Blackout

by Edward W. Robertson

  "What, no more fossil fuels for you? Don't tell me you think the Swimmers had the right idea about environmentalism."

  "When we built modern civilization, we had no idea what we were doing. We had no idea how big it would become, or how the choices we made at the start would get locked in for centuries. This time, we have to make sure those initial choices are smarter."

  "I don't think we can go straight from bikes and oxen to solar panels and hydrogen fuel cells. There's a reason we started with the Texas tea."

  "Because it's easier? You think that's a good excuse?"

  Walt ducked an incoming bee. "It's the best one there is."

  "We can start with coal and oil, if we have to. But we should use those to take the next step. Right from the start." She nodded to the refineries, which looked like something a Terminator would get killed in. "If we get to the point where we need so much oil that we're using those again, and we still haven't moved on to something better? Then we fucked up. Big time."

  "I never knew you were so green."

  She turned to look him in the eye. "It's not about being green. It's about being smart."

  Duncan brushed his hair from his eyes. "How long do you think it'll take to rebuild, anyway? A hundred years?"

  "Longer," Carrie said. "Five hundred. A thousand."

  "How do you figure? Like, the old people, they didn't even know what a steam engine was. They had to come up with that shit from scratch. But they already did the hard work for us! You could just go find a smart guy and be like, 'Hey smart guy, here's a picture of a steam engine. Want to whip that up for me?'"

  "Using what?"

  Duncan laughed his raspy stoner laugh. "I don't know. Tools. Whatever the old dudes used."

  "None of those are around. Because nobody's had to build a steam engine in a hundred and fifty years. We're going to have to learn smelting. Metallurgy. Manufacturing."

  "What's the big deal? The Romans and the Egyptians already figured the basic shit out for us. All we have to do is go to the library."

  "Relearning those skills will take generations on its own," Carrie said. "And that's not even the biggest problem—L.A. barely has enough people in it to populate a village. The entire world hasn't had so few humans in it since the Paleolithic."

  "Sweet, dude. More land for us."

  "And too few hands to do anything with it."

  "Well, I've got an easy solution to that problem," Walt said. "We assign one team to start cranking out moonshine, a second to rediscovering R&B music, and the rest of us to get bangin'."

  Carrie rolled her eyes. "If you're hoping to go polygamous, we're getting a divorce."

  "I didn't even know we were married. Although I suppose that makes the divorce much simpler." Something skittered across the sidewalk. He halted and reached for his laser, but it was only a leaf. "Anyway, you've got nothing to worry about. I won't be around for the rebuild."

  "Intending to die in a blaze of glory?"

  "Hell no. I'm going to retire. We'll go back to the beach at Carmel. Eat crabs every day and drink whiskey every night."

  "You feel like that would be a rewarding remainder of your life?"

  "After the last seven years? Absolutely."

  They lapsed into silence. Loose gravel crunched underfoot. To the left, shops and parking lots rested in the sunlight, which was much too warm for January. Low seventies, maybe. Not that Walt gave much mind to exact temperature since the bank signs and weather.com had waved goodbye. These days, temperature broke down into the categories of "shorts and t-shirt," "jacket and jeans," and "stay in bed until the sun returns."

  A high-pitched whistle sifted from the sky. All four of them looked up, then scattered into the trees along the sidewalk. They'd heard the sound several times over the last two days, but Walt would have remembered it anywhere: the wailing keen of an alien jet.

  "There." Becka pointed west. A dark triangle streaked across the sky, peeling to the south. The noise of its jets amped up, piercing Walt's temple like a champagne hangover. The vessel disappeared beyond the trees, the wail fading quickly.

  They emerged from cover and continued east past the refinery. Miles to the south, a faint pop went off.

  Walt squinted against the sun. "Don't tell me they're shooting at it."

  Becka shook her head. "Fireflowers. To warn the others."

  "Fireflowers? Glad to hear we've got Mario on our side. The aliens don't stand a chance."

  Duncan made a noise that might have been a chuckle. "Fireworks. Raina calls 'em fireflowers. Don't ask me why."

