by A. J. Allan
“Fine, but Jordan is coming with me.”
Lt. Andrews grimaced, groaned, and finally assented.
“After that, Kowalski, you’ll go up after them. Then Lake, you’ll replace Lopez, then Li will replace Kowalski, then I’ll get Lake, and we’ll repeat the cycle with Lopez replacing Li. So that means you get four hours of rest in between your shift. I recommend you take full advantage. Tomorrow we make a straight march for Nellis, no stopping. I can’t afford to have any of you too tired to make it to base. Understood?”
Everyone spoke in unison.
“Good. Lopez. Irons. Jordan. Watch from the roof. If you see the aliens from afar, monitor and study them. If you see them come close, get your asses down here.”
29
When Lopez, Jordan, and Irons made their way to the rooftop, the sun had vanished from view. The stars had not yet lit up the sky, but they were on the wrong side of evening. At any moment, Lopez expected the aliens to come down and attack Vegas.
But… then again, did they have to? Their stated goal was to eradicate humanity, yes, but the targets down here literally had no idea about what was happening. The xenoroaches probably prioritized going after the military ships first, and then settling in for the easy kills down here on Earth.
Unless they had plans to search and hunt Apocalypse Squad. They were the only military unit left, as far as Lopez knew. Sure, there were ground units, but they did not have anywhere near the armory that the Churchill did, and that ship probably didn’t even make a dent in the alien vessel. Quite literally.
Still, as long as Lopez saw nothing to worry about, he would do his best not to worry.
“I’ll take the east side,” Lopez said as the three reached the rooftop of GVR. “The aliens will come from the sky and hit the metropolis so I don’t think we have to keep an eye on the south too much. You take west?”
“Works for us,” Irons said.
Us. Jordan can barely lift his arms. I wonder how much Irons is trying to ignore his condition. Lopez didn’t dare speak, though, and the two spread out a few dozen feet.
In the silence of the night, it was easy to hear things. To imagine things. To imagine that horrifying growl of the xenoroach, and to think it was coming from the other side of the roof. Lopez had just one gun, an L-36, and though he kept his rifle at ease, his wrists twitched constantly, hoping—no, not hoping, expecting—to get used.
But there was one thing Lopez began to hear, one thing he knew he was not imagining. It was something he did not want to hear but could not help with the complete silence around them.
Conversation between Jordan and Irons. One of the last ones, Lopez thought, that they might ever have.
“You know you picked a hell of a time to get a face lift,” Irons said.
“You’re funny,” Jordan said. “I also got some tattoos on my body.”
He’s even got a sense of humor. Who are you, Jordan?
Irons laughed, probably harder than his joke merited, but for good reason. Laughter prevented her from having to face the reality of the situation.
Jordan was almost certainly going to die. He’d just lost too much blood. And even if he did survive, he’d suffered so many wounds that he would become more of a liability than an asset. That wouldn’t be an issue if they got to the Eagle. But if they had to carry him…
“Why did you ever want to end it, Jordan? Why did you push me away?”
Lopez felt like at any moment, Irons and Jordan would look his way and tell him to step further away. To find a new building. Or find some music he could play to drown them out. He felt like telling that to himself. To get away. To leave all of this. The life he lived. The world he dwelt in. The society—if it still existed—he inhabited.
“Emotions are a hard thing for me… Jenna,” he said, his voice a far cry from the gruff, heavy tone he’d used that morning, leaving Montana en route to Los Angeles. “I’m never… I was never good.”
“Stop, you are not good,” Irons said. “Say it like that. You’re still here. You’re going to be here.”
Jordan laughed.
“Only in body, not… not…”
“Why do you say that you’re not good with emotions? Steve?”
She’s using first names now. It’s getting heavy.
“I’m comfortable with one thing only and that’s fighting,” Jordan said. “Fighting is what I do. I can kill an enemy. I can plan a course of action. But asking me to handle emotions? Asking me to ask you to believe in me? Jenna…”
“Steve… you know that you could have talked to me about this long before.”
