When he pressed it, we were all knocked over by the largest automatically inflatable life raft I had ever seen. Using a life raft to protect us from an earthquake seemed harebrained, but when a sudden tremor twisted my ankle, I didn’t hesitate to limp in.
The inflated rubber craft set us three feet off the ground, cushioning us from the violent shaking beneath. In the distance, I heard the collapse of neighboring houses after spastic tremors bounced the entire life raft a foot off the ground repeatedly.
Natural earthquakes rarely last more than a minute, but this wasn’t natural. The Kardashians were burning holes deep into Earth to destroy targets on the surface. Old fault lines around DC were being reopened and realigned constantly as their tectonic boundaries jarred and melted.
We were fifty miles from the epicenter of multiple magnitude 8 earthquakes, and for the next twenty minutes, we rode out the seismic turmoil. We said little that night, and one by one, we each fell asleep on our inflated bed, occasionally awakened by a heavy aftershock.
I awoke to the sound of distant sirens, the pain of a twisted ankle, and the burnt scents of everyday substances wafting about. I looked at Ralph’s house and was relieved it still stood. His two pet dogs had spent the night in there, trapped in a closed room, and were now walking peacefully on the lawn. The only person in the raft with me was Lieutenant Barber, talking on his phone. He glanced at me and smiled.
“He’s awake now,” the lieutenant said. “Markus, are you . . . okay to talk? It’s urgent.”
“Who is it?”
“The president.”
It was hard to believe President McAllister had survived. I imagined Francis finally told him about Ralph, and that this is why he was calling. I took the phone eagerly.
“Mr. President—”
“Markus, it’s me.”
“Samantha?” I shot a grimace at Lieutenant Barber.
“They’re dead,” Samantha said. “Everyone in DC, all of them, they’re all dead.”
“The president’s dead?”
“Markus . . . I am the president.”
XXXV
SUCCESSION
Immediately after President McAllister’s speech, everyone in the White House, including the press, retreated to the Emergency Operations Center beneath the White House. The plan was to evacuate using the underground tunnels below DC, in accordance with the Continuity of Operations Plan.
Everyone, including Francis, was either melted alive or crushed to death.
After the assassination of President Shepherd, President McAllister had delayed choosing a vice president. In comparison, President Johnson waited fourteen months to choose a VP after the assassination of JFK. But Johnson didn’t have to deal with an alien invasion. McAllister had to decide.
They were certainly familiar, but Samantha never met McAllister in his capacity as president. After President Shepherd was murdered, Samantha rushed to NORAD in Colorado Springs.
NORAD was a cold war artifact, a joint creation of America and Canada, designed to anticipate a Russian attack or invasion. Samantha went under the guise of an inspection. Of course, she knew it would be an ideal command center to track invading alien ships.
When the Kardashians destroyed Seoul, McAllister made Samantha vice president, and she was secretly sworn in. In case of his death, McAllister wanted someone from the military to succeed him.
But he never announced Samantha’s vice presidency. He feared how the American public would view it: he was preparing for his own demise—and he wanted people to view him with confidence. America had just lost President Shepherd. He didn’t want the country considering another loss so soon.
And there was no confusion. McAllister had informed enough of the survivors in the line of succession for all this to be clear. Before I woke up, official press releases had already announced Samantha as the president of the United States—the third in less than a week.
And she was calling me for advice. Or so I thought.
“I’m not the little girl who wanted to grow up and be president. I was the one who would grow up and kill bad guys. And now every general I know is asking me when we’ll retaliate.”
“What have you told them?”
“. . . Nothing,” she said.
“Did the Kardashians attack us anywhere else?”
“No, just DC. And now they’ve taken over. There are six ships parked at ground zero.”
“I take it you’ve told no one about Ralph,” I said.
I shouldn’t have mentioned Ralph, but maybe she shouldn’t have called me. I glanced at Lieutenant Barber, and he glared at me, shaking his head vigorously with his index finger vertical over his lips.
“Let’s not talk about Ralph right now,” she said quickly. “I need your advice, your honest thoughts. Do you think we should retaliate?”
“Of course you shouldn’t retaliate. You know you can’t defeat them. Just let them—”
“Thank you, Markus,” she said. “You’re right, we can’t retaliate. Thank you. I needed to hear it from someone I trust. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go now.”
She abruptly hung up, and I gave the phone to Lieutenant Barber.
“I think I just stopped a war,” I said in awe.
Lieutenant Barber laughed. “You’re some kind of moron, aren’t you . . .?”
“Excuse me?”
“You think she called you for advice? You really think Samantha Weingarten, the president, commander in chief, based her decision on what you just said?”
“Well, it sure sounded like it. What are you saying?”
“They’re listening,” he said, pointing his finger at the sky. “And Samantha knows they’re listening. They hacked our entire Internet. You don’t think they’ve hacked into her phone by now?”
“Oh,” I said, sheepishly. “Well, you could’ve told me.”
“No, I couldn’t have, because then you’d be unnatural. You might’ve gotten creative, instead of saying what she wanted you to say.”
