Genetic Drift

by Martin Schulte

  Maddie slammed the paper back on the table, “Apparently there’s something wrong with me,” her voice started to escalate with frustration. “Where are the other results? Where are the other blood tests? What else have you done?”

  Barron spoke up softly, “That’s what I was trying to do when you woke up.”

  “So you guys haven’t even looked into this? Why is my eye red?” she yelled at both Barron and Mac.

  “You’ve only been here for two days and—” Mac said.

  She cut him off, “Excuses. All of it. Everything you say, excuses. I’m not stupid, Mac. There’s something going on with me and you’re not telling me. You afraid I can’t handle it?”

  “We were about to—” Barron replied.

  Maddie cut him off too, “About to what? About to NOT find out what happened to me! I need some time to think, no need to direct me!”

  Barron got up with Maddie.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so, you’ve helped enough,” Maddie said, her tone matching the drop of her brow.

  Barron’s grin became a grimace as Maddie stormed out the door. Mac got out of his seat and put his hand on Barron’s shoulder.

  “Barron, I need to tell you something,” Mac said, and began to walk to the sink. “Close the door.”

  The light in the hall faded as the door to the kitchen began to slowly close.

  DAY 33

  THE ATTACK

  WASHINGTON, DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

  “Ben, son, I don’t want you to come up here,” General Hawkins said over the phone.

  “Dad, I haven’t seen you in a while and it sounds like you need someone around.” A voice was heard through the receiver.

  “I’m not leaving this place until we find out what this spacecraft’s intentions are,” the General replied.

  “But Dad, you haven’t left that place in a month, it’s not healthy. Anyways, they’ve been out there long enough and haven’t done anything. You need to leave the office and get some good rest, reset your mind,” Ben returned his plea.

  “I’m not leaving,” the General repeated himself, “now I want you to turn around and go back home, no more negotiating.” A sudden burst of alarms flared throughout the building and the General put his hand over the phone.

  “Dad, what’s going on?” Ben asked.

  “Son, I have to go, love you, bye,” the General said, and quickly hung up the phone. He hurried to the main display. Staff Sergeant Collins excitedly made the report.

  “Sir, the OOS caught an explosion from the spacecraft,” he said as he pointed to the Main Display. It showed what looked like bottle rockets shooting outward from the spacecraft.

  As the spread of the explosion continued, it became more defined. It was not an explosion but blue projectiles hurtling to Earth.

  “Notify the President and get the other PDS advocates on comms now. They are launching on us!” the General shouted. He went to his office and took a seat in front of his speaker phone. He pressed the button labeled, “U.S. online.” The other countries that were required to launch the defense missiles were coming across the speaker in short succession.

  “Russia.”

  “China.”

  “France.”

  “U.K., online.”

  The principle members discussed the hostilities that had been seen coming from the OOS. “U.S. declares hostile,” General Hawkins said. As soon as the next country started to speak a dead tone came across the speaker.

  “Get these comms back online!” the General shouted.

  “Cell 321 is launching, loss of satellite communications,” a voice called on the watch floor, and continued, even more panicked, “Cell 322… 323… 324…, Group 3 commencing counter-launch. Groups 1… and 2, launching, Group 7, Group 5. Sir, all groups have counter-launched due to a loss of satellite link.”

  The main display went to static with the alert LOSS OF SIGNAL displaying on the bottom of the screen.

  “Put something we can use on the display,” the General yelled over his shoulder.

  “Sir, we have lost all satellite communications. The only display we have is a hardwired radar,” the radar operator said. The display changed from static to an old radar display. There were symbols but nothing that correlated to the blue projectiles.

  “Sir, we are only tracking commercial aircraft,” the radar operator said, and she continued to scan for possible threats.

  A blip came onto the screen. “Bogey one, I have skin,” she announced.

  “Trajectory?” the General asked without hesitation.

  The radar technician pushed some buttons and a dashed line displayed on the screen.

  “New York City sir,” the radar operator shouted back.

  “Bogey two, Boston… Bogey three, Philadelphia,”

  “Bogey 37 Denver… Bogey 38, here.”

  The radar operator’s voice cracked, “They are shooting at everything.”

  “Launch all measures in self-defense,” the General ordered. He sat back in his chair.

  “We are going to get hit,” he said, rubbing his jaw and mouth.

  The planetary defense system worked as planned. Launch after launch of two missiles from every cell. Some missiles targeted the blue projectiles and were absorbed while others went directly for the spacecraft. Lost from sight back on Earth, each missile struck the spacecraft and it sustained considerable damage. It began to move out of its orbit and drifted to the closest object, the Moon. The spacecraft continued to drift until it covered a quarter of the Moon. Then a big cloud of dust rose from the surface and its face was forever changed as the spacecraft embedded in the soil.

  All of the news outlets were notified of the launch. Anybody that was outside could see the blue streaks across the sky. The news outlets were affected by the same satellite outage but were able to broadcast on local stations as they were still able to transmit.

