by A. J. Allan
Would have, except the various green road signs indicating Nellis lay just up ahead enabled them to ignore their fears, their pain, and their mental blocks.
They passed by a sign “Home of the Fighter Pilot.” Lopez found comfort in that—Lt. Andrews may not have known for sure if the USSF Eagle lay underground here, but it sure looked to have a much stronger chance of laying here than anywhere else.
They reached the main gate, which was shattered and strewn on the ground. Did they already get here?
“Move out to the Air Traffic Control center,” Lt. Andrews ordered. “If there are men still here, they’ll be hunkered beneath the surface in that building.”
The soldiers moved, looking as little as possible at the debris of metal, chain link, and iron on the ground. The last thing they needed to acknowledge was the possibility that the xenoroaches had beaten them to the base and destroyed everything here. Facing that possibility meant facing a reality that saw no hope and certain death for them.
Lopez scanned the sky as they hurried over to the center. It still glowed a fiery red, thanks to some clouds that had moved in, but they had less than half an hour—likely less than fifteen or even ten minutes—before Las Vegas turned into a feeding frenzy for the xenoroaches.
They all immediately went for a door shuttered with a heavy wall of steel. Lt. Andrews waved his arms in front.
“Hey! Hey!”
But nothing happened.
“This is Lieutenant Andrews, commanding officer of UGM SLS Squad 7, codename Apocalypse Squad. I need a medic and entry!”
But nothing happened.
“Goddamnit!”
Andrews went over and slammed his fists on the wall. Lopez noted the red fading in favor of the night blue. He gulped.
“We need to explore other options,” Irons said, nerves creeping into her voice. “Now.”
“Agreed, Lifts, Mav, you guys—”
But the talking ended as a hologram appeared to the side, by an inoperable control panel. The hologram showed a man none of the soldiers recognized, but with his insignia, he ranked as a Major General.
“Identify yourselves, soldiers.”
“Sir, this is Lieutenant Andrews, commanding officer of UGM SLS Squad 7, codename Apocalypse Squad. I need a medic and entry! The aliens, sir, they will come—”
A miracle happened. The steel door lifted—not all the way, and it grinded terribly, the sound agonizing to the ears—as the major general spoke.
“This is Major General Crysthal. Enter, soldiers, and make it quick. We’re picking up the dispatch of more aliens from the mother ship as we speak.”
The soldiers ducked and entered as quickly as they could. Kowalski and Lake entered first, and they lined their guns up behind the rest of the soldiers in case aliens attacked. But when the last of Apocalypse Squad came in, the door slammed with a thud, as if it had only been created in the last couple of days and not yet set up properly. Nevertheless, the soldiers felt safe.
The hallway lit up. Lights showed them to a set of stairs that they took. When the last soldier, Lt. Andrews, took a step, another door slammed shut behind them, blocking off the hallway from the stairwell. They descended the stairs and came to a giant command center. The soldiers lined up as Major General Crysthal appeared. He looked younger than he probably was, but his baggy eyes, lack of expression, and wrinkles foretold of at least a couple sleepless nights in a row.
“Apocalypse Squad, welcome. You are safe here.”
38
Inside the room, soldiers in actual uniforms—minus their HUDs—patrolled the area, monitoring displays, data, and visuals. The place bustled with electronics, chatter, and an air of nervousness, though relative to the Churchill, the soldiers of Nellis carried themselves with an air of relaxed edginess.
“First,” Major General Crysthal began. “Who needs—you.”
He pointed to Jordan, hanging on to Irons.
“Medic!” he shouted. Within seconds, two troopers appeared with a gurney. “This man needs medical attention, immediately. Private, what’s his condition?”
“He suffered trauma when our ship crashed,” Irons responded. “Extensive bleeding. Head damage. I’m sure there’s some other things I’m not aware of, sir.”
“And he’s still alive,” the major general stated. “Even after your ship crashed?”
