Inspired by the Halloween 2008 enactment of War of the Worlds 2 on Twitter, I began writing a story to follow my alter-ego’s experiences during the aftermath of the alien invasion. By the time I got past 1400 words, stopping only from exhaustion, I realized I had a book on my hands.
This is the rough, unedited first draft of Chapter Two. Read more chapters and the story process here.
2
~~~
I never left the house without a basic “survival kit,” as I called it, in my messenger bag. I carried travel-sized toiletries, energy bars, powdered cocoa packets, a bottle of water, aspirin, bandages—you name it. My reasoning was that I could leave on an impromptu overnight trip at any time, and be prepared. It was my adventurous spirit, my romanticism. I never thought I would use my survival kit for survival.
I clutched the strap closer against my chest. Just before I had left my apartment to volunteer at the shelter, I had grabbed my laptop, a few flash drives, and the Blackberry’s charger, along with one or two small mementos I wouldn’t want to lose. I didn’t know why; but there was no telling what might happen in a crisis. A fire, looters, anything. I figured I’d rather be safe and ridiculous than sorry. As a result, I had everything in that bag I needed to survive.
I wandered down the ghostly hallway. Dim morning light barely illuminated the space. My shoes padded softly, the only sound. I passed room after room, and found no sign of humanity. No one was in the lounge where I had left them the night before—I saw scraps of clothing, rumpled food wrappers, dirty bandages. I hadn’t dreamed the survivors—they had been there. But where were they now?
Thinking perhaps they had gone in search of food, I drove my weary legs onward, through more rooms, down staircases. I paused once, as I passed an open doorway and saw a supply room. On a sudden instinct, I took bandages, gauze, and antiseptic supplies from the shelves and tucked them in my bag.
Survival.
By the time I sensed the presence behind me, it was too late. The silence was ended by the explosion that engulfed me.
~~~
“WA-CHOOO!”
An explosive sneeze erupted behind me, spraying the back of my neck with spittle. I shrieked from the surprise, and stumbled forward, falling to my knees on the hard tile floor. I gasped as old bruises screamed.
Breathing hard, I turned and looked up at three men, three of the most incongruous characters I had ever seen. One hovered in the back, hauntingly thin and pale, with long brown hair and dark glasses. His form was draped in a black silk suit and white collarless shirt; he looked like he had stepped out of a ballroom. The second was older, shorter, and stouter; black hair and mustache; wearing torn blue jeans, flannel shirt, and denim jacket. He could have been a construction worker or a farmer, except for the automatic weapon slung over his shoulder.
The one standing above me was young, lanky, garbed in a black leather motorcycle suit and long, blue winter scarf. His blond hair was streaked with grime, and stuck out from his head at odd angles. His nose was red and raw.
“You sneezed on me,” I said through clenched teeth, dragging my sleeve over the back of my neck.
He snorted. “Think of it as a favor.” He reached a hand out to me; fingerless gloves were stained with dried blood and I didn’t want to know what else.
I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. Ow. Weakness washed through me. The floor beckoned with a sweet song of hopelessness. I ignored it, and planted my feet firmly.
“What’re you still doin’ here, Miracle?” he asked. His voice was a rasp–made my throat hurt just to hear it.
“Miracle?” I mumbled.
“You survived. You’re a Miracle.”
My throat constricted.
“So?” he said when I didn’t answer.
I rubbed my forehead. What was the question again? I peered into his bloodshot blue eyes and had a sudden realization. “You’re one of them. The sick people.”
His grin looked like it had been whipped and broken, then put back together. “Sicklies. Yeah. So how come you’re still here? The rest are gone. Left hours ago.”
I looked around the hollow halls in dull surprise. “Left? Where?”
“Heard’ve a shelter near San Luis. They didn’t take you?”
“I was sleeping.” I fumbled in my bag and pulled out my Blackberry. It had blank bars where the time should have been.
“Nevermind. Come on, we’ll get you there.” He waved me to follow, and set off down the hall.
I shuffled after, and the other two fell into step behind me. I studied his back. He couldn’t be more than a college kid. I hadn’t seen him with the other Sicklies last night. A group of them, like a ragtag militia, had come north to defend us when I reported an alien attack. I didn’t remember much—except I knew they had come in hijacked alien tripods. The rest swirled in my brain, memories disappearing like stray leaves in a whirlpool.
“What’s happening?” I whispered. Moreso voicing my own feelings aloud than asking a direct question.
“We’ve been invaded.” He cast a mad blue gaze over his shoulder. “The Martians have landed.”
Nausea swept over me. Flashes from last night’s news reports and Twitter updates came back into my thoughts. “Is there…anything left?”
He turned away. “Sure there is.” His tone was that of an adult consoling a small child.
“Where did you come from?”
“South.”
I swallowed. My mouth was very dry and sore. “Where…where in the south?”
“San Diego.”
“Did you see LA? Is there anything…is it…”
He scowled at me. “You know someone there, right?”
“My family. I can’t get in touch with them.”
He stopped and turned around. “Look.” His scratched, bedraggled face harbored a tired expression. “It’s bad, okay? It’s all bad. You can hope. But there’s a really good chance you won’t find anything.” He glanced sideways and nodded at the man in the silk suit. “Y’see him? That’s Pádraig. He was in a night club with his girlfriend last night when they struck. A tripod dragged him out & caged him. We got him when we took it down. He was the only survivor.”
I stared at the thin, dark-robed man. He moved down the hall like a shadow.
“José’s from the valley,” the low rasp continued moving his gaze to the rough man with the gun. “One of the meteors landed on his ranch. He lost everything in the fire. He doesn’t know where his family is.”
The hollowness in my soul grew deeper. “And you?” I asked.
He straightened to his full height. “I’m Will. My Mom and Dad were in the epicenter of the San Diego attack. I started fighting on my way to find them. I haven’t found them yet. I had to stop. The boss needed me. My snot.” There was a wry twist to his mouth. “We’re Sicklies—whatever we got, the Martians couldn’t hack it. Took ‘em down fast. But not fast enough.”
He turned on his heel and started walking again. I followed, as if I were attached to a leash.
“I’m Byrne Wyeth,” I volunteered flatly. “My grandfather, aunt and uncle, cousins are in LA. I can’t get them on the phone.”
“Service is sketchy. Specially south.”
“I have to find them.”
“You probably…” he stopped.
I didn’t ask him to continue.
~~~~~
(c) 2008 Christine Taylor, All Rights Reserved
