Alien Days Anthology

by P P Corcoran

  Trembling, Rosa pushed the body away and stood, her foot landing on a small metal object. She looked down at the cracked face of a Rolex, its hands frozen, the links of its metal band broken and jagged. She kicked it away.

  So valued by the living, so useless to the dead, she thought.

  She turned and ran down the hallway, glancing into the open doorways for signs of life. The grand rooms stood like mausoleums, some with their ceilings blown away, others pulverized into twisted masses of steel and wire and plaster. Well-dressed bodies lay everywhere, gathered in their finest to usher in the end of the world. Like civilized people. She pushed through a metal door and found herself in a kitchen.

  Dust coated the black and white floor, though the stainless-steel appliances still shone under the grayish glow of a skylight. A sliced tomato wilted on the countertop; a butcher knife lay next to it, still wet with juice. Curious, Rosa thought as she shoved the warm fruit into her mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

  As she chewed, Rosa heard movement in a cabinet beneath one of the kitchen’s many industrial-sized sinks. She took the knife and crept toward the noise. More shuffling. Her heart thrummed in her throat as she raised the knife.

  The cabinet door creaked open and banged shut just as quickly. From within, a muffled sound arose, something like a groan. With a thump, the door burst open and a woman’s leg shot out, her stockings ripped, the heel of her shoe broken off. “Oof!” a voice cried. The leg retracted, the door closed.

  Rosa released her breath, though she still held tight to the knife.

  “Hello?” Rosa called.

  After a pause, a woman’s voice rasped from within the cabinet. “Are you... human?”

  Rosa relaxed her grip. “The last time I checked.”

  The woman’s feet jutted out, scrambling to find the floor, and two hands covered with liver spots and glittering jewels grasped the framing of the cabinet as the woman attempted to pull herself out. She fell back into the cabinet again with a grunt.

  “My legs are all pins and needles,” the woman said.

  Rosa reached out a hand to help. The woman trembled as she rose, her designer dress in tatters.

  “Mrs. Parker?” Rosa said.

  “Rosa?” Frown lines broke through the woman’s Botox-smooth skin. “How did you get in here?” She brushed off her dress, scattering a few errant sequins to the floor.

  “Free trial membership.” Rosa scowled and folded her arms. “Guess they’ll let anyone in these days.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Parker said. She wrung her hands, avoiding Rosa’s glare. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Rivulets of smudged mascara streamed down her cheeks. “William is dead – they’re all dead. I’m the only one left.”

  Rosa nodded. Mrs. Parker was the only living person Rosa had seen since the prior evening, when she and a group of strangers spent the night hiding under a highway overpass. They fled at the first rumblings of the swarm, and Rosa was on her own again.

  She placed a hand on the elder woman’s shoulder. Mrs. Parker shuddered, then relaxed with an audible sigh.

  “I thought I might be the only one left, too,” Rosa said. “But we’re not alone now.”

  Pots and pans rattled on the walls. Rosa felt the building vibrate through her clenched teeth. She wondered how much time they had.

  “The aliens are on the move again. We need to hide until they pass,” Rosa said.

  “Won’t there be anyone to rescue us?”

  Rosa shook her head. “I don’t think so.” In limited exchanges, other survivors had told her the National Guard was destroyed; the enemy cut through their steel wall of armor like it was paper. She gestured toward the cabinet where the elder woman had hidden. “But we’ll need to find someplace bigger than that.”

  Mrs. Parker nodded. The women looked around the kitchen. Next to an oversized refrigerator, Rosa found a wooden door leading to a small pantry.

  “Here,” she said. “This should do.”

  “I wish I had seen this earlier.” Mrs. Parker grimaced. “My knees are killing me.”

  Still holding the knife, Rosa opened the door. The air was damp and musty, and there was enough room for the two women to sit cross-legged, facing each other. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed rows of shelves lined the walls; kitchen aprons and clean dish rags crisply folded amid black and white oven mitts. And stacked in the corner, almost like contraband, were a half dozen cans of fruit cocktail.

  “Eureka!” Rosa grabbed two cans.

  “Canned fruit at Le Château.” Mrs. Parker wrinkled her nose. “I never would have imagined.”

  Rosa shook her head, glaring. “Not good enough for you and your friends?”

