A Year Underfoot Read online

  Now, that’s an idea.

  Training my infrareds on the road I saw the transports in a whole new light. No longer did they seem so untouchable and no longer did I feel so helpless.

  There might be something I can do after all.

  July 28th, 2033

  I woke up this morning well rested and in good spirits. After a quick bite to eat, I headed back to my last camp at Lake Casitas in order to grab the rest of my gear for an extended stay closer to the interstate.

  July 29th, 2033

  I ran into more troopers yesterday.

  I reached the Oak View area midmorning and hit up the residences I hadn’t already rifled through a few days earlier. This time around I concentrated on the homes bordering the western edge of the subdivision and I’m happy to say my perseverance paid off. I found another .357 Magnum and a .30–30 rifle, along with enough ammo to hold me for a while.

  Another good find indeed.

  After topping off my canteen with fresh water, I tucked the .357 and the ammo into my side pack and shouldered the .30–30. I backtracked for Santa Ana Road and the trail that would lead me back to camp. I suppose I shouldn’t have started counting my chickens, because, – as it’s been with most of my adventures as of late, it’s in the getting away with it where I keep running into a problem.

  Case in point, Oak View – yesterday afternoon.

  I was coming back down State Road 33. It was nearing one in the afternoon and the temperature was nearing one hundred degrees in the shade. The air was still and quiet, and for once my mind was a million miles away.

  Peaceful.

  Serene.

  When suddenly, hundreds of birds resting in the trees along the road took to flight and fled the area, squawking and protesting all the way.

  Something had spooked them.

  I was already hugging the tree line so it didn’t take a more than a few quick strides to slip back into brush on the north side of the State Road. I lay flat on my belly in the underbrush and strained to see what was coming up the road.

  A troop carrier presently rolled into view, coming up the road from the west, and judging by how I’d seen them operate in the past I figured it would pass by me in a hot minute. I inched back a little further into the brush and gathered up loose scrub and placed it in a pile in front of me to help conceal my presence.

  I peered down the road and my heart sank as the alien transport came closer. Not only wasn’t it rolling solo, – it was the lead vehicle in a slow moving convoy. Instead of a few dozen troopers moving past me, I’d be up close and personal with hundreds of them.

  I froze as the convoy lurched to a stop and a dozen troopers disembarked and immediately began torching the thick woods on either side of the lonely two–lane road. In a matter of minutes, the entire countryside was ablaze and I found myself trapped in the middle of a raging firestorm with all avenues of escape being cut off by curtains of flame.

  I had to move. I had no choice. If I’d have stayed put any longer I would’ve been burned alive, of that I am certain.

  I drew back as the convoy rolled past and the flames grew near, – narrowly slipping away from both before any damage could be done. I drifted west for another two miles until I was certain I was well ahead of the convoy and then cut north. Four hours later I was back in camp, having a cup of coffee and pouring over my new gear.

  Just another day in paradise.

  August, 1st, 2033

  I’ve been moving north along the coast.

  The fires started by the Threak two days ago took hold and with a steady wind whipping up from the south it wasn’t long before they chased me from my camp. It’s been a day and a half of difficult hiking and I’m feeling every inch of the trip. My feet are blistered and swollen and my shoulder and back muscles spasm under the weight and cut of my pack.

  I’ve seen better days.

  August 2nd, 2033

  Still up along the coast. Since the fires and the heavy influx of troopers drove me from Lake Casitas, I’ve kept moving north despite my body’s objections.

  My feet are bleeding, my legs are tired, my back is aching, my mind is reeling and my heart is broken, – other than that I guess you could say I am doing all right. Better than most, that’s for sure.

  This is all so crazy.

  Almost a month in and I haven’t a clue as to what is going on out there. I have snippets from a dream and a few hours of direct observation to work from,–it’s not much. If I want to get a handle on things I am going to have to seek out other survivors and swap information.

  Are there others?

