"Beyond the Dream" - Part One

 

“Beyond the Dream”

            Some of the events of this installment of “Ant Colony” are based on true events surrounding the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The details of these events have been slightly altered to tell a new story and are in no way meant to reflect on Dr. King’s real-life character.

            One late night on a rural Alabama road in 1959, Martin Luther King, Jr. rode in the backseat of a 1958 Lincoln Continental that belonged to his dear friend, Andrew Young. It was quite the fancy car for a colored man – some white folks wouldn’t think twice to assume he might have stolen it. But Andrew wasn’t that kind of man. Outside the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Andrew worked hard to earn his living, and he earned his place behind the wheel of his Lincoln.

            Tagging along was A.D. King, Martin’s brother, who rode shotgun.

            Between BB King’s “Sweet Little Angel” blaring on the radio and the uproarious laughter of Andrew and A.D. over the latter’s terrible jokes, Martin could hardly concentrate on his speech for the next SCLC meeting. It didn’t get any easier to focus with the headlights of the car behind them beaming around his field of vision.

            Even Andrew was a bit distracted by it, as it flashed against the rearview mirror. “These boys sho’ got those lights on blast.”

            A.D. looked back and squinted, barely able to see the type of vehicle it was. He assumed it was a 1954 Ford pickup. It was practically tailing their Lincoln. “I think they’re followin’ us,” A.D. presumed.

            “Now why would they do that, A.D.?” Andrew questioned. “No one even knows we’re out here.”

            Martin couldn’t take the distractions any further. “Hey, would you boys please…?”

            BAM! All of the sudden, the Ford pickup rammed the rear of their Lincoln, the impact jerking the bodies of Andrew and the King brothers.

            “I told you they’re followin’ us!” A.D. panicked.

            Martin turned and looked at the pickup, which was now close enough to distinguish its drivers – a group of men in white hoods. There were two sitting in the cab and two standing on the rear bed, throwing an assortment of bottles at the Lincoln. One of them smashed at the open window alongside A.D., spreading shards of glass and splashes of alcohol all over him. Other than being doused in bourbon and suffering a few cuts across his arm, A.D. wasn’t in too bad of shape; but he did roll up his window to avoid any further harm.

            Andrew did his best to shake the hoods off, but the pickup driver was resilient.

            Martin wondered how these men could’ve possibly known where they would be that time of night. He figured someone had seen Andrew driving in his fancy car – a set of prying eyes that led to the Klan being tipped off.

            “Eventually, these jokers are gonna run out of bottles!” A.D. said.

            “Yeah, and then they’ll resort to just runnin’ us off this road!” Andrew griped.

            The pickup continued ramming their rear, undoubtedly doing serious cosmetic damage to Andrew’s car. Andrew struggled with keeping it steady; every impact more intense than the one before. It was just a matter of time until they would be off the road completely and into the seemingly endless cornfields that enclosed the countryside road.

            And then, something unexpected happened.

            A flash of light soared across the area; brighter than the Ford pickup’s headlights.

            Accompanying it was a thunderous roar.

            Martin would’ve figured it to be a plane that was coming in for a landing, if there had been any airstrips nearby.

            Whatever it was, it only lasted for a second before the engines of both the Lincoln and the Ford went dead. The drivers of both vehicles were forced off the road. Andrew mowed down dozens of cornstalks before his car finally stopped half a mile off. He and the King brothers got out immediately and hid among the stalks.

            “What in the name of God was that?!” Andrew referred to the bizarre phenomenon that derailed their chase.

            “I dunno,” A.D. huffed, looking over his shoulder and through the stalks. “But if we survived it, you know those white hoods probably did, too.”

            “Alfred’s right,” Martin said. “We stand a better chance at losing them if we split apart through the field.”

            “The motel’s just a few miles east from here,” Andrew directed. “Let’s meet there.”

            They agreed on the plan, just as they heard some of the stalks rustling close by – the hoods were honing in on their location. Martin knew the second they started running again, their movements would shift the stalks and give them away. But with all three men running in different directions, it would be sure to throw their pursuers off, giving them enough time to make a clean escape.

            There was only one flaw in the plan: Martin got lost.

            His sense of direction was thrown off entirely, surrounded by the never-ending cornstalks in the dark of the night. If there was one advantage the white hoods had, it was bringing along flashlights – yet another setback in the plan.

            No matter what, Martin kept running.

            He ran until he bumped into one stalk that was different from the rest; this one felt like a tree. Momentarily dazed, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw that the cornstalk was in fact a person…a very tall person…a very tall person with a blue and yellow exoskeleton, wearing a golden breastplate and matching chainmail loincloth. By their slim, toned figure, they appeared to have been female. But the most off-putting aspect of her appearance was her pointed ears and tendrils that hung from the back of her skull like dreadlocks.

            She was an alien – a real, honest-to-God alien.

            Terrified, Martin ran from her, not realizing that he was running back in the direction of his white-hooded pursuers. By the time he did realize, it was too late to double back. His mortified face was illuminated by one of the hoods’ flashlights. “There you are, boy!” he heard one of them say before firing on him, point blank, with a double-barrel shotgun.

            Martin’s chest burst open with a crimson mist, turning his clean white shirt strawberry red. He’d never been shot before, especially not by a shotgun. The pain was agonizing, and the force of the blast shoved him harder than any normal man could. He found himself sprawled out over the dirt, gazing up at the stars. They were beautiful that night, almost heavenly.

            If I’m gonna die here on this cornfield, at least it was on a pretty night.

            “What we gunna do wit ‘im?”

            “What you think we gunna do? Hang ‘im up. Let ‘em know we ain’t gunna let these coloreds run Alabama or anyplace else.”

