Day Three

by Henry Gaudet

I hear ice and broken glass grind under metal boots, dulled by the inch or
so of fresh snow. Crunch, two, three, four. Spindly, spider leg shadows
sweep past the basement window.

We should have gone quietly in our sleep. We could have died ignorant
and happy in our soft beds. Instead, we fight. We claw and bite and spit
and scream, make them come and take us one by one. Oh, we still die,
we die by the hundreds. We died by the thousands, maybe by the
millions already, and now that they pick us off one at a time, we still die.
But not right away. First, we bleed. First, we hurt.

They cant see me. I know they cant see me. Even if they were to lean
down and press those shiny black, conical faceplates against the cracked
basement window, theyd only see a pile of rags or maybe a stack of
newspapers heaped behind a frost-covered washing machine.

Two days. That was all it took. It would have been nice to think that we
could hold out for a week.

The metallic cadence fades around the corner. In the snow filled silence,
I can still hear them crunching, at least a block away. I risk breathing
again and come out from behind the washer.

Maybe Im too tensed up or maybe my luck just runs that way, but my
thighs bleeding again. I dont bother replacing the bandage, just tie
another rag over it. Hurts like hell, but I still have some Wild Turkey I
found across the street. I take a good pull. Doesnt stop the pain, but it
gives me something else to think about.

Every once in a while, I hear another gunshot. Not as many as yesterday,

but theyre still out there. Twice, I hear a hunting rifle, answered each
time by the high pitched zings of a dozen of those ray gun things. The
second time, I hear scream and a wail. Before I can work out if the
keening belongs to a man or a woman, I hear one more zing, and then it
doesnt matter any more.

Two days. I should have rolled over, curled up tight against Tina, copped
one more feel before they took us in our sleep.

But no, I had to get up out of my warm bed at ten to six in the AM so that
I could run. Abs dont flatten themselves, after all. I was already puffing
and chugging my way down South Queen when the Wave hit.

I had the headphones on and the tunes up loud, so I didnt notice anything
right away. The explosions werent close enough yet, a distant thunder
lost under the bass. When people started coming out of their homes, first
in ones and twos, then whole families, I finally stopped long enough to
see what was going on.

Snows blowing in the basement window. My face and fingers are numb,
so once the boot steps fade entirely, I risk hunting for a warmer hidey
hole. Its slow going with a bum leg, but a lot of the houses around here
were derelict, so the Wave missed most of them. Some might still be
okay, until morning at least.
The shimmering Aurora Borealis curtain advanced straight for us. At its
touch, every house, every car, went up in a series of synchronized
explosions. We watched the Wave gliding in, slow and steady. We could
have outrun it, for a while at least. Maybe we should have tried. Instead,
we just stared at the damned thing, waiting for our eyes make sense
again.

Once the Wave got close, it was too late. Cars on the road started going
off like firecrackers. Not huge, action movie explosions, just little booms
and bangs that spider-webbed windscreens and buckled hoods, enough
for fire to take hold, enough to get thick, oily smoke rolling at the touch
of that psychedelic curtain. Houses went too. A rapid-fire series of
cracks and bangs ran through each house in turn, throwing glass shards
and hot debris into the street.

Ash and snow swirl together, painting the world gray in the weak
afternoon light. The winds rising and the temperatures falling. I try the
houses one by one, looking for an entrance I can close behind me. At the
sixth house, I find a key hidden under a cracked flower pot on the porch
and let myself in.

The Wave rolled down the street, coming straight at us while we froze, a
collective deer in one giant headlight. Then it was on us. Most of us
were a little disoriented, maybe a few cuts and scrapes, but otherwise
fine. We heard a few pops and bangs up close. Then we started
dropping. I saw one old woman go down clutching a smoking ear. I
watched a mans wrist burst into flame under his sleeve before he fell. I
came closer to try and help. I made it two steps before my pocket
exploded.

The house smells of cigarettes and old cabbage. I lock the door behind
me and watch the street from behind a green paper blind. The street is
empty, gray snow already filling in my footprints.

My phone, the one playing my music. It blew up in my pocket. The

headphones sizzled and the wire flared so bright it burnt my jacket, but it
was the piece of plastic shrapnel in my thigh that knocked me down.

Standing in the street amid the cries of pain and anguish, it took a minute
for the penny to drop. Someone in the crowd finally caught on, finally
spotted the pattern, finally said it out loud.

The house is cold enough for my breath to come in pale clouds, but at
least theres no wind. Theres not enough dust for this place to be truly
derelict, so I call out. Last thing I want to do is surprise a nervous
squatter. I dont want to dodge the invaders just to get shot by one of my
own. There is no answer.

Electricity.

One by one, eyes grew wide with understanding. Everything with a

current exploded. Never mind the how or the why. It just did. Every
fridge and water heater, every clock radio and television, every
entertainment unit, every street lamp and traffic light, anything carrying
any charge at all, it all exploded under the Wave. Including just about
every car on the road. Including every hearing aid and battery powered
wristwatch, and of course, my phone.

Im in luck. Looks like someone has been squatting here for a while.
The kitchens stocked with drinking water and canned food. Candles too.

Id love to tell you how we all pulled together, how we faced adversity as
one, beat back the fire, tended the wounded, looked after each other. Id
love to tell you that. I really would.

We panicked. Of course we panicked. Every home, every car was

burning. These people had just woken up. They hadnt eaten. They
hadnt dressed. They stood in bathrobes and slippers or less, suddenly
stripped of every possession not on their backs while their lives turned to
ash and char.

There wouldnt be any fire trucks, no ambulances. No help was on the

way. Most of us just froze, but a few decided to save what they could and
charged back inside. Given the option, I suppose Id have done the same.

