Bones on Mars - A paranormal, sci-fi, fantasy romance

Intruder

The orange haze that announced another evening on Mars threw lengthening shadows on the uneven ground. Riddled with rocks in all shapes, colors, and sizes, the place was dryer than the desert back on earth. Floyd wouldn't have been surprised if a camel rounded the cliffs to his right and eyed him with disdain.

In this place, anything was possible.

His gaze found the ground and the footsteps that couldn't be there.

Impossible like those bloody things.

He squinted into the setting sun. There were his prints in the dust, clearly recognizable by the ridges on the soles.

And next to his tracks was another pair, smaller and looking—odd.

He stepped up and regarded the prints on the ground. There was a pointy bit at the front, and a round depression at the back.

What sort of shoe would leave such a mark behind? He would have scratched his head, but the helmet was in the way. Then it came to him.

High-heels.

"Who the fuck would wear high-heels on Mars?" His voice sounded odd. This bloody planet screwed with everything, even his voice.

Leela, even if she were a high-heel person—which she wasn't, on Earth she'd worn sneakers all the time—wouldn't run around with them out here. For one thing, it was too blasted cold. And the ground too rocky. And.

High-heels on Mars simply didn't compute.

Well, nothing did, recently.

Did the skeleton don high-heels and tottered away, just to spite them?

Floyd called himself to order. There was a suspicious track next to his, which meant an intruder had been sneaking around. No matter what Leela or Mission Control back on Earth insisted, his money was on the Pacific Alliance having gotten here before them and now creating chaos to keep them occupied until more troops arrived.

Yes, that was it. Whatever had happened before had been super-odd, but the high heels were over the top. With that, these idiots had betrayed themselves.

"Cut yourselves in the foot with that one, guys," he said to himself.

That didn't stop him from digging out the camera and taking some nice, sharp shots of the heel-prints. Otherwise, no one would believe him. Heck, he hardly believed this himself. His job done, he packed the camera, grunted, and plodded back to his temporary home.

He was very close, the dome, furred with ocher dust, rising before him, when realization whacked him over the head.

The fake footprints were going all the way. Once in a while they were blown over, just like his own tracks, but they doggedly returned, the sharp bits pointing north like a compass back on Earth. On this planet, with its messed-up magnetic field, compasses were useless. But whoever made these prints didn't need one. They had his tracks to guide them.

A sensation akin to a bucket of ice water washing down his spine took his breath away.

His tracks. Guiding whoever was out there straight to the dome.

But surely, they'd known about the dome, had noticed their arrival? They didn't need his footsteps to do...what?

"Floyd to Base. All Roger with you?"

No response.

Shit. He'd known that. How could he have known that. Sixth sense or what? He was developing a darned sixth sense, like a hare chased by an invisible lion.

This planet was a total-screw up.

He scanned his environment. Nothing moved, not even his shadow.

"Floyd to Base. Please respond."