As a Doctor of History, she was conversant with the story of how Indians contracted smallpox from white settlers and soldiers. While the white man had partial immunity to it because of exposure over generations, the Indians possessed none. As such, smallpox decimated their population. So, it made sense that the aliens caught something from the humans, and the ugly, large, pustules were the telltale sores.
Her heart raced. Aliens—when had they invaded? It must have been when she was on her vigil—or maybe they’d always been here. She shuddered as she peered through the gap in the curtains again, careful not to part them too wide. Now the sore on the one man’s cheek had vanished. Somehow, they seemed to heal quickly. Yes, definitely aliens. One wore a white t-shirt with a dark-red splatter pattern. Blood. They must be on a killing spree.
She swiftly exited the bedroom, crossed down the hall, entered the living room, and retrieved her sword.
One knocked on the door. She froze. A long pause. Knocking. A longer pause. Pounding.
“Hello, George?” a man yelled while still pounding. “Are you there?”
She gathered her wits. Carrying her sword in one hand, she walked—as quiet as possible—back over to that front bedroom. She closed the door and laid down on her back on the floor, making her way under the bed. Lying as still as possible, she gripped the hilt of her sword at her side.
The front door opened.
“Yep, it’s unlocked,” came a disembodied male voice, a different one this time. “Oh my god, that smell!”
The woman gasped.
“Oh my god,” the third man exclaimed, “more blood!”
Excited footsteps ran all over the small ranch house, with the aliens calling out “George!” The woman entered the bedroom Jocelyn was in and called out George’s name.
They called George’s name outside.
Definitely aliens. Now if they caught her, they’d assume she killed him. Which she did, but out of self-defense. She guessed they wouldn’t see it that way.
Underneath the bed felt like a coffin. Jocelyn’s heart raced, and she was having trouble breathing. She realized she was having a heart attack—she could die under this bed and no one would even know about it.
The aliens were now calm and talking amongst themselves. Jocelyn’s blood pounded in her ears, but she still heard the muffled noise of conversation, with the occasional high-pitched clicks indicative of an alien language. The volume of the aliens went up for a short while—again, muffled chatter and more clicking—then it died down. Jocelyn studied the world’s languages in college, but this was utterly foreign, definitely not like any human language.
Now she was dizzy. This was it. She would die without ever being found.
But she couldn’t face the aliens. She was no match for them. Her abdomen grumbled. Hadn’t she learned you evacuate your bowels when you die?
And she struggled to contact her guides. Silence.
Dizzy again, she tried to catch her breath.
Chapter Seven
Day Zero
Alexander ran across the parking lot, passing zombies busy eating brains, and made a beeline for the supermarket. The automatic doors at the entrance seemed to take forever to open.
Inside, more zombies chowed down on brains. All were occupied, except for a middle-aged man in a blue windbreaker, who snarled and chased after him.
He ran for his life to the back of the store, though he couldn’t see the doors to the employees-only area. He guessed its location and chose the right back corner. The zombie gained on him as he fled down the pet food aisle. Double doors with no handles appeared in view. They swung wide for him as he slammed his shoulder into them.
Vin wondered how long he would have to wait in the traffic jam. Luckily, he could listen to his grunge music on satellite radio—it passed the time so far, but he still hated this kind of traffic. He closed his eyes for a bit, knowing the traffic could start up at any time . . .
The next thing he remembered was a lot of honking coming from up ahead. He opened his eyes. The string of cars, a dozen or so visible before the bend, had not moved while he dozed, but soon he noticed movement ahead.
It was hard to believe. Two albinos with visible pustules on their faces smashed the driver’s side window of each of the lead two cars. They reached in through the now-open windows . . .
What the hell? Was something wrong with both drivers?
Vin felt a jolt from behind. His Silverado propelled forward, and his collision detection warning fired, braking before hitting the car in front. Great. Wonderful. It started as such a nice, fortuitous day, and now his buzz was ruined. He exited his truck to exchange insurance information.
The old Corolla behind him, clearly with no collision detection, had also been struck from behind by an old Subaru. The Subaru driver emerged from his vehicle. His nose was flattened, his face a bloody mess. Nonetheless, he was casually walking as if nothing had happened to him. He walked up to the car just behind Vin and pulled on the door handle, but the car wouldn’t open. He then smashed open the window with his bare fist and pulled the screaming driver out through the window, throwing him down onto the asphalt. Bloody-face jumped onto the prone victim and sat upright on his chest and pummeled him repeatedly with both fists in rapid succession.
This all happened five feet away from Vin.
Vin had seen enough. He went back into his car and retrieved ammo from a bag on the floor. He loaded his brand new shotgun, pumped the slide-action, pocketed as much ammo as he could carry, and exited his vehicle, shutting his door behind him.
Now
