A Year Underfoot Read online

Namely, the kids down in No Mans Land.

  I’m sure they’ll see them coming. They’ve made it this far. They’re a smart bunch.

  I did a bit more fishing today and, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, I’ve had my fill of fish, and fish byproducts. What I wouldn’t give for a greasy burger with fries, or a large pepperoni pizza right about now.

  And, a milkshake. Any flavor.

  But back in the here and now, I have fish, some to eat now, and some to smoke for later. And, trust me, I’m not complaining. My lot is far better than most, and don’t think for a minute it doesn’t go unnoticed. The fact of the matter is I’ve had it pretty good for quite a while and I know it. I’ve only had to look out for myself. And, don’t think that hasn’t gone unnoticed as well.

  I suppose I’ve been noticing a lot of things lately.

  Rain is coming. That’s always a good thing. The more rain the better. It keeps the Threak indoors and off my back, and that’s the way I like it. I remember something about this being an “El Nino” year. I hope I’m right. An El Nino weather pattern is going to bring a lot of humidity, – meaning, a lot of thunder and lightning, and a lot of rainfall.

  I hope so. The nastier the storm, the better it is for us. We can take it. The Threak can’t. Lightning is the only entity I’ve ever seen that truly scares them. It stops them in their tracks and makes them run for cover. There’s nothing else like it.

  Lightning. Intense electrical discharges.

  There has to be a way to replicate.

  February 15th, 2034

  The transports were backed up and standing still on the PCH this morning and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the troopers were up to no good. These guys didn’t stop for anything, but there they were. Plain as day.

  A problem at the LAX plant, perhaps?

  No such luck, I knew better.

  They were rounding up the kids of No Mans Land.

  Whatever they’re doing at that plant is more important than I thought. Time to take a closer look.

  February 18th, 2034

  All signs pointed south, so, south it was.

  Again.

  My reasons for going back were two fold, I had to see for myself what was going down at the plant, – and, if it were the band of kids in trouble, maybe there was something I could do to help.

  I’m glad I went.

  Not only were the kids in trouble, but I also solved the mystery of the production facility.

  First things first.

  I followed the parade south and by sunrise on the 16th I was a mile southeast of the LAX facility taking shelter in the torched shell of a strip mall. Alien symbols scrawled on the outside of the wrecked complex indicated the building had been cleared a few hours earlier, which meant they wouldn’t be back for at least a few more. It was the perfect place to grab some shut–eye before I was back at it again.

  No sooner had I closed my eyes when the building shook. I sprang to my feet, my .357 in hand. I slipped outside to have a look. Off in the west, no more than two miles away, flashes of an ominous red light peppered the early morning sky and a trio of warbirds hovered overhead.

  The raid on the kids of No Man’s Land had begun.

  I scooped up my gear and headed west. I was betting the troopers would take the kids to the air base for questioning rather than kill them on the spot. After all, they were only children, some no more than ten years old. There had to be adults running the show somewhere, right? At least, I hoped that’s what the Threak were thinking.

  And, if they were of that mindset, – taking them to the air base for questioning, then it meant traveling up the Pacific Coast Highway.

  Good deal.

  I could catch up with them two miles south of Santa Monica. One mile north of where I was standing. I knew I could make it there before the transports, no matter what route they’d chosen, but I’d have to move fast.

  I lit out from the strip mall and ran north by northeast. I figured I had fifteen minutes, twenty tops. I hadn’t time to worry about the warbirds, I just lowered my head and ran. If they got me, they got me.

  When I hit the junction fifteen minutes later I spotted the first of the three transports rambling up the road. A half of a mile separated us and the gap was closing fast. I had enough juice for one more Molotov cocktail and I had to make it count. My best bet was to stop the lead transport and see what I could make happen from there.

  My target was fifty feet away when I lit the rag and ran straight up the road at the driver. His bulging eyes grew another two sizes as he realized what I’d just released from my left hand.