  Holding the can securely, Rosa used the pointed edge of the knife to puncture the lid. Inch by inch she turned the can, cutting into the metal with each rotation until the lid came free. She bent it back slowly to avoid cutting herself, and snapped it off with a swift motion.

  Mrs. Parker stared at her. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot you haven’t seen.” Rosa smirked, and raised the can to her lips, gulping the sweet liquid. She thrust her fingers into the juice and retrieved a slippery peach.

  “Here.” Rosa worked on a second can and handed it to Mrs. Parker, then laid the knife down. The fluid sloshed as the building shook; the metal blade rattled against the tile.

  “Thank you.” Hesitantly, Mrs. Parker picked a cherry out of the can, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. She took a bite, a look of disgust crossing her face. Rosa hunched over her meal and ate in silence.

  “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.” Mrs. Parker cleared her throat. “How have you been? Since...”

  Rosa looked up. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stared at Mrs. Parker for a moment before she replied. “Since giant aliens invaded the world? I’ve been great.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the aliens.”

  Rosa bit her lip and placed the fruit can on the floor. She reached into her pocket and removed a toy building block. Laying it in her palm, she ran her thumb over the chipped pink letter “D” painted into the carved wood.

  “I’ve carried this with me, every day, for the past 267 days,” Rosa said softly. “It was her favorite. ‘D is for Dottie’, she’d say.”

  Mrs. Parker nodded, solemn.

  Rosa leaned back against the shelves and hugged her arms across her chest as if to warm herself with a memory – Dottie, her only child, who’d shined with the life and light and love only a four-year-old could.

  “She had my mother’s eyes.”

  Mrs. Parker smiled. “She had your spirit.”

  Her daughter’s zest, her light, was ended by a tumor that appeared as suddenly in her small body as the aliens did in the sky. Yet another predator, she thought. Satiated by pain. No purpose but destruction.

  Mrs. Parker sniffled and played with the hem of her dress. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring you back on after Dottie passed. You kept my house in order like no one else could.” She paused, covering Rosa’s hand with her own. “You were almost like family.”

  “That’s rich.” Rosa huffed. She snatched her hand back. “Let me guess. Being around me was too difficult for you.”

  “I didn’t understand what you were going through,” Mrs. Parker said. “The loss of your daughter was so tragic. But before...all this... I had never watched anyone die. I didn’t know death.”

  “No one knows death until they’ve felt the absence it leaves behind.” Rosa placed the wooden block back into her pocket. “It’s like a hole in the sky.”

  Mrs. Parker reached up for a clean dish towel and dabbed at her nose. She continued, her breath catching. “It happened yesterday. He’d made up his mind to go outside. I begged him not to, but men like my husband are used to taking charge. Then, one of those... things... grabbed him. It tossed him away like he was nothing.”

  Rosa
recalled the dead man lying on the stairs in the bloodied tux. Mr. Parker. She hadn’t recognized his face. Death had robbed him of the confidence, the arrogance, she’d remembered him wearing so well.

  “I understand, now, Rosa. And I’m sorry.” Mrs. Parker grabbed Rosa’s hand and squeezed hard. “All those hospital bills...”

  Rosa sighed, a melancholy smile playing on her lips. “Maybe it was best Dottie left us when she did,” she murmured. “Her light faded in its own time.” Like a sunset, she thought. Gradual and serene, sad and beautiful.

  The ground shook hard. Mrs. Parker covered her head as linens bounced off the pantry shelves on top of the two women, covering them like a shroud.

  A screech – metal on metal – pierced the silence.

  Mrs. Parker gasped.

  “Closer,” Rosa said.

  “What do we do?” Mrs. Parker whispered.

  “We wait.”

  “For what? Those things to get us, too?” Mrs. Parker began to cry. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

  “Forever is relative. Let’s worry about now.” Rosa leaned forward and embraced the older woman, one hand stroking her back to soothe her. Her sobs quieted.

  Just like Dottie’s had, at the end.

