They could have tried to communicate, but instead they declared war, and they paid dearly.
The conflict had been so fast, so decisive, that the only alien ship left intact was one that hadn’t fought at all — the one that crashed not far from George’s hunting cabin. Some assumed it was destined for Chicago before the malfunction that brought it down. Every other vessel had been engulfed in flame, then hit the ground like a bomb. End result: very little material remained intact. Very little material, and no survivors — save for George’s eleven charges.
Through the thrice-daily interviews, George had learned there were no known alien survivors except for “the children.” That made them beyond important, an immeasurable resource. If there were other survivors, they were locked up tight in some secret government location. People speculated that was true. George was one of those people.
The invasion changed the world, but not in the way scifi authors or great intellectuals might have predicted. Governments didn’t come together. If anything, they were more divided than ever. What changed was the people. The people came together, ignoring racial and cultural divides. They came together with one common interest: absolute distrust of authority. Among the countless conspiracy theories was the top dog of them alclass="underline" that governments knew what had been coming and hadn’t warned their people. Theories like that weren’t new. They’d been part of the populace since governments had formed. What was new was a technology that no government could completely control. The Internet. Cell phones. Local networks. People organizing, encrypting, working together as one against anything that smacked of authority. In the years before the invasion, people had come to fear their governments. Now, the governments feared the people — and with good reason.
George, Toivo, and Jaco stood by the ruins of a hunting cabin that had been the centerpiece of their friendship for three decades, the centerpiece of Mister Ekola’s relationship with his own childhood friends for the two decades before that. Over half a century of tradition, now nothing more than shattered timber and scattered camping supplies.
The wind’s ebb hadn’t lasted long. Whitened treetops swayed slightly. The woods were here before people. The woods would be here after people were gone. The woods just didn’t give a shit about any of this. Those trees bracketed a long stretch of white: the road, thick with snowdrifts three feet high, motionless waves in a snapshot of a frozen ocean.
And coming down that road, a moving spray of snow rising up in grand arcs, crashing to the sides in puffing clouds of white that caught the morning sun. Through those clouds, a pulsating orange light.
“Ambulance lights are red,” Toivo said.
“Not an ambulance,” Jaco said. “It’s a goddamn snowplow. Let me guess, Georgie — an ambulance is right behind it?”
George nodded. “I sure hope so.”
The flashing orange light came closer. As it did, the three men could make out the cabin of the snowplow itself, highway-maintenance orange seeming to surf on a flowing, crashing wave of snow.
Toivo turned to George. “How’d you get a snowplow to come out here, eh?”
Jaco laughed, the first time that sound had been heard since the alien ship had torn open the night sky with a boom so loud it shook the ground.
“Because it ain’t just da plow and da ambulance,” he said.
George hadn’t called the police. He hadn’t called the military (not that he would even know how to call the military, or if such a thing was even possible). And, he hadn’t called an ambulance — not directly anyway.
He’d called Channel 10.
The attack had hit major cities. As far as George knew, Houghton and Hancock — the closest cities of any size at all — hadn’t been hit. The hospitals wouldn’t be flooded, the ambulances wouldn’t be swamped. He hoped that if he acted fast enough, he could put someone to work getting the resources needed to help Mister Ekola.
Not knowing how long his connection would last, George had talked fast, not caring who answered the phone, hoping that whoever it was could remember all the info.
He’d been so nervous he’d been shaking. He’d known, somehow, that he was committing himself to something big, something long-term. The words had rushed out of him. He’d heard his own voice as if there were two of him, one speaking on the phone, the other listening to every syllable.
I don’t have long, so take notes. My name is George Pelton. I grew up around here. An alien ship crashed near my deer camp. It came down during the storm. No one saw it, but you don’t have much time before the major networks and the military come. I can show you the ship. I have alien survivors — I can put them on camera. If you want this story, you need to get here as fast as you can. The roads are snowed-in — find a way to get here. You have to bring an ambulance, and no police. If there isn’t an ambulance, I won’t show you. If there are police, I won’t show you. One reporter, one cameraman. I’m giving you three hours to get an ambulance here, or I’m calling Fox News.
George had given the cabin’s address, then the signal had dropped. Even if he’d had a full cellular connection, how many calls would he have had to make to try and get an ambulance and a snowplow out here? Would anyone have even listened to him? Maybe, maybe not, but a reporter, a motivated reporter, would do anything in his or her power to make it happen. That’d been George’s guess, and from the way things turned out, he’d guessed right.
Paramedics worked on Mister Ekola. George was still in the room with the children, but had caught a few snippets of conversation, enough to know that Mister Ekola would be all right. George’s friends clustered around the old man and the paramedics. Other than a smile from Bernie, knowing nods from Toivo and Jaco — the three friends’ way of saying thanks to George — they didn’t give a damn about the reporter, the cameraman, or the alien children.
George stood in front of the children, who clustered together, cowering. Maybe they didn’t know the difference between a rifle and a camera. How could they? The last time a human had pointed something at them, one of their friends had died.
Surprisingly, George recognized the reporter — a woman named Nancy Oostergard. Even though he didn’t live up here anymore, he’d seen her faces on billboards in the area. That was because she wasn’t a “reporter” at all — she was the nightly news anchor. Maybe the anchor of a small-town station didn’t have a lot of pull on the national scene, but she had enough to be the one that drove out on the freshly plowed road to do this shoot.
“Mister Pelton, are you ready?” Nancy asked.
George nodded.
Nancy stood by him, her left shoulder almost touching his right, a microphone in her hand.
The cameraman re-settled the camera on his shoulder, then switched on the lights mounted atop the rig. The small room lit up. The children squealed in fear, clutched at each other even tighter.
“Four . . . three . . . two . . .” the cameraman said.
Nancy took a slow, deep breath through her nose, let it out even slower through her mouth.
“This is Nancy Oostergard, reporting live from near Eagle Harbor. I am inside a crashed UFO, the same kind that has laid waste to cities all across the planet. This ship has actual alien survivors, the first we’ve heard of through the sporadic reports coming from across the planet.”
George watched the cameraman step to the side, trying to get a shot of the children. The children saw this — as a huddled, mewling pack, they moved to keep George between them and the camera.