A pile of driftwood is at my feet, enough to last the night. We’ll sleep in shifts. Aunt Janet has the gun. She says there are fourteen rounds left. I believe her—this time.
The sun is sinking low on the horizon. The sky is an amazing smear of orange, blue, and eggplant purple. Aunt Janet and Mary are talking about how clean everything is—the beach, the water, the air, even the streets, once you get past all the broken glass and the fires. All I know is, I swam in the ocean for the first time and it was clear and salty and cold as ice.
And Mom wasn’t there to see me.
We left another note on the car, this one telling her to meet us at the beach at the bottom of Santa Monica. Aunt Janet and Mary agreed to stay for three days to see if she shows up. We’re hoping the cell phones are working soon, but the odds aren’t good. We spoke to a guy who said nothing works, not a damn thing, not even his watch. He told us to get out of the city. He said that what’s going on now is nothing compared to what will happen when the shock wears off. “Once folks believe the aliens are really gone,” he said, “it’s going to get ugly, and fast.”
Aunt Janet thinks the man is right. But her mind is on other things. She’s anxious to hear from her family. She has a husband and fifteen-year-old son in Washington State. Her plan is to head north along the coast, maybe on a bicycle if she hasn’t found a car that starts by then. She said she’d like me to come with her. I said I’ll think about it, but I already know what I’ll say. Aunt Janet needs someone to watch her back.
The sun is nearly set. Aunt Janet uses my lighter to start the fire. Mary puts a pot of water on to boil. People are doing the same all up and down the beach. Small dots of yellow flicker against the dark shimmering skin of the ocean. This seems to be the gathering place, and I know why.
The aliens left something behind.
It’s a giant tower, smooth and black like the floaters. No windows, cracks, or seams that we can see. It rises out of the ocean a half mile away and brushes the clouds. Aunt Janet calls it The Monolith. Mary thinks it may be the tallest thing on the planet. Whatever it is, Aunt Janet said that the minute she saw it, the pain in her stomach went away. The closer we got, the better she felt. Her headaches and nausea were totally gone by the afternoon. And baby Lewis is getting better by the minute.
But I feel uneasy, like the tower could open any second. We’ll hear that awful sound and the floaters will come pouring out and this time we won’t be inside a parking garage or next to a hotel. We’ll be out in the open, sleeping on a blanket under the stars. A flash of light and we’ll be gone. I keep this thought to myself. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been looking for places for us to hide, just in case.
Mary hands me a cup of tea. The steam smells like oranges and feels warm against my skin. Aunt Janet pokes at the fire with a stick. Sparks spiral up into a star-filled sky. She leans back, arranges the blanket over her legs, closes her eyes. In the distance someone is playing guitar and singing “Amazing Grace.” It mixes with the steady drum of the ocean waves.
“Good night, Pirate,” she says.
Good night. I like the sound of that.
I settle in for the first watch, my eyes locked on The Monolith.
It’s going to be a long night.
Like Mom used to say, never trust gifts from a stranger.
About the Author
Stephen Wallenfels lives in the sunny desert of eastern Washington with his wife and, when the stars align, his Seattle-based son. He is the marketing and IT director at a large health club but also works as a freelance writer specializing in the health and fitness industry. Stephen enjoys any sport involving a ball and a racquet. He likes to camp, cook, and read—preferably at the same time. POD is his first novel.
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