by Laura Pohl
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019 by Laura Pohl
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover art © Luke Lucas
Internal design by Ashley Holstrom/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Pohl, Laura, author.
Title: The last 8 / Laura Pohl.
Other titles: Last eight
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2019] | Summary: After an alien attack devastates the Earth, pilot and future astronaut Clover Martinez bands with seven other teens in a struggle to survive.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018010906 | (hardcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Extraterrestrial beings--Fiction. | Survival--Fiction. | Friendship--Fiction. | Air pilots--Fiction. | Mexican Americans--Fiction. | Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.P6413 Las 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018010906
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part II
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part III
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Mom.
Live long and prosper.
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains mention of depression, suicidal thoughts, a suicide attempt, and post-traumatic stress disorder.
Part I
It’s the End of the World
Chapter 1
My abuelo says that there are people who belong to the earth, and others, like us Martinezes, belong to the sky.
High up in the air, there’s no doubt that he’s right. The airplane cuts the early morning clouds, leaving a white trail over the blue sky. Inside the Beechcraft Musketeer, I can see almost everything—the crops and houses and animals. The cows are no bigger than the dark brown freckles that cover my arms, the houses the size of my thumb. The only sound is the motor, and the blue stretches infinitely.
I flex my fingers and grip the yoke a little harder, keeping my eyes on the horizon.
“Take it in while you can,” says Abuelo, who sits by my side, fixing his gaze on the fields that extend for miles to the north. To the south, there are only mountains.
I give him a sideways glance. His skin is medium brown like mine, but his hair has been graying for the last five years. When I was a kid, I never thought he’d look old. He always looked jovial, his smiles long and wide, ready for anything. Now glasses perch on the bridge of his nose, and behind them, his black eyes scan the fields like an eagle. I can hear a tinge of bitterness in his voice, even though he tries to hide it.
“There’s still a whole year.”
He shrugs slightly. “I know. I didn’t say anything.”
College is an unspoken subject in our family. MIT used to seem far away. But now there’s only one year left until I move across the country to study aerospace engineering. I understand my grandparents’ sadness—I’m the only family they have left.
“I thought you were proud,” I say, not moving my hands from the controls.
The motor of the plane roars beneath us.
“Of course I’m proud, mija. First engineer in the family.” He smiles. “But I’ll miss this.”
He gestures to the plane. To the two of us. To the tiny world beneath us and the sky that unites us both.
“Abuelo, it’s MIT, not Mars.” I try not to roll my eyes too hard. “It’s a five-hour flight.”
“And what plane are you going to take to get there?”
“I can take yours.”
This makes him laugh, and he clutches at his stomach like he always does. He leans back against his seat, calm, even though, technically, I don’t have a proper pilot’s license yet. But he taught me how to fly when I was five, and I don’t think he trusts anyone more than me.
“And when it is Mars, Clover?”
Something catches in my throat.
“I have to get through senior year first,” I tell him.
He looks at his watch and swears. “We’re late.”
I turn the plane around.
* * *
I’ve barely landed the Beechcraft when my abuela comes out the back door, a towel in her hands, shouting from the steps.
“You two are late!”
She’s already in her dress, the one she wears to church, black and somber. I run inside the house and take a quick shower. Five minutes later, I’m downstairs and ready to go.
Abuela gives me the once-over. “No makeup?” she asks.
I shake my he
ad.
She sighs dramatically. “How will you look in photos, Clover? In ten years, you’ll look back and think, ‘Here are all my beautiful classmates, and I was too stubborn to do anything to look nice.’”
“Abuela, it’s the science fair. It’s not even graduation.”
“And? The pictures will still be in the album,” she says. “Look at me and your grandfather. We’re wearing our best.”
It’s no use discussing this with Abuela, who thinks every single school occasion where I have to present something is worthy of putting on her best clothes as if she’s about to meet the president himself.
“Fine, I’ll do it in the car.”
