weapon from my hand and knocked me to the ground . . . She then grabbed it from the snow and struck Gigan in the head with it.”

. . . Sergeant Whittaker cracks a cocky smirk at the recent memory.

   The princess narrows her eyes at the fugitive, before turning to inspect her injured soldier. The rather large “ape of a male” looked at the floor in total silence; a steady stream of dark green liquid was running down his cheek.

   Theramea places her long fingers at his thick jaw line and carefully turns his head to examine the deep gash. “Oh my goodness, she got you good there, didn’t she?”

   The wounded trooper grunts in sour agreement.


  - The disappointed leader viciously slaps the trooper across the face. The violent force of the impact is so swift and so sudden, that it jerks his bulky head off to the side.  

   The room goes deathly quiet.

   “You stupid troll! . . . How could you let yourself be tricked by a lowly human? You’re nothing more than an incompetent ogre, who doesn’t deserve the honorable privilege of serving our great queen!”

   The dishonored soldier swallows hard in his thick, muscular throat, before lowering his head in total shame . . .

   The princess raises her hand to find a splotch of the soldier’s blood, now staining her skin. She extends the soiled hand out to her side in a pretentious manner, while making a disgusted look. Without so much as uttering a word, one of her other male troopers quickly comes to her aid. The male drops to a knee, before wiping her hand thoroughly and effectively with his own kerchief.

   Meanwhile, Sergeant Whittaker had been studying her comrades all around her. They made no effort to save her. In fact; they acted as if she didn’t even exist. They all just stood there expressionless; their vacant eyes staring dreamily off into the distance, but  seemingly at nothing in particular. And they had these weird-looking caps affixed to their ears, with little red lights that eerily glowed.  

. . . Had these intruders somehow managed to enslave them?  

   Sergeant Whittaker nods her head towards the row of bedazzled women just beside her and immediately questions, “What in the hell have you done to them?”

   The princess turns to the angered soldier and expels a deep breath to signify her annoyance. “You aren’t going to bore me now, with your endless onslaught of ignorant questions, are you earth girl?”

   The insulted soldier threw her captor’s attitude right back at her. “You go to hell, you pompous . . . bitch!”

   The princess merely smiled at the verbal outburst. And although her irritated expression had somewhat softened, the sharp glare of her eyes never really left. That’s when the alien silently concluded, This is a spirited one. She needs to be broken down, if not for her own good . . .

   Theramea walks over to the same athletic brunette that she’d been thoroughly assessing,  before she was so rudely interrupted. Private Melinda Patterson stands trance-like, with no particular expression, and with her arms hanging limply at her sides. (The cadet hadn’t made the slightest movement, and remained in the exact same position since her keeper had left her!) . . . The princess gently brushes an errant lock of hair away from the young woman’s temple and asks, “Are we having fun, dear?”

. . . Private Patterson just stares ahead in silence, unable to offer an opinion.

- Sergeant Whittaker swallows deep in her throat, in reaction.

   The princess continues with her delicate ministrations. She brushes a finger ever-so-lightly along the cadet’s cheek, admiring the softness of her skin. She then asks, “Doesn’t she look so pretty just standing there? …So helpless …So tempting…”

. . . The cruel leader then drops her hand; allowing it to trail lightly over the girl’s spine, until it finds the deep curve at the small of her back. Said hand explores even further, traveling down over the curvaceous humps of the cadet’s bottom. Theramea cracks an evil smirk as she gives the tush a little pinch.

. . . Private Patterson slightly wobbles in place, but continues to stare off in a daze - seemingly unaware and completely unaffected by the alien’s advances.  

   Sergeant Whittaker yells, “You leave her alone, you filthy skank!” The mortified soldier even attempts to lash out at the princess in anger, but the powerful arms of the male trooper behind her, easily hold the woman back. One of the female shock troopers raises her stasis weapon and gets ready to fire!

   The princess yells, “Wait!”

. . . The shock trooper retains her position, but holds her fire.

   That’s when Theramea informs, “I want to handle this one personally…”

   The confrontational human carries on with her struggle against her captor’s arms and continues to ask, “Tell me dammit! . . . Tell me what have you done to them!”

