By Craig P. Dixon, southcoast247.com correspondent Social Commentary 83
October 25, 2006
The invasion began some time ago. It’s hard to remember when it all started,
exactly. The situation became dire when the power went dead a month ago,
just as the government posted its first serious warnings.
“Stay home. Lock and board up all doors and windows. Do not open doors for
any reason. Turn out all lights. Take cover and pray to God to guide the
United States through this, the ultimate trial. May God Bless….” Then the
power went, and I popped some batteries into the radio.
A day later, the radios died. The invading scourge overran our best defenses
and somehow disrupted all communications. In a last ditch attempt to turn
the tide, the high command authorized the use of nuclear force. Our entire
nuclear arsenal, once aimed at foreign powers, spent against American soil,
killing millions of American civilians.
All in vain, for the invasion carried on. Through a crack in my bricked
cellar windows I spotted the dark shadows of the invaders, running from
house to house, specters in the endless night. I heard screams and muffled
shots of those committing suicide.
One night, I heard footsteps upstairs. Then a scream. Then nothing.
Two of the creatures crept down the cellar stairs. I couldn’t make out
particulars from my hiding hole deep in the musty, damp crawlspace: They
were just shadows.
But I could smell them. They smelled like wet, manure-coated farm animals.
Their stink sat in my nostrils. When they neared my hiding place, they
snorted the air like dogs, and I was sure they’d found me out.
I pissed myself, fearing I’d be their next meal.
But another called from upstairs, barking harshly in some foreign language,
and the two left. I didn’t dare leave my hole, not to eat, not to shit, not
to piss, for a day.
That’s how I’ve spent the past month or so, huddling alone in my cellar.
Hiding in the crawlspace whenever danger neared. Stretching on the concrete
floor during those quiet, “safe” moments. I’m nearing the end of my cache of
food. In a day or two, I’ll pack what I’ve got left and strike out for the
city. There’s nothing left to lose.
It’s been two days and I’m down to my final rations: three cans of chili,
two cans of white beans, a few slices of stale wheat bread, two boxes of
mint Girl Scout cookies I’d bought a year ago from a coworker, and four
liters of fresh water. I’ve packed these in a backpack along with a blanket
and tarp. I’ve got some gasoline in a plastic bottle, a lighter, my car keys
(if the beat up thing will start), and a 10 gauge shotgun with 5 shells.
Make that 4. The last, if necessary, is for me.
I creep from the crawlspace and edge slowly to the cellar stairs. I can
barely crawl upstairs. Every step feels like suicide. The shotgun locked,
loaded, and cradled like a football in the crook of my arm affords me little
comfort. After all, nukes couldn’t stop the invaders. What’s 10 gauge shot
going to do?
The bastards left the cellar door open. I edge into the hallway, gun barrel
first, and after making sure all clear, turn the corner for the front door.
The house has been tossed. There’s nothing of any worth here. Pictures and
heirlooms can’t help me now, but I can’t help looking at a family portrait
and wondering where they’ve all gone.
I hope they haven’t been eaten by the heathen horde.
Then I hear movement. The front door’s open. Damn it all! They’re in the
house! They’re right on top of me, in my own goddamned house!
I see a dark shape before me and fire. Pump the gun. Fire again. Pump and
turn for the front door. Already running. One steps into the doorway and I
blast him back outside. I leap over him and make for the car. The car my
last, only chance. I’ve got one shell left to spend.
Just as I reload, there’s another sprinting up the street toward me. I wait
until he’s close and fire. Then I’m sprinting. The gun loaded and ready in
my hands.
I reach the car door and fumble for the keys. Come on, damnit! They’re in my
hands. I’m trying to unlock the door, but the lock’s stuck.
One of the terrible creatures appears on the passenger side. His face a
disgusting, brown mess, he looks and smells like an animal. He smiles a
toothy, sinister smile. He’s hungry.
And I’m dinner.
I shit myself while shoving the barrel into my mouth. Kneeling, I reach for
the trigger as the invader rounds the car. More are coming from all sides. I
can hear them. They smell fresh meat.
“Hello, Senor.” The dirty, dirty bastard mutters. “Clean your house? I clean
house. 15 dolares.”
Sweet Jesus! The foreign invaders have taken control! My God, they’ve taken
over! Our worst of fears come true!
Screaming, tears rolling down my filthy face, I pull the trigger.
Muah ha ha ha. HAPPY HALLOWEEN, fools! Better get on that Republican
Congress to build that border wall.
Before the Democrats take over and it’s too late! We’ll be speaking Spanish
in no time.
Comments? craig@southcoast247.com
“Stay home. Lock and board up all doors and windows. Do not open doors for
any reason. Turn out all lights. Take cover and pray to God to guide the
United States through this, the ultimate trial. May God Bless….” Then the
power went, and I popped some batteries into the radio.