  Rosa had clutched her daughter’s hand as Dottie’s small body wilted into the pristine white sheets of her hospital bed, and hummed a lullaby to calm the rapid, gasping breaths which ushered in their final moments together in a cold room far from home. A mother willing the hands of the ticking clock to slow, to stop, and to hasten – terrified of the inevitable but wishing it to come to end the pain. Rosa closed her eyes, pushing aside the memory and replaced it with a specter of happier times – Dottie’s soft brown curls bouncing as she sang and played in her footed pajamas that last Christmas morning, her tiny hands building a tower with her precious blocks. Dottie beamed as the letters proclaimed her name.

  Mrs. Parker straightened, her deep shuddering breath bringing Rosa from her thoughts. “I never thought I would die this way, hiding in some god-awful kitchen pantry.”

  “Eating canned fruit. With the help.” Rosa chuckled. “Heck of a way to go.”

  “I always thought my death would be more...dignified.” Mrs. Parker smoothed her gown. “I suppose at least I’m dressed for the occasion.”

  “Me too.” Rosa tugged at her stained sweatpants. “See? No holes.”

  “You do know you’re violating the club’s dress code.” She nudged Rosa. “Three strikes and you’re out.”

  “But, Mrs. Parker, I didn’t realize I was in.”

  “You are now. Please, call me Evelyn.”

  Brow furrowed, Rosa slowly nodded. “I’d be happy to. Evelyn.” The name lay foreign on Rosa’s tongue and, at the same time, comfortable.

  “New Year’s used to make me sad.” Evelyn leaned her head back and smiled. “Every time the ball dropped, it was like a rock pushed itself through an hourglass. One year closer to old age. Seems silly now, sitting here as we are.”

  Evelyn closed her eyes and sighed.

  In that moment, Rosa saw beyond the elder woman’s glittering jewels. She noticed the fine lines cracking at the corners of Evelyn’s mouth and eyes as if time had indeed caught up with her. She observed how the woman’s shoulders, once perfectly postured, rounded as she sat slumped on the cold floor. Rosa envisioned an alternate reality in which Evelyn and William Parker glided across a glowing marble dance floor, their gazes fixed upon each other, hypnotized by the ghostly croon of a saxophone. She pictured an alternative life in which her own Christmas night had been spent gathering scattered toys under the glow of Christmas lights instead of grasping at memories in an empty room. And she thought about how shared sorrows connect us in ways shared joys never do.

  She picked up the half-full cans of fruit cocktail from the floor, handing one to Evelyn as she raised the other in a toast.

  “To the end.”

  Evelyn nodded. “To the end.”

  The metal cans connected with a soft ting. The women sipped the juice in silence.

  “Promise me something,” Evelyn said. “If these creatures should...”

  BOOM.

  The ceiling broke apart. Chunks of plaster rained down, the dust covering to their hair and eyes. The women clung to each other, a last hold on their humanity.

  “They’re here,” Rosa whispered. She felt Evelyn’s breath hot on her cheek, her body trembling.

  “Do you think they’ll –”

  BOOM.

  The tile cracked beneath them; fractures spread across the floor in a wave. Evelyn yelped. Rosa took a deep breath, desperate to calm the pounding in her chest.

  BOOM.

  Bright light leaked through a fissure in the wall, glinting off the knife on the floor. Rosa grabbed it, her knuckles tight around the handle. Her knuckles turned white as the blood drained from her face.

  “This is it.”

  Evelyn reached out and grasped Rosa’s taut fist. She spoke rapidly. “It needs to be on my terms. Not theirs.”

  Their eyes locked.

  “Whether we succumb to the flames or leap into the abyss, the outcome will be the same.” Evelyn squared her shoulders. “I need to die with dignity.”

  Rosa nodded, grim. She knew Evelyn was right.

  “Will you do this for me?”

  Rosa’s breath caught like it did the moment after Dottie lay still. When time stopped, and the world was quiet. When the screams that threatened were quelled by the lingering peace of her daughter’s final breath.

  Soft wisps of silver hair entwined between Rosa’s fingers as she placed her hand at the back of Evelyn’s neck. Her pulse thumped against Rosa’s wrist – steady, calm. Resolute. Rosa leaned in, feeling the woman’s warm, even breathing, soft as a breeze.

  “Thank you.” Evelyn closed her eyes.

  With a swift stroke, Rosa slit Evelyn Parker’s throat.