  Welcome to Happy Hour.

  I smiled, he frowned, – and, we both knew I was right on target.

  The bottle met the windshield with smashing results.

  Flames spread across the windshield and the vehicle veered sharply to the right, braking hard as it did so. The front left quarter of the vehicle hugged tightly to the road as the right rear heavy transport lurched upward and came up off the ground.

  The second transport never braked at all.

  It struck the right rear bumper of the leading transport with great force, sending the hapless vehicle tumbling end over end down the road. Dust and debris filled the air as the transport twisted and turned. Three and a quarter rotations later the vehicle came to rest on its left side. The rear door of the transport had been ripped off in the crash and five or six kids, having just escaped though the gaping hole, shot past me to the east. I peered into the transport just long enough to confirm it was empty and when I turned I found a trooper towering over me.

  I dropped to one knee and squeezed off a half dozen rounds at the hulking figure, hitting him squarely in the chest. The creature simply stood there, looking straight ahead. Slowly his gaze fell down upon me, his expression said it all, he’d never seen it coming. A thick blue blood oozed from his body and he dropped his weapon and fell forward.

  Tough luck, dude.

  I was up and running before his furry body hit the ground.

  The other two troopers of his pod responded, blasters drawn, and I could feel them drawing a bead on me as ran for cover. At any moment I was a dead man and would have been so if the crashed transport behind them hadn’t inexplicably, and belatedly, exploded. The blast knocked the two aliens off their feet, giving me the extra seconds I needed to clear the area and slip anonymously into the rubble.

  And, safely hidden away in the rubble is where I stayed for two days and two nights.

  The enemy finally cleared the area around noon today, almost fifty–six hours after they’d arrived. I crawled out of the rubble and made my way south toward the LAX facility. It lay another quarter mile south by southwest and because of the crash I expected security around the place would be tight, but what I found when I got there was ridiculous.

  The Threak had formed a protective circle around the perimeter of the facility. Every sixty feet a battle–dressed trooper stood guard, his blaster at the ready. I estimated their numbers to be more than two thousand strong with fresh troops being added by the hour.

  I resigned myself to never finding out what was being produced inside, when I realized the answer was right in front of me all along. They weren’t producing, they were bottling.

  Seawater.

  They’re bottling seawater. It keeps the Threak alive.

  The symbols at the facility match the ones on the trooper’s canteens. They need the salt water to survive. Why hadn’t I make the connection before?

  Not only have I found a way onto the air base, it looks like I may have found a way into their bodies as well.

  February 19th, 2034

  I left No Mans Land early this morning and picked up the radio as I blew through Malibu. After hiking for the past twelve hours I’ve stopped for the night to grab a bite to eat and get some sleep. Come morning I’m on the hunt for a car battery so I can fire up the radio and get back in the loop.

  It seems like weeks have passed since I’ve
heard any words other than my own. Not to say I’m not good company, but even I get tired of myself after a while.

  February 21st, 2034

  I’m wiped out, both physically and emotionally. I laid down early yesterday afternoon to catch a nap and I’m still here almost twenty–four hours later. I’m cold and I’m hungry and worse off, I don’t feel like getting up.

  And, it’s not because I’m sleeping. I’m lucky if I can catch twenty minutes here and there, mostly I stare up at the sky, trying to wrap my mind around the past eight months.

  So, where am I at? I suppose that’s the question I’ve been asking myself all night and the better part of the day. The fact of the matter is I’m not quite sure where I’m at. I’m still collecting pieces, – whatever that means. I wish I could get off this ride, if only for a second. I wish I could see the big picture.

  What I need is a moment of clarity.

  What I need is to take out a battleship.

  February 22nd, 2034

  I haven’t stirred much today. Still laying here in my cocoon letting the world wash over me. I’ve managed to get some sleep this afternoon and I don’t feel as frantic, or as anxious as I did yesterday.

  Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel like moving.

