A Year Underfoot Read online

  A Year Underfoot

  By Paul Nevins

  Copyright © 2012

  rights reserved

  June 29th, 2033

  The good Doctor Grusin says I should start keeping a journal. He says that if I write down the dreams they’ll start making sense to me. I know it’s a load of b.s., but I’ll indulge him anyway.

  What have I got to lose?

  You know, maybe keeping a journal isn’t such a bad idea after all, somebody should keep a record of what’s about to go down. Might as well be me. There will be survivors and the story has to be told.

  So, here goes…

  My name is Dante Mason. I’m twenty–seven years old and I am not crazy.

  How’s that for starters?

  June 30th, 2033

  I was released this morning from a soft 51/50 hold. Doctor Grusin was able to convince his colleagues that even though he believes I’m a little off my rocker, I’m not a danger to anyone, or to myself for that matter.

  How reassuring, but I knew that three days ago when they dragged me into the psych unit at County USC. I’ve been poked, prodded, and poked some more. I answered more questions than an oracle on a hill and was diagnosed and derided as a loon by a panel of zit–faced interns who would much rather have been at the beach, or out on the golf course.

  But, it’s all good.

  I never lost my cool.

  They held me for seventy–two hours, but it didn’t take me longer than ten minutes to learn the game, push the right buttons and set the wheels in motion for my eventual release. All I had to do was give in to the psycho–babble and pretend to be cured. A win–win situation for all involved, I pretend to be cured, and they pretend to have cured me.

  Everyone walks away happy and out the door I go, – and, not a moment too soon.

  ‘Cuz, they’re coming.

  That’s a fact, Doc, and no amount of poking around inside my head is going to change that.

  I am having visions, and they are real.

  I’m not making this up.

  I’ll try and do the right thing.

  July 2nd, 2033

  I slept on the roof of a twenty–dollar a night flophouse in East Hollywood last night. I paid for a room, but I couldn’t bring myself to sleep indoors. I ended up spending the night on the roof, propped up against an old pigeon coop, staring across at the city lights and making out lists of supplies I’ll need once it all hits the fan.

  I never thought my life would’ve turned out like this, but, then again, who ever does?

  As soon as the money store opens up in the morning, I’m cashing out the EBT card I received from the State for living expenses and then I’m heading over to the Army surplus store to stock up. The card is good for three hundred and eighty–one dollars and I plan on spending at least half of that supplementing my gear, – the rest on food and ammo.

  July 3rd, 2033

  Three days–no sleep–no visions. I’m going out of my mind. I’m on edge and crawling in my skin.

  Time is running out. They’ll be here soon.

  God, how I wish I were wrong.

  For me, the nightmare began six months ago with a crazy “dream” I had nine nights in a row, – and a few dozen times thereafter. It’s always the same, – exactly the same.

  It’s 3 a.m., and I’m here in Los Angeles. The sky is clear, the stars are out and bright and the city below is fast asleep. A cold chill wakes me from a deep sleep and I rise up from my bed and walk over to the window, as if in a trance. I’m gazing up at the moon, staring out at the stars shimmering in the glow of a full moon when a strange flicker of light draws my attention to the horizon and the empty skies out over the Pacific.

  I watch as the flicker of light grows brighter and brighter, – drawing closer and closer toward the sleepy coastline.

  At first, I’m fascinated, but my fascination soon turns to fear as the one light splits off into fifty–one identical spheres of glowing red light, which move quickly and quietly to encircle the Greater Los Angeles Basin.

  Starting with the sleepy city of Gorman in the north, the red lights form an arc, fanning out eastward to the desert cities of Lancaster and San Bernardino before swooping south to the San Onofre nuclear power plant north of San Diego on the coast.

  And, there they sat, fifty–one red beacons, hanging in the night.

  Does anyone else see this?

  Does anyone else see the fleet of alien fighters screaming in from the west? I see them, hundreds abreast, all with a singular purpose, to destroy everything in sight.

