This guy was frozen solid. Me and Marty stood him up and leaned him against a tree and he stayed in that position: arms out, almost Christ-like. Frozen hair spiking every-which-way. Eyes glassy and staring. His expression a twisted scowl. I brushed some powdery snow off his forehead with my glove.

You hungry? asked Marty. Cuz I ain’t eaten all day.

What, and leave this guy here?

He ain’t goin’ anywhere.

Yeah, but what about them kids? It was decided: we lifted the frozen man and set him in the back of Marty’s pickup truck. We threw a furniture blanket over him so no one would really see anything.

Later at Spidelda’s Inn we sat finishing onion rings. There was a large chandelier made of antlers overhead and a fire burned in the fireplace. How long do you suppose he was lying there frozen? Marty asked.

I don’t know. But hardly anyone wears clothes like that anymore. Maybe he was an old miner back in the day.

Miners don’t dress like that. Maybe a prospector.

What do you think would happen if we un-froze him?

He ain’t comin back to life.

Why not?

You can’t freeze someone and have ‘em come back to life. That’s science fiction.

A red-headed waitress named Rosa came over. You gentlemen finished with yer onion rings?

Driving back out to Spurry we couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he really did come back to life. When we got to the trailer we leaned him against the wall right by the space heater. Then we went back out to the woods to finish tapping the maple trees and all but forgot about him. It was dark when we returned to the trailer that evening.

Did you turn off the outside light this mornin’? asked Marty.

No. Maybe it burned out. We walked up the steps and kicked snow off our boots. Marty pulled open the outside door and then the inside door. It was dark in the trailer and there was a silhouette of a figure on the couch in front of the TV. It’s the prospector, Marty said in an excited whisper. Hello, sir! Marty said but the figure rose up and lunged at us, holding a pick-ax high above his head. I was out of there in a flash, the door slamming itself shut behind me.

Back so soon? asked Rosa when I showed up out-of-breath at Spidelda’s. I could not get a word out. Here, I’ll get you a coffee so you can warm up and tell me what happened, she said and went back behind the counter. Just then something crashed through the plate-glass window behind me. I turned to see the old prospector, still blue from the cold, with his pick in one hand and Marty’s disembodied head in the other.

Rosa pressed a shotgun into my hands. You want to do the honors? she asked. It took multiple shots to bring him down. Afterwards I stood with Rosa over the body with its frozen blue skin. The bullet holes were clean and bloodless. You know, I wish he didn’t have to die this way, I said. Rosa hugged me to her breast. You did the right thing. What’s an old prospector gonna tell us that we don’t already know?

I returned the hug and the hug turned into a passionate kiss. That night we did some serious drinking in her cabin and I found myself staring into the wild flames dancing on her hearth. I confessed to being haunted by the image of the blue-skinned prospector holding my friend’s head. Forget about them, she told me. Forget, baby. She smiled and narrowed her eyes. Come join me by the fire.

When Arthur revived, he was in a panic. He quickly dug himself out from under a pile of moon dirt with gloved hands. His heart pounded in his spacesuit. His breathing was ragged. The moonscape was empty except for two human forms in similar suits lying half-buried in the white dirt not far away. Arthur had no memory of how he got here, or of even training for a mission like this. He only remembered childhood scenes at a farmhouse with a long hay bale elevator rising up to a loft in the barn and the heady smell of cow manure. He remembered running barefoot in the mud, catching chickens. But he had no memory of any recent events. Like where did this oversized spacesuit come from? How did he get up here? Earth was a distant crescent just above the horizon.

When he got to his feet he bounced into the air and spun a little, causing instant nausea and vertigo. But after a few bounding steps he made it over to one of the other humans. He put his gloved hand on the shoulder and flipped the body over. A stunningly beautiful face slept behind the glass. He shook her by her shoulders and they both bounced in the zero gravity. Her eyes did not open. Releasing her he bounded over to the next body.

To his surprise, she had the same outlandishly beautiful face as the first, also apparently asleep. He carried her over and laid them side-by-side.

As he bounced around the moon he found more and more versions of the same beautiful woman, all of them unconscious. He brought them all to one general area and put them close together, all the faces identical.