  * * *

  Will Easton was sitting in his chair at his intake facility when the TV caught his attention just as the breaking news came across the screen. The President started his address, “We have seen a response from our visiting spaceship. Some type of explosion has occ—” he stopped as someone tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “let me correct myself. We are under attack and the spaceship has launched on us. All citizens of major cities on the eastern seaboard need to stay in their homes, do not evacuate, the launch has already occurred and it is too late to evacuate. I will repeat myself, stay at home, this is your only option. We are activating our defenses to eliminate the threat. Executive Order 2519 is now in effect.” The screen went to static. Will began to clap his hands, “I might be crazy, I knew it was going to happen, but if people are going to die… then do it in style!”

  * * *

  General Hawkins picked up the phone, called Ben, and spoke something softly into the handset. Just as he hung up, the blue mass hit. There was no large force, no large explosions, no shockwaves. Nothing remained but craters. All of the cities were gone. The only memory of them was emptiness that replaced them in the earth.

  DAY 276

  MILITIA HEADQUARTERS

  CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA

  Alan Pritchard couldn’t be pried away from the map of the area, “Please, someone tell me that something useful has been found at that damn bunker.” On the table next to him lay a pile of orbitizers with darkened cores and broken glass. The raid of the bunker was considered a success because of its destruction, but what happened after the raid is what bothered Alan. “We don’t have enough time to dick around hoping we find something. Get some more scavengers out there and clean out that bunker!”

  Alan focused his attention on his lieutenant, Brenden Hawkins, as he made his report, “Commander, all of the scavengers are out there… we took a personnel hit when the bunker self-destructed. All we have are the remaining assault squads.”

  Alan shook his head and spoke as if he was talking to a four-year-old,
“Pull from the assault squads. We need everybody to get all of the information possible on those Trolls even if they have to rake through the debris of that bunker. And I want it done by the end of the day.”

  Ben nodded his head in acknowledgement, “It will be done. Commander.”

  At 6’ 4” and with a burly beard that had been grown since the day of the Attack, Alan was an imposing man who was loved by the survivors in Charlottesville. Even though every Troll attack was met with death and missing people, the survivors viewed him as the last means of defense and they adored him. He was their protector, their defender, their leader. He enjoyed the recognition and developed a lust for the power.

  He did not have a great military mind but he made up for it through his stature and his ability to persuade people to fight. After the Attack, he explained Executive Order 2519 to all the people of Charlottesville.

  His first military decree was to conscript all ‘able-bodied’ men into the militia while all women were able to volunteer themselves for duty. The strongest and most capable were made into soldiers and trained on basic assault. Training was given to those who didn’t know how to use a gun. He selected his friends as his trusted lieutenants and Maynard, a 70-year-old tobacco farmer, was his second-in-command. Maynard preferred moonshining to people but he knew how to use a gun. Ben was the exception to the friend-lieutenant relationship. Once he had been conscripted, he proved to have the strategic thinking skills that Alan needed. Alan knew that to keep his stature and popularity, he needed Ben’s skills.

  Ben knew that his skills were needed as well. He accepted the lieutenant position, not for the sake of Alan’s self-promotion, but because he knew that Charlottesville would easily be overrun by a lack of strategy. Ben brought order and discipline to the conscripts placed into the militia. Prior to Ben’s promotion, patrols were only made when someone was awake. He brought systematic order to the patrols and vigilance around the clock. The raid on the Nellysford bunker was engineered by Ben and he held himself personally responsible for every death that happened during the assault. Those deaths weighed heavy on Ben. He was determined not only to avenge those deaths but also to minimize any possibility of future casualties.

  Those who were ‘not able-bodied’ did other tasks for the militia. They were not designated as ‘official’ militia but were assigned to jobs not deemed fit for the normal soldiers. As the raid concluded, many of the ‘not able-bodied’ were assigned as scavengers. After the bunker self-destructed, Alan, with Ben’s suggestion, wanted to gather as much intelligence as possible and he saw the best way to do that was to employ those who did not fight.

  The second decree, the only other decree by the Militia Commander, was that all vehicles would be turned over for militia use. Alan felt that it was impossible to protect anyone leaving the area and therefore all outside movements were going to be done by the militia. If any vehicles drove into the area, they were immediately confiscated. Anyone who drove into town without their families was escorted back to their homes, gathered their families and belongings, and escorted back, abandoning their homes.

  More metal, more glass. The convoys returned from another round of intelligence gathering. Alan had moved away from the map that was preoccupying him and directed his attention to the front of the headquarters. This time, the remains of three dead trolls and four dead humans were delivered. The fire in the bunker was enough to burn away the flesh of its victims but left remains other than ash. “Get those damned things away from our soldiers and give those soldiers a proper burial.” Alan looked at the delivery sitting on the ground in front of the militia command. “You and you,” he pointed at two men sitting idly, “put these Trolls in a bag and get them ready for transport.”

  They immediately moved to the pile of bones. “Transport?” one said to the other as he limped over to the Trolls. “Nobody has ever said anything about transporting anything to anywhere. Where would these things go?”

  Alan overheard them talking, “This is a time-sensitive issue,” he clamored, his voice quickening, “and unless you want to be the ones transferring them, I suggest you get those bodies on ice now!” Alan turned around and went back into headquarters.

