by Tracy Sharp
“Who’s Jake?”
“My father,” Rye said.
“And Jake found a body preserved in ice when he was in the Tjörnes sequence of North Iceland, hunting for conch fossils. It could date back to the Miocene period.”
“Wait, my father had one of these things?”
“He kept it in his office behind that vault door.”
“I’ll be damned,” Rye said.
“What is it with you scientists keeping things secret? Important things, you know, like end-of-the-world things,” I said.
“Jake didn’t know what to do with it. I was planning a trip east to take a look at the thing when his plane went down.”
“Your father died in a plane crash?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Rye said, before turning his attention to Griffin. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was right there next to the thing.”
“You couldn’t have gotten into the vault. Only Jake could. He had iris-reading security. To my knowledge, there was no other way to open the door.”
“What does all this mean?” I asked.
“It means these things are survivors and they adapt very well,” Rye said.
“For their presence to date as far back as the Triassic, it means they found ways to overcome the things every other creature couldn’t,” Griffin said.
“Couldn’t that be because they’re not from this planet? I mean, maybe they see shit about to go down and bolt,” I said.
“I’m sure that has something to do with it. But they obviously keep coming back. It doesn’t seem to matter how much changed between visits; they adapt. There is a huge difference in the ecology of the world during the Triassic and Pleistocene periods,” Griffin said.
“And, now we have iPads and Facebook,” Rye said. “Times are a changing’, but those bastards have no problem finding me,” Rye said.
“Did you turn off location services on social media?” I asked, smiling.
“Shit.”
“Guys. Let’s get serious for a minute,” Griffin said. He pulled a water bottle from his bag. “This green substance comes from the aliens. See how it’s branching out, almost like its taking root? I think these things are a hybrid of animal and plant life.”
“Well, if that’s the case, we should try to attack the plant elements,” Rye said. “I’ve never been able to keep a houseplant alive.”
“UV light kills them,” I said. “It’s the only way I was able to escape the hive.”
“She’s right. I used sunlight to kill one that used to be a creepy kid,” Rye said.
“That’s great, but they are getting rid of the things that pose harm. There won’t be any UV lights and by the looks of the way the world is burning, smoke will turn everything to night,” Griffin said. “I’m afraid they’re breeding with humans to evolve their DNA to be able to withstand light. Attacking the plant structure is the way to go.”
“Why are they doing this now?” I asked. “They’ve been visiting Earth for millions of years. Why take it now?”
“Maybe they screwed up their planet. That’s not too hard to believe,” Rye said.
“That’s not it. This is a well-organized takeover. Like you said, they know how to adapt. They’re smart. They know the importance of survival. They would not destroy their home planet. Earth is just a small item in a bigger picture.”
“And the deadies?” I asked.
“Well, it’s obvious they are using the dead as weapons. I’m not sure that was the original plan, though. It looks like it’s more of a hassle. I’m thinking there was something in the meteorite dust that tricks human physiology into making a body believe it’s not dead when it most surely is dead.”
“The space dust is in all of us, isn’t it?” Rye asked.
“Probably so, and as long as you’re alive, all is well,” Griffin said.
“Die and live to bite another day, right?” I said.
“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Griffin said, turning on his laptop. “I’ve studied everything Jake sent me and there is no hint of plant-based DNA in any of the samples. It must be something that evolved over the years.” He clicked a folder on his desktop and a list of documents opened, each one labeled by a last name and date. “These are all documentations of findings from archaeologists like Barrows.” Griffin opened a document. “Dr. Wallace discovered bones in Argentina, not far from the spot where Jake found bones. Three weeks later, nearly fifty people disappeared from the country, including philanthropist Fabrico Garcia. They were written off as victims of drug-related crime. In every one of these files, people disappear not long after bones are found. I didn’t have documentation of Barrows’s find, but I’m willing to bet people disappeared not long after.”
“Twenty-five people vanished in upper New York, earlier this year,” Rye said. “I’ve been keeping track of missing persons for years.”
