Noah Jordan vs. The Aliens

by Tyler Wild

  I really wanted to take the two-seat sports car with a hardtop convertible. It listed for $156,000 and had a V12 engine. It wouldn't have been very practical. The rest of the gang would have needed to squeeze in the trunk, and I didn't think anybody would go for that.

  I ran back into the showroom, hopped into the SUV, and cranked up the engine. It roared to life, booming in the enclosed space. With the other cars blocking access, there was only one way out.

  Tires squeaked against the tile as I turned the wheel. I dropped the SUV into gear, hit the gas, and barreled through the floor-to-ceiling glass that encased the showroom. The windows shattered into a million pieces, scraping the pristine paint, littering the sidewalk with lethal fragments. The car skidded onto the street, and I pulled to a stop near the others. They all piled in and slammed the doors with a thunk.

  I hit the gas, and the tires spun. The force launched me back against the seat. The SUV drove more like a sports car—fast and nimble, yet had clearance high enough for off-road activity.

  I breathed in the new car smell. The fit and finish of the car was sheer perfection. Hand-stitched leather seats. Brushed aluminum accents. Futuristic gauges. A fat, contoured racing steering wheel. An eight speaker sound system. Individual climate controls, and a sporty exhaust note.

  I weaved through the rubble, dodging the debris and craters in the roadway. My eyes caught sight of a pharmacy and we pulled into the lot. I parked by the entrance and hopped out of the vehicle. “Hang tight. I’m gonna look for some first-aid supplies.”

  Oliver nodded. He didn’t look good. His skin was pale and covered in a cold clammy sweat.

  I raced through the empty store and grabbed rubbing alcohol, peroxide, antibacterial ointment, and some bandages. I loaded up the cart with protein bars, bottled water, and anything useful into the cart. I snatched a clean t-shirt from the rack, as I heading toward the exit. The attack happened so fast that citizens didn’t have time to clear the store shelves of food and water.

  When I returned to the vehicle, I cleaned and dressed Oliver’s wounds. He winced as I poured peroxide on the punctures. They bubbled and foamed. I spread the antibiotic gel onto the bandage and wrapped his leg.

  “Thanks,” he said, not thrilled about the pain.

  I distributed the protein bars and water to my friends. We were all hungry and thirsty by this point.

  The clatter of small arms fire rumbled in the distance. I wasn’t sure if it was the military, or civilians fighting back against the aliens. It was only a matter of time before we ran into an alien platoon, or became the target of an attack fighter. I wasn’t entirely sure we were doing the right thing by trying to make our way to the country. Maybe we’d be better off trying to eke out an existence among the ruins until the chaos died down? Maybe it was best to return home? At least we had some supplies there.

  15

  Static crackled out of the SUVs speakers as I fumbled with the radio, trying to get an update on the situation. But no stations were broadcasting. That didn’t bode well.

  Oliver sat in the passenger seat. The three girls sat in back. I put the car into gear and drove out of the parking lot. I figured it was best to stay off the major roads—I had seen firsthand the ruthlessness of the aliens, and I didn’t want to end up as a charred carcass on the highway. Residential side-streets seemed like our best bet.

  We saw more destroyed armored personnel carriers, tanks, twisted wreckages of helicopters, and plenty of dead soldiers.

  “We’re getting our asses kicked,” Oliver said, solemnly.

  The mood in the car was grim.

  “You know they’ve got contingency plans for this shit,” Oliver said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You can’t tell me the generals haven’t been sitting around in a war-room somewhere, drawing up plans on how to deal with an alien invasion. They’ve got plans for every possible situation. I’m sure they’ve been running drills for years.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it’s doing much good,” I muttered.

  “Exactly. You know what that means.”

  “What?”

  “At some point, when they’ve exhausted their conventional efforts, they’re going to start throwing nukes at these bastards.”

  That hung in the air.

  The last thing we needed was to be awash in radioactive fallout.

