by Laura Pohl
“I know.” He nods, without opening his eyes. “I’m not sure that makes it better.”
Refraining from reaching out for him, I turn and go up to my room.
Chapter 4
When I go downstairs the next morning, Abuela is already busy with breakfast.
“Is that your friend’s truck?” she inquires as soon as I step into the kitchen.
I hold back a groan. Noah and I dated for a year and a half, but she never called him anything but “your friend,” or “your little friend” when she was being especially mean.
“Yes,” I answer. “Don’t give him a hard time, Abuela.”
“You think so little of your grandmother.”
I stare at her, waiting.
“Fine,” she finally says. “But a boy shouldn’t show up at a girl’s house in the middle of the night without invitation. It’s not right. It was six months before I let your abuelo hold my hand.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
“Is that back talk, Clover?”
“No, ma’am.” I take my omelet and sit down quickly before she has a chance to say anything else. “He’s driving back this morning. I could go with him and get batteries.”
“I should come, too.”
“If Abuelo calls us on the regular phone, someone needs to be here to pick up,” I tell her. “Two hours at the most and I’ll be back. Did you get the television working today?”
“The signal is going bad,” she says.
My stomach immediately tenses.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, mija,” she tells me. “You know the signal is always bad on the farm.”
“Yeah, I know.”
But I’m not convinced.
My fingers fidget with the satellite phone, wanting to push the buttons and make the call to Abuelo. It’s been a little more than twenty-four hours since we last spoke, and I’m full of nervous energy.
Just then, Noah’s footsteps come stomping down the stairs. He stops in the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry to barge in, Mrs. Martinez,” he says shyly, his hands in his pockets.
“No problem,” Abuela responds, her voice dripping with disdain. I know she was happy when I broke up with Noah, but she wouldn’t say it. I assume that she distrusts all boys because my mother got pregnant at seventeen. Even though I’m nothing like my mother. “Sit and eat something.”
Noah gets an omelet and eats very politely, chewing with his mouth closed and his shoulders scrunched up, like he’s trying not to take any more space than he needs.
I put my plate in the sink and am about to wash it when Abuela stops me.
“Leave it,” she says. “I’ll do it. I do everything in this house anyway.”
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes. You’ll get cross-eyed.”
Noah raises an eyebrow at me from his chair, and I mouth “bad mood” to him. Not that Abuela is ever in a good mood when Noah is here, which is why it would be best for us to leave as soon as possible.
He hurries with his breakfast while Abuela washes up. I grab my bag and shove the satellite phone inside it, then run upstairs and get the rifle and bullets.
Noah cocks an eyebrow at me when he sees it. “Where do you think we are, the Wild West?”
I glare at him. “Better safe than sorry.”
“If people see you walking down the street with a rifle, they’re bound to think the worst.”
“I think they’re going to have more important things to worry about than whether or not I’m carrying a gun,” I reply, but Noah keeps staring at me. “Fine. I’ll leave it in the back of the truck.”
He nods, like I’m crazy for even thinking of something like this. He finishes his plate, thanking Abuela again. I signal with my head for him to wait outside, and he leaves.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” I say to Abuela, reassuring myself as much as I am her. “Noah says he has batteries at his house. We’ll get the phone working in no time.”
She nods once, lost in thought. Then she says, “Ten cuidado, Clover.”
“I will.”
I hug her and kiss her cheek. She makes the sign of the cross over my forehead, giving me a blessing.
“Vaya con Dios.”
“Amen.”
I grab my bag and wave goodbye, running outside to Noah’s truck so we can make the quick trip into town.
* * *
Noah drives with an undeniable air of calmness. With my head against the window, I watch the nearby spaceship, the only one sitting by the side of the road, not twenty minutes away from the farm. I hadn’t realized that it was this close. I can see it clearly—its smooth, round surface, with no sign of any doors.
Noah accelerates, leaving the ship behind like it’s some strange dream. We make our way in silence, my shoulders tense. There are no other cars on the road. I look at the satellite phone in my hand as if it’ll magically spring to life without a battery.
“He’ll call soon enough,” Noah says, guessing where my thoughts are going. “They’re probably really busy over there. I’m sure they’ve got a plan.”
“Was the road empty like this last night?” I ask, frowning.
He shrugs, in true Noah fashion. “I don’t know. We took the lockdown seriously for the first few days, but now…”
“It’s too empty.”
“You think too much.”
“One of us has to.”
Just then, a car appears, heading straight toward us.
“Do you think this guy’s gonna move or…?”
“Watch out!” I shout, and he swerves off the road just in time to avoid the car.
Noah gives me a nasty look. “It’s a good thing I’m the one driving.”
I don’t bother responding, because my attention is immediately drawn ahead of us. The road opens up, and where there should be farms and mountains, all I can see is a huge dust cloud rising up in the air, hovering above town. We don’t usually get dust clouds this far north, and never one this big. It clings to the air and the edges of the road, thick and strange.
Noah frowns. “This wasn’t here last night,” he says.
