Short Fiction Break

The Aroma of Coffee

It was on a Wednesday in early spring when Carla woke up dead.

Since she did not realize the seriousness of her situation, she went about her normal routine. She headed for the kitchen where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air with tantalizing familiarity.

The coffee pot with a timer had been a birthday gift from her very busy son, Robert. He had loved coffee from the first day he stole a sip as a youngster. Throughout his childhood he surreptitiously drank from Carla’s cup until she acknowledged his craving and proffered a mug of the captivating liquid to accompany his breakfast. Coffee became the beverage of choice not only for breakfast, but for discussing life’s issues, both big and small. A mug of hot coffee had been an invitation to talk. In recent years visits were few, conversations fewer and the coffee pot a sad reminder.

The vast, red expanse of the planet spread out in front of Rodriguez—nothing but scarlet cliffs and crimson dust as far as the eye could see. A single speck of white, the pearlescent Hub of SX129, stood at the crest of the distant hill, becoming a rusted orange as the sand kicked up. Rodriguez could feel the wind pressing in on the arms of his EVA suit as he turned to scan the horizon. He clicked commands into his bracer, and the display inside his helmet overlaid waves of neon green onto his vision.

“Nothing here but dead space. I’ve tried every scanner I have; are you sure you saw the signature over here?” he asked Emerald.

“The infrared lit up like a Christmas tree,” she said. “Alerts and all.”

“There’s no way it could be that easy. We are not finding evidence of alien life forms this quickly.” Rodriguez rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see them.

“I swear it was right here,” she said. “If you’re scared of a little wind, you can go back. I’m going to keep looking.” Her grayish form disappeared with the next swirl of dust.

“It’s hopeless,” said Jones. “Zeke’s probably dead already, just like everyone else.”

“It’s not hopeless,” said Nozomi. “We’ve been in tough scrapes before and we’re still here. We just need to kill those things before they kill us.”

Rapid footsteps echoed off metal walls from the extended hallway leading to the incinerator bay. Jones, Nozomi, and Conner watched through the triple-pane glass of the second-story control room as Zeke sprinted into the expanse below.

“He’s here,” Nozomi said. “And they’re chasing him!”

The flashlight slipped from his hand, spinning like a lighthouse as it floated up and out of reach. It settled bulb-first against the reactor room bulkhead 40 feet above, plunging Lee into darkness.

“Touché you bastard,” he yelled to the wayward light. “But I really don’t have time for this.”

Time, Lee mused while unhooking his tether, had apparently conspired with the fusion reactor and flashlight to kill him. Over the past hour, his life horizon shortened from what once seemed an eternity to perhaps no further than this moment.

Lawrence pressed the “prepare meal” switch and the processor whirred into action, mashing protein cubes into the paste that would be breakfast.

He left the machine working while he checked the meteorological forecast: minus 20 max, blizzards, improving over the next 24 hours. The snow had been falling on and off for two weeks now. The airstrip was covered, and tall drifts had formed on the north side of the main building.

He returned to the kitchen, adjoining the operations room, and switched off the processor. He pressed “deliver x3” and three plates rolled out of the base of the machine and onto the stainless steel bars that served as a shelf.

“There’s a body for you downstairs,” Cassia’s mother announces, wiping the blood from her hands as she passes the open bedroom door. “All set and ready for you.”

Her words spark a flood of excitement in Cassia, and she springs from her bed to follow her mother down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her fingers itch to snatch up the scalpel, to dig under the skin and see what lies within the corpse.

“I thought it was Alistair’s turn,” Cassia says, falling into step with her mother. “He claimed the next three that came in.”

“Cousin Alistair is otherwise occupied with another target. He’ll be gone a few days.”

Cassia eyes the basement door, practically twitching in her eagerness to get to work. Her mother pulls a mixing bowl out of the cabinet and sets it on the counter. Then she turns back to Cassia, sees her inching towards the door, and laughs.

“Your father and I already had our fun tracking him down and killing him,” her mother says. “You go have your own now. I’ll be baking a pie for the Mitchells’ funeral.”

“Nothing here but dead space. I’ve tried every scanner I have; are you sure you saw the signature over here?” he asked Emerald.

“The infrared lit up like a Christmas tree,” she said. “Alerts and all.”

“There’s no way it could be that easy. We are not finding evidence of alien life forms this quickly.” Rodriguez rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see them.

“I swear it was right here,” she said. “If you’re scared of a little wind, you can go back. I’m going to keep looking.” Her grayish form disappeared with the next swirl of dust.

It was another miserable morning in a string of incessantly gray days when Beverly pulled aside the flimsy lace curtain and first glimpsed Millie’s even-paced shuffle. A shadow had initially drawn her to the window. She suspected the nasty black cat that had been hanging around might be lurking in her box hedges. But there was no cat, only her neighbor Millie in the road. She shuffled past without waving. Beverly frowned and closed the curtain.

The next morning, Beverly checked to make sure no cars were parked on the street. This was a favorite part of her daily routine; she’d gleefully ring the HOA to let them know about her neighbors’ policy violation. When Beverly glanced at the street, she found herself watching Millie walk by yet again. It was a strange coincidence, but Beverly didn’t believe in fate. Everything in her life could be controlled, managed, or leveraged.

Proper control was how she’d handled her son when he brought a boy home; unacceptable behavior was not tolerated in her home. He left. Her ex-husbands had to be dealt with so that she could control her own finances. Their departures were more permanent. Taking control of the situation was the practical prescription for all ailments.

“It’s hopeless,” said Jones. “Zeke’s probably dead already, just like everyone else.”

“It’s not hopeless,” said Nozomi. “We’ve been in tough scrapes before and we’re still here. We just need to kill those things before they kill us.”

“He’s here,” Nozomi said. “And they’re chasing him!”