   “Shut up, you blabbering fool!” Scolds the leader. “Who do you think you are… Teela,  the great and fearless warrior?”

. . . One of the guards nearby, immediately sneers at such a foolish thought.  

   With her arms now crossed over at her midsection, the princess paces back and forth in front of the human female. It was hard to discern whether she was sizing the soldier up, or simply taunting her. After a pensive moment, the leader stepped directly in front of her captive. The creature lowered her head, making her already dark eyes seem that much more blacker…

   “Sooo, my dear . . . You’ve convinced yourself that you’re a fighter…” Theramea’s voice had unexpectedly turned low and tender now, to a point where it almost sounded sweet. She reached out with three jewel-clad fingers, and gently lifted the sergeant’s chin. “I’ll admit that you’re a pretty little thing . . . Perhaps a little too pretty to serve as a true warrior…”

   Sergeant Whittaker was trying to turn her head away from her captor in disgust. Yet at the same time, something was compelling her to pay attention…

   “But . . . my friends…My comrades…”

   “Oh now, tsk-tsk. I can assure you that your fellow soldiers are perfectly fine. In fact; I guess they’re what you pathetic humans would sometimes refer too as “at ease…”

. . . Theramea glances around the room with  a note of pride, before she lets out a fiendish snicker.

   The sergeant confesses, “But I don’t understand…What do you want from us?”

   “Oh, but you will my dear,” assures the princess before adding, “…All in due time.”

   Theramea was looking directly into Abigail’s uncertain stare. The evil alien had these lifeless black eyes, not unlike those of a Great White. Those bottomless holes were now burrowing deep into the soldier’s mind: …secretly opening doors; silently stirring her soul; and slowly entrusting her faith.   

 Sergeant Whittaker expels a soft breath of calmness.

   The princess reaches out and lift’s the dog tags up from the soldier’s rising and falling chest. She then reads aloud, “Sergeant… Abigail… Whittaker…”

   The alien gently places the dog tags back to the sergeant’s bosom, before lightly running the tips of her fingers over one of the rising mounds . . . (It was as a quick test and a simple trick that Theramea used often).

   Sergeant Whittaker doesn’t bother to challenge her captor’s arousing touch.

. . . She had just passed the first test.

   The alien raised a pointed finger and traced the outline of Abigail’s lips with one of her blood-red fingernails. In a sweet, and yet accusatory tone, the princess questions, “I’ll bet they all call you Abby in private, don’t they?”

   Caught up in her keeper’s seductive stare once again, Sergeant Whittaker’s deep breathing has noticeably slowed. She nearly struggles just to gasp out a “Yesss.”

   Theramea continues with her assault on the soldier’s senses. She lightly runs an index finger down along the woman’s jaw line and seductively whispers, “Abby, my dear . . . Why don’t you just give in to me? . . . It must be so hard for you to resist…”

   Sergeant Whittaker flutters her eyelashes. Somewhere between the alien’s convincing words and the questionable lies, the human manages to reflect:

. . . It was getting harder to resist . . . Looking into this creature’s cold gaze, was like walking towards this vortex that suddenly sucked you in. A fathomless black pit that was much more darker than the deepest depths of any ocean.   . . . You know how they say that the eyes are windows to the soul? . . . Well looking into these eyes, was like staring into the darkest depths of hell.  And somewhere in that dismal underworld, this egotistical beast would surely be seated with pride, way up high upon her throne!

   Theramea continues to whisper, “Imagine a much more simpler life . . . One of pleasure and servitude . . . No more hate . . . No more wars . . . No more worries . . .”

   The sergeant batted her eyelashes again, only much more slowly.   . . .Could this all be true? . . . Such a life seemed . . . seemed . . . almost unfathomable. No more worries . . . No more wars . . . Just pleasure and servitude . . .”

   The alien leader presses, “Would you like to live such a life?”

   Sergeant Whittaker’s eyebrows furrowed and released, then dipped back down again,  indicating her confusion and possible indecision . . .

   “But how-?”

   Theramea quickly presses her fingers to the human’s lips. “Shhh! . . . I don’t want to hear any more questions!”   …The princess then leans in close and expels her breath upon the human’s ear . . .

