Patton rolled down the passenger window, the frost of his breath illuminated by Susank’s lone streetlight.

“You’re supposed to be hiding,” I hissed.

Ignoring me, he held out the pickles. “Wanna crack these open?” Big, dumb grin. “It’s cold out and they’re warm.”

“Ehgh, no.” I tried not to gag and took a wide step away from the car. “You think he’s in one of those?” I asked in the direction of the prehistoric eighteen-wheelers.

“The only thing inside those are the bones of his other victims.” Patton scooched down in his seat and almost out of view.

He was right – not about the bones, I hoped, but the age of the trucks. The tires were flat, many of the windows were broken. We were early. A shiver went down my back. It wasn’t the cold. I looked over to Patton, eyes wide. “What the hell am I doing?”

“I don’t really know, Ben,” he answered, peeking over the sill. “We did the pros and cons. It was pretty much all cons.”

“Fuck it,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, let’s.” A new voice. From somewhere behind me.

I spun around. Patton untangled himself from the seatbelt and jumped out of the car, pickles clutched tight to his chest.

A figure emerged from behind a giant propane tank near the corn field. Definitely not a trucker. A deduction I made based on their iridescent space armor.

“What the fuuuck?” whispered Patton.

The figure walked toward us. A metallic voice came from behind a glistening, crisply-edged helmet, “Which one of you rudimentary lifeforms is Flyguy?”

“Holy fuck,” I said, hanging my head. I’d been lured to a corn field by a space LARPer.³¹

“That’s Earthrbro?”

“Come on, Patton,” I said, turning back for the Subaru.

And then there was no more Subaru. Well, it was there, only now it was flying over the road and smashing through the concrete wall of a grain silo on the distant side with a thundering crash.

I found myself embracing Patton as he clutched the pickles between us.

“Is this thing on?” said the figure, tapping the chin of his facemask and clearing his throat. “I said, which of you is the Flyguy?”

“I am!” shouted Patton.

I pushed him to arm’s length. “What are you doing? Shut up!”

The figure came to a halt maybe twenty feet away, gleaming invincibly. In the light of the gravel lot, he looked pretty convincing. “Disclose the identity of the Flyguy,” he said, assuming an imperious tone, “or be maimed.” A mechanical arm emerged from his back. At the terminal end was a small node which I suspected was a tool for maiming.

I thrusted a finger at Patton. “You be quiet.” His foolish loyalty was drowning his judgment. Then to the figure: “I’m Flyguy.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Patton interrupted, stepping boldly in front of me. “Run,” he hissed below his breath. “I’m Flyguy, he announced, “but you can call me Patton. And this is my friend Ben who just gave me a ride here. He knows nothing of our rendezvous and is not worth your time. He will be leaving now. I’m the one you want. I know about the Chime.”