Halfway through lukewarm coffee, sandwiches, and routine patrols, county units get a call over their radios: "We've got a 10-32 out by the old mining road, some kinda aircraft down. Units in the area, respond."

Sheriff David Clouse sighs, placing the styrofoam cup into the cupholder as his cruiser kicks up dust along the desert highway. "Probably some just some experimental junk," he mutters.

As he squints, he sees the distant column of black smoke. Bad sign. The radio suddenly screeches with interference and a deputy's panicked voice cuts through: "It's... moving on its own..." Another bad sign.

He flips switches for the lights and siren, announcing to others he needs to get through. He responds to dispatch that he's almost there.

The cruiser skids to a halt near the wreckage, or rather, what's left of it. The twisted metal glows faintly blue, hovering inches off the ground as if suspended by invisible threads.

Nearby, Deputy Riley stands frozen, her pistol half-raised. "Sheriff, it's..." she stammers, pointing at the jagged tear in the air behind the wreck, a distortion like heat haze but darker, swirling with unnatural light.

Clouse steps forward, boots crunching on scorched earth. The wreck groans, shifting unnaturally, as if something unseen is trying to drag it toward the rift.

Then he sees the figures: too tall and too thin, moving in jerky unison around the ship's underbelly, their limbs glistening wetly under the desert sun.

One turns its bulbous head toward him, and Clouse's gut twists at the wrongness of its faceless, smooth surface.

Nothing that he's seen or heard of about this kind of thing has prepared him for this moment. He just stares at the sight ahead of him. Movement at his side breaks his reverie.

"For goodness sakes Riley, don't shoot," he hisses, grabbing her wrist as she starts to raise her sidearm higher.

The beings don't seem hostile, just desperate, their movements frantic as they adjust strange, pulsing devices attached to the wreck.

Riley's breath hitches. "They're trying to... get that stuff into the portal. Shouldn't we at least take pictures, if we're not gonna stop 'em?" Her voice wavers between disbelief and rising panic.

Clouse exhales sharply, watching one of the beings lurch forward with a device that emits a low, oscillating hum. The wreck shudders, lifting another foot off the ground.

"They're not ours to stop," he mutters. "This ain't Area 51. That ship's theirs. So, call dispatch and tell them there's nothin' to this."

Riley hesitates, her thumb hovering over the radio button. "And when they ask why we're letting unidentified aircraft..."

"Riley, for once, just do as you're told!" the Sheriff tells her.

She's about to respond, when suddenly the radio crackles again, this time with a transmission from the Air Force.

"Sheriff, this is Captain Whitmore. We're inbound to your location. Do not engage the craft. Repeat, do not engage."

Riley's eyes widen at the distant thrum of approaching helicopters. Clouse grits his teeth, watching as one of the aliens staggers, its limbs trembling before collapsing. The others barely pause, dragging their fallen comrade toward the wreckage.

"Sheriff, we can't just..." Riley starts, but Clouse cuts her off with a sharp gesture. "Whitmore's boys won't ask questions before they start shooting," he snaps. "Now move your cruiser, block the road. Buy 'em time."

As Riley sprints to her vehicle, Clouse watches the remaining aliens redouble their efforts, their strange devices flaring brighter as the wreck rises higher, groaning like a wounded beast. The tear in the air pulses, widening slightly, just enough for the mangled hull to scrape through with a sound like tearing metal.

"Sheriff, I did like you said. Let me know what to do next," Riley pants over the radio. "Those choppers are coming in fast."

Clouse glances east, where dark shapes knife through the haze. One of the aliens suddenly staggers toward him, its elongated fingers clutching a small, crystalline object. It thrusts the thing into his hands with surprising urgency, cold to the touch, humming faintly.

Clouse recoils, but the being pushes the device against his chest before stumbling back toward the wreck. The sheriff stares at the pulsing artifact, its surface swirling with colors that shouldn’t exist.

Riley's voice crackles through the radio again, frantic. "Sheriff, they're closing fast, what do we do?"

"We, Riley?" he asks. "It's all you now. As of this moment you're Sheriff. I'm gone."

He holds the device over his head, and motions with it down his face, over his torso, and both his legs. A bright shimmering appears where he put the device. His uniform, skin, and anything else resembling being human fades away along with the device. A moment later, he's one of them.

His alien form runs to where the others are, just as their craft finishes going through the rift. He and the others dive through just on time for the rift to close behind them.

"Sheriff, this is Captain Whitmore again. What happened to the wreckage and those that were with it?"

"This is Sheriff Riley. What wreckage?"

THE END