“Carlos!” Abuela shouts, and he comes downstairs just in time, finishing the knot in his tie. “Let’s go.”
She marches outside like a soldier ready for battle, heading for the truck. I sit in the back seat, Abuelo in the front on the passenger’s side. For all the planes we can fly, we don’t seem to have a knack for driving cars.
Abuela glares at me in the rearview mirror, unwavering, and I pick up her makeup bag, applying some powder and mascara at her insistence. It takes us almost thirty minutes to reach the school, and by the time I get to the gym, the science fair is already in full swing. I make my way toward my table, where my project is set up. Abuela takes a few photos to keep in her album, and then Abuelo takes her arm, ushering her away to see the other projects. At the next table are Mark Robson and his girlfriend, Emily, with their project on solar energy.
“Martinez,” Mark says. “I thought you skipped school activities.”
“It wasn’t an option this time,” I tell him flatly.
He laughs. Mark has a good sense of humor, though we don’t talk much. Truth be told, I almost never talk to my classmates outside of school. It’s strange being the only Mexican American kid in a small town in Montana, and I never exactly tried to bridge the gap between them and me.
“Are you finally going to tell us what this big mystery project is about?” Emily asks, cocking a blond eyebrow at my table, which is still covered under a linen sheet. “Mr. Kay couldn’t shut up about it.”
Just as she says his name, the science teacher appears. He smiles gleefully at me.
“You’re a bit late, Clover,” he says. “But I guess everything is in order?”
I nod. “All ready to go.”
He nods to Emily and Mark, who are still curiously staring at me. Then he leans in and whispers, “You know, an admissions recruiter from MIT is here.”
“What?” I say, my mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding me.”
“No,” he replies. “I told him over email about your project and how excited you are to apply to MIT in the fall.”
My cheeks burn a deep red.
“He’s scouting you. So do your best.”
“I will,” I tell him.
When Mr. Kay walks away to look at the other projects, I force myself to breathe. This is my opportunity to land a good scholarship, the first step in what will eventually take me to NASA and out of here.
Into the sky, just like Abuelo.
Slowly, people trickle by each table. Parents, grandparents, little sisters and cousins, all of them came to see what was happening at the science fair. In a small town like ours, there isn’t much to do on a Saturday morning in early April.
My grandparents are the first to officially visit my table, and I demonstrate my project for them, even though they already heard me rehearsing. Abuelo helped me build the model and the motor, and everything works just fine. My presentation becomes almost mechanical as I wait for the MIT recruiter to show up.
Noah comes to my table instead.
“Hey,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “You?”
He nods, pursing his lips. There’s an awkward silence between my ex-boyfriend and me. I’m sure he wants to say something, but neither of us find the right words.
Before I can speak again, Ted, one of Noah’s football teammates, rams into him.
“We’ve got it all ready,” Ted says with a grin.
“Dude, be quiet,” hisses Mark from the next table. “If the teachers find out, we’re toast.”
Ted grins, careless, and then narrows his eyes at me. “Oh, Clover’s not going to snitch, is she?”
Noah looks at me apologetically as Ted throws an arm around him.
“What are you guys up to?” I ask.
“Fireworks,” Ted says. “After the fair is over.”
I look at all three of them. “You guys are idiots.”
“Thanks for your input, Clover, it’s always appreciated.”
“No problem.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a stranger approach the table, and the moment between Noah and me is gone. I turn my attention to the newcomer, and I know immediately that he is the recruiter Mr. Kay was talking about—there aren’t that many strangers in our town.
“Hi,” I say, hoping my voice is bright. “I’m Clover Martinez, and I’m here to guide you through the next phase of human space exploration.”
I summarize my project as best as I can, my palms sweaty. My heart beats loudly against my rib cage, but I manage to keep calm and speak clearly. I start with basic information about space exploration, then I move on to talking about viable missions to Mars and Jupiter. I run the test for the motor I’ve constructed. On a larger scale, it would not only save fuel but also cover longer distances in foreign environments, allowing spacecraft to be lighter in weight and for their missions to last longer.
