At the End - a post-apocalyptic novel (The Road to Extinction, Book 1) (2 page)

“But maybe they do now, when did you last
check?” he asked, hope unconcealed in his words.

I scanned the clock on the TV. “Less than an
hour ago.”

He shook his head again, not listening.

“I’m telling you nothing has changed.”

He ignored my words; he needed to hear good
news. “Channel 0002,” Félix yelled. The same news anchor appeared
on screen, streaming the same broadcast she had been for the last
several hours.

“Today’s current estimate has peaked at 38
billion people missing, about 13 billion more globally than
yesterday.” She changed her tone; maybe something new was coming to
break her from her repetitive blathering. “Surprisingly, the first
two nights occurred without a trace of recovered video footage, but
last night a French woman caught on camera quite a disturbing
sight, using an antiquated 1998 camcorder. We have managed to
interface the outdated technology.” They rolled the footage: a
mellow-toned French woman shot a distorted image of a nighttime
street at least three stories below. A few city lights illuminated
parts of the sidewalk, where large, fuzzy dots crossed under them
in single file. The image went in and out, alternating between
darkness and a strange static screen I had never seen before.

The camcorder played back a harsh noise
drawing closer, high-pitched scratches that sounded as if claws dug
into the building’s side, climbing. As the sound grew louder, the
camera began to shake more, as though an endless twitch struck its
bearer. “Do you see anything?” a man’s voice asked in French before
the TV translated his words into English.

The camera withdrew from the window, still
focused on its frame. “Spots,” she replied. “Could be people down
there.” The sound advanced faster for a few seconds until it ceased
altogether, stopping near the window.

“What is that noise?” the man asked with a
tense voice.

“I don’t know,” she replied, less afraid
than her male counterpart. She edged closer again. “Maybe a
squirrel.”

The silence coiled fear in me, ready to
discharge, but my eyes remained glued to the display despite the
anticipation of horror.

“Too big,” the man responded. The camera
crept to where the footage had started by the window, but before it
reached its destination, a claw swiped it to the carpeted flooring.
The lens recorded nothing but blackness after, yet an audible short
scream burst forth.

“Estelle . . . Estelle?” the man whispered,
almost choking in fear. A rush of footsteps ran at the camera, then
carried the device off into more darkness.

The news anchor reappeared. “That’s all the
footage reveals, a giant claw, larger than a Tiger’s. From this, we
know whatever the creature is, it is capable of scaling vertical
walls. The man escaped his apartment and found his way to a news
station still in operation around seven this morning . . .”

I couldn’t listen anymore. “Channel 227,
priority one,” I spoke clearly. The TV recognized the command and
changed back to a cowboy riding away on a horse as the sun set.

“What are you doing?” Félix screamed at me.
His eyes had been just as stationary as mine, fixed to the screen.
“They have new information, change it back.” My silence awakened a
fury in him that I had never witnessed before. His skinny fingers
curled into a fist with eyes targeting my face. “Channel 0002.”

“Access denied, setting priority one in
activation,” the speakers communicated.

“My dad added the setting so that my little
cousin would stop switching the stations,” I said.

Félix stared at me, surprised. “Figures, you
don’t know anything about electronics.” His arm trembled in
agitation.

Would he really strike at me?

“All right, dude. Calm down.” I put up my
hands and swallowed. The dryness of my throat gave way to slight
tears. “Channel 0002,” I commanded. No use arguing when he felt
passionately enough to make fists.

In size, I was much bigger than him, but I
had little heart to fight in real life. I thought him the same, but
it looked like my opinion turned out wrong. Clearing my throat, I
seized my empty glass while he refocused his attention to the
screen.

Words that overflowed with panic were
blaring out of the speakers. The rushed voice did not slow as the
TV transitioned to a new image: the Space Needle climbed in the
distance, failing to compete with a multitude of newer buildings
that dwarfed the symbolic tower. The sound faltered, skipping over
a few words. An instant later, it cut out altogether. The camera
zoomed in, the screen blurred unable to draw the pixels fast
enough. The screen adjusted to an image hovering above the city.
The picture began to follow the sound in its collapse, flickering
between static and skyline.