  Their weapon of choice – the plasma cannon.

  From the underbellies of the alien crafts, red–hued pulses of highly charged matter sliced through the sleeping metropolis, incinerating everything in their path. And, whatever the plasma cannons didn’t directly destroy, fell prey to the raging fires left in their wake.

  In a matter of minutes, a large portion of Southern California was ablaze.

  In the dreams the attack is well coordinated and relentless. It lasts for three days and nights and later, when the fighters are gone and the skies have cleared, I find myself staring down into the massive craters where homes once stood, wandering silently among the shell–shocked survivors, – collared at the neck and shackled to each other as they are loaded onto alien transport ships, never to see the Earth again.

  After the first nine nights the dreams came sporadically, but as time passed I experienced them more frequently and they grew more intense. Each passing episode went a little further, showed me a little bit more, and gave me a better understanding as to what lay out on the horizon for us all.

  And, like a fool, albeit a well–meaning one, I tried to warn others. I shared the dreams with family and friends alike. I told them what I knew was coming down the pike. I told them I had an absolute and unshakable belief the visions were real,–and that they were more than that, they were a warning and we had better get prepared.

  But, no one would believe me. Not with my shaky past. Still, I tried. I reached out to anyone and everyone I could think of, until it became clear that everyone thought I was back on drugs and avoided me like the plague.

  Once a junkie, always a junkie, I suppose.

  Then, three days ago, the dreams stopped. Cold turkey. No more fear, no more fires, no more death. I felt better than I had in months. I was beginning to breathe again. I thought I was free. But, my serenity was short–lived. Deep down I knew why the dreams had stopped. They were close. I could feel it. They would be here soon.

  July 7th 2033

  It was three a.m. on the morning of the fourth when they finally struck. I was wide awake, sitting on the edge of my bed, cleaning the .357 Smith & Wesson Magnum I’d picked up a few weeks earlier when a flash of scratchy white light lit up the room and signaled the beginning of the end.

  This was it.

  The power went dead.

  I jumped to the window and gazed outside. The city had already fallen dark. There wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere. I had to get out of Los Angeles, and fast. If the dreams held true, and I knew they would, a firestorm would incinerate the city within the hour. If I were to survive, I’d have to get as close to the ocean as possible.

  I grabbed my bug out bag and my mountain bike and shot out of the room. Two quick flights of stairs later and I was standing in the street in front of the cheap hotel looking up at the skies. I couldn’t see the alien fighters, but I could hear them rumbling in the distance.

  This was really happening.

  I hopped on my bike and hit the road. I ducked down a couple of side streets until I hit Santa Monica Boulevard and headed west. The ocean lay ten miles down the empty boulevard, and once I hit the shore, the plan was to head north to Malibu.

>   But first, I had to get there.

  I lowered my head and pedaled hard. With the bars and nightclubs closed, the city was fast asleep and I had free reign of the quiet streets. I was making good time and I figured to reach the ocean in thirty minutes, forty–five tops.

  I raced ahead, my head still bowed, my legs churning, my mind reeling. And, when I had occasion to look up, there they were, a tight line of sleek Threak fighters, – warbirds, as they’re called, – hundreds abreast and streaking toward the coast without an ounce of opposition.

  I was right.

  Damn it, I was right.

  The warbirds were closing in at an incredible rate of speed and would breach the shore in a matter of seconds. I was still a few miles from the ocean, just east of the 405 Freeway overpass, pedaling hard and hoping I had gotten out in time.

  I hit the underpass as the warbirds flew overhead and I watched as they broke off into groups of three and the carnage began. The plasma cannons on the bellies of the alien fighters went hot and entire city blocks burst into flames. No one was spared.

  The lucky ones never rose from their beds.

  And, although I couldn’t see the entire scope of the alien invasion, I knew what was going on just the same. The visions had seen to that. I knew this scene was being played out worldwide, from Moscow to Cairo, New York to London, Tokyo, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg, no one was spared.