“My niece was one of the first ones taken before the attack,” I said.
“There’s a difference. Children who vanished before the attack were part of the aliens’ plan. These other disappearances would serve no purpose to their cause. In my research, nearly every person was between the ages of eighteen and forty-five.”
“That’s what I’ve found too,” Rye said.
“But, you still think the disappearances are related to this?”
“Somehow,” Griffin said.
“Do you think they knew it was coming and…” I paused. “Left?”
“I don’t know yet. But I think finding out what happened to them should be on our to-do list. What about you, Rye? Do you know any more about the disappearances?”
“Not really. Most had pretty strong resumes for doing good things in the community, even the younger ones. And nearly all disappeared in areas where valid explanations could be made for their disappearance — like drug or gang related.”
The bus slowed to a crawl. We were at an intersection between two narrow highways.
“Hey guys, I hate to break up your study session, but I’m tired and it’s getting light out. I think we need to find a place to call it a night…um, day,” Daphne said, stopping the bus in the middle of the intersection.
Hank had crawled in beside Chrissy and curled up next to her hip. Exhaustion hit me fast. I blinked my eyelids in an attempt to get my engine running again, but it was stalled out. We needed to rest. With daylight minutes away, we could stop without fear of being hunted by the aliens. They were evolving, but they still weren’t to the point they were ready to work on their tan.
“Take a left,” Griffin said, standing up. “In about five miles, there’s an interstate, and a few more miles north, there’s a rest area. We can stop there.”
“Where are we going?” I asked. “I mean, after we rest.”
“We’re going to have to find better transportation. We’ll sleep for a few hours and then I want to head back to NYU and see if I can find out what’s in here.” Griffin held the water bottle up. It looked as though more roots had taken hold in the short time since we last saw it.
***
The abandoned rest area was a welcome sight. Other than it being empty, there were no signs of anything out of the ordinary. The vending machine was stocked with chips and candy. I hoped the same could be said for the drink machine. It was impossible to tell without cracking into it.
“I got dibs on Dr. Pepper,” Daphne said, grabbing a crowbar and heading toward the machine.
Chrissy and Hank headed to a grassy area to stretch their legs and play. Rye and Griffin stayed on the bus for a few minutes, discussing our next move. I followed Daphne to the vending area. By the time I got there, she had already surgically removed the front panel of the machine. It was loaded with soda. Daphne popped the top on a can of Dr. Pepper. It spewed in every direction. She downed a gulp.
“Oh, honey, how I’ve missed you,” she said, taking another swallow.
I reached for a Pepsi. I couldn’t remember the last time I drank a soda, but the burning sensation as it hi
t my throat felt like heaven.
“Do you have any idea what that stuff does to your body? Your teeth?” Griffin asked between bites of a mini Milky Way. “Screw it, the world’s ending. Toss me a Mountain Dew. Might as well do it big.”
I was in awe of Griffin’s ability to switch from school principal to class clown in an instant. We all laughed as if we were at a holiday cookout. Daphne smashed the glass on the vending machine and started handing out chips. Chrissy and Hank joined us. It was a few minutes before we noticed Rye was missing.
“Where’s Rye?” I asked.
The smile left Daphne’s face. She dropped a bag of chips back into the pile and ran back to the bus. “Rye?”
I followed, with Hank by my side. Griffin and Chrissy weren’t far behind.
“Where the hell are you?” Daphne asked, looking on the bus. “He’s not here.”
Hank barked and ran ahead of me. I followed him toward the bathrooms. “Hank.”
There was a small manmade pond just off a path near the bathrooms. Rye was standing at the edge of the water with his back to us.
“Rye, are you all right?” I asked.
Daphne passed me. “Rye.”
He turned around. “Sorry. I was just checking out the flowers.”
“Really? You had me, I mean us, worried sick, and you’re over looking at flowers,” Daphne said.
