Attack of the Alien Horde

by Robert Venditti

  “Is e-everything to y-your Unnd-liking, Lord Commander?” A servant bowed low in front of the throne, his entire body quivering with fear.

  The Lord Commander tried to recall what planet the servant had come from, but it escaped him. He had conquered so many worlds and subjected so many peoples to servitude that the names and places all ran together. A pity. He wouldn’t mind having an entire court of servants like this one, since he was particularly good at quivering. It reminded the Lord Commander of his mother’s curdle pudding. Oh, how the Lord Commander pined for his mother’s curdle pudding. It was the foulest he’d ever tasted.

  “Of course not!” the Lord Commander snarled. “There are entire star systems still to be conquered. What’s there to Unnd-like?”

  “A-apologies, Lord G-Gener—”

  “Silence! Leave my presence!” The Lord Commander watched the servant slink away, then thought better of it. “But stand where I can still see you quivering.”

  The doors to the great hall were suddenly thrown open, the sound echoing off the coal-black rock of the walls. Snarlpustule, the chief fortress guard, stood breathless in the opening. “Lord Commander,” he hissed. “We’ve found one.”

  The Lord Commander sat forward, his jaw tight with humorlessness. “Beware, Snarlpustule. I usually Unnd-encourage cruel pranks, but today I’m in no mood.”

  Snarlpustule approached the throne. “It’s true, Lord Commander. One of the trackers has transmitted a signal beacon. They’ve located a GGARL!” Snarlpustule thrust a clenched fist into the air and spat a glob of steaming mucus onto the floor.

  “A GGARL!” Not to be outdone in his own great hall, the Lord Commander thrust his fist higher and expelled a larger, steamier mucus glob of his own. “What’s the tracker’s report?”

  “No report, Lord Commander. We assume he’s been killed dead.”

  “Who cares!” the Lord Commander bellowed. “If he fell in battle with a GGARL!, it’s a most Unnd-deserving death. Where’s the cape located?”

  Snarlpustule referenced a printout on a scroll of paper. (Technologically advanced as the Unnd were, they still printed everything on paper. They were able to pulp more trees that way.) “Some ball of earth the locals call Earth.”

  “Earth . . .” the Lord Commander mused. “Not an overly original name. I don’t remember that one. Have we conquered it already?”

  “I think we flew past it once. The primitive race that inhabits the planet was still living in caves and walking barefoot. You didn’t think they’d be very fun to fight.”

  “No boots?” the Lord Commander inquired. “What do they use to crush things underfoot?” If there were unknown ways to crush things underfoot, he wanted to know about them right away.

  “I suspect they don’t, Lord Commander.”

  “No crushing? Hmph. If the GGARL! think they can find allies with such a meager race, then they’re more desperate than I suspected.”

  “Indeed, Lord Commander. What are your orders?”

  The Lord Commander stood from his throne, his lips pulled back in a ferocious sneer. “Assemble the horde at once. I want the full assault brigade aboard my cruiser. Any warrior who isn’t motivated, let them know they’re being given the chance to die a warrior’s death. We’re hunting GGARL!” The Lord Commander thrust both hands into the air this time and let loose a mucus glob so large, he was certain it’d be written about for eons to come.

  “GGARL!” Snarlpustule echoed.

  Every warrior in the great hall repeated the cry until the walls shook and the floor was slicker than a professional snot-hockey oval.

  Lord Commander Calamity listened to the cacophony, and he was Unnd-moved. At last a cape was within his reach, and nothing was going to stop him.

  Especially not the people of Earth. When the Lord Commander was finished with them, they were going to understand the value of boots.

  CHAPTER

  5

  CRASH!

  Miles’s morning began with the sound of a dish shattering against the wall of the apartment next door.

  Mr. and Mrs. Collins lived in unit 2G. Miles had met them both on the day he and his dad moved to Cedar Lake Apartments. It was a sweltering Saturday in July, the type of weather that Mr. Taylor referred to as “angry hot.” They hadn’t thought to bring a cooler of drinks, and all their cups and glasses were packed away in one of the countless boxes they hadn’t thought to label. Not that cups or glasses would’ve done them much good since the water wasn’t turned on.