  Where are they?

  August 3rd, 2033

  I had another vision this afternoon.

  This time I was wide–awake when the images came. That has never happened before

  I saw a great alien ship in the skies over Los Angeles and I knew it to be one of nine such behemoths worldwide. I knew there to be one over Moscow, another over Mexico City, along with one each over Paris, Buenos Aires, New York, Johannesburg, New Delhi and Beijing. All were battleships of the same class and represented the backbone of the invasion.

  A mothership, circling the globe in low earth orbit, connected the dots and ran the show.

  The vision shifts gears and I find myself in the loose scrub nestled along a razor wire fence. A Threak warbird screeches overhead and I pull myself in a little tighter.

  Slowly, I raise my head and have a look around.

  Three things I know instantly.

  I am along Interstate 5 in the Central Valley of California.

  I am outside of a Threak air base.

  And, I am not alone.

  A perimeter patrol is headed my way, but whether or not they know I’m out here remains to be seen. The vehicle approaches slowly, but to my amazement rolls on past, oblivious to my presence.

  It’s a vision, so they can’t see me. Perhaps, but I too frightened to find out for certain. I remain completely still.

  The patrol disappears into the night and I find myself walking through a highly charged fence and onto the air base.

  It is a vision.

  The nearest building is a few hundred feet away and I walk straight toward it. The smell of rotten eggs permeates the air.

  I hear the guttural rumblings of the Threak language and freeze. Troopers are approaching. I seize up, not moving a muscle, barely drawing a breath.

  Of course, they walk right on by

  I keep moving forward and head for the opening in the structure. I peer inside. It’s a hangar, a staging area for freight heading off–planet to the battleships, and more importantly, the mothership. Shipping containers are staged in neat rows inside the dimly lit warehouse as far and wide as the eye can see. This is a massive operation.

  There is no one inside.

  Curious.

  I enter the darkened warehouse and gazed down an even darker aisle. I‘m strangely attracted to the circular containers all around and reach out to touch one. My eyes adjust to the lack of light and at a certain distance I see the containers have a smoked, glass–like facade. Another step closer reveals the contents.

  A woman. A human woman. Mid–twenties, red hair, medium build, quite pale. Sealed alive and encased in a gel–like substance that both imprisons and sustains her.

  I pull back and stare down the aisle at thousands of similar vessels.

  Oh my God.

  A light flashes in front of me and I fall to my knees. My hands shield my eyes, but it is too late. I am blinded.

  When my eyes clear, I am back here, back at camp. It’s as if I’d never left.

  I believe someone wants me to fight back.

  Okay, I’m listening.

  August 6th, 2033

  I can’t keep hiding any longer, not after what I’ve seen and what I’ve been shown. That’s what the dreams have been telling me and I’m getting the message loud and clear. Either, I pick up arms and go after the Threak, or slink away like a coward.

  I’m
not going down without a fight.

  So, I’m heading back south. There’s a battleship hovering over the ruins of Los Angeles and an air base somewhere along Interstate 5.

  I plan on destroying both.

  It’s what I have to do.

  August 7th, 2033

  Retracing my steps down the coast and I’m energized. It took me three days to limp this far north, but I’ll make the trip back in half the time. I’m a man possessed.

  Can’t stop to talk now, I’ve got to keep moving.

  August 10th, 2033

  It’s been three days if heavy hiking and I’ve to give my feet a rest before I head east and tackle the difficult and uneven terrain of the hills, valleys, and scrub lying between here and the alien air base along Interstate 5.

  I figure it’ll take me a couple of days to cut across, and another half day to creep up within visual range of the base. Once I get there, I’ll figure out the rest.

  August 11th, 2033

  It’s hot. It’s in the upper nineties, pushing one hundred, and I’ve been on the move all day. I’m tired, worn and beat. I’m down to the last of my grub and finding fresh water out here is going to be tough. I might have to swing south to Lake Casitas one more time, but only as a last resort. There has to be some water out here, somewhere.