  "She's kind of an odd duck, isn't she?"

  "She does what's necessary," Becka said. "Without her, we would all be dead or in chains."

  Walt was about to suggest where they should erect Raina's next statue, but Carrie was giving him a quiet look. As if to remind him that they'd have to spend days if not weeks in the company of these people and it might be best not to annoy them with pointless barbs at their leader. He was still searching for a more measured response when the keening returned.

  Swearing liberally, he moved back into the cover of the trees. The jet was already soaring overhead, going north.

  "It's low," Carrie said.

  "Slow, too," Walt muttered.

  Becka went still. "Perhaps it's hunting."

  Duncan rolled something between his fingers and flicked it away. "If they're hunting for us, I think they need a new pair of glasses."

  The jet lowered, banking, a mile north and another mile inland. Its engines lowered in pitch; now, it was less like they were whining and more like they were grousing.

  "It's not hunting," Walt said. "It's landing."

  He scrabbled for his binoculars. His view through the lenses was shaky, blurry. He swept his gaze from side to side until he spotted the dark triangle drifting downward. It was less than five hundred feet high and dropping lower by the second.

  "Why would it land?" Duncan said.

  "We're the scouts," Walt said. "It's our job to find out."

  Beside him, Carrie had her binoculars to her eyes. "Where is that? LAX?"

  "Let's grab the bikes."

  They ran down the sidewalk toward the auto shop where they'd stashed their bicycles. Seconds later, the jet descended behind the roofs of the stores. Within five minutes of hard running, they reached the auto body shop. Inside the garage, two Mercedes sedans rusted in the darkness. They grabbed their bikes and pedaled north.

  "Do we have a plan?" Carrie said.

  Walt shrugged. "Don't get shot?"

  "There are runways on the north and south sides of the airport," Becka said. "It looked as though it landed on the north."

  "Either way, we can't cross the southern runways. It's open concrete. I say we take PCH through the tunnel, sneak our way inside, and spy on them from the safety of the terminal."

  Without a word, Becka swerved east at the next intersection. They zipped through several blocks of veterinary offices, skate shops, and car detailing joints. At PCH, gas stations and diners stood across from blue-windowed high-rises twenty stories tall. The four of them hooked north, taking to the sidewalks whenever the abandoned cars snarled the eight-lane road.

  In less than a mile, a highway overpass loomed. There was nothing beyond it but bare fields and LAX. They slowed, scanning the onramps and shoulders before continuing. Ahead, decorative towers rose from the outskirts of the airport. Far beyond that, a control tower and a UFO-like structure overlooked the terminals.

  The road dipped, leading to a tunnel. Cars choked its mouth. Many were bumper to bumper, hoods crumpled and headlights smashed. The asphalt was strewn with so much luggage, clothing, and bones that they had to stop their bikes and walk them into the darkness.

  "Oh Jesus," Walt said. "This is like walking into a sewer pipe that decided to become a graveyard. Why are we doing this?"

  "Because you can't seem to stop killing aliens," Carrie said.

  "It's not my fault they won't stop invading."


  Glass and brittle plastic crunched beneath his shoes. Bones rattled away from his toes. Like most things these days, the tunnel had the scent of dust, but this was soon overpowered by urine, rot, and the reek of skunks. After a minute, the light was no more than a suggestion behind them. Cars were blocky black shapes. A faint glow ahead—too far ahead—promised the tunnel had an exit.

  Something skittered through the debris. Walt called out involuntarily. Carrie grunted. Duncan made a whinnying sound. Becka was silent.

  "A rat," Carrie said. "Or a possum."

  Walt moved his fingers off the triggers of his laser. "I know that now. Was still scary then."

  Foot by foot, they worked their bikes forward. At the tunnel exit, they waited by the walls, letting their eyes adjust to the daylight. Seeing nothing, they walked their bikes down the road, taking the onramp-esque turn to LAX. A concrete barrier lined the edges of the elevated road, tall enough that if they hunched down, they could pass behind it without being seen.

