The Last 8

by Laura Pohl

  Tonight, there’s no sound outside. My muscles are tense, and I’m hyperaware of my surroundings. Sputnik lays her head on the ground, waiting. She knows, too. There’s a pattern—darkness falls, and they come out from wherever they were hiding.

  But it’s been six months. Six months since moving every day became routine, since I started tucking the gun in the back of my jeans, just in case. Six months since I started pulling it out from time to time, contemplating shooting myself in the head and ending this.

  For some reason, I can never bring myself to do it. I’ve become a new Clover, stuck in an eternal limbo between life and death.

  * * *

  Morning comes, and bright sunlight seeps through the window.

  My back is sweaty from sleeping on the ground, but it’s a reminder: I’m alive. Sputnik waits. She never leaves before I do. That’s the first reason that I let her stay with me, back when I found her roaming around the trash outside a house in Sacramento. She always follows me, hovering around, just like a little satellite. That’s why I named her Sputnik.

  I roll out from under the bed and notice the curtains flapping, the only movement in the room besides me. I take a careful peek out the window, but there’s no sign of life anywhere.

  Every morning it’s the same thing. When I wake up, I have to come to terms with what happened. Sometimes, like a kid, I pretend that this is just a crazy nightmare conjured directly from a badly scripted Hollywood movie, and that I’ll wake up to find everything back to normal. But then I open my eyes, and everything is still here, in the same place as before, and the towns and roads and skies remain empty.

  Most days, I pretend that I don’t know that I might be the last human on Earth. If I don’t acknowledge it, then I don’t have to take responsibility for it. Besides, not even Hollywood would cast a teenage Latina girl with survivor guilt and a ridiculously large dog who likes to run in circles as the heroes.

  “Stay,” I tell Sputnik, and she sits down. She always waits as I run the perimeter of the house, checking that everything is okay. The aliens can’t see me, but they can see her, which makes her a liability. They never bother with animals, though.

  I straighten my clothes and very carefully go downstairs. The stairs creak a little, and I hold my breath, calming myself.

  The front door is locked, just as I left it last night. I breathe a sigh of relief, then turn toward the kitchen.

  And freeze.

  It’s right there, behind the counter, in the middle of the ceramic floor. Its form rises from the kitchen tiles, huddled on six insect-like legs that crawl and click as it slides from side to side, looking for something. But that’s not the worst part.

  Its upper half looks so completely human that it’s a shock to see another human face after so long.

  But it’s not human, I remind myself. The alien clinks over the tile floor like a middle-aged, suburban mom out of some TV sitcom. Its face is older than others I’ve seen, like someone in their early forties, with sleek brown hair the same color as mine. My stomach churns, but I keep holding my breath. I can’t let myself collapse.

  It clinks toward the door, stopping right in front of me.

  I don’t breathe.

  I don’t move.

  I don’t make a sound.

  The alien doesn’t turn. It stands facing me, with its weirdly human face and insect-like legs, as if waiting to hear something. But whatever it’s waiting for, it doesn’t come. It clinks back on its legs, retreating toward the kitchen, and goes out the back door. The wood swings as it exits, and I stand there and watch it in the sunlight, moving fast with its wickedly sharp legs.

  The door swings again and I collapse onto the floor, tears running down my face while my whole body shivers. My heart beats again and my lungs fill with air.

  It doesn’t return for me. It hasn’t seen me.

  They never, ever see me.

  Chapter 8

  The muzzle of the gun feels familiar against my temple.

  Escape is just one quick squeeze away.

  Just one.

  I look at the gun and it stares back at me, and I can almost hear it whisper “coward” in my ear. I’m just not sure if I’m a coward for not pulling the trigger or because I’m thinking about doing it in the first place. Sputnik comes down, cocking her head sideways, her ears perked. As she approaches, my trembling hands get a little steadier. She licks my nose, and I let go of the gun, at least for now.

  I’ve survived 178 days. I just have to survive one more.

  I stroke Sputnik’s fur, taking a deep breath. It’s time to leave again.

  I pick up a few more pieces of clothing and other items that I might use. The one good thing about the aliens being so damn efficient is that there was almost no time for people to pillage. It’s like everyone on the planet had a sudden urge to move away and left everything they owned behind.

  The car in the garage is a blue SUV with a full tank of gas, and it starts right up. It’s also an automatic, thank God.

  I get out onto the road and start maneuvering around abandoned cars. The map is laid out on the seat next to me, pointing me toward more wasteland. I drive around the nearby spaceships. They don’t usually bother with moving cars.

  I’ve been driving for more than two hours when I start to feel sleepy from the monotony of the road. Sputnik likes the back seat and, with how many cars I’ve crashed, she’s figured out that it’s the safest place for her to sit. Here and there I see the silver shells of spaceships, the only things noticeable among the scrubby green landscape. I don’t want to stop—because there’s no point stopping until I find a town—so I look around for some CDs that might help me stay awake.

  There’s nothing good in the car. That’s one of the worst things about the end of the world—no music. All the good bands are probably dead. I still carry my iPhone with me, but more out of nostalgia than usefulness. There’s no electricity anymore, unless I manage to find a solar-powered house. Those things really keep going.