The image stabilized for a moment.

Félix gasped.

“No way,” I muttered, staggered by the
inconceivable spaceship that floated near the Space Needle, poised
for possible destruction. “You believe it?” I asked.

He shook his head.

Of course he didn’t. Despite the hundreds,
maybe thousands of imaginary spaceships my eyes had encountered,
nothing prepared me for what I saw. I had flown ships that looked
and felt so real; I sometimes began to believe they were, but not
anymore. Not anymore.

A news chopper flew towards the great
machine: five black and red ovals, like a bee’s abdomen the size of
skyscrapers, trailed behind a slightly larger oval, connected by
support beams that curved at peculiar angles, almost as if made for
aesthetics instead of reinforcement purposes. A strange red light
glowed at the butt end of the five, emitting trace amounts of a
crimson gas that disappeared soon after it encountered the
firmament.

The chopper drew closer, almost within a few
body lengths to the front oval. The camera zoomed in again,
concentrating on the one section, and as the pixels adjusted,
dozens of curved poles that extended out from the nose of the body
and attached to the rear, all came into sight.

The ship looked more complicated than the
interior of the human body, including the brain. “I guess graphic
designers got it all wrong,” Félix said.

I nodded my concurrence.

“Invasion?” I asked, though I didn’t know
how I expected him to reply; it’s not as if he would have known any
more than I did.

The display cut out again. When it returned
the chopper was descending beyond a rate that suggested control; it
was crashing, heading for the waters of the Sound. The camera
attempted to keep track of the chopper, but a second later the
screen went haywire, producing only static.

I twisted to meet my friend’s utterly
stunned face. “Invasion,” I repeated. Panic hit Félix, but I think
it hit me harder. I ran, skidded, tumbled, and clambered to the
front window. Curses were the only words that left our mouths, in
an echo similar to a fading song chorus.

I brushed aside the curtains.

Normal. Everything still looked the same,
except no busy cars to be heard. “Did you see anything on your way
over?” I asked.

“Not a thing,” Félix replied. “Maybe they
are only in the bigger cities. Seattle is only an hour away by
car.”

“Then how come everyone is gone? No, I think
they’re here, somewhere . . .” My arm twitched, then my leg gave
out, sending my face to the carpet.

“You okay?” he asked, twitching as well.

“No . . .” I said. It was the end, happening
just like in Fury of War and Our Descent, the two games I played
most before the release of Death Squad. It was now. “What do we
do?” I lay there, motionless. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t
survive.

They would get me . . .

“Do you know anyone with a telescope? Maybe
we can look for ourselves, to see what’s out there.”

“I remember Jacob Moletti had one,” I
replied.

“He goes to U-Dub, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, he does, and from what I understand
it’s changed him drastically. All he does is drink now.” Or did.
Probably taken now, and it’s doubtful the aliens gave out free
cocktails.

“Well, we should go take a look to see if it
is still there.”

“Do you really want to know?” I asked. I
didn’t. I’d seen too many bug-eyed aliens on screen, at least
enough to discourage my curiosity to go and search for them.

He slumped down next to me, hands twitching
as if attacked by an epileptic fit. Taciturnity became our mood.
What was there left to say? Goodbye? The time had long passed for
such sentiments, too many people taken unexpectedly.

Time betrayed me, for the next time my eyes
crossed the kitchen clock, only twenty minutes had passed, but I
swear the sun should have been settling down for bed. Félix laughed
when he saw me staring at the clock, flustered.

“You know it’s funny, all we’ve ever done is
play video games, and now when it comes to it, all that training
means nothing,” he said, still laughing.

I turned to him. “Training?” I said. His
meaning was lost upon me.

“Don’t you think we’ve been trained for
this? The military does the same thing for combat simulations,” he
said. His grin widened.

“Except they have people screaming at them,
they have people instructing them, they have other tests besides
combat games,” I countered.

“True . . . but still . . .” He wanted to
say something more, but stopped himself.

“You really think we should go to Jacob’s?”
I said, not entirely excited for his answer.