After what seemed like hours of collecting he sat on the edge of a moon rock, resting his bulbous space head in his gloved hands. Behind him was a field of maybe fifty unconscious young women in space suits. As he sat gazing out at the sparkling diamond stars of the Milky Way and the blue-green slice of Earth, there was movement behind his back. Soon the crowd rose up and came closer. Then suddenly there were hands grabbing every square inch of his body. He tried to push his way out but some twenty gloved hands held him fast.

They carried him over several dunes and up a steep incline, finally reaching the edge of a live volcano that was puking molten lava into the sky. He was then tossed into the burning pit of liquid rock.

In an hour he was crawling back up out of the volcanic crater, his suit burnt black and his flesh inside charred and raw. The women’s footprints led to a spacecraft that was just now taking off in the distance. The vacuum of space deleted his frantic yelling. He waved his arms.

The moon rocket continued soundlessly upward, arcing out toward the Earth. He stood still and stared until it became a silver speck. Then he turned toward the cliff. He walked back uphill, losing a little oxygen with every breath.

Whatever happened to Marcy?

Well, she’s on top of a building right now. Investigating. There are a bunch of bones up there and no one knows anything about it.

TUESDAY: Marcy’s police dog pulled her through the red silks billowing from clotheslines on the roof. Whoa, Cody, she said. He led her to a pile of bloody skulls in the corner by the parapet wall.

Dr. White appeared: well-dressed, glasses. You should have seen them this morning, he said. There were like twenty vultures up here. Big, huge wingspans. He flapped his arms. Picked all the flesh off.

Marcy lifted one of the skulls and stared into the eye sockets for maybe five minutes.

Later she sat with Dr. White at a cafeteria table under buzzing fluorescent lights. Marcy: Who would you rather have eat your flesh- vultures or maggots?

Marcy remembered shopping in a crafts store. Dr. White had filled his blue basket with balsa wood and Styrofoam. Marcy walked around in a dream-state, leching after a young woman shopper with high-waisted shorts.

But now here they were back up on the roof, stacking actual bones and heads into wooden crates. A janitor stepped out of the stairwell door and saw them. Hey, what are you guys doing? Why you got bones?

Twenty full skeletons, said White. There was a bloodbath and then the vultures picked them clean.

Bloodbath? asked the janitor.

Gunfight, the doctor said, holding up a skull with a bullet-hole straight through. Some guy was a really good shot.

The killers still at large? asked the janitor.

Yes.

Hey, said a muffled voice.

Who–? said the doctor. Above them a figure in black sat cross-legged on the roof over the door to the stairs. A black bandana covered the lower portion of his face. A tall black cowboy hat was lowered to just above his eyebrows.

Marcy stepped forward, police beretta drawn. Cody growled. Hold yer fire, the man in the cowboy hat said, his voice muffled by his bandana. I seen it happen. It was rainin’ hard. These fellas come up over the wall there and these other fellas came out of this here door. They all started shootin’. Not ten minutes later the vultures show up.

Marcy and the doctor looked at each other. The janitor bit his nails. I’d advise all of you to leave now, the black-clad cowboy continued. At five-twenty-six another crew comes over that wall. Then at five-thirty-six the vultures will be back.

Down in the cafeteria Marcy sat with Dr. White and the janitor. He was lyin’! the janitor said. And we believed him! He laughed. But just then: loud gunshots. Dr. White looked at his watch. It’s like clockwork, he exclaimed. Five-twenty-six!

WEDNESDAY: Marcy made out with Dr. White in his silver 458 Ferrari, rain pounding on the windshield, the thumping bassline of loud hip-hop drowning out their moans and gasps. When their clothes were half-off they heard a barrage of gunshots again. It was five-twenty-six. This ends now! the doctor hissed. He grabbed his AK and ran out of the car into the rain, shirtless. Marcy lay back on the reclined seat and closed her eyes. She imagined the girl with the high-waisted shorts coming to the window, drenched. Let me in? the dream girl asked.

Just then: BANGBANGBANG! Then silence. Ten minutes later, vulture sounds.

Marcy reclined until five-forty-six. Then she re-clasped her brassiere and buttoned her blouse. The rain did not let up as she drove back uptown, determined to put this episode behind her.