“What exactly did she want me to say?”
“She called you because you’re the only one she knows who thinks we shouldn’t retaliate. And Samantha needs them to believe we won’t retaliate. You get it?” he said.
“OK, OK, I get it . . . but . . . Wait, how do you know all this?”
“I figured it out on my own. Not like she could tell me over the phone.”
“. . . Does this mean we will retaliate?”
“How the hell should I know?” Lieutenant Barber said.
The conversation I had with Samantha was really a conversation between her and the Kardashians. She wanted them to believe we wouldn’t attack. That was the only reason she called. Lieutenant Barber was cruel but correct.
In that moment, I realized something important: They had not listened to every phone call of every White House official in the last week. If they had, they would’ve heard Francis’s phone calls, and they would’ve already known about Ralph.
With more diligence, they would have found us much sooner. But they never intended to laboriously study and spy on humans. They didn’t want to work much at all.
For them, the invasion was a holiday.
XXXVI
PRESS
During our slumber, the fourth sky banner appeared over the African continent. From the Mediterranean to South Africa, from Senegal to Somalia, it was easily seen. This time, the message intended to tempt as much as offend, and it was equally dangerous. It foreshadowed the stunning announcement the queen would make in her press conference.
It was the longest banner with the longest message. With white words of English over a glowing black background, the following message manifested:
‘THE BLACK ONE WILL ALWAYS BE A SLAVE ON EARTH. COME WITH US.’
The first sentence was pathetically anachronistic. Enslaving people of African descent had been abolished so long ago in so many countries, one wondered if the aliens were out of touch. So, the natural interpretation was metaphorical—as i
f to say, despite all the advances of racial equality, blacks will never be treated equally. Former President Barack Obama tweeted, “What the hell are these aliens talking about?”
The second sentence of the message was more intriguing.
‘COME WITH US.’
The queen would soon clarify the details of this invitation.
While we slept in the life raft, Kardashian ships were landing in all major cities throughout the world. No country could resist them after the melting of DC, and, of course, some countries welcomed them for that same reason. But all governments warned citizens against provoking the Kardashians in any way.
Large parks within cities were used as parking lots: Central Park in New York City, the various Jardins throughout Paris, Chaoyang Park in Beijing, Parque Tezozómoc in Mexico City, among all the others. Most parks could only fit the smaller ships, and some witnesses viewed ships shrinking in size in order to land.
The queen’s press conference wasn’t cancelled, only delayed. While the American government put out press releases reassuring the public that they still had a functioning government, the Kardashians issued their own press release that morning, giving all the required details for the press. It stressed that any question could be asked.
The question-and-answer session took place inside the queen’s ship. Major news outlets were invited to send exactly one journalist each, which the Kardashians would vet and verify. It would be broadcast live on every TV and radio channel, via KEBS, which, once again, blanked out popular websites to eliminate any competition for attention.
The press conference was rescheduled for 5:00 p.m. Originally, the queen hoped to have it at noon in DC, but the destruction made this impossible. The venue was changed to the Queenstown golf course in Queenstown, Maryland—a location chosen more for the sake of a pun, I’m sure, than practicality.
Queenstown was three miles east of Ralph’s house in Grasonville, and both were on the Delmarva Peninsula. As a peninsula, there were only a few routes available. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge had become impassable from damage, so the only land route was from the north.
But it was difficult to find journalists to attend, as almost all journalists were unable to make the trip. Commercial flights were still grounded, and trains had been cancelled because of damage to tracks from earthquakes. Driving was the only option for many, and it was risky. Many roads had been destroyed, and many more were restricted by the military.
This left the media scrambling to find anyone to go.
“I’m going,” Alice told us.
“No . . . Alice . . . Don’t. You’re not ready for this,” Ralph said, shaking his helmet.
The oncoming press conference was all over the news that morning. Alice, tempted by opportunity, called her boss at the New York Times and begged to represent them. They already had someone. But, as a professional courtesy, they passed her name to other news outlets.
Her contribution to the article in the New York Times about the cylinder made her enough of a journalist, and her proximity to Queenstown made her especially valuable. It wasn’t long before the New York Post called her to represent them. Representing a conservative publication put a dent in her progressive sensibility, but she saw past it.
Ralph begged her to stay, but Alice ignored him.
“Lieutenant, please go with her,” Ralph said.
The lieutenant said nothing.
“This is a press conference, not a military operation. I don’t need protection,” Alice said.
“How do you plan to get there?” Lieutenant Barber asked.
She looked at him, then at me, and said, “I’ll walk, it’s only three miles.”
“No, Alice, I’ll drive you,” I said.
Lieutenant Barber rolled his eyes and grunted. “I’m supposed to be protecting you people, and I can’t do that if you split up.”
“I’m the interloper,” Alice said. “No one asked you to protect me.”
Lieutenant Barber exhaled, reached into his pocket, threw Alice his keys, and said, “Take my vehicle and drive straight there. Don’t stop for anyone or anything. We don’t know the local situation. The steering pulls a little to the left, the brakes are sticky, and a Beretta Px4 is holstered to the bottom of the front seat.”