  I turned left and ran straight into a squad of alien warriors. Tires screeched as I slammed on the brakes. The aliens brought their weapons into the firing position. I slammed the car into reverse, hit the gas, and backed up leaving a streak of rubber on the pavement. White smoke billowed from the wheel wells.

  Glowing plasma bolts erupted, streaking past the SUV. I backed the vehicle around the corner, put it in drive, and floored it. I don’t know how we made it out of there alive. I blazed down the street, took a right at the next intersection, and weaved through a neighborhood.

  Oliver had lost even more color in his face. His clothes were soaked with sweat.

  “How are you feeling, buddy?” I asked.

  “Like a reheated dog shit. My leg burns. Everything looks blurry.”

  By the time we reached the emergency room, Oliver was drifting in and out of consciousness. I screeched up to the entrance, threw the car into park, and hopped out. I ran around the vehicle and pulled Oliver out of the passenger seat, carrying him in my arms.

  The ER was flooded with trauma victims. Patients overflowed into the hallways. Doctors and nurses scurried about with frantic faces and wide eyes. The hospital was on emergency power, and the lighting was dim. The air was hot and thick.

  “I need help!” I shouted.

  Nobody paid any attention to me. I shouted again, "I need some help here! Please!”

  Finally a triage nurse approached, wearing green scrubs. She had dark curly hair and brown eyes. She took one look add Oliver and instantly knew what had happened. “Did he get bit?"

  "Yes," I nodded.

  A frown creased on her face. "We've been seeing a lot of these.”

  “Don’t you have some type of anti-venom?”

  “We have a polyvalent snakebite anti-venom we’ve been using, but I don’t know how much good it’s doing. I can get him on IV antibiotics and fluids. Give him something for the pain.”

  "Whatever you can do," I said

  “We are well beyond capacity. We don't have a bed. You’ll have to find a place in the hall, and I’ll get you some blankets"

  “Thank you."

  We staked a claim on an empty section, and the triage nurse return a few moments later with some blankets and pillows. She started the IV and injected some medication into the port.

  Oliver trembled, vacillating between being too hot and too cold. A look of sheer terror adorned his face. "I can't feel my legs, man.”

  I held his hand. “Just hang in there, buddy.”

  The nurse peeled off the bandages to re-dress the wound. The flesh around the bites had already become necrotic. She had a concerned look on her face the moment she saw it. She did her best to disinfect and clean up the area.

  When she was done, I stepped away with her to speak in private. “Is he gonna make it?”

  16

  “I don’t think there’s any point sugarcoating this. The venom is necrotizing his flesh. It’s already destroyed the area around the wound. It’s only a matter of time before that becomes systemic. We haven’t seen anyone survive this yet. I’m sorry. The best we can do is try to make him comfortable. But we just ran out of morphine,” the nurse said.

  I deflated and stood there in a daze. My eyes brimmed with tears. I clenched my jaw, and my face tightened as I struggled against my emotions. I had to hold it all together. I didn’t want to break down, but the weight of everything hit me all at once. Earth was on the verge of destruction. I had lost my Dad. Now I was going to lose my best friend. My face reddened, and I wiped the corners of my eyes. I took a deep breath and steadied myself, then returned to Oliver.r />
  The girls huddled around him, and Hannah held his hand.

  “It burns,” Oliver muttered. “It feels like my whole body is on fire.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, fighting back the tears.

  “I’m not going to make it, am I?”

  I hesitated. “Don’t be so negative.”

  “I’m not being negative. I’m just a realist.”

  The girls wiped their eyes. Even Madison, who barely knew Oliver, was saddened by the turn of events.

  “I don’t want to die in a hospital,” Oliver said. “They can’t do anything for me, anyway. Let’s get the hell out of here. You guys need to get out of the city.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I’m positive.”

  I helped Oliver to his feet and slung his arm over my shoulder. Hannah supported him from the other side. He still had the use of his opposite leg from the injury, and we helped him hobble out of the emergency room and loaded him into the passenger’s seat of the SUV. It wasn’t a moment too soon either.