“Affirmative, sir,” Lt. Andrews said.
“Unbelievable,” the major general stated.
“Sir,” Irons said. “May I go with him? He is… we’re engaged.”
No one dared to correct her lie. No one even thought about it. If anything, Lopez figured everyone in Apocalypse Squad went through the various stories they could come up with to support Irons.
“You may.”
Irons followed Jordan and the two medics, asking questions but quickly getting out of audible range. Lopez yearned to follow as well, to comfort Irons and tell her now that Jordan had medical attention, he’d be all right. He’d find a way out.
But truthfully, such an act would have been selfish. Lopez needed his own comforting, to know that his squad would not yet suffer any deaths. And this was not the time for hugs and comfort. This was the time to learn about the Eagle, the base’s plans, and how Apocalypse Squad could play a role.
“The rest of you, come with me. I want to know everything that has happened so far.”
Major General Crysthal led them past a monitor that had red circles—notably, Lopez thought, around all the major cities in North America—Los Angeles, Chicago, Mexico City, Toronto, New York City, just to name a few—past a couple of sick bays, past an armory, past a mess kitchen devoid of the usual military chatter, past a white board on which a few generals had listed ideas which included “nuke the ship,” “destroy with ion weapons,” “bio-weapon?” “hunker until help comes.” None of them were written with a great deal of confidence.
Finally, they came to a small room with only a simple metal table with ten chairs. Major General Crysthal took one chair on his side and then placed another on the other side. An XO came moments later to log the discussion. Apocalypse Squad, minus Irons and Jordan, sat down across from the Major General and his XO.
“Take me from the beginning. Where were you when this all started?”
Lt. Andrews assumed the debriefing reporting. He described how they had started at a military ball when they received word of an unidentified object approaching. The Major General’s mouth twitched, enough that it paused Lt. Andrews.
“The truth is, we noticed this object approaching at the beginning of yesterday,” he said. “Long before the ball on the Churchill.”
Lopez’s mind flashed to the drones flying past their shuttle in the early morning, launched at such speeds that no human could have survived inside without some special equipment. He understood now—the USVs were going to report on the incoming craft. Whatever they had seen, it had not done enough to warn the men. Not that any warning could have helped. We would have fought, we would have lost, and some of our men would have retreated.
The lieutenant continued. He described the battle, how all of the ships had perished except for his. He spoke of the horror of seeing the general’s ship flee, along with several others, but being too far away to join the jump into a wormhole. Then he spoke of losing an engine because of the space pollen, and crash-landing in Las Vegas.
“Did you intentionally aim for this location, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.”
An awkward pause came.
“You say an alien landed in your space craft. Yet you are here. How?”
Lt. Andrews motioned for Lopez to speak, and he was granted permission.
“Via comms, sir, we knew what was happening. When the enemy hit us, Private Irons and I prepared to attack the enemy the moment it landed. We ambushed it, that’s probably the reason why we’re here today.”
“What can you tell me about the aliens?”
How savage they are
? How they know how to intimidate us, not just mindlessly attack us?
“They have wings, four arms, sharp legs, a tail, black, scaly skin, and an eyeless face that strikes the fear of God into me, sir,” Lopez said. “But it is their intellect that frightens me more than their physical appearance. They tracked us down to the Green Valley casino yesterday, where we remained overnight for supplies. They did so by going to our abandoned ship and finding us. Then, when we walked from GVR to here, some of the aliens at the Aria tossed a biopod onto the street to show us what it had done. It… it was a sight I would not have wished upon the worst of humanity at any point in our history, sir.”
The Major General bit his lip but did not say a word. Compelled, Lopez continued.
“We call them the xenoroaches because of their appearance, but they have an intelligence and a capacity of cruelty and savagery that I did not think possible. Their only weakness appears to be the light, but if they are like roaches, then that would be more of a preference than an actual weakness. I think they know how much we fear the dark, sir, and they know we are pinned down. As such, they take advantage of those times when it is darkest and turn our worst fears into our worst realities.”