   Somewhere deep in the abyss, Abby felt that breath. She found it warm and amazingly sensual. The soldier gets so caught up in the moment, that she manages to get choked-up on her own breath!

- The alien disburses a knowing laugh.

   In a drowsy voice, Abby struggles to gasp out the question, “Wha…What are you trying to d-do to me?”

   “Shhh…” the alien reminds with another whisper.

. . . The gentle wisp of air tickled Abby’s neck, forcing the woman to shiver.

   The alien flicked her lizard-like tongue out at the human’s right ear. It was long and thin, and danced about on the woman’s lobe, like a flame at the end of a wick. 

   Abby hunches her shoulders as the creature’s tongue tickles a strategic point beneath her ear. A sudden jolt of sexual energy shot directly from her neck to her g-spot; the results were instantaneous - the woman drew a deep breath and shuddered in place, as her pussy twitched in delight!

   Theramea continues to suggestively whisper, “Accept the darkness Abby . . . Just let yourself fade away.”

   Sergeant Whittaker was going so deep now, that her frame was slightly wavering from side-to-side. And although she was lightly murmuring the words that she was hearing, the sentences were incomplete and nearly undecipherable.

“Accept darkness . . . Fade . . . Fading away…”

“Sometimes you have to lose yourself, in order to find out who you really are, Abby…”

“Lose yourself . . . Darkness . . .”

“We’ll take really good care of you, Abby…”

“Take good care . . . Accept darkness . . . Fading . . .”

“You are beautiful, Abby . . . Black is beautiful . . . Welcome the darkness, Abby.”

“Abby’s beautiful . . . Welcome the beautiful Blackness . . .”

   With her consciousness now sinking into the abyss, Abigail Whittaker reviews the last few thoughts in her mind, as her vision begins to darken:

. . . Black was truly beautiful . . . It was the color that stuck out most prominently in my mind . . . I welcome the blackness . . .


   Throughout the entire induction, Private O’Neil had been watching with mounting horror, from her hidden location up high above . . .

   I watched with disbelief, as this…this witch, slowly entranced the only other conscious human being in the entire room. At this very moment, the creature was likely filling the Sarge’s mind with their deceitful lies; molding her into one of their own.  . . . And all the while, Abby didn’t so much as struggle. She just stood there; still as a statue, her mouth hanging slack . . . Her mind being read like the pages of an opened book!


. . . But my silent pleas were useless. I was just a mere mortal, and nothing more. I didn’t possess the ability to project my inner thoughts to another being, as these creatures did. Hell…if I did, I would have projected my inner thoughts and told these fuckers to keel over and die already, right?

Damned straight!   

   The Sarge continued to stare at her keeper; her focus unwavering.   …Then, in a totally unexpected act of violence, the alien yanks the soldier’s shirt wide open; the sheer force of the act sends an entire row of buttons skittering across the floor! Now parting the two halves of the ripped uniform wide, Theramea reveals Abby’s very non-regulation, pink push-up bra! A devilish smile began to form across the alien leader’s face…

   Theramea slides the latch of her belt to the side, before unbuttoning the flap of Sergeant Whittaker’s camouflage pants. After a few plucks of the buttons, the two halves of her fly part ways; the baggy pants immediately drop to the floor. A matching pink thong is immediately revealed . . .

   The wicked princess ran a long index finger over the satiny surface of her captive’s underwear. The material looked glossy and the texture felt amazingly smooth beneath her touch . . . It was so unlike the firm leather that she was currently wearing . . . (Or the constricting latex that she always wore on her throne, for that matter).  Theramea briefly imagines how a smooth and slippery surface such as this, might possibly feel against her own sensitive clit. The creature quickly shrugs off a chill at just the mere thought of it…

   Up above, tears begin to roll down Private O’Neil’s cheeks. She was witnessing the invader now rubbing a middle finger up and down the cleft-like imprint in the bottom of Abby’s panty. There was already a trace of moisture beginning to show in the material, and this only encouraged the alien to press her finger in even deeper.

   Sergeant Whittaker began to wobble in place. (At one point, the wavering became so severe, that it appeared that the poor woman might actually topple over!) 