  I click the button for the radio and it turns on. I try to slide in a CD, but the port is jammed. I curse, trying again to get it in, but to no avail. The radio is playing, but I know there’s only going to be white noise. White noise for miles and miles.

  I throw the CD on the passenger seat and reach to turn the radio off, but I accidentally change the station.

  And a song comes on.

  It’s “Earth Angel.” I recognize it from Back to the Future, one of my favorite movies. I decide that I must be dead. This can’t be happening. There are no more radio stations. And if there were, they wouldn’t be playing a random fifties doo-wop song like this. I have definitely died. I crashed the car and died, finally.

  But the song doesn’t stop and the car doesn’t crash and I’m not dead. The song keeps on playing and I keep on seeing stunted trees rushing past as I drive down the empty interstate.

  After the song ends, a voice comes on.

  “This is the Apocalypse Radio Station, where we celebrate the end of the world every day and now,” a girl’s voice says. Her New York accent is painfully clear. “If you’re out there, you are not alone. Come find us.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Unless you’re one of the aliens. Then, please, don’t come. But if you are entirely and one hundred percent human, you know where to find me. Come to the place where they used to be kept. This is Brooklyn Spencer, and you’re listening to the Apocalypse Radio Station. Songs to keep you entertained after the world ends.”

  Another song starts playing.

  I’m not alone.

  For a minute, I can’t believe it. The world ended six months ago, and this is too wild. But even so, I’m not alone.

  Fuck.

  I crash the SUV.

  Chapter 9

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Brooklyn’s message—I
solve it in two minutes. I pick up another car that has plenty of gas and get on a different highway. All I need to do is cross Texas and go through New Mexico, then Arizona, then Nevada.

  The fact that it could be a trap doesn’t scare me. I just don’t care anymore. The risk is worth it. I’ve been dead inside for months, so if they’re going to kill me now, by setting a sick trap like this, it won’t make any difference.

  Besides, if there really are more of us…then there’s still a chance. A chance that we can find a solution together. A chance that we can fight back.

  A chance that there’s still a reason to stay alive.

  Even Sputnik senses my sudden change of mood. I put a seat belt on her, and she sits with her head stretched out of the window, feeling the wind.

  The landscape slowly starts changing, with desert plains becoming more visible the farther west I go. I’ve never visited this part of the country before. When the gas light comes on and the car is running on fumes, I stop and find another car with a full tank. I change cars three more times, then stop to sleep. I’m not going to risk traveling by night, but I can barely force my eyes to close. Not because of the aliens this time, but because I might meet someone like me. A survivor.

  I find myself always tuning in to the Apocalypse Radio Station. Whoever Brooklyn is, she has good taste in music, ranging from sixties songs to movie soundtracks to eighties hard rock, and an awful lot of musicals. Not to mention that she has a bit of dark humor to go along with it. And after every few songs, she repeats the message that I heard the two days before.

  I wish I could travel faster, but I’m not going to risk a plane. Not after what happened last time. So I just slam on the accelerator, watching everything fly by in a rush of speed.

  I think about Brooklyn’s message again. She’s obviously in a place where she can connect to some kind of electricity, enough to power a radio station. And she feels safe enough that she thinks it’s a good idea to broadcast messages to others—although I haven’t figured out yet how she’s doing it. She’s in a secure place with access to food. It has to be a base or compound of some kind.

  The other part of the message is clear: “that place where they used to be kept.” There’s only one they she could mean. We don’t know their species or where they came from or even what they are. We weren’t given a chance to name our destruction. It was just they, us versus them, whoever they are.

  There were hundreds of theories about aliens in many places around the world, but if Brooklyn is in the United States, then there’s only one place that fits the description. A place that’s a legend of its own.

  It takes almost twenty hours of driving down I-40 to get there. Every song that plays on the radio is an incentive for me to drive faster. To drive like my life depends on it, because it probably does.

  I know this place is in the middle of the desert, somewhere no one would really look for it, so I take yet another car, since I wouldn’t be able to cover much ground on foot. I keep crossing the desert, going one hundred miles an hour. Finally, on the third day, I find it.

  I can see some kind of warehouse in the distance, its walls stark and sober. Three different barbed-wire fences protect it. Security towers—empty now—rise up every few miles, but I don’t bother stopping.

  As I approach the gates, I don’t spot any breaches in the surrounding fences that I could go through. Barely reading the Restricted Area sign, I floor it and drive the car straight through the gates.

  No one shoots at me or tries to stop me. I drive toward the main building and, in the distance, I think I see a figure. But I can’t see it properly and I can hardly believe that there would be anyone out here. Suddenly, my heart stops as I realize that I’m driving straight toward a person.

  I slam on the brakes, but somehow the car doesn’t stop, and I scream as the person jumps out of the way and the car crashes into the side of the building, the engine crushing against it. I’m wearing my seat belt, but I still jerk forward, and my head bangs against the steering wheel. Sputnik barks. She’s been through more car wrecks than any dog in history. I stay there, my head throbbing, tasting blood in my mouth.

