by MJ Ware
I stand and wait. I'm ready to wait until the sun comes up, even though there's part of me that keeps whispering that I won't hear it again.
Static pops and fizzles over the cheap TV speakers. After a few minutes my eyelids start pushing their way down. They snap open when the sound comes again: clank, clank.
Staring at the screen, I'm so stiff I don't even blink. A minute later the speakers rattle again. Desperately, I tell myself it must be something outside: The metal edge of the window-screen blowing against the glass, pipes settling in the attic, a dozen things could cause a noise like that.
A shadowed image jumps into frame. I almost scream, but there's something familiar about the dark figure. My brother…no wait, long hair, it has to be my mother. Sure, the shadows and angle of the camera make her look shorter, but who else can it be? She stands still and doesn’t move.
I'm about to let myself breathe, when I noticed something behind her. At first, just another shadow—but then a head... and arms. I watch in horror as the shadows transform into a man, tall, thick, menacing, holding something like a rope in his hands.
“Mom,” I yell. But I know the bedroom is too far way. I'm about to run to get Dad, when I see she has something in her far left hand, maybe it's a gun—no we don’t own one. A knife. Maybe, a knife from the kitchen.
Before I can think what to do, the shadow has wrapped its rope around her neck. She struggles, then raises her hand hitting him in the head. She's holding something, but if it's a knife it doesn't do much damage, he doesn’t flinch.
There no time to get Dad, I have to do something myself. I run downstairs, past the kitchen and leapt into the room.
There's no one there.
Where are they? Where did they go?
The room's empty except for baby Alex who starts to stir. I stand perfectly still, knowing that if I wake him Mom might use the knife on me. He continues to move, rustling his sheets every so slightly.
I don’t make a sound, don’t move an inch. I am not going to wake him. Standing perfectly still, I start to get a dejuv feeling, like I've seen this before. The hinge on the door behind me sadly weeps a creaky note.
Before I can turn, something flashes in front of my eyes.
I'm being choked. I struggle to get away. It's cold and thick around my neck. I hear my last breathe escape as it's pulled tighter. Not a rope, a chain—the sound had been a chain all along.
My mind races, I have to fight back. With one hand I try to pull the chain free. The other hits him with the only thing I have, the remote control. I smash it into his face again and again, but he doesn't even react.
As the room starts to get fuzzy I wonder about my mother: was she already dead, will I be joining her?
The room seems spin as it hits me: I'm only one in my family who's left-handed. The knife I saw on the monitor wasn't a knife at all; it was a TV remote. It wasn't my mom—it was me the whole time.
As I lose consciousness I wonder if I'm the first person to watch their own death.
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Zack & Zoey's Alien Apocalypse Preview
Chapter 1 – To Serve Man
Sure, you might have had a mean teacher or two, but I bet you've never had a teacher as mean, nasty, and terrible as Ms. Brass.
"Class, settle down." Ms. Brass slapped her favorite ruler against her palm. "Anyone who doesn't sit—eyes forward, trap shut—will be locked in the closet and miss the Martian landing." She'd been teaching so long, I think she still remembered the good ol' days when she could use that ruler to smack kids on the knuckles for talking out of turn.
"Ms. Brass, the aliens aren't from Mars." Sunny Rosa looked up from sorting her pencil collection. "They're from a planet orbiting Sirius, the Dog Star, which is actually a binary system. That means it has two suns. Except one of them—"
"Shut up, Sunny." Ms. Brass slammed her ruler on Sunny's desk, sending pencils jumping for their lives. "It's not polite to correct your teacher."
"Zack, the aliens are from the Dog Star!" Tommy Traddles yelled as if he wasn't sitting right in front of me. "They're Extra Terrierestrials." He was the only one who laughed.
After locking Tommy in the closet, Ms. Brass led us to the auditorium.
"I don't like this," whispered my best friend, Zoey Perrybingle.
"What, why not? I mean, they've been transmitting peace messages for weeks," I said as we walked. "Plus, they just sent the cure for cancer and the common cold."
"I still don't trust them. I mean, how can one cure work for both cancer and colds?"
"I don't know." It did seem a little odd. Especially since the cure was to marinate overnight in a bath of onions and honey mustard sauce.
I sat next to Zoey on the floor of the auditorium right as something flew overhead. Behind us, Susie Jo Sikes was shooting spit wads with the accuracy of heat-seeking missiles.
"Eww, gross!" Zoey shrieked. "Give me your hat."
"No way. This is my Giants World Series—"
She ripped it from my head. "Where's your sense of chivalry?"
"I think you've beaten it out of me."
She glared at me, but broke into a smile when a glitter-coated paper airplane crashed in my hair.
Amid the battle cries and flying shrapnel, the lights went down, and the projector lit up.
On the screen, a huge flying saucer descended on the White House lawn. Everyone shut up real fast. The president, vice president, secretary of state, and a bunch of other self-important-looking people stood around nervously while the aliens floated out of their ship on beams of amber light.
