Aliens and Ice Cream

by Michael James

“She’s resting right now,” Paul said.

  “Well, go get her. I want to talk to her. I want to make sure she’s all right.”

  Before Paul had a chance to say anything, John from next door came to the window. It was a regular party now, a continuation of the barbecue from days earlier. He was sipping a coke.

  “Oh, we can talk through the windows. Smashing idea.”

  “John.” Martin nodded at him. Apparently, John had passed some internal “man” test from Martin, as he was one of the few people afforded the courtesy of a first name. Paul was always referred to as ‘Cutler’.

  “You got everything locked down over there?” Now that another guy was around, Paul was ignored, and Martin could talk to John directly.

  “Oh, sure. Paul had us take stock of the food and store water. We’re firm, for a while. We could use some painkillers though, if you have them.”

  Paul waved his hands and made small shushing gestures and John sucked in a breath of air before clapping his hand over his mouth.

  “Why do you need painkillers?” She asked. “Isn’t everyone okay?”

  “Where’s Sharon?” Martin ground his teeth. “Get her. Now.”

  John and Paul exchanged a long glance with each other. Paul sighed.

  “She’s in bed, resting. Her leg is hurt.”

  “What are you talking about?” Martin leaned closer to the window. “What’s wrong with her leg?”

  “It was hit by an alien in the attack. She told me she didn’t want anyone to know. We’ve done the best we could, but I don’t have a lot to work with.”

  “How bad is it?” Krista asked.

  “Bad.” Paul looked miserably at her. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Martin’s face had gone red while patches of white mottled his cheeks. “You lied to me?”

  “She told us to keep quiet.” John came to Paul’s defense. “We were trying to respect her wishes.”

  “You keep her alive, Cutler.” Martin pointed. “This is on you.”

  “I’m trying,” Paul replied. “I’m not a doctor. She needs real medical attention. We need to figure some way to get outside and get her to a hospital.”

  Krista felt a strange combination of pride and sadness. She hadn’t realized everything Paul had been dealing with. So far, he had gotten them to stockpile food, figured out a way to connect with the kids, and was coping with amateur surgery. Her sweet, even-tempered Paul, who would get flustered if she so much as changed her order at a restaurant. He was doing all of this and the entire time, she had been sitting here doing nothing, deep in her own problems, worried about something absurd like Martin and cheating. She could hardly stand herself, and the wave of self-loathing that consumed her almost felt like physical weight.

  Martin was not taking the news well. “I need to get over there.”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to do that,” John said. “You saw how it is. If you go one step outside, you’re dead.”

  “I’m not going outside.” Apparently satisfied that his cryptic sentence was adequate explanation, he turned and left the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, Kris,” Paul said. “I should have said something, but Sharon insisted I stay quiet.”

  “It’s fine. You’re doing great.” She smiled at him and he went blurry as tears welled in her eyes. “You’re doing wonderful. I’m sorry too.”

  “What do you have to be sorry for?”

  A million things. A million mistakes. A distance she let happen.

  Now was not the right time to tell him. She opened her mouth but was interrupted from a loud crash coming from the basement.

  “What now?” she said. “Martin is doing something, I have to go find out what’s going on.”

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  She nodded, and there was another crash from the basement. Then another. Another. A rhythmic banging. She waved at Paul and ran down to the basement.

  It had only been moments, but Martin had already torn down a large section of drywall. Behind him, he had grabbed a bunch of tools: shovels, an axe, and the sledgehammer he was using to destroy his wall.

  “What are you doing?” She had to yell over the noise. He turned to her with a wild look in his eyes.

  “Our houses are directly beside each other. Maybe twelve feet apart. If I can’t go outside, we’ll go under. I should be able to tunnel through to get to your basement.”

  Her first instinct was to tell him he was wrong, but she thought about all the moments she’d sat here and done nothing. He breathed heavily, waiting for the blow. “That’s a great idea,” she said.

  He blinked once, surprised. Apparently not the reaction he was expecting.

  “Do you think it will work?” she asked.

  He nodded. “If I can get through the concrete foundation, it should be okay. It will take some time, but I think it’s doable. I might need to buttress the tunnel. We’re pretty deep underground, so I don’t want it to collapse.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  He smiled at her then, a genuine thing, the real Martin coming out for a moment. A man who was happiest when he had something to do, some way to feel valuable, a way to care for his family. It wasn’t a bad smile and it was easy to give one back.

  “Maybe grab some wood from the garage, I think I have some left over from last year when I built the deck. Also, there’s going to be a lot of dirt and debris, so you’ll need to haul it out. If you can grab some plywood and a wheelbarrow?”

  “I’ll make a ramp on the stairs and I can take it to the garage.” She nodded.

  “Exactly. I’m mostly through the drywall, so now it’s a couple hours of swinging this thing,” he held up the sledgehammer, “until we’re through the concrete.”

  “How long do you think this will take?”

  “A day, maybe. Maybe two. It depends on if we take breaks.”

  “We’re not going to take breaks, are we?”

  “No.” He turned back to the wall. “No, we’re not.”