  Despite our racial and religious differences here on Earth, we were all the same in the eyes of the Threak, – pests to be exterminated. We had the misfortune of sitting on resources they coveted. It was as simple as that, and in a matter of a few short hours, billions of people had been killed,–and millions more would wished they’d perished as well.

  The fight for survival had begun.

  God help us all.

  I hit the ocean and kept heading north, cutting through Malibu as quickly as possible. I let out a sigh of relief when I left the retail strip of the PCH, – the Pacific Coast Highway, and ventured out into the unincorporated areas north of the city where I stood a better chance of surviving the attack.

  I kept heading north until the sun peeked out over the eastern hills then I dumped the bike and climbed up a small bluff and looked south toward Santa Monica.

  My gaze was greeted with fire as far as the eye could see.

  From where I stood I watched the city burn, until the winds shifted and I had to pick up stakes and flee. Without the onshore breeze keeping the inferno at bay, it was only a matter of time before the fires raced up the PCH and overran my location, so I kept moving north.

  And, here I sit, six hours later, – with my world on fire, wondering what tomorrow may bring.

  July 8th, 2033

  I kept hiking north today, stopping only once to rest up and swallow a quick bite of salami and cheese. I’ve been up for the better part of thirty hours and I have to say, physically, I feel fine, but, as far as how I’m holding up mentally, well, that’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. On the one hand, I have to admit, it’s nice to have my sanity validated, but on the other, if I had been crazy, none of this would be happening.

  I’d give anything to have the world as it was forty–eight hours ago. Anything at all. But, that’s not going to happen.

  What is going to happen, – I’m going to keep my head low and my footprint light. I’m going to stay off the beaten path and keep my wits about me and, above all, I’m going to figure out how to stay alive. I’m going to survive.

  A quick check of my wind–up watch tells me it’s nearing six a.m., it’s been twenty–seven hours since the first strike and three hours since the last wave of warbirds disappeared from the southern skies. I’d like to think the attack is over, but I know better. It’s only just begun.

  The fires to the south rage on, creeping ever northward. Smoke and soot hang in the air, causing my eyes to water and burn. And, with the wind whipping through the steep canyons, flames could suddenly appear on the horizon one minute, and overrun me the next. I have to keep moving. I’m not safe here.

  One last sip of water and I am off.

  July 9th, 2033

  I managed a couple of hours of sleep this afternoon. It’s the first bit of shut–eye I’ve gotten in quite a while and when I woke, I felt like a new man. A quick bite to eat and I’ll be ready to move out.

  A light rain has been falling for the better part of an hour, – not enough to douse the fires, but it may serve to slow the enemy down a bit. In any case, the rain is a welcome sight. The wind is blowing onshore and the inclement weather makes me feel safe. With any luck a nice storm front will blow in and hide me for a while. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  Hello, Poseidon, are you listening?

  The goal for tonight is to break from the coast and skirt east of the Naval Weapons Air Station at Point Mugu. The base lies dead ahead, eight miles south of Oxnard, – close to sixteen miles from my current location. Being that the facility housed both missile and satellite operations in the past, I’m sure it was one of the first places that got hit, – and if the Threak were landing troops, it would be one of the first places they’d secure.

  I’m giving that place a wide berth.

  If I make it through Oxnard by daybreak I’ll be a happy man.

  On a different note, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone else since early yesterday morning. I can’t help but wonder how many of us there are left. I know they went after the large cities and the military installations, but what about the small towns and outlying areas? How did they fare? I have no idea.

  Communication is nonexistent and I’m afraid it’s going to be that way for quite some time.

  July 10th, 2033

  They’ve landed.