  The road curled to the right. They headed for arrivals, which was on the lower of the airport's two levels and largely sealed from the elements by the one above it.

  Cars rested nose to tail. The foremost were crumpled against a concrete barricade erected across the lanes. Jeeps and Hummers sat behind the barricade, urban camouflage marred by scorch marks. Dozens of skeletons lay shrouded in tattered clothes. Several of the bodies wore faded military uniforms, but any guns or goodies had been looted years ago.

  "Gross," Duncan said. "The heck happened here?"

  Carrie shrugged. "Presumably, they wanted to fly out of the city. During the plague. While the army had orders to stop them."

  "Well, that was dumb of them. This is arrivals, not departures."

  They left their bikes in the street and picked their way through the vehicles. The terminal windows had been shot out and broken glass carpeted the sidewalks. Walt moved to the door to the baggage claim. The carousels gleamed dimly. Emptied-out suitcases were spread across the floor, clothing piled around them. Dried brown patches stained the linoleum.

  Walt opened the door, pistol in his other hand. "Anyone know their way upstairs?"

  Becka moved beside him, nostrils flaring as she took in the dank environs. She pointed to the left, which was completely dark. "Over there. But there's another tunnel. There won't be any light."

  Walt took a step inside. Half an hour had passed since the jet had landed. More than enough time for the aliens to have infiltrated whatever part of the airport they were interested in.

  "We'll use a light," he said.

  Carrie cocked her head. "You are aware the aliens have eyes, right?"

  "That was a fighter jet, not a cargo carrier. It can't have been carrying more than four or five Swimmers. This place is the size of a small city. Not much chance we'll run into one of them in the tunnel. And if we do, I'd rather be able to see them than to stroll blindly into a spider's web."

  He advanced in the direction Becka had pointed, stopping once it grew too dark to make out his next steps. There, he got out his penlight. It was his last functional one, and almost as precious to him as his laser. Except he was pretty sure he'd run out of batteries for the light long before the ones in the laser wore down.

  No use being sentimental, though. If you weren't willing to use your supplies in a situation like this, why carry them at all?

  He clicked it on. Blue-white light cast long shadows through the baggage claim. He swiveled, eyes straining for any flicker of tentacles, then walked forward, keeping the light held away from his head, like he'd used to see the cops do on TV shows. The other three strung out behind him. Becka pointed the way to the tunnel. This was half blocked by a makeshift wall of suitcases, chairs, and those beeping carts they'd used to tool around between gates, but scavengers—or the Swimmers' original occupation of LAX—had cleared a path through the barricade.

  Beyond, the thirty-foot-wide tunnel was empty. Its dirty tile reminded Walt of the New York subway platforms. A staircase rose from the far end. Reaching it, he switched off his penlight. Light trickled from above. He ascended, followed by the others, and crouched at the top of the steps to survey what lay behind.

  This turned out to be a lot of nothing. He crept through the former security checkpoint and into the endless hallway running between gates. Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A moving sidewalk, which had long ago lost any claim to the "moving" part of things, ran down the middle of the hall. Much better cover than he'd get anywhere else. Walt entered it and beckoned the others to him. They hunkered low as they advanced, eyes just over the handrail, stopping regularly to scan the deserts of concrete beyond the windows.

  In some of the gates, rows of seating had been ripped up and hauled away. Dried-out blue sponge plastered the windows, darkening them. The desiccated remnants of the Swimmers' first occupation.

  Halfway down the sidewalk, Walt froze. "There."

  A mile away, a navy blue triangle was parked on the runway. He got out his binoculars.

  "Don't see any aliens," he murmured. "Or any other indication of what they're doing here."

  After a minute of silent observation, he still hadn't seen any movement. He climbed out of the sidewalk and crossed to the nearest gate for a better look.

  "We're too far away." He nodded to the west. A thousand feet away, another terminal jutted from the body of the airport. "How about we try that one?"

  "There's a third arm of the building beyond it," Becka said. "That's as close as we're going to get without going outside."

  Walt lowered his binoculars. "Let's give it a shot. They sure didn't land here for the scenery."