  I tried pushing the latest vision to the back of my mind until I can make sense of it, but that hasn’t worked, not in the least. The loneliness of my situation, and the expansiveness of the miles laid out before me, affords my wandering mind far too much time to replay the vision over and over.

  I still see the entombed.

  I see them everywhere I go.

  And, I know I always will.

  August 12th, 2033

  I saw a deer this morning. A single solitary buck. I’ll bet he has no idea what is going on. Good for him.

  August 13th, 2033

  I’m a bit north of Pyramid Lake, looking down on the interstate and nothing much has changed. The enemy transports still roll up and down the road unopposed and I still haven’t a clue as to what they are up to.

  August 14th, 2033

  It was three years ago today that my wife Karen died. Today would have been her thirtieth birthday. The ovarian cancer that took her, took her slowly and steadily, but even in her darkest hour it was never able to break her spirit. That was hers and hers alone and she used to tell me that nothing in this universe could ever take that from her. If I thought I knew what she meant before, I certainly do now

  I only hope I can be half as strong.

  To say I didn’t take her death well would be an understatement. I crawled into a bottle of tequila and only crawled out for my hillbilly heroin. Oxycodone was my drug of choice, and kudos to modern medicine. I lived in a lonely self–imposed fog for a few years until I woke one day to find I was broke and alone. I’d spent every penny and burned every bridge.

  Mission accomplished, I suppose.

  Six months later the visions began.

  But, by then it was too late to clean up my mess. I couldn’t convince my family and friends that an alien race was coming to wipe us out. It was a hard sell to begin with and I had no credit in the bank of truth. I tried and tried, believe me. That’s how I ended up in the psych ward.

  We lived in the valley and now it’s not there anymore. I don’t think they made it out alive.

  August 15th, 2033

  Day two along the interstate and the enemy are rolling past at will. I’ve determined there are three separate types of vehicles, – the large troop transports, the heavily armed mid–sized assault vehicles and the smaller, sleeker command cars.

  I’m going to keep watching until sunset and then head south and see what else I can find.

  August 16th, 2033

  I found food and water in Valencia last night.

  I also saw a sign that gave me hope. Spray–painted in big, bold red letters on the side of an incinerated strip mall, – “B.C. was here 8/14/33”.

  That was two days ago.

  Two days!

  The writing was as plain as day, and the message even clearer.

  There were others. I was not alone.

  I grabbed a blackened piece of wood, – wielded it like a giant crayon and scrawled, “so was D.M., 8/16/33.”

  I knew my addition wouldn’t last very long, – a heavy fog, or a light rain and it would be washed away, but scrawling my initials felt empowering just the same. Who knows, maybe B.C. checks the wall daily to see if anyone else is around.

  Right on, B.C., whoever you are!

  On a different note, – the troop transports are looking more and more like ducks on a pond to me. A month ago I was in awe of them, but now I view them as nothing more than slow moving targets traveling through canyon country begging to be ambushed.

  Here’s what I’m thinking...

  Molotov cocktails.

  A bottle, a rag, and a couple of ounces of gasoline.

  Low–Tech, no–tech resistance.

  It’s the best bang for the buck. There’s no point in wasting bullets from either the .30–30, or the .357’s. They’re not going to do any damage and I’ll need them later on down the line when there’s no more food left to scrounge and I have to start playing mountain man.

  The downside to the happy hour approach is that I’m going to have to get awfully close to score a hit. I’ve got a pretty good arm, but I’ll still need to be within one hundred and fifty feet of my target in order to make it count. Much too close for my liking, but it is what it is. I can only play the hand that I’ve been dealt, even if it is a lousy one.

  Time to cowboy up.

