Or it won’t. Here I am writing about schools and guidance counselors. How stupid is that Viz? It’s meaningless, with what’s going on in the world. Clinging to the past. There are no colleges in my future. Not with the invasion. And now I’ve sprung a leak of pessimism.
Anyway, I live with my parents, John and Amy, and my sister Mia. We live in Gig Harbor, WA. That’s close to Tacoma, and even Seattle. We live in a nice house; I guess. It has 3 bedrooms and 2 baths. I’m thinking it should have 3 baths. Right Mia? Mia is Para. Or, Para is Mia. This is harder than I thought. We’ll get to her in a minute-
Or maybe not. The Emergency Alert System is screeching. Something bad is happening. We’re still getting used to all this. Grandad is calling us to the basement. I’ll be back. I hope.
***
+ BEGIN TIMELINE DROP.
NOTE: Los Angeles was hit hard by the invasion. This post helps to capture the horror in those early days of the invasion.
It’s from an Intelinet report posted by The Daily Grind, titled This Is What Invaded Us! It’s from a political editorial post, but the reporting is accurate.
The First Los Angeles Rampage.
Forensic journalists have pieced together scenes of many tragic personal events that occurred during the Los Angeles Rampage. We derived the information in this report from legally obtained street camera footage and a household security system (usage authorized). A family member, who personally survived the rampage, allowed us to review security system footage and granted an interview.
The young lady had a difficult time with the interview. How could she not? It was clear, the brave soul would never be quite the same, not after all she had been through because of the invasion and rampage. With that, here is the report.
The street camera shows twenty bugs coming around a corner and rushing down the middle of a narrow neighborhood roadway. There is the sound of a loud crack from a high caliber rifle. A bug falls. An eerie rasping wail comes from the group. The sound is loud and odd, as though it is coming from a hundred throats. It is decidedly mournful. Perhaps this was a close group of comrades.
Another shot rings out. A bug staggers, then raises a tube and fires. The house at the end of the block erupts in flames. One of the bugs is pointing, evidently giving out commands. The larger group splits off into smaller groups of four and five, each heading toward a house, two houses on one side of the street, two houses on the other side.
One group is moving toward the front door of a bright yellow house with brown trim, a pleasant two-story ranch home. There is a decorator flower box below a sitting-nook window. A light breeze has set a pair of chimes in motion. It is a beautiful sound, not at all suited to the rampage about to take place. Inside is a husband and a father, attempting to save his family. He is frantic.
John finally got his wife situated. He came in the back door, moving quickly through the kitchen, into the living room. It hadn’t been easy, but he had convinced his wife, Mary, to go out the back door and get into the crawl space beneath the house. It was a deep crawl space that had been cleaned up and made into a storage area. John asked Mary, he pleaded with her, to turn off the flashlight as soon as she was settled. And to stay quiet. He had called for his daughter. He wanted them both down in the crawl space. His daughter, Miranda, had not responded.
With Mary situated, John could focus his attention on hiding Miranda. There were sounds outside. The bugs were coming. He started upstairs to find his daughter. No time to get her to the crawl space. The attic was accessed through a hatch in the ceiling of Miranda’s closet. There she was, finally coming down the stairs. He took her by the wrist and half dragged her back upstairs. They were running out of time.
John ran to his bedroom and grabbed the old duck gun he had laid on the bed, an old 12-gauge Mossberg. Too bad it had the plug in, the gun could hold only three shells at a time. No time to pull the plug. He gathered some extra double-aught buckshot and stuffed the shells into a pocket. John thought he heard a noise on the front porch.
He started yelling again at Miranda, she must get into the attic. Her mom was already safe in the crawl space. He would come for them after he handled these bugs. The front door crashed open. Miranda did as she was told.
John hurried down the stairs to the living room. Bugs. He fired and pumped. One of the bugs took a direct hit to the face and collapsed, dead before it hit the floor. John fired again, pumped, fired again, pumped. Too much adrenalin. He was shaky. The bugs were moving. No more shells. No time to reload.
The nearest bug sprang at him, wrapping him up with four legs. John screamed and tried to wrestle with the bug. The bug was so strong. He stung John several times and used his serrated hind claws to finish it. The screaming stopped.
Two bugs cocked their heads, listening. There was a muffled sound. Sobbing. Under the floor. They tore at the wood flooring with serrated claws; the plywood underlay; the insulation; sheetrock. Two bugs squeezed through the floor joists and dropped into the crawl space. Mary screamed in terror and dropped the flashlight as she saw the bug heads swivel toward her. She started to crab-crawl backwards toward the access door.
The bugs’ eyes had a terrifying reddish cast to them as they followed her movement. The two bugs looked at each other as though they were unsure of their next move. As they shared that