            Their voices began to fade just as they commenced in their dastardly act. Then, something spooked them – the alien that Martin saw. She swooped into the area, wielding some sort machete made of pure light. She sliced apart the shotgun that downed Martin and then disemboweled its handler. She produced a dagger that she threw at the head of one of the three remaining hoods; it pierced through the sheet, puncturing his forehead. A large splotch of red formed through the white fabric, as his body thudded dead to the ground.

            One of the remaining two hoods fled the scene.

            His partner would’ve joined him had the alien not cut him in half with the same machete she used to disembowel the first hood. She was about to pursue the surviving Klansman but held off when she heard Martin weakly moaning in his struggle to breathe. Sheathing her weapons, she went to him and knelt beside him. “You’ll be alright, Dr. King,” she said in perfect English, her voice soothingly hollow.

            Martin was in too much agony to be frightened of her. He wasn’t sure what she was going to do to him, but anything was better than his corpse being mutilated and humiliated by the Klan.

            She tore open Martin’s blood-stained shirt and poured some type of blue bioluminescent liquid over his gunshot wounds. The stinging sensation that followed was like alcohol, only a billion times worse. Somehow, Martin was able to produce a tormented howl that echoed across the cornfield. His chest felt like it was covered in boiling lava. Thankfully, the feeling only lasted for less than a minute before he blacked out.

            When he regained consciousness again, some time had passed.

            No longer was he laid out in a cornfield at the dead of night.

            It was morning, and he was lying on one of the two available beds in a motel room. A.D. was lying on the adjacent bed, with Andrew sitting by the door. Both were fast asleep when Martin awoke, shirtless and still wearing his pants. His shoes and socks were left off, presumably for his own comfort.

            Feeling groggy but otherwise fine, he sneaked into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. Everything about the other night felt like a bad dream – the Klansmen, the cornfield, the alien, and the…

            The gunshot.

            Looking at his bare chest in the mirror, Martin saw not a scratch on it, yet he could still recall every detail of the painful experience.

            “Martin!” He heard A.D. cry out in jubilation.

            His brother sprang out of bed like a kid on Christmas morning, running up to hug him in the bathroom. In his excitement, he woke Andrew, who was just as relieved to see Martin alive, albeit on a more reserved level. “Thank God you’re still even standin’,” he told Martin. “When we heard that shotgun blast, we assumed you might’ve been dead.”

            “I was…for nearly a moment,” Martin pensively reflected.

            “Yeah, we…uh…met your ‘friend’,” A.D. shared a tense gaze with Andrew.

            Hearing this, Martin’s mouth hung open in awe. “She’s real?! I thought she was a near-death illusion.”

            “Oh, she’s very real, Martin,” Andrew verified. “And so are the three dead Klansmen we left in that cornfield…near where I left my car.” He was justifiably worried about the implications from the white officers that would investigate the scene.

            “Do not worry. I disposed of your vehicle and the bodies right before dawn.”

            Martin heard that voice before. It was very faint the last time, but this time he heard it clear as a bell. It was the voice of his savior – the blue-and-yellow-skinned, dreadlocked alien. She manifested from one corner of the motel room, having kept herself camouflaged there like a chameleon. Not even A.D. or Andrew knew she was there, being just as jittered as Martin was by her sudden emergence in the room.

            In the lit area, Martin saw how beautiful she was, despite being of an entirely different species. She stood at well over seven feet tall, the tip of her head nearly touching the ceiling. Her build was comparable to the Amazonian women of Greek mythology. With the exception of her exoskeleton, ears, and tendrils, she had humanlike features like an eyes, nose, and mouth.

            “Who…Who are you?” Martin asked her.

            The lovely alien saluted with one hand over bosom, bowing to Martin in esteemed respect. “My name is Amare of the Pax nation.”

            “Pax nation?” Andrew frowned. “Is that like an empire?”

            “Yes, but we do not see ourselves as rulers,” Amare stated. “We share in cultivation and progression along with the rest of the universe, continuing the dream that Dr. King himself set into motion.”

            “What dream?” Martin asked.

            “Nine years from now, you will make a speech that will change the way in which the world views itself,” Amare explained. “A speech that will spread across generations…across the stars. My people, the Unitatem, live by your words.”

            “Nine years?” A.D. curiously fixated on that time frame. “You mean the future?”

            “What year is it where you’re from, Amare?” Martin questioned.

            “The 50th century, as it is measured by Earth standards,” Amare replied. “It’s a future that has flourished from your wisdom, Dr. King. But the scientists from my world have calculated how much better the unity of Earth would have been had you lived beyond the age of 39.”

            Martin was struck by her words. “You mean…I am to die in nine years?”

            “That’s some hogwash!” A.D. flared.

            “A.D.!” Andrew chastised. “Calm yourself!”

            “NO!” A.D. refused, pointing at Amare in fury. “This…this thing comes up in here and tells me that my brother – my brother – is going to die in nine years?!” He marched up to Amare, boldly looking up at her golden eyes. “How does it happen, huh? How does my brother die?”

            “At a motel, not much different from this one,” Amare said. “He will be shot.”

            “He was shot last night,” Andrew emphasized.

            “That never occurred in the original timeline,” Amare told him. “This shooting, however, is what ultimately ended the life of Dr. King. But it is my mission to ensure it never happens.” Again, she saluted and bowed to Martin. “I swear it on my life to preserve yours, Dr. King.”

            This whole situation left Martin at a loss for words.

            Here was this fearless warrior that came far across time and space to protect him, a 30-year-old Christian minister from Atlanta, not yet having done the things that she was praising him for.

            Life as he knew it was never going to be the same.

END OF PART ONE