  A platoon of aliens rounded the corner and opened fire at anything that moved. Plasma bolts whizzed in all directions. I cranked up the engine and barreled out of the parking lot. Tires squealed as I turned onto the roadway. A plasma bolt caught the back corner window, drilling through the glass and exiting the other side.

  We got lucky no one was hit by the blast. The smell of plasma ions filled the cabin. I kept the accelerator mashed to the floorboard. My hands gripped the wheel tight and swung a hard left at the next intersection. Tires screeched around the corner, and inertia slammed me against the bolstered seats. The SUV swung a little wide and clipped a parked car. Metal scraped and squealed, and the side mirror shattered.

  “Whoops,” I mumbled. I didn’t care as long as the car stayed functional.

  I continued weaving my way through the city, heading west. The roads were like an obstacle course, lined with damaged cars, debris, and blast craters. It felt like off-roading. I drove through craters, over mounds of concrete, through yards, and across sidewalks.

  Ahead, I saw tanks, armored personnel carriers, and plenty of troops. We stumbled across a company of Marines. They had secured the area. With surface-to-air missiles they had knocked some of the alien fighters out of the sky. Dozens of small robots with machine gun turrets stood at the ready. I didn’t even know we had things like that.

  A Marine stopped us at the perimeter. I rolled down the window, and the sergeant asked me a few questions. “Where are you headed?”

  “Away from here!”

  “Good. We’re recommending the evacuation of all civilians. But stay off the highways. They are junkyards now.”

  “How are we doing?” I hesitated to ask. I almost didn’t want to know.

  “They don’t tell us much. But we remain optimistic,” the sergeant said.

  He looked anything but optimistic.

  “Good luck,” he said as he motioned us through the checkpoint.

  I drove away, feeling unsettled.

  17

  Highway 93 was a narrow two-lane blacktop that snaked through the countryside. It took twice as long to get to Brookville via this route, but there was no traffic. The countryside remained pristine. Cows grazed on verdant pastures. Barbed wire fences with driftwood posts lined the highway. Oaks and pines dotted the landscape. It was such a relief to be outside the city.

  The small community of Brookville wasn't a mission-critical target. I figured the aliens wouldn't make their way here for some time, if ever.

  Wind whistled through the broken back window of the SUV as we barrel down the farm-to-market road. There was nothing but static on the radio, so I connected my mobile phone via Bluetooth and we listened to music during the drive. It was a brief escape from the harsh reality of this new world. It was quite possible that the last pop song had been recorded. No more movies were going to be made. No new television shows. The entirety of entertainment media had already been created. Sure, humans would continue to tell stories, write books, and make music. But the industrial machine of entertainment was most likely broken forever.

  All kinds of questions raced through my mind. If we were to survive longer than a few days, what would life look like under an alien regime? Would we become slaves? Would we be allowed to continue our lives and forced to assimilate, become part of the alien culture somehow? Or would we just be annihilated?

  "You’re going to take your next left," Madison said. "Then follow the road for 2 miles."

  I looked to Oliver. He was sleeping, his head slumped against the window. "We're almost there, buddy."

  He didn't respond.

  His body was still. He didn't tremble. His skin wasn't dusted with sweat. He hadn't moved in the last 15 minutes. His chest didn't heave up and down for breath. I knew he had slipped away, but I didn't want to acknowledge it. I wanted to pretend he was asleep for another few minutes. My throat grew tight and my eyes burned.

  I turned onto the side street that Madison had pointed out, and followed the narrow road, driving between rows of corn. I pulled to the side of the road for a moment and wiped my eyes, unable to hold back my emotions any longer. I slumped against the steering wheel and sobbed for a moment. Madison placed a comforting hand on my back, and I heard the sniffles of the girls behind me as they cried.

  I gave myself a moment to get it out of my system. I’d been holding it all in, and now I couldn’t make it stop. My chest heaved with jerking sobs. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I felt like a scared little child. My eyes grew puffy, and my nose filled with mucus. Eventually I had to rein it in. Sitting there like a blithering idiot on the side of the road wasn’t doing anyone any good.