  But I don’t care. Because right outside the car, I can hear voices. Human voices.

  “Bloody hell,” says a guy. “She went straight for it. This girl can’t drive at all.”

  “Shut up, Flint,” another voice says. “Let’s see if she’s alive.”

  “If she’s dead, I’m not burying her,” the guy replies.

  The car door opens and I look up at three faces gaping at me. Yes, I am alive, and so are they, and I don’t know which of us is more surprised. They stand there, blinking, as if they’ve seen a ghost.

  “Hi,” I try to say, but I don’t even know if the word comes out of my mouth. I can’t feel anything, except for my head, which hurts so much that I just want to close my eyes.

  I see a Black guy standing on the far right, looking concerned. He’s wearing a Star Wars T-shirt. On the far left is a girl with russet-brown skin and straight dark hair, holding the biggest gun I’ve ever seen.

  Right in the middle stands a girl with spiky black hair and a nose piercing.

  “Hey,” she says, and I recognize Brooklyn’s voice from the radio station. I can’t help but smile. “Welcome to Area 51. Home to the Last Teenagers on Earth.”

  Chapter 10

  When I open my eyes, it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am. I jump up, my head spinning.

  “Sit down,” says an authoritative voice. “You’re going to reopen the wound I just stitched.”

  I blink, slowly lying back down on what appears to be a bed of some sort. I turn my head and see a girl wearing a white lab coat and a surgical mask, her dark hair tied into a bun with a couple of pencils to hold it in place. Her dark-brown skin is in opposition to the whiteness of the coat and the sterile room around us. When I blink again, I realize that I’m in some kind of lab, filled with beeping equipment.

  I realize that the lab is beyond a glass wall in front of me. I’m sitting inside a room with nothing but a bed and a closed door. Then again, it’s not a room.

  I’m sitting inside a cell.

  “You’re going to be fine,” the girl says as she approaches me and flashes a light in my eyes. “No concussion or anything.”

  “You a doctor?” I ask, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “We improvise,” she answers, shrugging.

  “Where’s Sputnik?” I ask, looking around. A dog that big would make a racket, but she’s nowhere to be seen. “Is she okay?”

  “The dog is fine,” the girl assures me. “We had to take her out of the room. She was making too much noise.”

  I sit up, more carefully this time, and take in the space. They’ve searched me—my gun and the rest of my possessions sit on the other side of the glass. It looks like a giant warehouse, with equipment and tables taking up most of the work area, and strange machines that I have no idea how to work, not to mention what they do.

  But it’s all beyond the glass.

  “Oh, she’s awake!” Another person appears, stopping in front of the glass. I recognize Brooklyn. She wears too much eyeliner, a surprising feat at the end of the world, and her light brown skin is muted by the lab lights. By her side is Sputnik.

  Sputnik runs toward the glass, smashing her head against it. When she can’t get through, she starts whining, destroying everything around her as she circles the cell, trying to find a way to get to me.

  “Brooklyn!” the girl shouts. “I told you to keep the dog outside.”

  “It wouldn’t listen,” Brooklyn complains, half-amused by the mess Sputnik is making.

  “Sputnik,” I order. “Sit.”

  She sits down, but her whining is deep.

  The girl nods and walks out of the cell, leaving me locked inside. She stops next to Brooklyn, taking off her mask,
and gives me a kind smile.

  Brooklyn puts an arm around the girl, who immediately slides it off and glares at her. “She needs rest. She hit her head pretty hard when she crashed that car.”

  “I’m okay,” I answer, because the last thing I need is someone babying me. Besides, I crashed twelve other cars before this one. It’s not like it’s something new. “Thanks for the bandage.”

  I place my feet on the floor, breathing in.

  “If those stitches open, I’m not sewing you back together again,” she responds.

  “Avani, darling, relax,” Brooklyn says. “She only crashed her car into concrete.”

  “Step back,” Avani says, frowning as Brooklyn rolls her eyes. “Or I’m going to…”

  “Make me?” Brooklyn raises a single eyebrow.

  Avani blushes a deep red, but Brooklyn does step back. My head still hurts, but at least I don’t taste blood in my mouth anymore. My legs feel fine, but I’ll only know for sure when I start using them again.

  I walk toward the glass and ask, “Why am I inside a cell?”

  Brooklyn grimaces. “I’m sorry, this is just procedure. We don’t know if you’re contagious.”

  “Contagious?”

  “Plague,” Avani says. “We’ll probably have you out in a few days. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know what to say to this.

  “So,” Brooklyn says, turning to me. “Who the hell are you and how did you find us?”

  I open my mouth, but I’m not sure where to start. So I begin with simple answers. “Clover Martinez.” It hits me that I’m talking to another person for the first time in six months. “I heard your radio message.”

  Brooklyn grins triumphantly at Avani, who has moved to the lab equipment and isn’t even looking at her. “Told you so. What did I say? The message works! It worked!” She looks at me again. “And now here you are, you magnificent bastard.”

  I shoot up an eyebrow, and Avani turns to me.