“Look at them. They’re blooming in the middle of winter near a pond that’s frozen over.”
“Yeah, they’re just like the ones we saw a few days ago. So what?”
“You think this is the universe’s way of telling us, ‘Hold tight, things will eventually get better’?”
“Maybe they’re like us,” Griffin said. “Maybe they refuse to submit to winter’s cold touch the same way we won’t roll over and die for the aliens.”
“Or maybe, they’re just flowers,” Daphne said.
“There’s a field of them over here,” I said. To my right were three rows of vibrant purple flowers. All around them, the earth was frozen, but they gave off a warm feeling.
“Great. Now, can we try to get some sleep? I’m about to pass out right here,” Daphne said.
“Yeah, I think I’m falling into a junk food coma,” Griffin said. “Let’s all get a few hours of sleep before heading back to NYU.”
“I’ll take the first watch,” Rye said.
Chapter 14
The words “over there” were barely distinguishable, but given the time the men had spent wearing gas masks, muffled speech was almost a second language. The milites — a name given to the foot soldiers by the Leaders — despised excursions into W zones. Venturing out brought many dangers — aliens, zombies — but W zones meant poisonous air. Aliens and zombies were the visible foes. Air from the wastelands was the silent killer. The masks were the only barrier between life and death.
W zones presented a strange dichotomy between meaning and aesthetics. By definition, one would imagine death and destruction, but visually they were a welcoming nirvana — rows and rows of colorful flowers, blooming in the dead of winter. Just like the orchid mantis, the wastelands tricked its prey into death with the allure of beauty. The flowers were toxic, making air unbreathable.
The tight seal forced the cheeks of the milites to sink in, not much different than having the constant feeling of sucking on sour candy. Talking was relegated to simple phrases and grunts. But the milites didn’t complain. The tightness of the masks meant the air couldn’t strangle their lungs. The air-purifying respirator bought them an hour of time in wastelands; after that, the milites would fall into a sound sleep. No one knew how long it took for death to bring comfort because no one ever woke up.
In the bigger picture of what the world had become, the death of a milite didn’t matter much to the greater cause. There was no ceremony to honor their service to the country. The United States was no longer a country — just a crumbling landscape broken down into zones, by a new regime in its infancy. A regime that had no desire to restore America. The military was wiped out. The meteorites had targeted all military bases, leaving an army of dead controlled by the intruders.
This was something prophesied by the Council For A Better World, an underground militia, many years earlier. The CFABW was prepared for a “Double E” — Extinction Event. Aliens and zombies were low on the list of things that could wipe out the world, but years of prepping had armed the CFABW to present a formidable foe for any threat. No, this new reigning power didn’t care about restoring the United States. They wanted to start from scratch and build an America under their laws and beliefs.
In a distorted way, the aliens were allies. They cleared the way for the CFABW. Sure, the aliens would kill every one of them if given the chance. The leaders of the new regime were smart. They knew when to scavenge and they knew when to disappear. It’s how they had gone unnoticed by an eavesdropping government for so many years. The Council was like shadows in a pitch black night. A time would come when they would have to fight the aliens, but just as they prepared for Double E, the two Ps — patience and preparedness — were the only goals at the moment.
Milites were chosen by a litany of tests and challenges. The criteria was simple — an average IQ, average to slightly above physical strength, and most importantly, their death wouldn’t have an effect on the greater cause. Men took on the role of milite with a positive attitude. If not, well, their deaths would have no effect on the greater cause. They were lucky to be alive.
Through clouded eye lenses, the men spotted a bus that hadn’t been in their patrol sector on the last sweep.
“New,” one of the men said, pointing.
The other three milites nodded. The group approached the van with M16A4 assault rifles aimed at the white bus. Many of the windows were blacked out, but a few were covered with sleeping bags — a clue to the milites that the bus wasn’t vacant.