  The U-Haul truck wasn’t half-emptied, but Miles and Mr. Taylor were already way more than half-drenched with sweat. The sofa hadn’t gone into the apartment without putting up a fight, and Mr. Taylor was on the verge of becoming angry hot himself when there was a light knock on the open front door.

  Mrs. Collins introduced herself as their neighbor. She’d brought a serving tray laden with a pitcher of sweet tea and two glasses filled to the brim with glistening ice cubes. Not just any old ice cubes out of an ice machine, either. They were in the shape of little palm trees. She explained that she collected ice cube molds for every holiday and season, and she used the decorative ice only for special occasions.

  The tea was delicious. It was home-brewed, but the sugar was completely dissolved, not a syrupy sludge sitting in the bottom of the glass. Mr. Taylor guzzled his first glassful down without once coming up for air. Mrs. Collins took that as a compliment. She reached for the pitcher to pour Mr. Taylor a refill, but Mr. Collins barked for her, and she said she had to go.

  For the next ten minutes, Miles and Mr. Taylor sat on the sofa and sipped their tea, pretending they couldn’t overhear Mr. Collins scolding his wife. Miles learned three things about Mr. Collins that day: His first name was Tom; he didn’t care to have his wife serve sweet tea to another man, whether she was just being neighborly or not; and he liked to yell. A lot.

  Miles lay in bed now and listened as Mr. Collins scolded his wife again. It was a common morning occurrence that usually had something to do with Mr. Collins’s eggs being too dry, or his cereal being too wet, or some other breakfast-related catastrophe.

  Miles felt bad for Mrs. Collins. He liked her, and not just because of her sweet tea and palm-tree ice cubes. She always flashed her kind smile when Miles passed her on his way home from the bus stop, no matter how late she was for her shift waitressing at the Biscuit Barrel.

  Miles slid out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. His dad had already gone to work, leaving him to hear Mr. Collins’s rant alone.

  “What’d you do to the bacon?” he hollered.

  “Last time you said it was too fatty,” Mrs. Collins answered.

  “That don’t mean I want it blowtorched! Crack a window and let out some of this smoke ’fore it sets off the fire alarm!” There was more crashing of dishes, and Mrs. Collins screamed.

  Miles gritted his teeth. He wanted to help, but what could he do? Her husband sounded like a genuine nutjob, the type who kept a Louisville Slugger by the door just in case a neighbor decided to get nosy. At Miles’s height, his head would be right in the strike zone.

  The cape.

  Why didn’t he think of it sooner? This was exactly what it was for, right? A Louisville Slugger would be no match for Gilded. And if Gilded came to Mrs. Collins’s aid, even a guy as crummy as Mr. Collins would have to admit that it wasn’t because she had the superhero on speed dial.

  Nervous, Miles walked shakily to the closet. He pulled the cape from the sleeping bag, and its lustrous fabric cascaded to the floor. He draped it over his shoulders, a swarm of butterflies fluttering in his stomach. If the cape granted powers, then it was time to put them to the test.

  Miles started bringing the two halves of the clasp together. Just as had happened the night before, he felt them pulling themselves closer.

  Miles thought about Mrs. Collins’s kind smile. He realized she probably wasn’t smiling right now.

  Closer.

  Was Mr. Collins raising more
than his voice?

  Closer.

  Someone had to help her!

  Suddenly, the two halves of the clasp leaped from Miles’s hands and fused together with a soft click. The clasp’s surface rippled and then went smooth, leaving no trace that it had ever been not whole.

  For a heartbeat, Miles felt weightless, like he’d tipped down the hill of a roller coaster, and the track hadn’t yet caught up. Then a surge of power rushed into him. He was solid as granite. Strong as gravity. Mighty as the universe itself. He was all those things and more, the power washing over him until—

  THUD!

  Miles lay on his back, relieved he hadn’t broken any bones. More good news: He hadn’t landed in a blackberry bramble. Some bad news: He had landed in a fire ant mound. He rolled across the ground, swatting at the ants and suffering a few bites on his hands in the battle. He stood and brushed the leaves and twigs from his school clothes.