  February 23rd, 2034

  I packed up shop and left out of my misery early this afternoon. Something inside switched on and I had to get up and get moving. I’ve been hiking north and breathing deeper ever since. As the miles fly by the emotional baggage is slowly dropping off and I’m feeling better all the time. A weight is being lifted. I can feel it. My spirit is being restored.

  Looking back, I must’ve had a panic attack.

  I’m surprised I haven’t had one sooner.

  February 23rd, 2034

  (second entry)

  I’m spending the evening here on the northern edge of the Santa Monica Mountains and I’m looking down at the stillness of the Oxnard oil fields below. In the fading light, the shadows cast by the hundreds of T–shaped pumps frozen in various positions are quite a sight to behold.

  A herd of prehistoric creatures painted on the ground.

  I wonder if future generations, should there be any, will know what these pumps were once used for?

  February 24th, 2034

  The warbirds were out in force early this morning, but by early afternoon they had bugged out. Looks like rain is in the forecast. Whatever they were up to, they had to wrap it up, and wrap it up quick.

  Wrapping up tends to leave holes.

  I’m still heading north, poking my way through deserted neighborhoods and looking for food along the way. Clearing the houses always sets me on edge. I know one day I’ll walk into a trap, but hunger trumps fear every time, so in I go.

  February 25th, 2034

  Another twenty miles in the rear view mirror and with a heavy rain bearing down I feel like I have the world to myself. The skies are free of warbirds and the troopers are locked safely away inside the air base. Thunder and lightning have been rumbling and flashing all night long and I couldn’t have ordered up any better weather if I tried. I should be able to get in another ten miles before the storm lets up, and if it keeps up through tomorrow I’ll be home free.

  February 26th, 2034

  The rain is still coming down pretty hard, which is fine by me. It’s early, around seven in the morning and I’m holed up under a rock outcropping and find myself surprisingly dry and in good spirits. I was able to start a small fire using clumps of dry moss and I’ve been adding the wet stuff when necessary. I’m not too worried about the smoke, I don’t think the Threak are going to be poking their heads out into this muck any time soon.

  February 26th, 2034

  (second entry)

  It’s coming up on midnight and I’ve called it a day. A cup of chicken broth and it’s off to sleep. If all goes well I figure on making my friend Dan Wolfe’s camp sometime tomorrow afternoon.

  I hope they’re still around.

  February 27th, 2034

  Today was a good day.

  I made Wolfe’s place before noon and I’m happy to report Rachel, and especially Jessie, are flourishing under Dan and Maureen’s care. They’re happy, healthy, and more importantly, there’s a light in their eyes. They are living, not merely surviving. It takes the weight off of my shoulders knowing I made the right decision in bringing them here, – even if I wasn’t aware I was carrying a weight around in the first place.

  Dan tells me the Threak’s foray into the mountains was a bust, – sure, they picked up a few stragglers here and there, but nowhere near the numbers they were looking for. So, as far as raping of the planet goes, they’re going to have to do that on their own. They’ll find no help here.

  During the enemy’s incursion into the Sierras, the underground infrastructure, i.e., the obtaining of food, supplies, and information was temporarily shut down while the troopers banged about, but once the “fuzzies”, as Jessie calls them, left the mountains, the networks sprang back stronger than ever. The airwaves crackled with life and the invincible mystique of the “all–conquering” Threak had been taken down a few notches.

  Everyday, more and more people are waking up to the belief we can beat them.

  And, we can beat them, make no mistake.

  I told Dan all about my trip south and the seawater connection. He said he’d always wondered what they ate and drank and it looks like the question of drink might be partially solved, but as for what they eat, I can only guess, and, I try not to go there. I’m not quite sure I want to know the answer.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon exchanging information and kicking about the idea of coordinating an attack on the air base in early May. Since the idea had been floated about in the fall, word had spread and folks signed on without a second thought. Somewhere along the line it had gone from an “if” to a “when”, and I couldn’t be happier to hear it. It’s time we gave it back to the enemy in spades.

