Author's Note

This story takes place near or in several real towns and cities in New Mexico. I apologize if the descriptions I give them are inaccurate; I didn't do too much homework on this one.

Monday, 11:15 A.M.- Eighty Miles North of Carrizozo, New Mexico

The hot sun scorched the landscape with cruel intensity, sapping the already dry ground of any moisture that might have remained from that morning's dew. Juan Vasquez, a middle-aged, obese, mustachioed Hispanic man, rocked wearily in a wooden rocking chair on the porch of his store. The aluminum roofing protruded far enough to protect him from the full effect of the heat, although its glare may have blinded any bird careless enough to fly over it.

His store, aging and generic, stood on the side of Route 54, bearing a sign, once painted red but now faded to a dull pink, that said "Gas-Food-Drink." Few people ever traveled Route 54, and so most of the time, Juan and whomever else were running the store sat around enduring the heat.

He heard an electrical burst from within the store, followed by a dull thump. He shook his head in dismay. For two days the air conditioner had been broken, yet Diego, the employee who ran the store, insisted on fixing it by himself. Juan kept telling him that he would make it worse, that they should call an electrician, but Diego would not listen. At last, inevitably, Diego learned the hard way.

"No intiendes, Diego," Juan shouted. He listened for a response. He heard nothing, save for the howling wind and the distant squawks of vultures.

He heard a flush of the toilet, followed by Diego's muffled shout, "Que?"

"Ya ves, pero no intiendes nada!" Juan shouted again, with a laugh.

Diego responded with a scream. There was a thump, and no more.

Juan got to his feet, and shuffled through the door. He scanned the shop. He looked first to the right... an abandoned counter, topped with an obsolete cashier, in front of walls of tobacco products and behind racks of tabloids. He looked to the left... racks filled with products, then the open door of the bathroom. He glanced to the back of the store, covered in refrigerator products, below a large fan that didn't work.

Then he looked to the floor.

Covered in bags of potato chips that had fallen off a nearby rack lay Diego, motionless. On his head was a swollen, pallid, throbbing mass. Juan had crept closer, to inspect the odd shape, when from behind another rack came a scream. He turned suddenly, in time to see a blurred shape, looking much like the underbelly of a large spider, with tiny fangs lining the opening of an expectant mouth. The shape clasped tightly around his face, allowing no scream to escape his lips as the fangs chewed through his skin.

Monday, 11:35 A.M.- Twenty miles west of Roswell, New Mexico

Tim Jamison sped down the road at well over eighty miles per hour, riding comfortably in his air-conditioned Lexus. In the passenger seat sat his wife, Emily Jamison, holding a pamphlet entitled "Exploring New Mexico."

"Honey, are you sure we'll find anything interesting in Roswell?" she said.

Tim laughed. "Are you kidding?" he said. "Roswell is the most famous confirmed location of alien sightings. They're bound to have a few tourist traps in there somewhere." Tim was a huge alien conspiracy buff, absorbing every detail of every new UFO sighting.

"But there's nothing about Roswell in this pamphlet..."

"That's 'cause the government of New Mexico is ashamed of the incident that occurred there."

"Well, here's a nice cliff dwelling place..."

"No, Emily. Roswell is the place to be."

Emily sighed. "Tim, you know I don't even believe in any of those supposed 'alien' conspiracies."

"Then maybe this trip will help you change your mind!"

"I don't know..."

There was a loud explosion from the left of the car, and immediately, it began swerving violently. Tim wrestled with the steering wheel, slammed on the breaks. He looked out the rear-view mirror in time to see both tires on the left side tumble away in shreds, before the car bounced and began flipping mercilessly, until coming to a stop, upside down, in a ditch.

Emily groaned. Tim looked at her, and saw a huge gash in her forehead. The roof of the car was crushed, and she had been hurt when her head bounced against it.

Tim unbuckled his seatbelt and fell roughly. He crawled out of the car and gasped as the midday heat enveloped him. It was hot, even for New Mexico... easily 125 degrees.

He wandered down the road in a daze. He realized that his head was bleeding, and that he probably had a few broken ribs. He needed an ambulance, as did his wife... but they did not have a cell phone. His only hope was to flag down a car.

In the meantime, he wanted to see what had destroyed his tires. He backtracked for almost half a mile. On the way, he saw the remains of his tires. Both were crumpled and torn extensively, but the most striking detail was a deep gash, covering almost the entire circumference.

Tim was getting tired. His feet were shuffling lazily across the dusty road. He did not notice a large, black thorn jutting from the dust. He caught his left shoe on it, and it cut through the sole and into his foot.

He fell onto the hot road, screaming and holding his foot in pain. As he writhed in agony, the ground around the black thorn crumbled away. From the hole in the road rose a large, green, snake-like creature, with a long, black beak. It wailed like a hurt animal.

Tim crawled along the dirt road with his hands. The green creature turned and struck the road with its beak, leaving a deep gouge.

Oh shit.

Tim got to his feet and limped away, frantically. The green creature struck at him, cleaving his right leg in two. He howled in pain, fell on his back, and, twisting his arms, crabwalked away.

The creature drew back its head, and struck again. This time the beak hit his chest, driving down until it came to a stop deep in the ground below. Hot blood gushed out of the wound, splattering his body, rushing up his windpipe, spurting from his nose and mouth, all while he watched in horror.

The creature struck again, slicing his brain and ending his life. It struck again and again, dashing Tim's body until all that remained was a splatter of blood covering the breadth of the road.

1:08 P.M.- Thirteen miles northwest of Carrizozo, New Mexico

Lieutenant Alfonso Lopez wiped his forehead with his sleeve and dropped his rifle, letting it swing on the strap around his shoulder. He stood to the side of the blockade, along with the rest of the police force. His eyes burned from staring, even with his sunglasses covering his entire field of vision. The desire to jump into the police car behind him and turn the A/C on full blast was burning more than his skin, but he dared not to.