The lead milite paused for a moment to look at his watch. An alarm sent a vibration over his wrist. He motioned to the others and held up his hand, fingers spread. He made a fist, and then opened his hand again, another fist, and then another hand opening. Fifteen minutes was left on the masks’ filters. They needed to get in and out quick. This W zone wasn’t as wide as some of the others, but it still took a good seven to eight minutes to reach safe air again. And running depleted the filters faster.
The First Milite, as he was anointed by the Leaders, reached for the handle on the back door of the bus. He gave it a gentle tug, already knowing that it was locked. He motioned for the others to try the side door. The blackened-out windows made entry more dangerous. There was a good possibility this was a trap. The darkened bus presented a perfect resting spot for the aliens. Maybe this was their alien version of a duck blind.
Two milites provided cover as one tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. Time was slipping away; there was no other choice than to break glass, storm the bus, and pray it wasn’t a trap.
A milite slammed the butt of the rifle into the glass on the door, shattering it. He jarred loose an ax handle wedged against the door to keep it shut. In a blink, all four men were on the bus, waving assault weapons.
But they were met with no resistance. The bus looked to be empty. A key chain-sized air tester strapped to the vest of one of the men began to vibrate.
AIR QUALITY 35%
The man lifted the mask from his face. “Air’s okay for about ten minutes. Shut off filters to conserve.”
“Looks empty, Red,” one of the men said, craning his neck to look over a few rows of seats.
“It’s not empty,” another man said, pointing to something furry on the floor, sticking out from underneath a seat. “Looks like a dog.”
“Haven’t seen a dog in weeks,” the fourth man said, inching closer to the animal.
“Be careful, Andy,” Red said, aiming the assault rifle in the animal’s direction.
“Looks dead. Oh shit.” Andy fell back against the side of a seat, ending up on the floor of the b
us. “Survivors.”
The other men locked their rifles in the direction of the dog and moved in. In the seat next to the dog, there was a man with his head against the window, and a woman sitting next to him with her head on his shoulder. On the opposite side of the bus, a teenage girl sprawled out on the seat. Behind her was a younger girl, curled in a fetal position. An older man lay motionless in the back of the bus.
“Jim, check to see if they are dead,” Red said.
Jim took the wrist of the woman with her head on the man’s shoulder. “Faint pulse. But it’s there. Probably won’t be much longer.”
“All right, grab the survivors, and let’s get out of here,” Red said, rummaging through a backpack next to the teenager.
Jim readjusted his gas mask, draped the woman’s arm over his shoulder, and took her off the bus. Andy grabbed the teenage girl.
“Terry, get the little girl,” Red said.
“She’s too young.”
“Do as I say. She’s a survivor, and she’ll get older.”
Terry cradled the girl in his arms and walked by Red. “What about the rest of them?”
“No need to waste ammo or draw attention. The wasteland will get them soon enough.” Red lowered his mask. He dumped the backpack’s contents onto a seat. There was nothing worth taking.
These treks into W zones weren’t for supplies. The sole purpose was to find survivors. Bringing three back would surely please the Leaders. Red lost count of the times he had been to W zones, but each time his group brought back survivors. No other First Milite had been as successful.
Survivors were harder to come by as more days passed since the invasion. He hoped by bringing three back to camp, this would be his ticket to a higher position in the Council.
Red looked around the bus, imagining a time when he no longer had to do grunt work. His watch vibrated — eight minutes before the filter started to fail. He ran off the bus, took a can of spray paint from Andy’s backpack and wrote THREE SURVIVORS in red paint on the bus.
***
Hank’s tongue slapped against Rye’s cheek until his face was drenched in saliva. The human wouldn’t stir. Giving up hope of waking Rye with sloppy kisses, Hank barked loudly in Rye’s face. Nothing. He barked again and again. Rye never flinched. But Griffin heard it, faintly through the haze that surrounded him. He fought against his unconscious state, like trying to wade through a strong rip current. Finally, his eyes opened under heavy eyelids. Hank caught a glimpse of Griffin’s movement, ran to him, and jumped on his lap.