In the living room, I find a bookshelf full of back issues of TV Guide.

Must be at least twenty years worth. Some collector would have paid a
mint for these.

I wasnt too bad, not compared to some. At least I was dressed. I

wouldnt freeze the minute the fires died down. Sure, I had a lump of
plastic stuck in my leg, but the bleeding wasnt so bad. It went in hot,
melted against my skin. Hurt like hell though.
I find the previous tenant upstairs, along with the remains of an old
portable radio. Im guessing shes about fifteen or so. She was leaning in
close when the radio went off. The front of her head cant really be called
a face any more.

Sure, I panicked, same as everyone else. I had to get back home, had to
get back to Tina. I limped straight back the way I came. Deep down, I
already knew it was too late.

Besides, where else was I going to go?

The house is in good shape, made long before anyone ever heard of
starter homes or planned obsolescence. In the dirt-floor cellar, I even find
an old coal furnace. No fuel of course, but Im sure Ill find something to
burn.

Within minutes, every house I passed was blazing. There hadnt been
many cars on the road, so I was able to walk down the middle of the road
without getting too close to the flames. Even so, the heat was intense.
The crowds were thinning, too. By the time I got to Sycamore Avenue, I
was alone on the street.

Id like to do better for the girl, but I cant risk bringing her outside.
Instead, I wrap her in her tattered quilt and drag her downstairs, down to
the basement. I dont have a shovel, just a little gardening trowel. The
grounds frozen solid. This is going to take a while, but its not like Ive
got plans.
It must have taken me two hours to get back to my own street. Two hours
of limping through streets filled with smoke and fire. Two hours of
imagination restrained. Two hours of refusal to wonder about home, to
picture Tina. Tina dead, or hurt, or trapped, or burning alive while I
hobbled back like I had all the time in the world.

Two hours instead spent struggling to make sense of what Id seen.

It seems obvious now. The Wave stole our homes, turned them into
weapons, stripped us, reduced us to animals. Society was wiped away in
a single move. Our communications, transportation, defense, everything
shattered by a rainbow curtain. I still dont know how far the Wave
reached, but what if it never stopped? What if it just kept going and took
it all?

It never occurred to me that the Wave might have been intentional, that it
might have been a weapon.

I decide to risk lighting the furnace. After all, I doubt my little fire will
stand out tonight. The whole town is smoldering, the whole world, for all
I know. I doubt my little fire will draw much attention. Besides, if I can
get some heat, the digging will go easier.

In the corner of the basement, I find some scraps of wood, old

floorboards, a few cans of paint, a broken kitchen stool, and some
turpentine. I soak an old rag for kindling and break up a few floorboards
to get the fire going. I treat myself to a can of cold pork and beans while
I read about the upcoming season of Happy Days and an interview with
Suzanne Sommers.
I was less than a block from my home when I first saw them. The
invaders. They rolled down the street my street on some sort of
armored wagon, pulled by something that might have been a dinosaur
under all that armor.

I could see helmeted heads with long, beak shaped muzzles peering over
the wagons side. A few skittered around on foot as well, weapons ready.
They were sort of shaped like us, right number of limbs and all, but no
way those things were human. Too long and spindly, and the way they
moved, it was all wrong.

I dig. I rest. Between the furnace and the work, I manage to stay warm.
By the time the watery morning light leaks through the boarded windows,
Ive made a shallow hole, big enough for a girl of fifteen or so.

I dont know anything about this girl or the life she led, I dont even
know her name, but someone should say a few words for her. Sleep, I
tell her. Its over now. Just rest.

How long until I join her?

One of my neighbors came around the corner, waving his hands at the
invaders. Who knows what he was thinking. Most likely, he wasnt
thinking at all. I never knew his name, but we used to pass each other on
the way to work, used to nod at each other from our cars.

They gunned him down in the street, firing pencil thin bolts of green
straight through him. I heard someone else call out, his kid I think, and a
couple invaders went to investigate. Ten seconds later, more green zings,
and that was that.

On the street, I was short on cover, and what was there was on fire. I
wasnt going to make it home, not this way. Instead, I doubled back,
doing my best to stay clear and counting on the smoke to keep me hidden.
It took me another hour to get home.

I dont know how long I stand there over the girl before I notice the
swirling colors pooling around the body. The hole is filled with a mist
made of the same mad colors as the Wave, seeping up from the ground.
Its in the air too, not as thick, but its there, swirling, clinging to my shirt,
to my face. To my lungs too, no doubt.

Tina was in the kitchen. The fire was pretty bad, but I could see her
through the patio door. If I had to guess, Id say she was making coffee.
I threw up in my back yard and limped off in no direction at all.
Somehow, I ended up across town.

Im glowing with the light of another world and I can see no, feel
survivors, two blocks away, hiding in an attic crawlspace. I reach out and
touch them, let them know they arent alone.

I can feel the invaders too. They set up camp on the elementary school
playground, between the basketball court and the monkey bars. I can feel
their weapons, their machines, and I know I can twist their power, turn it
inward and light it ablaze.
There is a freedom in failure, in absolute defeat. In that moment when
theres no longer any sense in fighting, when bravery and sacrifice
become pointless, a battered soul can finally indulge in selfish surrender
with no fear of consequence. After all, this is the bottom. It doesnt get
any worse. No more struggling, no more demands, just an endless
expanse of shameless self pity. Thats the glory of the bottom: peace born
out of hopelessness.

That peace is snatched away from me now. I dont get to say Enough.
I dont get to rest. No matter what happens, I dont get to stop.

I cover the girl in her shallow grave, and weep for both of us before
limping into the pale dawn.