. . . Theramea’s actions wouldn’t stop now; she took too much pleasure in pushing her charges to the edge! - No, it wouldn’t stop until Sergeant Whittaker’s body suddenly tensed and her pussy began to spasm uncontrollably.

- Although one would never know it, for sure.

   The once strong and charismatic leader, now just stood there in a daze . . . hopelessly gaping at her newfound superior.

- It was a most peculiar sight, to say the least.     …In fact, it was almost heartbreaking in an “end of humanity as we know it” kind of way.

   From just beside the princess, Kiyar clears his throat. Theramea hears the abrupt sound and immediately turns her head. It was then that she caught her commanding officer’s look of impatience…

   “Please, your highness…The plan was to be swift and thorough. Now is not the time…”

   The princess gives Kiyar a dirty look, before she expels an overly deep breath to express her annoyance. She grins at Sergeant Whittaker and leans in towards the woman’s ear to whisper, “Time to go my sweet…But I’ll be seeing you later.”

   It was then that the alien cupped the soldier’s chin within her fingertips, and flickered her forked tongue out in the air. Once again the strange creature leaned in, only this time to explore Sergeant Whittaker’s still gaping mouth with her curious tongue. The strong, leather-like organ probed the female’s mouth, much like a famished snake poking around in the garden.

- Abigail Whittaker continues to stare straight ahead, completely unaffected by the alien’s affections.

   Private O’Neil catches her gasp in the cupped palm of her hand, yet again . . .

   Theramea took two steps back, snapped her fingers and ordered, “Nighty-night, sweetie.” 

- Sergeant Whittaker’s head dropped forward to her chest. The woman immediately fell fast asleep, right there on her feet.

   Theramea pivots swiftly on her heals, causing her cape to billow outward as she turns. She pauses with her hand held out, as a male soldier kneels to clean her tainted fingers. In a swaggering tone the princess advises, “That’s one way to bring a conflict to a swift conclusion!”

   The captain bows his head and says, “Yes…Yes indeed, your highness.”

   The princess orders, “Kiyar, see to it that this so-called “soldier” is loaded up, along with Patterson; Juarez; the black one and these…(now looking at the pear-shaped woman and some of the more thicker cadets)…these other manly-looking things. Perhaps we can put them to work in the mines.”

   With that, Theramea began clicking her heeled boots back to the transport area, casually glancing over her shoulder at her selection as she walked past. Four female soldiers were already waiting with the teleportation ring, from which she had come. The princess nodded curtly to one of the green-skinned guards, before pausing for a second take . . . It was an Orion female that she’d engaged in sexual intercourse with, back on the home planet.

   The princess immediately cast a knowing glance at the guard, locking her soldier’s gaze in place. The seductress drew her fingers lightly across the female’s skin. With just her touch alone, Theramea shot an electric pulse of sexual energy that rocked the guard to her very core. Her eyes rolled back into their lids, as she bolted upward on the forward soles of her boots - her body beginning to eerily sway from side to side. And then, just as quick as the intoxicating sensation had started, the temptress chose to withdraw her hand from the pretty guard’s cheek!

   As Theramea stepped forward into her teleportation ring, a twisted smile crept across her face. When the smoke and the radiant light have finally cleared, the princess has left behind yet another enchanted victim . . .


Stiff as a board . . .

   Private O’Neil watched from high above, as alien forces started wheeling in what appeared to be upright shipping carts. One by one, the shock troopers loaded up the chosen females and then began rolling them through the cafeteria. Cadets and Lieutenants who once stood proud to serve, now stand as frozen statues alike; their legs pressed tightly together; their hands placed stiffly at their sides. Their blank stares gazed off into the distance, yet saw absolutely nothing.

   It was a scene that weighed heavily on Private O’Neil’s conscience, and it would be a sight that she was not likely to forget:

   I watched in despair, as the aliens wheeled one of the carts in behind Sergeant Abigail Whittaker. She stood stiff as a board (and would remain so) as two of the troopers worked together to lift and then tilt her body back against the cart. The woman was surely as tough and determined as any fearless leader, yet now she appeared so entirely helpless. Like any courageous soldier, I felt that I should save her, (as-well-as the rest of my fellow comrades). I wanted to be their proverbial “knight in shining armor” if you will. Yet I found myself in no position to help any of them! . . . It wasn’t before long that the tears began forming within my eyes . . .