  Laser in hand, he withdrew from the gate, walking with measured steps to the hub connecting the terminals. Cobwebs festooned the sports bars and Japanese restaurants.

  Carrie held her rifle in the crook of her elbow. "They didn't come here to sit on the runway, either. We should advance two by two. Cover each other."

  They hashed out a quick strategy for stealthy advancement, which was facilitated by their ability to call out to each other rather than relying on hand signals. He and Carrie were first to move, scuttling from the cover of a Sbarro and making their way to a juice bar. They holed up there, watching the gloomy food court while Duncan and Becka leapfrogged them on the way to a duty-free store.

  They passed the entrance to the next terminal, light fading behind them, and made their way toward the western end of the airport. The gates had the air of an overcast morning, but the hub was closer to dusk. Walt slowed his pace, blinking, ears sharp.

  Something rasped ahead. He rolled through the entrance of a Starbucks and pressed himself against the wall, laser trained on the darkness. Carrie moved beside him and put her rifle to her shoulder. The rasping repeated. Fifty feet away, a shape moved within the gloom. Tall. Fluid motions. Its many limbs made it look much wider than it was.

  Carrie set her eye to the scope.

  "Don't," Walt said. A faint green dot of light blinked from an object on the alien's body.

  "Because?" Carrie said.

  The alien stopped. Two thick tentacles lifted from its back. Motion sensors. Trying to keep his mouth as still as possible, Walt said, "Hold up."

  Down the way, the alien held position. Walt thought he saw a limb shifting, but it might have been a trick of the darkness. Walt willed it to go on its way. And for Becka and Duncan to hold their fire. The Swimmer shifted sideways toward the nearest wall. Pale blue light lit up its carapace—the small square of one of their communication pads.

  Walt squeezed the buttons on either side of the laser pistol. Light flashed across the chamber. The beam hit the alien's chest with a sizzle. The limbs on its left side gave out, its body angling down like a deactivating robot. Its other limbs followed suit. Its corpse spread across the tile, tentacles giving a final twitch before going still.

  "Cover me." He dashed from the Starbucks and crouched beside the body.

  Sixty feet behin
d the Starbucks, Duncan whispered like a stage actor. "What's going on out there, dude?"

  "Just took down a Swimmer," Walt called back, keeping his voice as low as he could. "Move up and keep an eye out for more."

  As he bent over the body, Becka and Duncan jogged down the hallway, taking position on either side. Walt picked up the alien's claw—the delicate one they normally used to grip their pistols, as the corpse was doing now—aimed the laser at its head, and fired.

  Blue light seared through the skin and bored a hole into its skull. The air filled with the odor of burned lobster husks. It was disturbingly pleasant.

  "What are you doing?" Carrie's voice echoed hollowly.

  "What does it look like?" Walt lowered the claw to the ground, making sure its grip on the laser stayed intact, and laid it out in an arc that he hoped was an appropriately dramatic resting place. "Making it look like it shot itself."

  "Is that your idea of a joke?"

  "Sooner or later, this one's fellow aliens are going to come looking for it. When they find it, they'll observe that it's been killed by laser fire. Now, maybe they'll guess that laser was held by a human, and maybe they won't. But I don't intend to make it easy for them."

  She laughed lightly. "Do these things even commit suicide?"

  "If there's any justice, they'll assume it was overcome with grief for what its people did to ours." He wiped his hands on his pants. "Now let's get out of here before its buddies come looking for it."

  They jogged away, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. Walt headed for the stairs to the tunnel, lighting their way to the baggage claim. Outside in the dank-smelling loading zone, they grabbed their bicycles and headed out the way they'd come in, glancing over their shoulders all the while. Nobody said a word until they were back in the relative safety of the tunnel leading to the airport.

  "Why didn't you want to shoot it at first?" Carrie said. "Afraid it had others behind it?"

  Walt took a drink of water. It was warm and tasted like the aluminum of the canteen. "Raina's right. There's no sense trying to pick them off one by one when they outnumber us ten or twenty times over. The only way to end this is to knock out the ship."