  His school clothes? How did he end up back in his jeans and T-shirt? Where did the Gilded suit disappear to?

  The cape was still around his neck, but something was different. There was no glow, no soft hum. It might as well have been from one of those cheap, off-the-rack imitation Gilded outfits that were so popular on Halloween. He barely touched the clasp, and it split into its two separate halves.

  Miles replayed what had happened. One second he was cruising through the air, fantasizing about his plans for seventh-grade domination. The next he was dropping like a stone, the cape’s power rushing from him like air from a too-full balloon. Luckily, the protection abilities had been the last thing to go. If not, Miles would’ve had a lot more to complain about than a few fire ant welts. Or maybe not. It’s kind of hard to complain with your guts splattered all over the ground.

  Had the cape run out of juice or something? Miles checked for a battery compartment or an electrical socket, but found none. Maybe it needed to recharge itself. After yesterday’s workout against the alien, who could blame it for wanting some downtime?

  Miles would have to figure that stuff out later. He needed to hustle, or he was going to be late for school and earn himself another afternoon in detention.

  CHAPTER

  6

  TENSION HUNG OVER CHAPMAN MIDDLE like a black cloud. None of the teachers talked about the alien’s rampage in downtown, but it was obviously on everyone’s mind. In history class, Mrs. Antebellum kept glancing out the window, like she was expecting an attack to level the school at any moment. After having a parking garage nearly come down on top of his head, Miles understood how she felt.

  Mrs. Antebellum stayed skittish all throughout her lecture on William Tecumseh Sherman’s march to the sea, but Miles didn’t pay much attention. Who cared if Sherman had led his Union soldiers right past where Chapman Middle now stood? If the general were still alive, even he’d have to admit that his feats paled in comparison to what Miles could do with the Gilded cape on his shoulders.

  Miles had considered leaving the cape at home, but, come to find out, when he folded it neatly instead of crumpling it into a ball, it fit inside his backpack without any fuss. Score one for the neat and tidy. Folding somehow made the cape weigh less, too, so each time Miles laid the mystery fabric over on itself, it became lighter. Folded all the way down, it wasn’t much bigger or heavier than a spiral notebook—still too large to carry in his pocket, but it left plenty of space in his backpack for his textbooks. Or at least it would’ve, if he hadn’t ditched his books at the construction site.

  The cape was only a reach away, waiting for Miles to put it on and do . . . What exactly could he do with it, anyway? Fly? Check. (Land? Not so check.) The cape definitely made him stronger—he’d snatched up Mr. Collins as if he were stuffed with straw. Miles figured the cape probably let him run fast, too, but how fast? Was he set-a-world-record-in-the-one-hundred-meter-dash fast, or dash-around-the-world-in-under-a-minute fast? Miles tried to think of all the amazing things he’d heard about Gilded doing over the years. If the old Gilded could do it, then it stood to reason Miles could now, too.

  Thoughts of the cape swirled in Miles’s brain, making it hard for him to concentrate on much of anything. Even scheduled stops at his locker, usually as quick and efficient as a tire change at Talladega, were slowed by a constant feeling that he needed to look over his shoulder to make sure no prying eyes were trying to sneak a peek inside his backpack.

  Of course, he could always hide the cape in his locker for safekeeping.

  Yeah, right.

  Chapman wasn’t without its criminal element, and theft was way too common for Miles to entrust the security of the cape to his locker’s combination code and flimsy metal hinges. Any thief worth his swag would have a tougher time breaking into a can of Campbell’s soup. No. The safest place to keep the cape was with him, in his backpack and on his shoulders at all times.

  Which posed a problem when sixth-period PE came around. Miles knew there was no way he’d be allowed to wear his backpack during spud, or muckle, or whatever other tortuous game Coach Lineman planned to inflict on his students for the fifty minutes he was allotted. So Miles did what every other right-thinking adolescent does when they really want to get out of school-mandated exercise: He faked a stomachache.

