Outskirts Press, INC.

John Camp is the Jonathan Swift of the Space Age, and THAT ROSWELL is a completely charming mashup of scholarly research, goofy imagination, DEFCON 1 paranoia, and biting social satire. —Lewis Shiner, author of Black & White, Deserted Cities of the Heart, and Glimpses.

Daylight. Human kids in cowboy hats and blue jeans. “Hello,” I said but couldn’t hear myself. They wanted to help but fear and disgust stopped them. “Goodbye,” I said. Sometime later I woke up in a hot, dark, small place with high CO2. A red-haired captain swam into focus and asked, “What are you?” MPs floated at his shoulders. Behind them olive drab tent flaps framed the escape pod. It looked like a used piñata. “Where are you from?” the captain demanded. Through a huge gash in the hull I could see my shipmates, melted and smeared across the bulkhead, like chickens hatched much too soon. “Why are you here?” the captain wanted to know. The stench was unbelievable. Local Vulture Loses Lunch, Mothball-Eating Skunk. The scorched pod added a brisk top note of ozone. “Do you understand me?” the captain persisted. I was about to say no, when the humans went poof in a blinding flash.