Monsterpocalypse Monday: ‘Tis The Season

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From the Desk of the Principal

10:36 P.M.

I am Abigail Foster. I used to be head of the deli in grocery store on the west side. Now I’m writing this down so someone, someday, will hopefully find it and remember us. For all the time we have been behind so-called “enemy lines,” I’ve never thought we were so close to being forgotten before. But to be honest, I’ve never understood why the war came to us anyway.

The news reported that the first vanguard ships were proceeding downstate from Chicago, likely bound for St. Louis. But when they landed near the Staley Bridge, we knew the reports were wrong. Soon enough, there was sickly green tower on the railroad tracks, and not long after, the entire city went into lockdown as battle walkers—one of the kids told me they’re called reapers—came from that day-glow tower and took over the factory and then worked their way west across town. Those crazy college kids held them at bay for a while when the Martians reached the university, but that was in early November. The Midwest snows came soon after, and the kids—well, they were college kids, not soldiers. Most of the university still stands, though the Martians obliterated the entire city block with Lock, Stock & Barrel on it, just off campus. It was always a popular bar. Or maybe the students did it out of spite. I don’t know.

It’s been almost two months since then. Some weekend warriors came into town and recruited pretty much everyone they could. I’ve been holed up in the high school about six blocks from the university, just across the street from where I used to work in the Fairview Plaza strip mall, and I’ve become the de facto den mother for parents who needed to house their kids so they could join the Illinois National Guard as they rolled in from Springfield. For the last four weeks, we have been hearing that G.U.A.R.D. forces will arrive. We periodically hear the blasts from Martian vehicles as they engage with our protectors—we can hear the combat that’s on the western outskirts of town, five miles away, as if it were just next door. I heard we lost the Holiday Inn.

But still, the kids in the gym, on their cots, restricted from going out to play in the piling snow, cheer every time they hear that all is not lost, that all will be right come the dawn.

But in my soul, I watch the clock on the wall high above and beyond the home team Generals’ basketball hoop, and I fear it’s not true.

Do you remember the anguish in Linus’ voice when he cried out, begging to know where the Great Pumpkin was? I sound like that when I moan, “G.U.A.R.D. Protectors, where are you?”

 

11:20 P.M.

There are ninety-seven kids between the ages of four and fourteen sleeping in the gym now, and we just added three more—one six-year-old girl and two terrified parents. Stacey, the mom, says there’s a floating Martian ship going street-to-street in the Home Park area, plucking up anyone foolish enough to shine a light, even in the dark houses that have no power. The ship has claws, she says, and it puts the people it captures somewhere inside itself.

“You can still hear them screaming until the ship’s door closes,” she told me.

The father, who probably just graduated from this very high school a few years ago, keeps talking about “takin’ names and kickin’ butt,” but Stacey shushes him over and over. He says the G.U.A.R.D. forces have been spotted to the east at the University of Illinois, fifty miles away, and then he makes a dismissive noise.

“Lotta good that does us here,” he mutters.

Whenever a muffled explosion shakes the gym, Stacey makes a little squealing noise, but the husband guffaws as if it’s a joke.

“Mars needs moms, hon,” he says to Stacey, and she actually seems to take comfort in his humorless ribbing. Moms, dads, grandparents, kids—it doesn’t matter. They need us all and for the worst possible reasons.

It’s ten till midnight. Another day is almost done. Stacey and her husband/boyfriend/comedian have called it a night. Tomorrow, he says, he’ll try to find the local militia, but I have my doubts he’ll find them. I have waited too long to believe the G.U.A.R.D. forces will come. Not even tonight of all nights.

I feel so sorry for these kids. They’ll wake up tomorrow to just another day. It’s not right.

3:45 A.M.

The Martians attacked the school just after midnight. The ships that hunt humans tore into the building from the upper parking lot, and we could hear the concrete walls screaming over the screams of the kids who were yanked out of their sleep to face their doom.

The screeching of Martian drones somewhere up above told me they’d found what they were looking for: us.

A hole exploded in the roof of the gym. I could see one of those claws probing the opening as metal and stone fell to the basketball court.

Well.

What do I know anyway?

I had only the handgun I used to carry when I had to be at work at the deli before sunrise, and I kept thinking about the end of a movie I saw once, where you could hear the aliens coming, and this dad decided that letting his child be abducted by alien invaders would be a fate worse than death, so he did the unspeakable…but it was actually the army he was hearing, come to save them. I was thinking about the pistol in my pocket and that movie and our situation, but then I crushed those thoughts and that memory. I could never—

I caught myself thinking about it again and again, but what came through that hole next was a miracle that ended my horrible thoughts.

Stacey told me after it left that it’s called Sky Sentinel. She couldn’t say if it is a man or a woman, but she spoke of it in such reverential tones that I decided it didn’t really matter, though I don’t like calling our salvation “it.” Just the same, it was an incredible sight: it tore into the Martian hunter trying to come through the hole, and in a heartbeat, the green-glowing horror was gone. We heard it spinning across the roof, presumably to smash to pieces in the lower parking lot. The kids cheered so loudly, I was deaf for a moment.

And then came the real miracle: boxes were lowered by cables through that hole and into the gym. We heard chopper blades nearby and bullhorn calls from outside. The distinct whining sounds of some of the Martian invasion vehicles receded so quickly, it was like they’d never been.

Outside were pallets of essentials, delivered by G.U.A.R.D. ground forces, Illinois National Guard, and an assortment of support teams, a few of which I recognized only because of their eclipse-like logo. There were generators and gasoline and large quantities of provisions, and soldiers came to help us set things up a few hours later. And as silly as it sounds, I caught myself looking for flying reindeer amongst them. Because inside, the kids tore into the crates to find games and toys and plush animals and dozens of other presents. They were all wrapped in bright paper and bows to denote that it was, just after midnight, officially Christmas morning.

Maybe it was some sort of staged publicity stunt, I don’t know. But the timing was just too perfect—plus, the image of Sky Sentinel, its twin engines bright in the cloudy sky as it chased Martian enemies out of our little city, was almost as good as catching a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh. Except this was real. This was proof that even in the middle of a worldwide war, we weren’t forgotten.

Insider, Monsterpocalypse
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