“His father works for NASA, doesn’t he?
That’s why his parents split?”

“From what I understand, yeah. You think his
father tells him secrets . . . stuff like the existence of
aliens?”

Félix propped himself up using the window
ledge. “All I know, bromigo, is that I can’t watch cartoons waiting
to die . . . waiting to be taken.” He hastened to the kitchen,
where he began to empty the knife block. He was always using the
Spanglish word bromigo, something passed on by his cousins in San
Diego. I had tried it out once, but it didn’t roll off my tongue so
well. I had always performed poorly in Spanish class.

“What are you doing?” I asked. Uncertain as
to what he intended to do out there, on the streets that promised
our demise.

“What’s the first thing you learn before
playing Our Descent online?” he asked, frantically scouring through
drawers. He placed older knives next to his assembled weaponry.

The answer came easily, probably a saying
I’d repeated a million times since I had heard it years ago. “The
well armed take advantage, whether physical or intellectual, all
are assets to the soldier,” I said without fault. For some odd
reason the saying sparked a feeling of courage in me. It ignited a
strange passion that I’d never comprehended.

“Then let us be well armed,” he said,
raising his eyes from the collection of blades to meet mine, now
ablaze with the will to fight. I placed the thought of surrender in
the shadows of my mind.

I jumped to my feet, invigorated. “My dad’s
tools,” I yelled. His eyes glinted at the idea. We raced to the
garage, lined with woodworking implements. I clutched one of the
several electric handsaws, charged by the sun. “The batteries
should last years, unless the aliens block out the sky.” All at
once, the adrenaline ran dry, replaced once again by fear.

Years . . .

How long could we really survive? Video game
campaigns ended when you shut off the application. A Nightmare was
beginning to unfold in my mind.

A hand landed on my shoulder. I jerked.
Félix smiled. “Let’s just make it to Jacob’s first.” I’m pretty
sure I nodded. His effort to comfort me freaked me out more.

I tried repeating the energizing motto, but
its power lessened the more I recited it. Félix held up a hatchet,
twirled it around. He eyed it for a long time, then asked, “Why
does your dad have a hatchet when he has all of these saws?”

“Beats me, my father is a strange one, he
probably used it to chop up wood just for fun.” I searched around,
nothing resembled any real weaponry, then I remembered my neighbor.
“The Troll,” I shouted unintentionally.

“What?”

“The Troll,” I repeated. “He has all that
hunting gear.”

“I’m not going anywhere near that place.
What’s wrong with this stuff?”

“The range,” I said. My fingers glided over
the sharp teeth of a blade. “None of this stuff has any range; it’s
all last resort gear.” He nodded, he hadn’t thought of that either.
“Best to fire from ten meters than to slice from one.”

“All right, but if he’s home, we’re
dead.”

“Uhrm. We’re dead if we don’t go, too,” I
added. “Uhrm.” The thought of leaving the house started to agitate
me, my throat felt as if it would never be clear again. “Uhrm.”

“You all right? You’re clearing your throat
more than normal,” he observed.

“Guess it’s not a normal day.”

His lips moved to one side of his face in a
half-grin. “Guess you’re right about that. Let’s put this stuff in
a bag with some food and get going. Might take us a while to get to
Jacob’s and I don’t want to be out in the dark.”

We gathered the equipment, grabbing any
spare blades and accessories. My dad’s utility belts proved useful
for stuffing knives into as well. In twenty minutes we transformed
ourselves from scared-shitless teenagers into scared-shitless
teenagers with garage weapons.

Ready for departure, I surveyed the street
through the peephole. Nothing. I hadn’t heard a dog bark for two
days, and I hadn’t heard a bird since yesterday, but then I wasn’t
listening for them either.

“Uhrm. Ready?” I rotated so that I could see
Félix.

He carried a handsaw in his right and a
hatchet in his left. “I wish I were.”

I nodded and opened the door. Slow and with
caution, at least I tried, but the damn thing sounded off like a
siren, alarming anything within a thousand meter radius with its
impairing creak. An exaggeration on my part, probably, time would
tell shortly.