  I dried my eyes, put the car in gear, and pulled back on the highway. I felt a little embarrassed at my complete breakdown.

  I tried to take a positive view of Oliver’s passing. Maybe he was lucky? There was no telling what the future held—what kinds of horrors lay in store for us. Maybe the ones who had gone first were spared? Maybe it was some kind of blessing?

  The future was uncertain, and probably filled with famine and disease, hardship and pain, chaos and despair. I tried to stay optimistic, but that was becoming increasingly difficult.

  The little road took us to Madison’s uncle’s farm. It was a picturesque place with a small two-story farmhouse that had been built in the ‘30s. There was a red barn with a hayloft and a green tractor. There were open pastures where cattle and horses ran free. A large garden behind the house blossomed with fresh fruits and vegetables. Beyond that, a small forest of pines stood majestic.

  We pulled onto the property, rolling across a cattle guard that rattled the vehicle. The air was still, and there didn't seem to be a soul around.

  I climbed out of the car with the others and marched up the creaky wooden steps to the porch with Madison.

  She knocked on the door. "Uncle Floyd?"

  There was no response.

  Madison knocked again.

  After a few moments, Floyd’s muffled voice filtered through the door. "Hold your horses. I hear you."

  Floorboards creaked, and a dog barked.

  Floyd pulled the door open. He held a shotgun in one hand and hung onto the dog’s collar with the other. “Quit making a fuss, Daisy.”

  She was a yellow Labrador that didn’t like strangers on her porch. Make no mistake about it—it may have been Floyd’s castle, but Daisy was the Queen.

  Floyd had gray hair and a short gray beard. He could have easily moonlighted as a mall Santa. He wore blue-jean overalls with a red plaid shirt underneath. "I was worried sick about you," he said as he embraced Madison.

  She held onto him for a long moment.

  "I haven't heard from your mommy and daddy."

  Madison shook her head, and tears brimmed.

  We were all orphans.

  "I'd like you to meet my friends," Madison said. She introduced us to Uncle Floyd, and he seemed pleased to have us.

  "Well, yo
u best get inside, before those things make their way around here." He held the door open for us, keeping Daisy from running out.

  “We have a little bit of a problem," I said. "My friend passed away. We need to put him to rest."

  Floyd glanced to the SUV and saw Oliver's body in the passenger’s seat. "Let's get the ladies situated in the bunker, then you and I can make accommodations for your friend. There's a nice shade tree out in the pasture. If there was anyplace I had to spend all eternity, I want it to be there."

  I agreed and followed Floyd into the house.

  It was a quaint country home with hardwood floors and antique furniture. There was a plaque on the wall that read: Faith, Hope, Love.

  “It's very generous of you to take us in," I said.

  "Any friend of Madison's is welcome here. Besides, I could use the company. I thought me and Daisy might have to weather the apocalypse alone."

  Floyd led us to a door under the stairwell. Narrow steps lead down to a basement. At the bottom of the steps, a steel blast door sealed the bunker.

  Floyd punched in a key-code, and the thick steel door opened. "This is a thermally protected blast door rated to withstand a nuclear explosion. These concrete walls are reinforced with carbon steel. This place is sealed airtight and has a nuclear, chemical, and biological air filtration system. Solar panels atop the roof provide power, and we have a massive battery to store energy. We’ve got running water from a well, and all the comforts of home."

  "That's pretty impressive,” I said.

  "I've been working on this thing for years. It's been my pet project. I never thought I'd really have to use it. It was more of a hobby. Actually an obsession. Once I got started, I couldn't stop.”

  The bunker was much larger than the house itself. Floyd had extended it way beyond the perimeter of the surface structure. It must have cost a fortune, and I wondered how he could have afforded it.

  It was a cozy space, well decorated. There was a large flat panel display, a stereo, a kitchen, a full bath, and a guest room. The storage area was full of canned goods, water, medical supplies, weapons, and ammunition. A full rack of assault rifles stood at the ready. Boxes of ammunition filled the shelves.