“Major General Crysthal,” Lt. Andrews said. “What my soldier has stated is entirely true. We’ve come here for a specific purpose, and that is to see if the USSF Eagle is present. We believe now is the time to commandeer it, fly it to space, and destroy that alien vessel once and for all. If I may ask, sir, is that ship present?”
Crysthal sighed, folded his hands, and crunched his fingers together and out multiple times.
“It is present,” he stated. “But it is not to be flown.”
“If I may ask, sir, why is that?”
“Because the Eagle is not a battle vessel. It is our Noah’s Ark. We are only going to use it when the Earth is flooded with so many aliens, we cannot survive here. We are not using it to defeat the enemy. We are using it to survive.”
39
“Survive?!?” Lt. Andrews said. “Survive? Sir. If I may. I know you have thought this through. But my squad and I have fought these aliens, both in space and here on Earth. We cannot win on attrition. This is not an attrition war. It is an apocalyptic war. You can’t fight thinking about surviving another day. You—we—have to fight to destroy this enemy entirely. There is no negotiating or surviving. Either we kill them, or they kill us. We can’t sit back.”
Crysthal sighed.
“Let me show you something,” Crysthal said.
The XO typed something in on a keypad near the door, and a map appeared on the back wall. The map showed the entirety of Earth, dated a week ago. The major general snapped his fingers, and the continents turned almost entirely black, with only splotches of green in remote areas.
“The areas that you see blacked out are the areas overrun by the aliens,” he said. “The sections still green are the ones the aliens have not yet reached. But you will notice that any city with either a military base, a launch point, or a Mass Media warehouse no longer exists, at least not in a manner in which we can live in it. The aliens own this world at this point. The only survivors left on this planet are those over the age of 65 in regions remote enough that the aliens have not yet struck, or those hunkered down in bases like this. I pray for both groups every hour, lieutenant, because the former knows its end is coming, and the latter doesn’t have much hope.”
“Well sir, where the hell is the UGM?”
“Lieutenant, the UGM isn’t responding to our communications,” Crysthal stated.
That’s it then.
They’re leaving us to die.
“We’re on our own here,” Crysthal said. “If we’re lucky, we can ship out of here and try and rendezvous with a dreadnought somewhere. But since they aren’t responding to our communications, we have to rely on guesswork for where they are. And if we guess wrong, we’re alone for quite some time. This doesn’t factor in that even if we evacuate successfully, we are likely to suffer serious casualties as the alien mother ship wipes out some of our defensive fighters.”
“Goddamn,” Andrews said. “God. Damn. It’s truly hell on Earth.”
“And we are the forsaken ones, abandoned by God to drown in its fires,” Crysthal said. “I am truly sorry, Lieutenant Andrews. But we survived the onslaught of aliens last night. I see no reason for that to change this night. Until this base is infiltrated and we are forced to evacuate, I am going to stay here and hope the UGM changes its mind. I know that hope is not a strategy, but at this point, it’s a prayer, and if we have no strategy, we have to have prayer. Because if we don’t have that, then we lose hope, then our will, and then our lives.”
40
The Major General dismissed them moments later. No one, not even Crysthal, felt anything had improved in the meeting. Lopez got the strong feeling that what Crysthal said and his XO recorded wouldn’t even matter in the end.
Lopez wandered out of the door, dazed. Had Nellis just quit the fight like that? Because it had survived one night, it would assume that it could survive all of the rest?
Maybe the UGM wouldn’t help. But no one helped Apocalypse Squad when it made its way over dozens of miles of desert terrain just to receive a prayer. It was certainly a huge step up from existing to fighting, but dammit, did they have to give up the war already?
The squad first went to the armory and got better clothing and weapons. They got new L-36’s and some small pistols, NVGs, battle fatigues, boots—everything except HUDs, which the base did not have.