When I’m done, I look up expectantly.
“Impressive presentation, Miss Martinez,” he says, his accent British. “Your teacher tells me you plan to apply to MIT?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after college?”
“Hopefully NASA,” I reply. “But I think it’s best to take it one step a time.”
He smiles at that. “You’re right.” He takes a card out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me. “I look forward to receiving your application.”
“Thank you.” I grin from ear to ear as he leaves.
My grandparents approach the table, both of them looking at me.
“How did it go?” Abuela asks.
“I think he liked it.”
“He’d be an idiot not to,” Abuelo says, hugging me.
The science fair ends a couple of hours later, and I say goodbye to Mr. Kay and thank him for his help. I’m still holding the business card inside my pocket, my fingers trembling over it.
Abuelo helps me pack my things in the truck, and on the trip home, I sit leaning against the window. When I look up, I see something shining in the sky.
At first I think it’s one of the fireworks the boys set up, but its path is too straight. Then I realize what I’m seeing.
More than a hundred shooting stars cover the sky. I see them cross it, glimmering silver as their trajectory takes them straight to the ground. It’s a beautiful sight, but for some reason, my stomach sinks.
“Meteor shower,” Abuela says.
Slowly, Abuelo shakes his head. “See that?” He points to one just above us. “It’s slowing down.”
That’s exactly what it’s doing—instead of accelerating and colliding with Earth like a true falling star. It’s big, fat, and pear-shaped, and I realize that there’s nothing about this thing that resembles a star or a meteor at all. It’s a reinforced ball of armor, full of mystery.
The one closest to us crosses the sky, followed by a trail of fire. I gape as it slows down even more and reaches the outskirts of town, too far away for me to get a good look. But I can see smoke rising.
“It’s…” I start the sentence but can’t bring myself to finish it.
“A ship,” Abuelo says, completing my thought.
Not just any ship. A spaceship.
A real one.
Chapter 2
When we make it home, Abuelo is the first to get out of the car, moving so fast that no one would believe he’s a senior citizen. I follow, close on his heels, and by the time I’m in the house, he already has the TV on and the volume up.
Every channel is showing emergency broadcasts, images of spaceships coming toward Earth.
“The phenomenon has repeated itself all over the planet,” the television reporter says. “In the last four hours, we have confirmed sightings of more than one hundred thousand spaceships landing at different points around the world.”
One hundred thousand. That’s too big a number. And it’s surely growing, because no one had the time to count them all if they just landed.
We could be easily looking at a force of five million.
“Government officials ask that all citizens please remain calm while they investigate the situation,” the reporter continues. “The president is due to make a statement soon. Please do not try to approach these objects, and it’s recommended that everyone stay inside their homes.”
Abuelo’s expression is indecipherable.
The image on the TV changes, and I’m looking at what appears to be a welcoming committee for the possible aliens. People with signs and party drinks approach a ship, gathering around it. The ship is metallic silver and shaped like a pear. It’s closed tight, with no sign of a door, completely impenetrable. It reminds me of an oyster shell.
Abuelo turns the volume down as the reporters repeat themselves and footage is shown from all over the world. Spaceships are landing in Russia and Brazil and France, all over the place, but there’s no sign of aliens doing anything.
Yet.
A chill climbs up my spine.
“Qué en el nombre de Dios…” Abuela says as she finally joins us. Then she sees the TV. “Dios mío.”
Abuelo moves over to the table and picks up the phone. “I’m going to make some calls. I should probably head over to Malmstrom.”
Malmstrom is the closest air base. Abuelo is a retired air force pilot, so his first instinct is to call them.
He calls the number, but no one picks up. He shakes his head slightly, worry creasing his forehead. He looks at me, just to make sure I’m okay.