At the purpling before dusk, the drone was heard before it was spotted, emitting a noise that reminded me of an eleven-year-old trying to imitate a motorcycle rev. It sounded like the flapping wings of an enormous moth trapped between two sheets of wrapping paper. The yellow light—did that mean it was recording? A few inches above the power lines, it floated steadily along the horizon.
“Well, that’s right out of a futuristic dystopian novel,” I said.
“More like a post-apocalyptic B-movie,” Jason replied.
“A low-budget one, for sure.”
We raised our beers as it disappeared behind the banyan tree. On its second pass, I noticed something strange—as if a drone weren’t strange enough. There seemed to be a distortion in the air behind it.
“What’s that?” I pointed.
“Chemtrails,” Jason said.
“Seriously. That thing’s battery-operated. It’s not supposed to be spewing fumes. It shouldn’t be. Did you see a canister on it?”
“No, dude. That’s a camera. It’s just the sky. Sunset. Clouds changing colors. It’s beautiful.”
“But you saw that cloud thing behind it, right?”
“I don’t know what I saw.” Jason took a sip. “We’re lucky to live here.”
“Totally,” I said, letting it go. “Which is why I don’t get why you keep talking about moving. Don’t sell out. Keep your lot.”
“Maybe the grass isn’t greener, but I’m betting on it. Opihikao’s where my heart’s at.”
“I thought you said lava. Weren’t you going to get something in Kaimu?”
“Investment only. I’ll flip the lava lot. Septic tank, boom—flip it like a pancake.”
Jason finished his beer and reached for another. Empty.
“Store run,” he said, swirling the butt of a joint in a bottle before dumping it off the deck.
“I’m pau,” I said. “Three beers, I’m good.”
“You tired?” he asked, incredulous, clinking bottles into the recycling tote.
“No, but haven’t you noticed a beer only leads to another beer?”
“That’s my point. Let’s go to Kaimu.”
“Can’t. Pressure sore.”
He knew this. His friend had died from one.
“Come on, Jasper. The store won’t kill you.”
“Not worth the risk. You know that. But if you’re going, grab me two Sierra Nevadas.”
“Cans?”
“Sixteen-ounce Pale Ales. Two.”
“I thought you were done.”
“If you’re already going. Besides, might be one of our last beers if you really bounce.”
“Bounce? To the store?”
“No. Out of Seaview.” I gestured at the first planets winking on. The ocean grumbled against the black cliffs below. “This is the most perfect place on earth. You’re right up against the reserve.”
Jason shook his head. “You need pavement. We need space. Me and Cynthia fight and fuck loud. I’m sick of worrying about neighbors posting on the Kalapana-Seaview page. Opihikao gives us room. Three acres. No complaints. No lurkers.”
“That’s tweaker talk.”
“We’ve got tweakers moving in.”
“No we don’t. Everyone’s out of the castle.”
“The castle? John? Ten years in San Quentin. Jesus.”
“Exactly. Everyone knows everyone’s business here. Smiles up front, whispers behind your back.”
“To your knowledge, has anyone complained?”
“No. But you feel it. Corella—you know, Portugal, blind poodle?”
“Fire ants in the dog food?”
“Yeah. She got real twitchy after Cynthia and I got loud.”
“No pillow?”
“Nope. Let her scream. Next morning I waved and Corella damn near jumped out of her skin.”
“She’s always jumpy.”
“No, man—oh shit, there it is again!”
The yellow light reappeared beyond the poles.
“Sounds like a swarm of bees,” Jason said.
“See?” I pointed. “That stuff behind it. That’s not clouds.”
It looked like smoke but wasn’t. A thin gray veil, like a scarf unraveling midair.
“I don’t know,” Jason said. “Should I moon it?”
“No. Don’t draw heat.”
“Why? Nude beach is a mile away.”
“What if it’s a neighbor and they post it?”
“So?”
“Actually—never mind. Moon it.”
“Where’s your pellet gun?”
“No. Mooning’s one thing. Don’t shoot. And it’s not a pellet gun—it’s a twenty-dollar Daisy.”
Jason grinned. “Target practice.”
“No. On video that looks real.”
“It’s filming you on your land.”
“We don’t know that.”
Jason raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, probably. But it’s above a public road.”
“That’s your stance?”
“What if it’s Green Harvest?”
“They use helicopters.”
“RadioShack went out of business,” I muttered.
“If Green Harvest used drones, Facebook would know.”
“Well, Trump—”
“No Trump talk when we’re drinking.”
“My bad.”
Jason went inside anyway and came back with the BB gun.
“Just moon it,” I said.
Then the drone stopped.
Hovering.
Someone was watching.
The BB cracked. Loud.
“Fuck you, Amazon!” Jason yelled.
The drone vibrated. Then it fractured—into dozens, hundreds of glowing points. Fireflies. Eyes.
“The fuck?” Jason said.
The buzzing rose. No propellers. Just light.
Then they charged.
I froze on the couch. Less than a second. They swarmed him. Jason ran, screaming, vanishing into the trees.
Silence.
I waited. Then wheeled inside, grabbed my phone, and called Cynthia.
“You need to come here.”
“What happened?”
“It’s Jason.”
A minute later she was on the ramp.
I told her everything.
She rolled her eyes.
“Bullshit.”
“I swear.”
“Aliens?”
“I know how it sounds.”
“If he wants hot tacos, he’s got thirty minutes.”
She left.
Jason came back the next morning like nothing happened.
“Wallet?” he asked.
“What happened to you?”
“The lights? How stoned are you?”
“Just coffee.”
Inside, he searched.
His eyes flashed yellow.
Just for a second.
“What?” he asked.
“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” I said. “Thoughts?”
“Cheesy. Donald Sutherland.”
Almost Jason.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He laughed. “Later, man.”
The truck pulled away.
Birds. Wind. Bees in the flowers, gathering what they needed to survive.
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