Earlier that day, they had received warning of a trucker speeding dangerously over the speed limit, southbound. It was puzzling indeed; the truck was going downhill, but if it was a case of failed brakes, the trucker could have pulled his rig to the side of the road where it would surely come to a stop, instead of careening down the highway until he hit another car or civilization itself. The blockade consisted of road spikes and roadblocks, behind which were five police cars and twelve armed policemen. If the trucker didn't stop, his truck would be severely damaged, and he would face heavy criminal charges. Personally, Alfonso didn't expect it to come to that. Truckers may not be terribly bright, but they weren't stupid.

At the shimmering horizon, he saw the dark shape of a truck. When it was in hearing distance, the captain raised his megaphone and spoke into it. "You there," his tinny voice boomed. "This is the police. You are ordered to stop your vehicle in a timely manner."

The truck did not stop. The captain spoke again. "This is your last warning. Stop your vehicle or face the consequences."

Because of the heat's effect on vision, and because the road was so flat, neither the captain nor the police officers realized exactly how fast the 18-wheeler was moving. One moment, the captain was raising the megaphone to his lips to issue a harsher warning, and the next, a warning was shouted for all men to "look out," followed by Alfonso turning his head and leaping headlong into the dirt at the side of the road. There was a crunch, a series of quick bursts, and a tremendous crash. Out of one open eye, Alfonso saw three crumpled police cars come tumbling and whirling through the air, pieces of tinted glass glittering in the sun, flying in every which direction. Behind him, he saw two of his fellow officers laying flat on the dirt, while splintered pieces of the roadblocks bounced off their bodies. Alfonso turned his head the other way, and beyond the totaled cars, he saw, already a great deal away, the responsible truck, swerving on flat tires, going off the road, and finally falling onto its side, coming to a rough stop.

Jesus H. Christ, he thought. That thing must've been going over a hundred and twenty! After a moment more in the dirt, Alfonso got to his feet, dusted himself off, held up his shotgun, and made his way to the fallen truck. It was hidden in a cloud of dust which it had disturbed, making him even more wary of what he may find. The other officers began to follow his lead, holding shotguns and pistols alike.

Alfonso stepped on something squishy. He looked down, and with a groan of disgust and pity, saw the remains of his captain, still holding the handle to the now shattered megaphone. He continued on, hearing similar groans from his comrades as they, too, passed the body.

He found himself standing several feet from the cracked windshield of the truck, along with the other officers. He wiped the dust off his sunglasses. When enough dust had cleared for decent visibility, the officer closest to the driver's side door tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. Alfonso drew forward, and with the butt of his gun, shattered the windshield. They all saw, and gasped.

The driver, a stereotypical trucker with a pot belly and baseball cap, was strapped into the front seat, and clearly dead. There were several gashes on his arms and torso, surrounded by rings of dried blood. They paid no attention to these because of the driver's face and hands. His face was covered with a heavy, round, blob of flesh, which hung limply onto the head by four legs dug deep into the his skull. The driver's hands were also peculiar, as the fingers were twice as long as normal, tapered to a sharp point, and red with blood. Alfonso turned his head, looking down to the floor of the cab, where the driver's foot, evidently from a death spasm, was pressing the gas all the way down.

"Go around to the back," Alfonso said, pointing to two of his gawking comrades. They hurried around the truck. Alfonso heard their grunts as they strained to open the door. Finally, it slid open.

After a moment's pause, Alfonso heard, "Hey, everyone, look at this!"

Alfonso and the others joined them at the back of the truck, where they had a clear view of what was inside. Amidst half a dozen crates were twice as many dead animals. They had large, gray bodies, four legs tipped by sharp points, and sickly jaws on their undersides. An officer stepped in and nudged one of the creatures with his foot.

"They sure do resemble that thing hanging onto the guy's face," the officer said grimly. "New species of tarantula, maybe?"

"Tarantula my ass," growled another. "We need some Polaroids for evidence. I'll see if I can salvage the camera."

He walked briskly around the truck towards the crumpled cars. The officer inside the truck crawled even deeper.

"I got another stiff!" he shouted. A pause. "Wait, never mind. He's alive. Knocked out cold, though."

They all heard a thump, followed by a shout, followed by two more thumps. They rushed around the truck to see what it was. Standing at the side of the road was the truck driver, hunched over the officer's mutilated body. The truck driver stretched his unnaturally long fingers towards the body, twisting the body's left arm off at the shoulder. He then brought the arm up to his mouth.

The other officers jumped as if coming out of a trance, and simultaneously drew their weapons and called to the truck driver. It lifted its head towards them, and they all saw that the creature was still attached. Moments later, it stood up and began limping their way, arms outstretched. The officers fired shot after shot into its body, neither slowing it down nor hurting it. It wasn't until Alfonso fired a shotgun round into the creature attached to its head that it fell to the ground. He went to the body and examined the wounds. They weren't bleeding.

"This guy was already dead," he muttered.

The officer who was inside the back of the truck came out, carrying the man who was inside. The man wore a blue security guard uniform, held a standard issue pistol with no ammo, and had a nasty cut in his head, conceivable the same one that had knocked him out. Alfonso patted him down, coming up with only an I.D. Badge. It read:

Black Mesa Research Facility

Barney G. Calhoun

Level 2 Access Security Guard

Alfonso had heard of the Black Mesa Research Facility sometime before. He believed it was one of the nearby government facilities that nobody knew anything about. He turned his head to the dead truck driver with that creature on its face and frowned.

"Call for backup, David," Alfonso called to the officer in question, not taking his eyes off the truck driver's body. "We're in a bigger mess than I thought we were."