  I’d been on the bounce for two hours when I spotted three enormous gray transport ships descending south of Oxnard. The sight of the massive vessels stopped me cold. Each alien ship ate up the sky. They looked like the purpose they serve, – giant storage sheds, one quarter of a mile long by one quarter of a mile wide and upwards of a half of a mile in height. The trio easily dwarved their warbird escorts and the thought of each behemoth stuffed full of troopers, gear and ordinance makes my stomach crawl.

  If they could afford to drop this on Oxnard, what was going on in the rest of the world?

  They set down on the south side of the former naval base, putting them only three miles to the north, – too close for comfort, – way too close for comfort. I had to get off the coast and get away from the PCH. I knew they’d soon be running ground patrols, and being that the PCH is the only road slicing through the area, it would certainly be one of the first pieces of real estate the invaders would secure.

  I was on the move once again.

  I took to the hills just a few hundred yards south of Point Mugu State Park and kept hiking north through the Santa Monica Mountains. I knew as long as I kept to my plan and kept my head down and my footprint light I’d skirt through the area just fine. Sprawling sycamore and oak trees doted the canyon floor and provided me excellent air cover and the well–kept park’s trail system helped me move quickly and quietly through the night.

  You see, in my shock I thought I still had a chance of passing through Oxnard.

  That all changed when I saw the first of the ground patrols after midnight. Three distinct red and blue lights cutting south down the PCH. They moved slowly and methodically, scouring every inch of the road. At times they moved so slowly I thought they would stop, but they didn’t, and in due time passed by me and continued on down the road.

  With the ground patrol safely moving south I continued north, finally cresting a ridge where the sycamores had given way to acres of purple–flowered wild brush and an elevated view of the southern end of the naval air station.

  The air station, however, was not there. It had been completely destroyed. Small fires still burned here and there around the perimeter of the facility, but for all intended purposes, the naval air station was not there. Not anymore.

  What
stood in its place were three gargantuan supply transports. Each one reached a half of a mile into the night sky and the sight of these ships sent a chill down my spine. I’d seen them landing, but this was entirely different. They were laid out before me and all I could do was stare a their enormity.

  Dumbstruck is the word that pops to mind.

  I crouched low among the wild brush and shucked off my backpack. I drew it before me and fished out my infrared field glasses and zeroed in on the three monsters lined neatly together a half a mile away, – and then to the flurry of activity on the ground as troops and machinery were being off–loaded and staged for deployment.

  As I dialed in the distance on the glasses, I got my first real glimpse of the invaders themselves, – and they were exactly as they appeared in the visions.

  Exactly.

  The Threak stand fifteen feet tall and their barrel–shaped bodies are covered entirely in a thick, shiny black fur. They have two arms and two legs, and a singular head, – presently covered in an elaborate helmet of sorts, – a breathing apparatus, no doubt. They look to weigh in the neighborhood of a thousand pounds, and even from a distance, they signal to the soul a new devil incarnate.

  From what I understand, the troopers, the everyday grunt, operate in cells of three, and either due to their size, or the gravity of our planet, are sluggish and slow, as if they’re walking chest deep through rushing water. Their movements are forced and unnatural. Whether or not they can adapt to the gravity of our planet remains to be seen. I’m praying their issues with our mother will only worsen.

  From where I sat, I spent the rest of the night watching the troopers unload the supply transports. Hundreds of vehicles and thousands of troopers disembarked from the three alien ships and rolled off into the darkness, some heading east, while others rolled past my position, heading south down the PCH toward Malibu, Santa Monica and points south.

  The occupation has begun.

  July 11th, 2033

  I was hoping to leave the park tonight, but it looks like that isn’t going to happen any time soon. The skies are lousy with warbirds on patrol, and with the hundreds of fresh troop carriers rolling through the area, making a break for it now would be nothing short of suicide. Instead of continuing north as I’d planned, I’ll have to wait until the trio of supply transports depart and the parade of troopers thins out before I make my move. At the rate they’re off–loading the troops and supplies it shouldn’t be more than a couple of days, – I hope.