That’s the very point, though. He wouldn’t want to talk to you about it because he’s not good at it.
“You’re right,” Jordan said, followed by a hack and rasping. Lopez thought about trying to find medical supplies in the casino. It might have some in some vault, but Lopez couldn’t see how it would have anything that the Apocalypse didn’t have. “I’m sorry, Jenna.”
Nothing came at first. Lopez bit his lip and looked through his scope at the night sky. Still, nothing came. In another decade, it would have been just another peaceful night, with no worries or danger, the only thing on the mind philosophical questions about the meaning of life and a person’s place when there were more stars than humans, and enough space on most stars to host hundreds, if not thousands or millions, of Earth civilizations.
But then, in long periods at first, came the gentle sobs. The sobs from Irons. Lopez looked over at her, the girl he’d seen experience a wide range of emotions—practically every single one, from the bliss of love to the depression of a relationship ending—and realized he’d never seen this. He’d never seen someone grieving over a dying human. Even his grandparents still lived.
Irons or he could always come back from a relationship that ended. The joy of friendship ensured that they would continue to strive for it. But death could not be reversed. It could be delayed. But death established a cruel finality.
For the first time since he’d joined the UGM, Private Matt “Mav” Lopez saw the true tragedy of death up close. It was one thing to hear voices on the radio. It was another to see his best friend cry over the inevitable loss of a boyfriend, a comrade, a friend, a human. He could not shake the sight, and he, too, shed tears, unable to handle what he saw.
Why Jordan? Why was it that the man Irons had now, the most stable, kind, determined, and certain man she’d ever dated, was the one who would die?
Lopez blamed himself. He was the one who had been in the pod, squeezed in because he had not successfully shot down a space pollen in time. He should have died. What was he but a nuisance, baggage upon the squad to keep a secret from the rest of the UGM? He was a fobbit—well, not anymore, but he proved he might have been more useful as that the way the battle went. Jordan might technically have been a fobbit, but his demeanor left no uncertainty about how he’d fare in battle.
Perhaps it was true that stupid soldiers died first. But after that, it just became a matter of luck. Had the space pollen attacked his pod, or had Irons not been waiting for the alien to drop down, or, or, or.
He’d be dead.
Instead, it was Jordan who was going to die.
The sobbing persisted for several minutes. Lopez looked out at the city of Las Vegas. By dawn, if the aliens attacked, millions of others of humans would die. But they would not suffer like Jordan now did. They would die in a virtual reality, their existence slashed before they even felt the claws or tails of the xenoroaches. They would get a quick, merciful death.
How awful, how cruel, how terrible it was that the people who did the most to prevent harm from coming to humanity were the ones who suffered the most harm, the most nauseating and prolonged of deaths, as anyone else.
“Don’t leave me, Steve, please,” Irons sobbed. “I can’t. I… I don’t want you to go.”
“I fight as I can… Lifts,” Jordan said, bringing a laugh through Irons’ tears. “We all have to die sometime. If I’
m going to die here… at least I died fighting those fucking roaches.”
“Hah,” Irons laughed, still sobbing. “Steve Silencer Jordan. My promise to you is that I’m going to get you to the Eagle. However it takes. I want you to know that we are going to make it to Nellis and we’re going to repel this scum. And when we do, then we’re going to get you rested on a ship like Caesar and you’ll be fine.”
Jordan said something that Lopez didn’t hear, and Irons bent down to kiss him. They talked some more, but Lopez could not hear anything else that came from them.
Whatever notion he had of wanting to fight had vanished. If it caused this kind of pain, then the purpose of war wasn’t to dominate, but to end it as soon as possible.
30
It didn’t seem like an hour had gone by. Not with everything Lopez had heard and seen, and especially not since the aliens had not yet come to kill the inhabitants of Las Vegas. But when Lopez finally heard something unexpected—footsteps—he cocked his gun for a split second before he saw the calloused hand of Kowalski emerge from the ladder with a grunt. He looked to Irons and Jordan, slumped against the slight rise on the roof, while Irons watched, never more than arm’s length away from Jordan.