  He entered into his personal office. The entire building was small and his office was just as tiny. It had a couple of posters hanging on the wall, a chair, and a bookcase. The bookcase had a line of books on three of the shelves, two phones on the second shelf, and a writing pad on the middle shelf he used as a makeshift desk. He sank heavily into his chair as his girth hung over the sides. He looked up toward the two phones and picked the receiver on the right. It was an old secretary phone with a rotary dialer. He pushed the white button in the middle.

  After two rings, someone answered, “Supreme Command.”

  He spoke with a low voice conjuring up all of the authority he could. “Commander Alan Pritchard for General Huxley, Charlottesville Militia, Authentication 5A41.” The voice on the other line was silent. As much as Alan loved his position in Charlottesville, this was only the second time he had called Supreme Command and this was part of the job he did not like.

  The voice on the other line came back, “Authentication verified, transferring you to the General.” Alan was given the authentication code before the raid on the bunker. General Huxley came on the line.

  “What news do you have Alan? Have you got anything we can use? What about the survivor? Is she still in critical condition and can’t be transferred?”

  Alan felt his throat swell but still managed to get out the words, “Well General, we found three of those Trolls’ remains and we are getting them ready for transfer now. We also managed to get out three of them orbitizers and a bunch of glass and metal.” He sighed, “No news on that girl, she’s still unconscious.” In all of the events of the day, Alan had forgotten to check on Maddie.

  “I want it all, the scraps, the glass, the Trolls and their weapons, and the girl. Send your transport to rendezvous point 41-13 and we will contact them for further instruction.”

  Alan quickly glanced at his rendezvous decoder that came with the letter from the Secretary of Defense. “41… 41… 41…” his large finger scrolled down the page, “London, man, how in the world am I going to get this stuff there?”

  The General, irritated by his response, came back coldly, “and -13.”

  Alan looked on the other side of the decoder, “13… Kentucky. Well, I got it, London, Kentucky. General, the transport is leaving tomorrow at the break of dawn. It’s too late to send them out now.”

  The General came back to Alan with a hardened voice, “Alan, this is very important. They need to leave now. There have been other assaults conducted on other bunkers and each area has received retaliatory attacks from the aliens. Every town militia that has conducted an assault has been demolished.”

  Alan felt an intense pain in the pit of his stomach. “How long do we have?” his voice squeaked as he asked the General.

  “Five days after the raid is the longest period that we have seen. Now you can see the importance of getting them out of there.”

  Alan asked, “I guess that means that you’re not providing any type of help?”

  The General answered, “Alan, every minute we talk is a minute closer to the aliens attacking and right now, talking is a waste of time. Defend yourselves the best you can and get that transport out of there. We need everything to learn how to beat them… Best of luck to you and to Charlottesville, Alan.” The General hung up the phone without hesitation. Alan’s oversized body sat in his little chair and he put his hands to his face as he began to cry.

  After a couple of minutes, Alan regained his composure and raised himself from his little chair. His office door swung open to the headquarters planning area. As much as he enjoyed his role, he knew that his only way to survive was to get on the transport out of town. A sense of self-preservation set in and he focused on the man that could help save him, “Ben, I need your help.” Ben entered into the small office th
at could barely fit the both of them and looked at Alan. Ben could see Alan’s eyes were teary and the skin under his beard was rubbed raw.

  “What do you need Commander?” Ben asked in anticipation of conscripting more scavengers.

  Alan spoke in a regretful tone, “I have been directed by Supreme Command to head the transport of the Troll materials to London, Kentucky. I’m putting you in charge of the militia while I’m gone.”

  Ben’s eyes opened, “Since when has there been a Supreme Command? We haven’t been in contact with anyone except for the people we confine here.” Alan let Ben know about who assigned him to direct the militia and that he had always had communications with a ‘higher authority.’ Alan explained the phone system and coding to Ben. The whole situation seemed odd to Ben. Why didn’t Alan assign this to any of his friends? Ben asked, “Why not put Maynard in charge?”

  Alan quickly responded with a smile, “Because that old coot can’t do half the things you can do.”

  This was a change that Ben wasn’t expecting, “What things do you need me to do?” Ben asked as he emphasized his need.

  “There might be an attack while I’m gone, maybe within the next couple of days. I need you to use that great mind of yours to defend the city,” Alan said. He wanted Ben in charge in hopes that he could return after the attack.

  “It could happen tonight.”

  “Are you serious??? We still have all those convoys out there and most of them are our trained soldiers. How the hell am I going to defend this place? Am I going to give people pitchforks and tell them to throw rocks???” Ben asked, shocked by the turn of events.

  “I can’t help what I’ve been told to do. All I know is that if anyone can do this, it’s you. We don’t have much time to talk this through. You have to get ready for the Trolls and I have to get this transport going. We both have our parts,” Alan said in his soothing voice.

  “Yeah, it’s funny how our parts panned out, convenient,” Ben scoffed. Ben didn’t wait for another word but quickly went into the planning room.