Andrews, Lake, Li, and Kowalski, cursing at the base’s decisions, went to the kitchen. They drank enough water to deplete the base and had two MREs each. Lopez joined them, but after just a single MRE, he lost his appetite. What was the point in eating if they weren’t going to work toward anything? Were they really placing their faith in something that so eagerly abandoned its home?
He gave his second MRE to Kowalski and wandered aimlessly through the bunker. He tried looking at each soldier, tried to figure out how much they truly valued what they did. Did they believe the UGM might come back? Did they believe they had any chance in hell of surviving? What were they still pushing for? A chance? A hope? A fear of death? A fear of suicide?
What was the point? The aliens would win eventually, by sheer numbers alone if nothing else. They had to bring the fight. And yet the leadership at Nellis…
He saw a sign for the medical bay. He breathed heavily through his nostrils. It would hurt to tell Jordan and Irons about the leadership’s decisions here. But he wanted to tell her. He didn’t want someone who didn’t know them to inform them.
Just before he turned the corner to the bay, he heard Irons’ voice carry.
“You’re sure?” she said. It did not sound good.
“I’ve seen many miracles occur,” a woman’s voice said in return, a comforting yet removed voice. “But in this case, he’s lost so much blood and suffered so much trauma, I don’t think he will last the night.”
No. No. Please. He’s come this far. He can go just a little bit further. He’s got the best medical treatment here! He gets through tonight…
“What are the percentages he’ll last?” Irons said, her voice more curt.
Lopez struggled with continuing into view or eavesdropping. Neither was like a good option for numerous reasons. But he wanted to know more. Fearful that the nurse or doctor would go silent upon seeing him, he remained out of view.
“I can’t say for certain, but significantly less than 50 percent,” she advised. “Significantly.”
“Less than 10 percent?”
“Probably.”
“And you can’t do anything for him.”
“We’ve already done all that we can,” the nurse said. It amazed Lopez how she had not lost her cool yet. Either this woman excelled at her skills, or she had become numb after the invasion. “We can provide him drugs to make him more comfortable, but there’s nothing more we can do to make him better. I’m so
rry. I truly am.”
Irons sighed, muttered “fuck” and then thanked the nurse, who walked away. Lopez shook out the emotions from his head and turned the corner. He saw Irons also in much better clothing now, that of a traditional soldier, but her face looked worse for the wear. It resembled the Major General’s with its sunken eyes and sullen face.
“Irons, I—”
“Watch this tent, Mav,” she said sternly. “I… I don’t want anyone but you here right now. I’m going to talk to Jordan. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Even my uncle.”
“Even your uncle.”
Irons gave a quick nod and ducked in, barely registering her appreciation for Lopez. He didn’t mind, though. Now was not the time to compete for attention or conversation with Irons. However much time Irons needed with Jordan, Lopez would step away for. It wasn’t so much granting her the space as recognizing that she needed it. He had nothing to grant.
“Doctors just said you’re a beast,” Irons said, her voice muffled through the tent. “For all the injuries you’ve suffered, you’ve done pretty well.”
“Hah,” Jordan said. His voice was softer, but the pain in them was gone. The doctors, true to their word, had made his pain tolerable, but had not eliminated the problems within. “I may be wounded, but I haven’t lost my hearing. I know what’s going on.”
“So then you know that there’s a chance you’ll pull through.”
“Oh, Jenna.”
Lopez felt a tug at the mention of her first name.
“I always did love your unabashed optimism. How you thought you could beat Lopez in a race—”
“I did!”
“—without cheating.”
“No comment,” she said, laughter coming from both.
“Or how you thought you could catch more fish than I on our first date.”
“If you said I could jump into the lake, I would have!”
“Still got it, I see,” Jordan said, a weak cough following his laugh. “You know, Irons, there was also something else that I heard that you might not have wished I had.”