  A few winces and a prolonged groan were all it took to convince Coach Lineman to sideline him. Coach enjoyed pushing kids almost to the point of puking, but actual puking was something he didn’t want any part of. Not when the gymnasium floor had recently been rewaxed. He sent Miles to the bleachers with Trisha Brevard, who claimed to be suffering from an “illness” of her own. It didn’t seem to slow her texting ability one bit.

  “Must be something going around,” Miles said with a knowing grin. Trisha rolled her eyes and went right back to texting.

  At least the day passed without incident. Miles’s teachers never noticed he had come to school without his books. He didn’t even have any after-school detention to work off. Maybe the cape also came with good-luck powers.

  When the final bell sounded, Miles was the first one out the classroom door. He fast-walked through the halls, bypassing his locker and heading straight for the bus corral. His heart raced with anticipation. How in the world had he managed to sit through an entire school day? But it was over now, and the weekend awaited him. And what an incredible weekend it was going to be.

  “How’s your tummy, wimp?”

  Miles stopped short. He didn’t need to look to know who was waiting for him.

  The Jammer.

  Under normal circumstances, Miles wouldn’t have stopped at all. He would’ve continued through the exit and out to the buses, pretending he didn’t hear Craig’s booming taunt. The bus corral, patrolled by drivers and teachers herding kids into their proper transports, was a bully-free zone. Much safer than the chaotic free-for-all indoors.

  These weren’t normal circumstances, though, and the Jammer was about to find out why.

  Miles spun around. Sure enough, there stood Craig with some of his teammates flanking him. Craig held a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. He grinned, his lips parting to reveal peanut-butter-smeared teeth. “You gonna puke, wimp?”

  Anger boiled inside Miles like a baking-soda volcano. He clenched his fists and stepped forward, locking eyes with the pride of Chapman Raiders football.

  “I look at your face long enough, and I just might.”

  Craig’s grin froze. Miles could almost hear the lummox’s meager brain cells working overtime, straining to determine whether or not they should feel insulted.

  One of Craig’s teammates shook his head sadly, as though he truly felt sorry about what he knew was going to happen next. “Duuude,” the kid breathed heavily.

  Miles recognized the kid from yesterday’s incident with the soda cup. Apparently, “dude” was the only word in his vocabulary.

  Craig’s brain cells finally determined that, yes, they should feel insulted. Deciding this was going to be a two-fisted job, Craig stuffed what was left of the peanut butt
er sandwich into his mouth and swallowed it down in a single gulp.

  “I’ll give you something to puke about,” Craig grunted. He drew back one fist slowly, like he was cocking a catapult.

  Miles stood his ground, hands on his hips and chest puffed out. Craig, Dude the Teammate, and everyone else around must’ve thought he was insane. Nobody voluntarily took a hit from the Jammer, not even if they were wearing full pads and a helmet. Why was the new kid not running away, or at the very least making an effort to protect himself? And why did he have that stupid smile on his face?

  None of them knew what Miles knew. Hey, Jammer, he thought, as Craig’s right fist closed in. You’re about to gut punch a superhero. Good luck not breaking your hand.

  The blow landed with such force, it was as though Craig were trying to swipe the wallet from Miles’s back pocket by way of pushing through his body. Miles dropped to his knees, his breath leaving him in a rush. For a moment he was worried he’d never be able to inhale again, but then he rocked back and sucked in a long, squonking breath that sounded like a donkey coming up for air from the bottom of the sea.

  Miles recorded a mental note: Next time, put the cape on before you pick a fight.

  Craig wasn’t finished yet. Not wanting his left fist to feel left out, he raised it and took aim at Miles’s head. Through squinted eyes, Miles saw what was about to happen. Using every ounce of strength left in him, he lifted his shaking arms and stacked his hands in a T.

  “T-t-time out,” he stuttered.

  It worked. Craig wasn’t one to argue with time out. Hitting someone after the referee called time out got you flagged for fifteen yards. He pulled back his punch just before it pounded a divot in Miles’s face. Then he stood there, like he was waiting for someone to blow a whistle and let play resume.