  The Box

  Nights were the worst. In the daytime, cracks of daylight made their way through the box, comforting toothpick-thin lines of brightness that allowed him to look at his hands, to see his folded legs, to examine the confines of his prison.

  At night, the glow vanished and then it was only him, his thoughts, his cold body, and the jigsaw mosaic of sounds that came from everywhere and nowhere. And the alarms. Oh Christ, the alarms. He was afraid of the dark now.

  The grass tickled at him when he tried to sleep, and he couldn’t seem to get warm enough. During the day, the box heated like a sauna, and filled with thick, humid air. He’d take off his shirt, trying to find an escape from the oppressive heat that made it hard to breathe.

  Then the sun would go down and he’d have half an hour of relief. Thirty minutes for his body to cool down, for the temperature to lower to a tolerable level before it vanished. Then it would get colder and colder, all the heat leaching out of the ground. He’d curl up into himself, make his body into a ball, trying to keep any warmth in.

  His mouth didn’t work anymore. Not enough moisture. On the first day, he learned that the residue of the humidity would stay on the grass, and in the morning before the sun came up, he could lick it like a dog and get a shred of dampness. It wasn’t enough though. Maybe a teaspoon. He remembered once when he was little -

  No. Nothing in the past. There was no past, not anymore. That was the deal. He’d worry about now and a little about the future, but no dipping his mind into the well of memories, because he knew that water was fatal, no question. Leave the past alone and focus on the now.

  Night was coming again, and his heart began a hummingbird flutter in response. He tried to focus on breathing. Deep, steady breaths that made his head swim, which was better than the fluid looseness in his stomach.

  So, night. That meant two and a half days. Over fifty hours, stuck in this box. Days spent hunched over, where the only way to stretch out his legs was to lie down
completely on the wet surface or accordion himself into a position where his body would fold over his legs. Nothing remotely close to sleep. On the rare instances where he stopped shivering long enough to nod off, the things outside would blare their terrible alarms. He’d wake screaming. He tried stuffing dirt and grass into his ears. It dulled the noise but didn’t block it completely.

  The monsters weren’t going anywhere. He had resigned himself to that. While he hadn’t been able to gather the scraps of his courage to open entrance and check the sky, he knew they were there. Waiting. Waiting for him to poke his head out so they could shoot at him, like they shot at-

  No. Nothing in the past. Stay in the now. Stay.

  As night emerged, he began to shiver. Deep, jangling shakes that rattled his bones and made his teeth click together. He hugged himself, crying, although no tears remained to come out. The first entire day had been spent bawling, and he imagined Matt, ripping on him for being a suck. It helped.

  Matt was beside him through the whole thing and even though he knew it was crazy, he talked to him. They had entire conversations, and he could hear Matt’s voice as clearly as if he was in the box with him. Even now, halfway through the night, while he shivered and folded his arms underneath his t-shirt, trying to capture some body warmth, Matt spoke in his ear.

  “It’s got to be tomorrow, buddy,” Matt said. He was adamant on this point. The Matt in his head had come up with a plan, because of course he did. He was sure that wherever he was right now, Matt was safe and sound, probably working out pages of complicated math that would save them all.

  “I know, I know.”

  “You can’t stay in here forever and you can’t go outside. It’s literally sixty feet away. This will work.”

  “Maybe one more day. I think the police are going to come.”

  Matt sounded amused, that way he got when he thought of a joke that only he understood, that half-smile sound.

  “Police aren’t coming, man.”

  “I’m… I’m scared.”

  “I know you are, Pete. I’m scared too. But I’m here with you.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “I will. You talk to me the entire time and we’ll get through this together. But it has to be tomorrow. If you don’t move, you’re going to die.”

  “Don’t I deserve to die, though?”

  Matt went away anytime he asked that question, because Matt knew the truth. He deserved to die because he shouldn’t have run. Even though his dad yelled at him and pushed him to the side, it didn’t excuse what he did. Now he was stuck in this junction box, the one leftover from the work the city had been doing. They dug up the top half of the street, replacing piping and performing whatever alchemy that went into urban maintenance. The box should have been filled with wires and cables, but until then, it was an empty metal box with no floor: four feet tall and six feet wide. Heavy and durable and a prison. He had scampered through the hatch in the side, safe, while his family was cut to tiny pieces. Even through the tin walls, he heard Deidre’s final scream, the one that was cut off by-

  No. No past.

  It was hard, and even though he thought he was done crying, he cried some more anyway. There was no one to comfort him. Even Matt didn’t come back to tell him it was all right, because it wasn’t. It’s why he hadn’t used his phone to call the real Matt or answered any texts from Liz. If they knew what he did, they’d turn from him, forever. He’d have no one. So, he hugged himself and he wept, and he tried to ignore the thickness of his tongue and the persistent headache that started a few hours ago.

  The remainder of the night passed in miserable silence, except for a single blaring alarm, and eventually the cracks of sunlight joined him in the box. He licked at the grass underneath, scooping up molecules of water with his sweater-coated tongue, not enough to make any difference.

  “Today’s the day,” Matt was back again.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  “I won’t”

  “You will.”