The aliens had big, bald heads and crazy, wide smiles. They were a pale shade of green and really fat, with slimy hands and tentacles instead of feet.
Chapter 2 - Never Offer an Alien a Hand
"I am Admiral Nact-bauk, commander of the Third Zaphod Fleet," said a big, particularly nasty-looking alien with a huge scar dripping down his forehead.
"Did he just say his name was Admiral Nut-Bag?" I whispered to Zoey.
"Shhh!"
"On behalf of the People of Earth—" As the President spoke, dozens of photographers snapped pictures. "I would like to offer my hand in friendship." He thrust out his hand.
"Don't mind if I do." An extra slimy alien bent over and chomped down on the President's hand. "Mmmm." Before anyone could react, he leaned in, un-hinged his jaw like a giant excavator scoop, and swallowed the President whole.
"Delicious." The alien let out a massive burp.
"Lieutenant Muck-tauk, you moron. You just ate their President." Admiral Nact-bauk smacked the belching alien upside his huge head.
"He offered a hand, and it was so tasty, I couldn't help myself," Muck-tauk said sheepishly. "I saved their Secretary of State for you." He pointed at the trembling Secretary of State, who promptly fainted.
"She's too ugly to eat. Besides, she smells like tentacle rot." Nact-bauk eyed the government officials, who seemed to be in shock. "This fat one smells pretty tasty, though." He reached for the vice president, who barely managed to jump and hide behind the Secret Service agents.
Finally, one of the Secret Service guys pulled out a little machine gun. He quickly emptied the gun, firing at the nearest alien. Unfortunately, the aliens had some sort of invisible force field that blocked the bullets.
That's all we got to see 'cause Principal Blathers pulled the plug on the video projector.
"Don't be alarmed." He wiped sweat off his forehead. "I'm sure that wasn't what it looked like."
"You mean aliens didn't eat the President?" some kid yelled. Susie Jo laughed, but I didn’t think the kid was trying to be funny. He sounded pretty freaked.
"Well... um... I think..." The principal was greener than the aliens. "It's just... Oh, frickleflop." That's when Principal Blathers wet himself.
Chapter 3 – It's All Downhill After the Principal Messes His Pants
The teachers, in a state of semi-panic, began shooing us back to class.
"Wow, I wish I'd caught that on my phone," I said, stepping over a pile of barf left by a kid with a weak stomach.
"Zackary B. Weller, what’s the matter with you?" Zoey hit me with my own cap. "Aliens just ate the President, and you're upset you didn't snap a picture?"
"Yeah, I suppose it would have been cooler if they'd eaten Hillary too, but hey, you can't have everything."
"Sometimes your violent tendencies worry me."
"My violent tendencies? I'm not the Central Valley Regional Karate Champ."
"It was Shaolin Kung Fu and I don't take it anymore." She moved away and started brushing her long blond hair. "Besides, the martial arts are about self-defense, not killing people."
She had a point. Zoey had never actually killed anyone. There was only the one maiming. But her mother made her quit after that, saying she wasn't going to deal with another broken arm—not hers, some kid she faced.
As we headed back, I thought about what Zoey had said. Some kids were crying. One muttered incoherently to himself.
"You're right, Zoey. Eating people is wrong. Even if they're politicians." I gazed down at the frayed ends of my shoelaces. "I guess I was trying to put a positive spin on it."
"Forget it, Zack. That's not what worries me." Zoey sat at her desk. "It's the aliens. They're obviously here for some sort of extraterrestrial potluck."
"Yeah, but how many people can they possibly eat? I mean one person must fill up an alien for a week."
"Maybe, but the news said there are dozens, maybe even hundreds of those ships coming. That's an awful lot of freakishly big mouths to feed."
Ms. Brass didn't seem to know what to do. At first she told us to read quietly. But when Toby Bucket started crying, she pulled out a lesson on the principle agricultural industry of Montana.
"Hey, Toby." Carefully, I flicked a paper ninja star at his head. "You okay?"
"They're coming for me," he said between sniffles. "I know it."
"The aliens? Why do you think they're coming for you?"
"Look at me. I'm the fattest kid in school. They'll eat me first."
"You're not the fattest—" Oops, how many times had Mom told me it's never okay to lie to people? "They aren't coming here. They'll head to Weight Watchers or Ben and Jerry's and get the real fatties before eating little kids."
"You think?"
"I guarantee it." I smiled.
We hadn't been back in class for more than thirty minutes before the fire bell rang. I hated that thing. Sure, it got us out of class, but it was so loud and would just ring and ring and ring. Even when we got outside, I couldn't stand the noise, and it wouldn't stop until it was darn good and ready.
"That was really nice of you, what you said to Toby about fatties," Zoey said over the ringing. We walked with the rest of our class to the field. "That's why I don't dump you like everyone says I should."
