“Stop this!” I insisted. Then to the figure: “I told him about the Chime!”

The shiny helmet pivoted back and forth between us.

“Ben, you’re an awesome friend,” said Patton. “But don’t do this for me.”

“What are you doing?” I exclaimed.

“Your love for each other is at once adorable and nauseating,” said Earthrbro, approaching. “But I don’t have time for it. I’ll take both of you.”

“Wait! Stop!” I said, then to Patton, “You, shut up. Shut up now!” Nervously, I stepped forward. “I’m Flyguy. This,” – I wanted to say “brain parasite survivor” – “this person is Patton. He’s nobody. I’m who you want. We spoke on the Déjà Who? forum. You told me your special knowledge was dog shows and geology. I’m your guy. Please leave him alone.”

“I told you about all that, Ben,” said Patton with surprising conviction. “Stop this nonsense. You’re a great friend, and I appreciate it. But you forgot burlesque. Earthrbro knows burlesque.” He turned to the figure. “Leave my friend here. I’m your guy. Let’s vamos.”

I grabbed him by the jacket and shook him. “You fucking idiot! Shut up! It’s me he wants, don’t do this!”

A pulse of light flickered over our heads from somewhere in the corn field. I turned just in time to see the top of the grain silo into which the Subaru had been deposited, sliding off like it’d been sliced with a Ginsu. It plummeted down, shaking the ground. Whatever had come from the corn had sliced straight through it. Shock and awe stuff. Patton froze. The pickle jar thumped to the gravel and somehow didn’t break.

“Follow me,” said Earthrbro. “The two of you. Or I dial this down and put the next one through an arm or an ass cheek.” Across the road in Susank, house lights blinked on. “Or you can wait for the locals to rush over with their pitchforks and muskets and begin shooting. I’m confident the friendly fire will eventually get one of you.” The figure turned for the corn field. “This way, Flyguys.”

“Where are you taking us?” asked Patton.

The shining helmet twisted only slightly in our direction. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!” I answered.

“Not to me,” said Earthrbro, heading into the crop rows. “Follow. Don’t make me pull you.”

Seething, I looked over at Patton. “What the fuck was that all about just now?”

“I’m not letting you go alone.”

“What do you plan to do, when whoever-this-is finds out you’re faking, Patton? What do you think happens then?”

“What happens to you when they find out you’re not faking, Ben?” He walked past me toward the edge of the field.

“Where’d he go?” I said as we pushed into the corn, beginning to think maybe we could make a run for it.

“Keep walking,” came the answer from up ahead.

“He’s parked out here?” asked Patton.

“Maybe he drove a combine.”

We came to a clearing. Patton stopped. “That doesn’t look like a combine, Ben.”