  August 18th, 2033

  I’ve spent the better part of the last two days roaming north along the interstate between Santa Clarita and the Grapevine Interchange looking for a spot to launch an attack, and I believe I’ve finally found one. Just north of Gorman, where the road rises one last time before descending the grade, the Threak have set up a checkpoint at which all of their vehicles are required to stop for inspection, – creating a long line of inviting targets that I’d be a fool to pass up.

  Come sundown, I’ll scout the best way in, and more importantly, the best way out.

  I believe it was American General George S. Patton who once said, “the trick of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other poor bastard die for his.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  August 20th, 2033

  One Molotov cocktail, and forty–eight hours later and I’m laying low in a drainage ditch along side a fallow field three miles east of Gorman. Whether or not I walk away from this remains to be seen, but either way, live or die, I’m happy as hell to say my first born hit its mark and there’s now one less alien transport rolling up and down Interstate 5.

  Not a game changer, – but it’s a start.

  It all went down two nights ago just after sunset. Under the cover of darkness, I slipped down out of the hills and sidled up along the interstate and made my way north, – careful to stay well hidden, but still moving quickly enough to make good time. Thirty minutes later I was within a quarter mile of the alien checkpoint and I could see the dark silhouette of the last transport waiting in line.

  Close, but not close enough.

  I heard the rumble of an approaching transport before I caught sight of it and hit the deck. The ground shook underfoot as it rolled past, and when it stopped behind the last in line at the northbound checkpoint I checked my watch. It was nine fifteen, right on time, – the last transport of the night.

  I smiled and kept moving. My plan was coming together, but as I crept closer, I was struck by the dark realization that the transport might actually be carrying people, – prisoners being ferried to the air base before being shipped off to only God knows where. The odds may have been against it, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. After all, I had seen it before, and not too long ago at that.

  I stopped and took stock, but I already knew the score
. If I couldn’t exclude people as cargo, then I’d have to wait until I could. No two ways about it. End of discussion.

  I pulled my infrareds out of my pack and trained them on the back of the transport and waited for the troopers to come and inspect the load. A few minutes later, a trio of troopers made their way to the back of the vehicle and popped open the enormous hatch and peered inside.

  At such a short distance, I could see inside as well. Much to my relief, there weren’t any people on board. Only a few assorted shipping containers and dozens of transparent glass containers holding an equally clear liquid.

  I pumped my fist in the air.

  Yes!

  I watched the troopers seal the hatch and walk back to the front of the vehicle. They spoke with the driver for a bit and then backed away from the cab. The engine pitched higher and the rig jerked forward as the brakes were released.

  This was it.

  Lying back in weeds, I looked up at the stars and took a deep breath. The moment had come and I was more than ready. I reached into my pack for the twelve–ounce soda bottle I’d pre–filled with eight ounces of gasoline and unscrewed the metal cap. I crammed an oil–soaked rag into the bottle, making sure to leave a few inches sticking out to act as a wick and said a little prayer.

  I rose up and had at it. I turned slightly, shielding the wick from the wind and rolled my thumb across the tumbler. A spark hit the oily rag and I was in business.

  I sprang to my feet and heaved the bottle at the transport. As soon as it left my hand I knew it would hit its mark and I took off running.

  I heard the bottle shatter and I stole a glance back at the transport. The right rear end of the vehicle was on fire, and the flames were spreading quickly. I didn’t know it at the time, but it turns out the molded material the transports are made of is quite flammable, – a little bonus I hadn’t expected, and virtually assured the fact I’d be doing this again real soon.

  Klaxons blared and a throbbing blue light enveloped the area. I kept my head low and my legs churning. I had no time to hang around to admire my handiwork, but judging by the rising sounds of chaos behind me, I’d done a bang–up job.

  The first of the warbirds appeared overhead a few minutes later, but by then I’d already hightailed it nearly half a mile down into an open field where I had a hidey–hole all staked out. My plan was to lay low until the sun came up and then slip out when they expanded the search and their footprint in the area thinned out.