“Silencer, Lifts, you’re relieved,” Kowalski said. “Get some rest.”
The two nodded without a word. Lopez looked at the dying soldier, and mumbled, “Sleep well, Silencer. You’ve earned it.”
But please just for tonight. Be with us tomorrow.
Irons positioned Jordan until she felt comfortable walking down the steps. She took them one at a time, but soon enough, she had disappeared from view. Lopez took one last sniffle, wiped away his tears, and took a deep breath as Kowalski approached him.
“Reporting for guard watch. Everything all good, Lopez?”
Lopez nodded with a brief “aye” before speaking some more, taking the time to ensure that his voice was even-keeled. “No sign of the xenoroaches so far.”
“Xenoroaches?”
“I saw one up close. Looked like the stuff of nightmares. Cross between cockroaches and the aliens from those 20th century movies.”
“Huh, xenoroaches. Sounds like something I could crunch and yell while doing so. Excellent. I like it.”
“Right,” Lopez continued. “I haven’t so much as seen anything approaching in the sky. It’s been a clear night. But let’s keep an eye out.”
“Obviously,” Kowalski said as he examined his gun. “I’ll be over where Irons and Jordan were if you need me.”
“Acknowledged.”
No, Lopez thought, he didn’t need Kowalski. He didn’t need anyone. He just needed a long night on a beach somewhere in North America, or a trip to a lake, where he wouldn’t be bothered, where a xenoroach wouldn’t hunt him down, and where he didn’t have to watch any of his friends mourn one another before the dying died.
But he wouldn’t get what he needed. He would have to take it himself. He just had to wait until tomorrow to do that.
Just like last time, Lopez could hear everything that the other guard said. But unlike Irons and Jordan, whose conversation brought out strong emotions, Kowalski’s brought him to giggles. Kowalski, in what could be described as only the most Firestone move ever, engaged in fake battles with xenoroaches, talking as he pretended to shoot them.
“Yeah, and take that, you fucking piece of shit,” he said as he held his gun toward the former Highway 215. He then lifted it to the sky. “And you think you’ve got anything, fucking flying motherfucker? I’ll clip your wings and stuff them down your goddamn throat, you asshole! And then I’ll burn your corpse and use it as a fireball against the rest of your space pollen friends!”
This continued for the entire duration of the shift. At first, Lopez just laughed whenever Kowalski spoke. Eventually, it just became white noise, and while it didn’t become old, it did become as much a thing as the oddly subdued lights of Las Vegas Boulevard and the glistening stars in the sky.
But then, accidentally, Kowalski fired off a round. And Lopez had enough.
“OK, Firestone, enough,” Lopez said.
“Enough? Do you think the mentality of ‘enough’ is going to handle the XRs?”
“The what? Oh, xenoroaches. Look, no, I don’t, but I also know drawing attention to ourselves the way you just did is going to get us killed!”
“I got too far into character, but that’s a price to pay!”
“Firestone, don’t be an idiot!”
“Mav, don’t be a fucking pussy!”
“Dude, fuck—”
But then Kowalski jumped up and grabbed Lopez by the mouth. Lopez raised his fist to punch him, but Kowalski nodded his head up. Lopez looked.
The space pollen was descending. And it was heading straight for the heart of Las Vegas.
31
I’m going to die.
The thought crossed Lopez’s mind as he cocked his gun, got into position, and prepared to fire upon the hordes of enemies descending from the hell of space above. Kowalski’s shot had drawn the attention of hundreds, if not thousands, of space roaches, and the numbers simply dictated that they would fall.
If they did come, how would Lopez react? Would he lash out at Kowalski? Unlikely, but that didn’t mean the thought didn’t cross his mind.
Yet, as the pollen swarmed down, it never approached the casino they guarded. In fact, even though it flew toward Las Vegas Boulevard, most of it only had a single target.
The former Aria casino, also the largest building on the Strip from Lopez’s point of view.
And it became obvious why seconds later.