“Thanks,” she said with a tiny smile.
Alice left two hours early, though the drive would take only minutes. We went outside to see her off and saw the white spaceships bulging into the horizon over nearby Queenstown. Ralph hugged Alice quickly and ran back in the house.
And once again, Ralph would refuse to watch the queen on television. I asked him why. He replied, “It could make me scream, and from this distance, they might hear me. They know the sound of my people screaming.”
Alice arrived in Queenstown and called to reassure us, and, perhaps, herself. As she drove, she described for me what she saw. There were no police or military in the area. I advised her to drive straight to the ships, and she agreed. She saw three ships. The queen’s ship was easy to identify from the numerous imprints of ‘Queen’s Ship’ programmed to appear in huge black letters on its surface. There were no Kardashians outside to greet the reporters, and no grand entrance. There were only arrows imprinted onto the half-mile long ship, pointing to a small open portal with the word ‘Entrance’ above it. Other reporters were there, waiting outside, talking, unsure what to do.
Later, reporters would give similar accounts of what happened after entering the small portal, which only allowed one reporter at a time. Each was held in a small, well-lit space, the size of a small closet, which moved horizontally and diagonally, as well as vertically. At various points, the reporter would be paralyzed and a needle would appear to either remove blood, or inject an unknown substance. They all reported a variety of scans being taken as well. They assumed it was an advanced form of quarantine.
Alice went in first. “Wish me luck,” she said.
That was the last contact we had with Alice before seeing her again on television. So we were just as shocked as anybody when the press conference began.
The all-white room was much larger than the room the queen had previously been filmed in, and less brightly lit. Her presence was less captivating this time, and the thirty human journalists with her suffered no mesmerization in her presence.
Like a human press conference, the camera was situated in the back of the room, focused on the queen in the front, with journalists in between. Each journalist sat on a simple white cube, which rose up from the floor. Most held a legal pad over their lap.
And everyone was naked.
Mandatory nudity was a Kardashian security measure, which, as a bonus, humiliated every human in the room. The other security measure was more shocking—no one could’ve guessed what the beast was at first.
Squatting behind the queen was a shady and monstrous alien. No one could confuse it for a terrestrial animal. The queen daintily held a long, thin leash attached to the thick collar around its fat neck. The black beast was easily 300 pounds, making the leash futile. The queen looked like a child holding the reins of a mutant grizzly bear.
The black metal muzzle on its snout seemed mystifyingly pointless in light of the ten glowing white dagger claws on each of its four limbs. I believe the muzzle was there to prevent the beast from speaking, more than biting or eating. The beast could have killed everyone in the room in less than a minute, and everyone in that room knew it. Its least-threatening aspects were the two dull and immature horns on its head.
Lined along the back wall were dozens of 8-ounce glass bottles of Diet Coke. It was a mystery how they obtained the bottles, presumably from the wreckage of some supermarket near DC, but it made the queen seem even more powerful and strange. The bottles inevitably brought to mind the lunar advertisement, but in any case, they had promised refreshments.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” the queen said politely. The beast behind her grunted, and she paused. “Right, and if anyone would like a Diet Coke, feel free to get
up and take one.”
The naked humans stayed seated as the queen took a Diet Coke and casually removed the bottle cap using one of the forty knifelike claws on the black beast.
“No one’s thirsty? . . . Then let’s start. Ask me anything.”
Uncertain of protocol, reporters shifted glances at one another, while Alice and a few others raised their hands. Alice was sitting up front, and the queen looked at her.
“Ah, you, the pretty one, what’s your name?” the queen said.
“Alice Higginbotham, with the New York Post.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“. . . Since we are on that topic, how do we address you? ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Queen’—”
“Ooh,” the queen purred. “I like ‘Your Majesty.’ I like that a lot. Call me that.”
“OK . . . Your Majesty,” Alice continued, “numerous reports indicate that your vessels were attacked by North Korean missiles, which explains why you retaliated against Kaesong in North Korea. But why attack South Korea? Why attack Seoul? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
The queen paused and smiled. “North Korea . . . South Korea . . . North Dakota . . . South Dakota . . . These primitive and petty distinctions mean little to us. All we knew was that we were attacked, and we had to defend ourselves. I should ask you: why did you let your Koreans attack us? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
She was an ignorant bitch of a queen, but I had no idea how much of it was an act. Alice was too stunned to follow up. The queen moved on.
“Yes, you . . . the whorish-looking redhead in the back, I would like to hear you speak.”
“Ahh, thank you, Your Majesty,” the redhead said nervously. “Stephen Hawking feared aliens might come to Earth and strip it of its resources. Is that why you are here?”
The queen laughed. “Stephen who?”
“Ahh, Stephen Hawking, Your Majesty, a prominent theoretical physicist.”
“I’m sure he’s charming. But no, we are not interested in such things. We don’t care about your caviar, your oil, your platinum or plutonium . . . We’re not even interested in your helium reserves. We are not here to take. We are only here to give.”
The Book of Ralph Page 20