  Rosa kissed the woman’s forehead and laid her down gently as blood and life drained from her body; death had taken her quickly. Peacefully.

  BOOM.

  Chunks of wood and splinters exploded as the pantry door blew open. The massive alien hovered, filling the doorway. Its claws clicked against the remaining tile. Rosa beheld her own face reflected endlessly in the multi-faceted surface of the creature’s enormous eye. Green steam emanated from its gaping mouth. Its fangs glowed. Acrid breath enveloped her.

  Rosa smiled at the creature.

  She plunged the blade into her chest.

  She felt the touch of a tiny hand.

  A wooden block pressed into her palm.

  And the light faded.

  - THE END -

  About Lisa Fox

  Lisa Fox is a pharmaceutical market researcher by day and fiction writer by night. She enjoys crafting short stories and short screenplays across genres, but her passion is for Sci-Fi/Drama hybrids. She thrives on the thrill of creating something out of nothing, in transforming life’s ‘what ifs’ to prose that people can relate to – even if it involves robots, aliens, or clones. Nothing makes her happier than having readers say that her work made them feel something or look at the world in a different way.

  Lisa won the 2018 NYC Midnight Short Screenplay competition and placed third out of over 3000 writers in the 2018 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. Her work is featured in various online publications, including Theme of Absence, Credo Espoir, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Ellipsis Zine, and Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, among others. She also has a short story in the Devil’s Party Press anthology, Suspicious Activity. A resident of northern New Jersey in the USA, Lisa relishes the chaos of everyday suburban life. She and her husband Dan are kept busy by the comings and goings of their two sons and by the demands of their couch-dwelling golden retriever. Lisa hopes to begin working on a novel in the foreseeable future – she just needs to get those first few words on the page.

  Connect with Lisa here:

  www.castrumpress.com/authors/lisa-fox

  Recidi
vism

  by Charles E. Gannon

  Dan stared out across the rolling green fields, over two vaporous snippets of cloud and up to the faint ghostly disk that hovered high in the vault of the deep blue sky. He held his breath and then sighed it out very slowly. A daytime moon always made Dan think of traveling in space. At night, the white disk was solid, not spectral, its bold materiality inviting an exacting consideration of the starkly detailed craters. Dan craved a telescope at those times, felt an amateur astronomer's call draw him from the moon to the stars. He imagined swiveling the telescope and adjusting the lenses until those distant suns no longer twinkled but shone fully and frankly at him.

  But a moon in the daytime sky was an object of haunting fancy; it seemed to beckon rather than reveal. And so, he always daydreamed of travel up, up into the seamless skies that began as cerulean, deepened to sapphire, fell through to blackness--adorned only by the stars that there, as in the telescope, would have shone rather than winked at him. But that was all a dream--at least for one such as himself. Had he been allowed to study for the doctorate--well, his life might have gone differently. Indeed, everything might have gone differently.

  Dan lowered his eyes back down to the rolling green fields, wondered if he now detected a faint limning of grey-brown at the horizon, and wondered if a doctorate, his doctorate, really would have made a difference in his life--or in anyone else's. It might at least have made a difference in how he was addressed: since failing to be accepted for doctoral study, he had also failed to hear anyone address him formally, using his proper name. He was just Dan—-his full name as forgotten as his early promise and potential, his life and services now always at the beck and call of the powerful and the successful. So, because time was shorter today than it ever had been before (although time was always short for a data entry clerk with no reasonable hope for advancement), he forced himself to look one last time at the document which had been the catalyst for his afternoon reverie: his rejected dissertation proposal of 37 years ago.

  The application form had begun to yellow with age, but there was no degradation in the clarity of its catastrophic content. He smiled—-mostly inwardly—-at that adjective: “catastrophic” indeed. Dan had written about catastrophe-—and reaped as he had sown. He read the lines again, wondering how he could have ever been so naïve as to believe that his proposal and his project might have been perceived merely as prudent scientific query, rather than as an apocalyptic challenge to the social and cultural norms that had been the bedrock of civilized behavior and thought for more than three centuries. He skipped over the sheets listing the names-—his, his mentor’s, the department head’s-—and the long (and somewhat archaic) addressing of the sub-department-—Political Science and Synergistic Applied Technologies-—and reached the first page of his fateful proposal: