by David Beers
There she stood, though. A mile away? Maybe more? Michael couldn't tell distance in here, and if it wasn't for the color wrapping around her, he probably wouldn't have seen her at all.
The white aura hung from her like Morena's green. This white, though, resembled the pure white of the ship that dropped from the sky in the field. It looked like the ship Morena traveled in. The white aura blew around the creature, revealing her body of the same nature—the same purity.
Am I dreaming? Michael wondered. But could he dream, given the current state of his mind? He stood up from the sand, dusting himself off as he did.
The creature raised an arm, though she was too far away for him to understand the gesture. Was she waving? Beckoning? He didn't know what she wanted, but knew he didn't want to go to her. Despite the purity her white brought to mind, whatever she was, she wasn't human. That creature was of Morena's ilk and she shouldn't be in here. Not in Bryan's mind nor his. Neither had any contact with a creature like this, so why could he see her?
Could Bryan?
No, he wasn't here. The vastness of Bryan's mind amazed Michael, but his friend rarely came inside this place. Michael didn't ask why because he didn't need to: Bryan wouldn't find anything in here—just like Michael hadn't until now.
What do you want? he said silently. How are you even here?
The creature let her hand drop to her side, but didn't move in any other way.
Then, after a few seconds at least, she began crossing the desert sand—heading directly toward him.
If The Makers exist, they created nothing greater than this.
The world before Junior stretched out in an endless array of flames and smoke.
He had done very little in this city, Los Angeles. No, his army, his brothers and sisters, they created this destruction. And it was good. He only watched, directed, and assessed.
Junior walked across the broken ground, moving lightly from jagged concrete to fractured pole, flying just a few inches above the devastation when necessary. Smoke brushed across his face, the smell of burning gasoline venturing with it.
Junior walked upwards, climbing the wrecked buildings, wanting to gain a higher vantage point to see what they had truly accomplished. The rocks and rubble tumbled around him as he climbed, his feet causing slight shifts in the way the new structures lay. He didn't stop though, didn't even pause, as the moment something crumbled, he would simply lift into the air or have his aura hold the structure together.
And finally he stood a hundred feet above the ground. He turned around, slowly, taking it all in, understanding just how much they had been able to do. How far they had pushed. How many lives they took. He saw Bynums still fighting, scattering the few remaining people that hadn't fled or died. Some looked at him and some at each other. Junior glanced up at the mountain backdrop to the city. When he first arrived here, those mountains had been an aside, something to look at once his eyes moved past the city.
Now, the mountains were the largest structures around for miles.
Now, Junior's eyes went to them first.
He brought himself back to the destruction, wanting to understand if he could have done anything differently—perhaps made the attack safer or more efficient. The ground glittered back up at him, glass twinkling in the dying sunlight.
The sun would rise again, though. Junior understood that. Tonight, it would fall, and tomorrow, the flames would be just a bit less and Bynimian's life just a bit stronger.
All over the west coast, this occurred.
Up and down the state humanity had called California. And where Junior started this? Texas existed now only in memory, as anything resembling the land that humans conquered had passed from existence. Perhaps on long stretches of highway, where no one ever lived, people would recognize their world. Even now, Junior felt confident whatever survivors lived in that state were trying to make it to those spared pieces of land. They would find somewhere to hide, which was fine at the moment. Junior's group, and the groups still being born, would find the rogue humans and end them.
He said nothing to those below him and they offered no words either. His brethren hungered for the next city. At this rate, the entire United States would lie under white strands or broken buildings within the week, and from there? Junior would take this army across the world.
Feed them, then, Junior thought. Give them the next city.
And he did.
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Afterword
This has been a tough series to write, if I’m being truthful. No series is easy, but this one … well, fans who’ve followed me for a while know that I write with a tremendous amount of self-doubt, and part of me feels that this story might have been beyond my grasp as an author. You always have this grand idea in your head, and never quite feel like you were able to put it down perfectly. So there’s a bit of insight into my work, I suppose.
A lot of readers write me and tell me they don’t know who to root for, which means I’m succeeding at least in some aspects.
I’m rooting for two characters—Morena and Wren. Morena because what choice does she have? Wren because, at least in some part, is my own father.
Nearing thirty years old, I have very little relationship with him due to alcoholism. I know him, as in, what he looks like and acts like—but that is only to say I know what alcohol has done to a man who was once strong and smart.
I don’t think I’ll ever know my dad, not truly.
Redemption doesn’t always happen in life, but it can in my mind, and so I root for Wren—because there’s something good in all of us, even if it’s buried deep.
I’ve dedicated these books to my father, though he’ll never read them. I guess in some way, this series is a letter to him, saying how I wish things could be between us—without the alien about to kill us all.
So, one more book left. Let’s find out who wins, shall we?
All the best,
David - 3/28/2016