“Kowalski,” Lopez said, his voice barely rising to a whisper. “Is that building a warehouse for Mass Media?”
Kowalski said nothing, his eyes trained on the target. He’s almost too locked in. I doubt he even hears me. Lopez pulled out his own scope and analyzed the building.
Sure enough, at the top was the giant “MM” symbol which displayed a simulation within the block of its letters.
Lopez felt sick. How many people would die? How many would die in their sleep? How many would get ripped from their hook ups, their last moment a horrifying nightmare of waking up to the sight of a monster with the face and wings of a cockroach and the body of a black alien? How many would get left for a moment, only to become food later? How many would die aware or unaware?
And how much would it hurt Lopez to know that, disgustingly, those people had to die? If they went over there and attacked, the only known defense force near Earth would die immediately. The only questions would be in what order and how many kills they’d get in before the xenoroaches overwhelmed them.
“Fucking scum,” Kowalski muttered.
But he didn’t add anything else to it. Lopez scanned the rest of the sky. In the distant west, pollen fell from the sky. Onto Los Angeles. Oh, fuck us all.
He looked north and east. Thankfully, nothing else drastic appeared.
But then Lopez noticed one space pollen crashing toward where they had landed. This pollen looked different—the other pieces looked like light red, small sacs with veins on them. Though the night sky prevented Lopez from seeing all the details, it was much bigger and the veins much more pronounced. It also was less porous and thicker.
It crashed right where Apocalypse had crash-landed.
“A scout,” Lopez muttered in horror.
These xenoroaches were not just physical horrors. They had intelligence and organization and the flexibility to operate outside a SOP.
This was going to be a truly ugly and terrifying war. If one could even call it that—more like an extermination.
“Burn ‘em all,” Kowalski against mumbled, his voice not that loud but still carrying.
“Would you please shut the hell up,” Lopez said, coming closer. “I can hear you from my post, Firestone. I want to blow these assholes up as bad as you do, but talking isn’t going to do anything about it.”
Kowalski shot him a furious look. Lopez steeled
himself for a fight. Did the Pole have this bad of a temper than during the middle of an alien invasion he would fight his own man?
“It’s how I cope,” he said, but he added nothing more, refusing to face Lopez as he looked back out at the damage the xenoroaches, the noctura, the nightmare, inflicted upon Las Vegas Boulevard.
Footsteps came behind.
Lopez and Kowalski cocked their weapons.
It was Lt. Andrews. Both privates lowered their guns. Neither needed to ask why the CO had joined them. The CO always steps up when danger strikes, even if he was on rest.
Lt. Andrews analyzed the still-descending pollen, breathing through his nostrils.
“I’m staying up here with you boys tonight after hearing this shit,” he said. “If they come here, someone needs to be by the stairs to alert the rest of the squad quickly. Lopez, take point. I’ll take over your watch station.”
“Acknowledged,” Lopez said.
The two traded places, but without the urgency that usually accompanied such movements. There was no point. The enemy had just taken over Las Vegas with no resistance. If any of the military in Los Angeles or elsewhere had tried fighting back, it hadn’t helped. If there were any forces in Nellis, they had probably gone into lock down themselves.
Lopez could see the end. And it was ugly enough that he began to think if his life came down to a faceoff with the xenoroaches, he wouldn’t let himself get there. He’d end it first.
32
Lake passed Lopez on the way up, asking for a sit rep. Lopez’s grim expression provided all of the answer that she could possibly need. After he passed her, he went straight to the kitchen.
Inside, he found Irons and Jordan curled up together. Jordan lay on the ground, Irons with her arms around him. She’d finally fallen asleep.
Jordan was…
Not dead.
He was still breathing. Ragged, shallow breaths. But he still had a pulse.
Lopez, though, just wanted to pretend it was still that morning. He wanted to be back in the bed at the Gallatin River Lodge with Irons. He wanted to feel comfortable with her as he did before the sun had risen. Hell, just having Jordan look at the two of them in silence would have put him at so much more ease.