I tense. He reaches out and puts his hand on my knee. It’s meant to relax me, to ground me, but all it does is put me more on edge. In my mind, I see the spaceships crossing the sky, over and over again.
I stay alert as Noah drives forward, slowly entering town. Everything is empty—the cars parked on the street, the houses. Noah checks his watch. It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, so most people wouldn’t have left their houses yet. But there are usually a few people out and about by now. Silence expands everywhere, and the dust hangs in the still air, with no wind to blow it in another direction. Noah’s frown deepens as we approach his house. There’s not a person in sight.
He parks in his driveway and turns off the engine.
“We’ll be quick,” he says, almost as if he’s reassuring himself. “I’m sure there are batteries in the kitchen.”
I nod. A strange numbness creeps in. Something feels very, very wrong.
He gets out and slams the door. I breathe in once and hold the air in my lungs before stepping out of the truck. I hesitate for a second, then grab the rifle and follow him.
Noah presses the doorbell, like he always does to tell his parents he’s home. The house looks empty, and the strange dust clings to my lungs as I breathe. No one comes to the door.
Creasing his forehead, he fishes his keys out of his pocket, but by now he’s sweating and trembling, and they fall to the ground.
I pick them up and unlock the door for him. My hands are surprisingly steady, but my whole body is tense.
Noah pushes the door open while I stand on the porch, looking out toward the street. I don’t see any movement—not a single curtain flaps in the neighbori
ng houses. A dog barks, but that seems to be the only sound for miles. Scanning the horizon, I see a car with both front doors open, like the passengers just got out and ran.
“Noah?” I call softly, not daring to raise my voice.
But he can’t hear me. He runs through the house, his feet stomping on the hardwood floors.
“Mom?” he calls out. “Dad? Jacob?”
His yells go unanswered. I can hear him on the second floor, banging open doors. I step inside the house and move toward the TV. White noise buzzes quietly from the set, the image distorted. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
“Mom!” he screams again, as if his voice could tear up half the house. “Dad!”
“Noah?” I dare to call out again, louder this time.
He comes downstairs, his shoulders sagging and his eyes welling with tears.
“It’s too early,” he mumbles. “They wouldn’t have left the house yet.”
His eyes search mine for an answer, but I don’t have one.
“I can’t…” His voice cracks and he starts crying. He puts his arms around me for comfort. I try to hug him back, telling myself that he needs me, but my body is stiff. His tears fall easily now, staining the shoulder of my shirt. “Clover, we’re—”
“Noah, we have to go,” I say, my voice quiet. In control.
He sobs on my shoulder once more, his body shaking. Deep down, he knows the truth. I let go, but he doesn’t let go of me. His arms grip me tight, as if I were the only thing that could hold him up.
“Noah,” I say again, gently. I stroke his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “Noah, let’s go.”
“But they aren’t…” he says, stopping midsentence.
I don’t want to say the words, either.
There’s no time for me to worry or panic. Suddenly, my heart beats normally. My breathing is calm, and I’m in control.
“We need to go.” I nudge him toward the door, doing my best not to get angry at his crying. That’s not what Noah needs right now. He needs reassurance. “Come on.” I nudge him again, and this time, he moves.
He keeps his arms around my shoulders, and together, we reach the threshold, open the door, and step outside. I pick up the rifle on the way out.
I need to find a way to bring him out of this stupor. I hope for something to happen, anything that will snap us out of this disbelief.
And then, of course, it does.
I look up and there they are. Four silhouettes, as tall as door frames. Their lower bodies are like spiders—each one has six legs, sleek and metallic like their spaceships, clinking together on the asphalt. But that’s not what staggers me. Four human torsos top the metal structures, and vacant eyes blink from four human heads. Human.
I freeze.
And then my body tells me one thing: run.
I turn, shoving Noah so hard that his legs start moving again. He stares at the aliens, his jaw dropped, but there’s no time to think. They’re hunting us.
I start running, and Noah is right behind me. I struggle with the rifle, attempting as I run to load it with the quick precision that Abuelo taught me. I can hear our pursuers’ strong, clawed legs clicking behind us and my brain can barely process what’s happening—the empty town, the aliens waiting for us. I realize that it must have been Noah’s screams that drew them to us. The clanging of metal follows us, a click-click-click that tells me they’re still on our trail, a sound that pounds into my head.
I go as fast as I can, my muscles burning. All I know is that we have to get as far away as possible. I run toward the edge of town, Noah screaming behind me.
“Just run!” I shout, pulling him forward.
Tears streak his face and his muscles are failing, but he keeps screaming, and I just want to tell him to shut up, shut up, shut up!
But he doesn’t. He runs, half crying. My eyes are dry. Crying is for later.
Whatever happens, I have to survive.
I turn the corner to take a shortcut to my grandparents’ farm, then skid to a stop. A spaceship rises up from the middle of the road, a sleek, silver sphere, closed up tight, with no way to get inside. It’s completely blocking my path.