  Matt was cheerfully relentless, badgering at him until he finally snapped.

  “What if it doesn’t work? What if they kill me?”

  Matt didn’t say anything right away, and Pete could almost hear him thinking.

  “Then you’ll be with your family. And if I’m there already, you’ll be with me too. Would that be so bad?”

  No, not so bad. It sounded fucking great, if Pete was being honest.

  So, fine. He’d do this. He’d do Matt’s crazy plan and he’d probably die in the next minute. At least he wouldn’t have to cry anymore.

  He hadn’t used his phone for contact, but he’d read the news and watched the videos and learned the rules of the aliens. You move, you die. You step outside, you die. But Matt had come up with a way for him to make progress all the same.

  The junction box was made of thick metal, welded together at the seams. The whole thing would weigh maybe a hundred pounds, tops. Heavy, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He assumed a squatting position, like a Buddha, with his palms facing upwards. Slowly, he raised himself until he was applying pressure to the top of the box. It was early enough that the metal wasn’t scalding hot from the heat of the sun yet.

  If he thought about what he was going to do, he wouldn’t do it. This was suicide. He sent a silent prayer to Deidre and asked her to forgive him and then heaved.

  Only an inch off the ground, that’s all he needed. He lifted the box, took one step forward.

  He moved the box.

  Terrified, he dropped and curled into a ball, waiting for the lasers to cut him up. He imagined what they’d feel like. Probably hot, like when you touched a match, or burned yourself on the stove.

  “It worked, Pete.” Matt’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he realized that ten seconds had passed, and he wasn’t dead. He sat up and looked around. Of course, he couldn’t see anything except the interior of the box, but he was sure the aliens were hovering over top of him right now.

  He held his breath, trying to will his body to silence so he could hear something, anything, but everything remained calm. After several minutes, he checked around the inside of the box, fearful that he only imagined it, that he didn’t really move. But no, there at the edge, he could see the indentation in the grass, the place the box used to sit. And there was the outer wall, six inches forward.

  He had done it. He moved. He got half a foot forward and he didn’t die.

  Part of him wanted to pick the box up and run to his house, but the Matt-voice chided at him.

  “You can’t get greedy, Pete. You have to do this slow. You have their attention now, you know you do, so you need to give them time to lose interest.”

  “How long should I wait?”

  “At least two hours. For sure. Give them plenty of time.”

  “I’m really thirsty, Matt.”

  But Matt was gone, and Pete was left by himself again. And even though he knew water was only a football field away, he made himself wait. He sat down on the grass and counted backwards from sixty, and when he was done, he held up a finger. Another sixty and another finger. And he forced himself to count and wait, and after one hundred and twenty repetitions, it was time to try again.

  This time, he was excited. There was no trepidation, no concern about death. Thoughts of water had eroded his caution. He assumed that same position, the Buddha lifting form, put his hands on the roof and… moved.

  Six more inches.

  Again, he paused, waiting for lasers, but none of them hit.

  He was now one foot closer. He had gone a foot in two hours. Barely anything. Nothing.

  But everything.

  And now he knew how to move.

  Day 4: The Hole

  Liz

  Liz wiped steam off the bathroom mirror and opened the door a crack to let some of the moisture out. She should be conserving water, she knew that, but sometimes after your drunken mother punches you in the face, you really need a
soak.

  In the mirror, one side of her face was already bruising. Even when drunk, Alexandra could hit. A little cover up would fix the worst of it, and even applying eyeliner and lipstick made her feel better. But the makeup couldn’t solve the creeping dread that worked its way up her bones.

  Two blackouts. It was getting worse and Liz wasn’t sure how to stop it. She spent yesterday hiding in her room, texting with Heather. Knowing her friend had food and water relieved some of the stress Liz was carrying. She had watched the drone flight by herself from the bedroom window that looked out on to the street. The angle was funny, so she couldn’t see perfectly, but she thought the idea of creating a pulley line for food was brilliant.

  Her mom didn’t even know what happened. Each day, Alexandra was starting to drink earlier and earlier. Liz wasn’t sure how much alcohol her mom even had in the house, but wouldn’t it eventually run out?

  From downstairs, she heard clanging and rustling, which meant her mom was already awake. Kind of early for it, but too much liquor unsettled her mom’s stomach and forced her out of bed. Liz left the bathroom, finished dressing and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Her mom was fine. She was. Today would be fine. Liz only needed to grab a bite of food and then she could get back to the scant safety her room offered. It would take seconds and she didn’t even need to speak to her mom. When she went into the kitchen, she had to bite back a sigh of frustration.

  Her mom stood at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal over the sink, letting some of the milk dribble down her chin. Her hair pointed in all directions and the bathrobe she wore hung carelessly open. She stared into the backyard, vacant eyes not focusing on anything.

  “Mom,” Liz said “you can’t eat the cereal. We have to eat anything perishable first.”

  Her mom blinked at her with vapid doe eyes and looked down at the cereal bowl in her hand, as if noticing it for the first time. “What do you mean?” She put the bowl down in the sink.

  “We’re stuck in here, mom. Remember? We have to make the food last.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine. The police will be here soon.”