- Just what in the hell kind of soldier was I, anyway?


The first signs of the New World Order . . .

   The aliens disappeared into the darkness, nearly as quickly as they had arrived. By now, the cramped-up Private O’Neil had carefully backed her way out of the heating duct and returned to the catacombs. Growing more concerned by the minute, the soldier attempted to shake off her fatigue and limped her way into the commissary. It was here that she would find her still enthralled comrades, who remained standing still, with their little silver ear-pods clamped over their ears. Not a sound broke the eerie silence, save for the intermittent ‘beep’ that would emit from the various sets of ear pieces…

   Private O’Neil walked among her silent comrades. Their vacant stares seemed distant, and their reactions were indifferent as she passed them by. The woman soon came upon a male soldier that she recognized, and she slows to wave a hand in front of his seemingly blank expression.   . . . (The man remains unresponsive to O’Neil’s actions).  

   Suddenly, the ear-pods on everyone surrounding O’Neil ‘beeped’ in unison. As if they were all somehow interconnected, the entranced soldiers suddenly broke free from their suspended state, before walking off in opposite directions!   . . . Most of the recruits went back to their sleeping quarters, while the others that were formerly on duty, returned to their appropriate work stations.

   Private O’Neil stood among her comrades as they passed her by. Each one brushed mindlessly passed the soldier, as if she didn’t even exist. The terrified woman yelled out, “Don’t you see what they are doing to you?…Can’t you understand what’s happened?”

   The young woman grabs the meaty arms of a male cadet who was just passing by in his underwear. “WAKE UP DAMMIT! . . . WAKE UP!”

. . . The soldier just continues to march forward with disinterest.

   Private O’Neil wrung her hair out in despair and yells, “Why won’t you people listen to me?”

   The determined woman continues to warn her associates for several harrowing minutes.  …At one point, O’Neil even attempts to yank the silver pods off from the ears of an unsuspecting guardsman. Yet it was no use . . . Whatever the aliens had done, it seemed to have permanently affixed the pods to her fellow humans’ ears!

   The soldier finally makes a b-line for the communications tower, where she found radio-men Mickey Conrad and Johnny P. Wilson . . .

   “Guys!…Oh God, am I glad to see you two!”

   At first, the two men simply went about returning to their equipment: turning various knobs; adjusting numerous dials; and flipping an assortment of toggle switches.

- It seemed as if it were business as usual.

   It was only when Private O’Neil grabbed one of the men by the arm and violently shook it about, that he finally reacted. The National Guardsman turns his head and looks up to see what this intrusion could be about. At first, his facial expression seems to twist, as if failing to recognize the woman. But then a change takes place; his ear-pods flash red and emit a ‘beep’ . . . The radioman’s head locked in place and his facial expression begins to change, as if in sudden acknowledgement. He slowly raises his hand and points a finger in positive recognition to say in an accusatory voice, “Fugitive…”

   Johnny P. slowly turns in his chair right beside his co-worker. His silver ear-pods emit a ‘beep’ as well and the man reiterates, “Fugitive.”

- Both of the men’s voices sounded digitized, rather than human.

. . . Private O’Neil takes a step back in horror.   . . . Oh No.

   Mickey Conrad slowly arose from his chair and began ordering in his awkward sounding voice, “You must surrender…You must submit to conversion…You are in need of an upgrade.”

Private O’Neil immediately turned and ran.

   The terrified woman flees down the metal stairs of the communications tower. She continued to run through the main hall of the armory, where she passed former foes who were now pointing at her and sleepily mumbling “Fugitive…”   …Just ahead of her and blocking the entrance door, were a pair of male guards; they stood braced with their weapons crossed over their chests. Those two men then raised their weapons and in drone-like voices they accused, “Fugitive…”

KA-POW! . . . KA-POW!

- Two shots were suddenly fired; the bullets ricocheting off the stone walls just beside the soldier!

   Private O’Neil ducks in reaction before yelling out, “holy shit!”   . . . The terrified woman immediately bolts in the opposite direction and quickly considers - the tunnels!


Run for your life . . .