"That would be nice if we were a couple instead of just friends." Zoey was under the perpetual misconception that she was my girlfriend.
"We're best friends and a couple." She tried to take my hand, but wasn't fast enough. I got it planted in my pocket before she could grab it.
"You can't date your best friend. That's not how it works."
"Don't make me hit you." Her hand balled into a fist. I probably outweighed Zoey by twenty pounds, but still decided it was best not to argue.
Honestly, the whole girlfriend thing was sorta my fault. I'd kissed her way back in third grade—right on the lips even. I'd explained to her it was only to win a bet with Jack Bunsby. Five dollars. I'd even kiss my own mom for five dollars. After that, Zoey insisted we were a couple. I even offered to give her the fiver if she'd shut up about it. But if you asked her, we've been an item ever since.
The whole school lined up on the field. Everything was going like we'd practiced twice a year, every year—until the spaceships showed up.
Chapter 4 - My Guarantee Goes Down in One Giant Gulp
It happened fast, really fast. One minute, we were staring at the school, hoping to spot smoke, and the next, we were running for our lives.
"Not the library, please don't let it be the library," Sunny prayed while hugging one of her favorite books.
"I hope the whole place—" I stopped when three huge flying saucers swooped down, and five or six aliens jumped out. They had these high-tech jetpacks on and were flying around like humming bees—except instead of buzzing, the packs belched thick flames.
Before anyone knew what to do, beams of amber light shot out of the ships and started pulling kids up. It must have been some sort of tractor beam, 'cause no matter how they kicked and screamed, once caught in those beams, they just kept floating up toward the spacecraft.
I took Zoey's hand and made for the nearest lunch table. Most of the teachers had disappeared, but a few were trying to fight off the aliens with protractors, history books, anything they had.
The jetpack aliens were herding kids into the path of the light beams. Ms. Brass, armed only with her ruler, was taking whacks at any alien who got in range. "Leave my students alone!" she shouted. "If anyone's going to eat them, it'd better be me!"
From beneath the table where Zoey and I had taken refuge, I realized what the aliens were doing. They were targeting the fat kids. For the most part, the skinny kids had all managed to run away. But the fatties were being picked off one by one.
I felt helpless as I watched kids being slurped up by those beams.
At least it’s over, I thought. The aliens were heading back to their ships when one seemed to spot something in the sandbox. Mostly covered with sand, it was a huge lump, and anyone with half a brain—even half an alien brain—could tell it was a kid. Not just any kid, it was Toby, the plumpest morsel on the playground.
"Mmmmm," one of the aliens sang as he swooped down toward Toby.
Toby rolled out of the way right as the alien, mouth completely open, smashed into a pile of sand. Toby jumped up and ran.
"Toby, here, over here!" I waved.
But several other aliens had spotted him and raced toward Toby as if he were the last eggroll at the All-You-Can-Eat Chinese Palace. I didn't know what to do. I looked around, desperate to help him. One table over was our P.E. teacher, Coach Greene. He was one of those coaches who acted all tough, claiming stuff like when he was our age he could do a hundred chin-ups, or calling us lazy little sissies. Yet, there he was, all six foot three, crying into his own shirt. Next to him sat a big bag of those cheap, rubber, dodge balls they pass out at recess.
I don't know what came over me. Without thinking, I jumped up, ran over, and grabbed the bag of balls.
I took a big one and hurled it at an alien. The ball bounced off his head.
"Aahhh!" Toby yelled as another alien swooped down on him. When those alien monsters opened their mouths, they really opened them, like 180 degrees, completely unhinged opened.
One had his mouth like that now, advancing on Toby, ready to scoop him up. Seconds before the alien reached him, I threw a ball as hard as I could, right in his mouth.
The alien made a gagging sound and smacked down with enough force that the blacktop buckled beneath him.
Toby's chubby little legs twitched back and forth like a pig in one of those races at the county fair. Three more aliens were hot on his oversized rear. I took another ball and lobbed it into the first one's mouth, then another into the next. I've never been very good at basketball, but for once, I was all net. The aliens choked on the balls and fell to the ground.
Toby passed me right as the last alien, Admiral Nut-Bag himself, came into range. His wide-open mouth revealing rows and rows of sharp, pointed teeth. It was more a meat grinder than a mouth. I aimed my last ball and launched a perfect shot. Except this time, the alien was ready for it. Nut-Bag zagged to the left as the ball flew harmlessly by.
* * * * *
About the Author
MJ lives in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains with h
is wife and two daughters. Due to a bizarre and terrifying childhood incident at his school library, MJ never developed an interest in adult literature.
When not reading or writing books for kids, he runs a video arcade company building retro arcade machines just like he played as a child. MJ is available as both a court approved zombie expert and for intensive "zombie safety" school lectures.
He’s currently polishing his latest graphic novel, the second installment in the Zack & Zoey series.
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Front matter
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The authors acknowledge the trademarked status and trademark owners of any product referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.