My muscles are sore from running and my lungs feel like they’ll explode as I inhale the dust that clings to my skin. Just then, one of the aliens appears, and my eyes widen as I raise the rifle. I breathe in and fire.
The rifle jolts back and the bullet hits the alien. For a second, I can breathe again. But then the alien steps forward, as if the bullet hadn’t touched it at all.
I fire another shot, my aim perfect. I watch the bullet hit the alien square in the forehead and ricochet off it.
Gasping, I drop the useless rifle on the ground and grab Noah, turning and running another way home.
And suddenly, just when I think we’ll be able to outrun them, Noah trips.
He goes down, crashing hard onto the asphalt. I stop in my tracks and turn around.
Noah lies on the ground, blood spurting from his nose and tears still streaming from his eyes. He whimpers a pathetic little moan. I tell him to get up—or maybe I just imagine saying it. He mouths my name, looking up at me.
I don’t move.
I don’t get closer.
Everything is a rush of color in my mind, and then they’re upon us again, the aliens who are annihilating us from the earth.
Get up, Noah. Get the hell up.
And as if Noah means nothing at all, they point a gun at him. I hear a single quiet beep before it goes off. I stand paralyzed as a red laser hits Noah and his whole body explodes in a cloud of smoke. His dust rises, merging with the cloud that we’ve been breathing since we got into town.
Noah goes up into the cloud of dust, scraped from this world completely. Like he never even existed.
I know what I’m breathing then. The cloud is all the atoms of the town, human skin and blood and bones, coming right into my lungs.
I don’t make a sound. My legs are frozen. I can’t scream and I can’t move. Panic fills my heart and my brain, but I close my eyes, shutting it out. Noah is gone, and I’m going to be next.
But the aliens don’t point their guns at me. They don’t approach.
They look straight past me, then turn around. Like I’m completely invisible.
Like they hadn’t even seen me.
I turn around and run toward home.
Chapter 5
When I finally manage to make it to the farm, it’s almost midday. I tear through the fields toward the house, blowing past the scarecrow that wears Abuelo’s old clothes. My lungs feel like they could burst, but I’m too worried and high on adrenaline to care.
Stumbling over the front steps, I reach the porch and pause to catch my breath. Then I carefully swing the door open, stepping inside.
The house is empty. Silent.
“Abuela?” I whisper, not daring to speak too loudly.
I creep toward the kitchen, my body tense, my eyes searching in every direction. The kitchen window is open, and the dishes from breakfast rest on the drying rack. The vase that Abuela brought back from our trip to Mexico to visit relatives sits on the table, filled with flowers that she picked this morning. My fingers swipe across the table as I take in the emptiness.
I move on to the living room, but everything is quiet. Dead. I try not to think of that word, but it’s impossible. It’s been running through my mind since the day began.
“Abuela?” I call out. “Dónde estás?”
I climb the stairs in a rush, but there’s only the two empty bedrooms and the bathroom. I run through the whole house, stomping loudly, not caring anymore who hears me. I run outside again, letting the door sway in the breeze, but all I find is more emptiness and silence. I’m the only one on the farm.
I go back inside, my knees shaking. There’s no sign
of dust and no sign of anything else. I think about Abuela, about whether she’d make enough dust to cling to the room. My stomach heaves, and I run to the bathroom to throw up my breakfast.
Abuela had always tried to prepare me for the fact that she and Abuelo were old and getting older, and that someday I’d come back and they wouldn’t be here. But I never expected it to be like this. I always thought I’d have the chance to say goodbye.
I collapse on my bed, on top of the quilt that Abuela sewed for me last year. I feel my lungs pressing together, deflated, and the tears finally come.
My body shakes with sobs I can’t suppress. I lie there too long. Gone, dead, gone, dead.
Everyone is dead.
My sobs turn my body inside out, and I can’t seem to get enough air to fill my lungs. I breathe desperately, my shoulders weak, trying to gather what’s left of myself. The image of Noah dissolving into dust flashes through my mind again and again.
My bag sits next to me and I shove it aside, causing the contents to spill out. My wallet falls to the floor, coins flying, and so does the satellite phone. I jump off of the bed, my heart hammering inside my chest. There’s still hope.
Abuelo might still be out there. He might be at Malmstrom.
I head back downstairs, wiping my tears away, hoping my knees will stop shaking.
I turn on the TV and flip through the channels, but they’re all just white noise. Hands trembling, I approach the TV set and smack it on the side.
One channel comes through, barely.
“The alien attacks—” says a female reporter, her voice cutting in and out. The image is hazy, and all I can distinguish is a dark red suit. “The government has tried…failed once again…significant damage…planet.”
I put my ear against the speakers, as if that’s going to help me understand her words.
Hazy footage of bombs and aliens appears on the screen. People vaporize as the aliens slowly but surely overcome any kind of attack or attempt to stop them. A plane is shot right out of the sky by a shadow, the spaceship flying too fast for the camera to capture it. In big cities, buildings are being destroyed by our own bombs.
“Viewers…” the reporter continues. “Gather in groups…stay safe.”