   Private O’Neil flew through the tunnels like the proverbial “bat out of hell.”  The constant pounding of her booted footsteps, echoed like thunder against the fortified tunnel walls. The soldier never once looked back over her shoulder, and only came to a stop when the tunnel divided in two. Payton looked between the two routes, knowing that she’d have to think quickly . . .


. . . The private bit her lower lip in her own indecision, before quickly speeding off into the nearest corridor.

   Moments later, the sound of more hurried footsteps echoed through the tunnel. A group of soldiers suddenly appear at the very split that Private O’Neil had just encountered. They pause a second later, as one of them raises a hand for silence . . .

   This very same guardsman looks around, before getting down on one knee and slightly tilting his head as if to hear . . .

“This one,” he grunted, before urging his men to continue their pursuit. The four soon disappear into the darkness.

   Meanwhile, Payton O’Neil ran through the second half of the tunnel with the same swiftness and desperation as she had in the first. The determined soldier had managed to dodge some cracks and side-stepped some ice within  her chosen path, while slipping or even tripping herself up upon others. Still, the gritty female paid these hazards very little mind, as she continued onward with her daring escape!


The light at the end of the tunnel . . .

   It wasn’t long before Private O’Neil found herself fast-approaching the western entrance of the tunnel. Although the soldier realized there could be a thick layer of ice at the very end, she didn’t allow herself to ponder such a thought. The woman takes a daring flying leap at the very end, effectively jumping over the solid mass of ice!

. . . O’Neil lands with a violent tumble on the other side. The soldier rolls to a stop and immediately grabs her ankle in pain.

“Ngghhhhhh!”  Payton muttered while gritting her teeth. (She was trying her damnedest not to scream out from the searing pain!) . . . With tears now welling up in her eyes once again, the woman rolled from side-to-side, clutching her throbbing ankle. The soldier crawled around for a bit on her hands and knees, allowing herself a brief moment to settle down . . .

- Come on, Payton - suck it up!

   The soldier knew that the best thing she could do for herself, was get the hell out of here as soon as possible - which meant getting her sorry ass up off the ground! O’Neil hoisted herself up, brushed herself off, and then limped as best she could across the grounds. She had barely made a couple of steps, before the yard was illuminated in a brilliant white light.

- It was the giant searchlights on top of her own guard towers, and Payton’s very own comrades were now working against her . . .

   Once again, Private O’Neil began  running as fast as she could. As the soldier ran, she began praying to a God that she no longer believed in. “Dear Lord, please don’t let them catch me! . . . Just let me make it to the woods, and I swear on my life that I’ll never curse again…”

   By now, even the German Sheppard guard dogs, (whom O’Neil had personally groomed and fed on numerous occasions), began circling in their cages and barking wildly at her. (The woman wouldn’t have time to notice the control collars that now encircled the dogs’ necks and restructured their obedient minds).

- Please Lord, don’t let them start shooting!

   It was a short moment later when someone shouted out, “Fugitive!” . . . A series of shots suddenly rang out, piercing the snow-covered ground all around the woman.

   “OH SHIT!” the soldier yelled out, before she tripped over a large rock and fell. Another barrage of bullets kicked up the snow around her. An unwavering O’Neil quickly got up and bolted in the direction of the woods yet again.     . . . Ok Lord, I won’t make anymore promises I can’t keep . . . Now just get me the hell out of here!

   As the strong-willed soldier continued her running and praying, she could see the woods ahead. O’Neil began to consider what she’d do if she made it out of this alive . . .

   The first thing I gotta do is get to a damned pay phone, or better yet; make it to the highway and flag somebody down with a cell phone and a full tank of gas! Then I have to contact someone over at Brewers Air Force Base . . . But how in the hell am I going to explain a bunch of green-skinned aliens, who are brainwashing our troops and carting off our female soldiers for purposes unknown? . . . Christ, how did I get myself into this mess?

   Then an even more horrible thought came to the woman’s mind . . . What if the aliens struck the Air Force Base, and those troops are just as contaminated?

   Private Payton O’Neil was suddenly facing some momentous decisions in her life. The young cadet would also be searching for some critical answers to some very intriguing questions. Now if she could only keep herself alive long enough, to be around  to ask them . . .

* * * * * *


Continued in... Chapter 2

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