  Dinner was served promptly at seven and Maureen and the girls made a venison and vegetable stew that tasted better than anything I’ve ever eaten in my life, pre–invasion included. And, I’m not just saying that because I’ve been on a steady diet of fish jerky and rainwater, I mean, this meal was epic, one for the ages. Boiled carrots and potatoes in gravy, bread and butter, – ‘nuff said. I’m making myself hungry all over again.

  My belly is full. It’s late and I’m tired. Lights out.

  It’s good to be amongst friends.

  February 28th, 2034

  Early this morning I went with Dan and his eldest son, Jarrod, to cut firewood and haul it back to camp. Along the way we came upon footprints, human footprints. They appeared to be fresh, – the storms of the past few days hadn’t degraded the impressions much at all, and as such, they were easy to track.

  All told there were four distinct sets of prints.

  “Two adults and two children,” Dan pointed out, “And, they are moving slow.” He walked ahead, inspecting the footprints as he did so. “They’re tired, look at how the front tip of random steps drag and shuffle across the ground. These folks are in bad shape.”

  We figured they couldn’t be much further ahead. Chances are they were still in the immediate area and we followed their path hoping to catch up with them and lend a helping hand.

  We caught up with them fifteen minutes later. We found them hanging from a low–lying branch on an old oak tree. One by one, all four lined up on one sturdy branch, swinging gently in the morning breeze.

  The fight was over for them.

  They had hung themselves.

  We cut them down, – a father, a mother and two small girls, and laid them to rest. Dan and I each said a few words over the shallow graves, while Jarrod marked each one with crosses he’d fashioned out of twigs and twine.

  I don’t any of us spoke more than two words on the way back to camp.

  March 1st, 2034

  Ever since yesterday’s grisly find, a pale has fallen over the camp. You c
an see it in everyone’s eyes and I’m getting the feeling they’re all falling upon me. I’ve never really felt “at home” at the Wolfe’s camp, welcome, yes, but there are those around here who equate my presence with Threak raids. I can’t say as I blame them, where I go, the Threak seem to follow, – and now this.

  So, adhering to a time old axiom, – the one about guests and fish wearing out their welcome after three days, I’m packing up this evening and hitting the trail. I’m going to make a stop at Ross’ camp along the way and see if I can’t get help get the ball rolling for a springtime strike on the air base.

  March 2nd, 2034

  It’s 3:18 in the morning and a bright flash of white light has just turned the predawn into high noon. There was no explosion, no concussive shock, only a blinding white light lasting a split second before fading into the darkness.

  It wasn’t natural, that much I know.

  Ours, or theirs, does it matter?

  March 2nd, 2034

  (second entry)

  4:28 a.m. A second flash, same as the first.

  March 2nd, 2034

  (third entry)

  6:12 a.m. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  March 2nd, 2034

  (fourth entry)

  7:35 a.m. Sun’s up, show’s over.

  What was that?

  March 3rd, 2034

  I’m coming down with something. My head is hot and my legs and arms feel like lead. Sweat is rolling off of my forehead and my eyes hurt.

  This isn’t good.

  March 3rd, 2034

  (second entry)

  I’ve wrapped myself up in my bedroll and I’m heating up the last of Maureen’s venison soup. I’ve shut it down for the day in order to give my body a chance to fight back. The broth alone ought to knock the virus out of me.

  March 4th, 2034

  The dark–haired alien woman appeared to me last night

  I was asleep, and had been for hours when I found I was back among them, – the Retratti. I don’t know how else to explain it. Physically, my body was here, but mentally, spiritually, I was millions of miles away.

  I was back in the library. The same grand library where I’d been shown the characters and symbols of the Threak language. I sat at a long, wooden table and no sooner had I done so when she approached, as beautiful and ethereal as I’d remembered.