There were boys playing in the street, kicking a can around between them, oblivious to the murderous thunder creeping over the city. Old men sat in the doorways chewing opiates, spitting on the concrete. Young girls hung washing out of the windows, draping wet clothing over rusting poles and wires stretched out between the buildings. What did they make of a visitor from another world? They must have seen the mothership orbiting Earth. They must have known change was coming, but for them change had only ever meant renewed oppression.
What did the Africans think of First Contact? From what Bower could see, they were more interested in keeping their heads down and surviving another day. What difference would there be for them? None, really. If anything, life would continue to get worse not better. Without UN troops on the ground it was survival of the cruelest.
Jameson was quiet. Bower wondered what he was thinking. She would have felt better if he were talking, but he was focused on the road ahead, occasionally talking on the radio with Bosco in the lead vehicle.
Bower couldn’t look. She kept her eyes forward, watching the road, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone on the roadside. Donkeys, horse-drawn carts and rusted old cars meandered down the road, slowing the convoy’s progress. Bower found her eyes drawn to a makeshift flatbed truck coming down the road toward them. With no hood, the fan cooling the radiator whirled around dangerously, as did the fan belt. Black smoke seeped out from around the engine. As the truck passed, Bower could hear the rhythmic thumping of the engine, seemingly cobbled together with fencing wire. At any point, that truck could have shaken itself apart.
As they wound their way out of the city and into the thick jungle hills rising above Ksaungu, the contrast of deep greens became a welcome break from the dusty, muddy browns. The temperature dropped as they climbed higher. A cool breeze blew from the east.
Within a few miles, the concrete road gave way to rough stones and pebbles lining the track. Landslides narrowed the road at points, slowing them to a crawl as they merged with other vehicles making the treacherous journey through the mountains. Government soldiers trudged through the mud on the side of the track, their boots caked in dirt. With their rifles slung over their shoulders and their heads hung low they looked like an army in retreat.
Once they were clear of the city, Elvis lightened up. Jameson was looking at the map, double-checking their location and direction.
“Hey,” Elvis said, a grin on his face as he looked at Bower. “Check out the bag.” His voice had a conspiratorial tone, as though he were letting her in on the secrets of the universe.
Jameson looked up briefly, seeing Bower starting to open the canvas rucksack at her feet. He was too concerned with their progress. Jameson picked up the radio and spoke with Bosco.
“Top of this rise, you should see a T junction, we’re gonna head right, to the south-east, up onto the tableland.”
“Roger that,” came the reply from Bosco.
Bower rummaged around in the rucksack, bouncing slightly as the truck hit a pothole.
“Does Bosco know you took that?” Jameson asked as Bower pulled out the small, blue civilian band radio.
“No,” Elvis replied, unable to wipe the smile off his face.
“He’s gonna kick your ass.”
Elvis laughed.
Sitting there holding the radio, Bower was again reminded of the alien spaceship. She leaned forward, looking to see if she could catch a glimpse of the UFO flying through space but the jungle obscured her view of the sky. Dark green trees and vines hung down on either side of the road. Occasionally, pockets of blue broke through, but never enough to see more than a fleeting glimpse of the sky.
“Turn it on,” Elvis said, gesturing to her. Seemed pretty obvious, really, thought Bower, and yet holding the radio she’d felt mesmerized. What if the aliens are malicious? Did she really want to know before she had to? What good would knowing do? And yet the advocate within her pleaded for reason, telling her that learning more would be good regardless, as then she’d know what she was dealing with. What she was dealing with? Now, there was a thought. So self-centered, so singular in focus, so all consumed. Perhaps that was the problem with humanity, she thought, most days we can barely see past the end of our nose.
Bower wound the electrical crank on the side of the radio, giving it a good turn for a minute or so to charge the batteries and then turned it on. After a few seconds slowly twisting the dial to move between channels she picked up a signal.
“…Gospel of John teaches us that there’s nothing to fear but fear itself…”
She kept turning and slowly music eked through the static, a distinctly African beat of drums with an electric guitar and a female singer.
“…Love will keep us strong, forever moving on, never leaving us alone…”
Ordinarily, this was a station she would have listened to on a Sunday afternoon, regardless of whether she’d heard the artist before. The tune was catchy, but on she went, surfing the radio channels.
“…highs of a hundred and five, with storms in the late afternoon, early evening…”
Three stations down and Bower was somewhat relieved not to have found anyone talking about the giant alien craft circling Earth. If anything, it seemed to suggest that life moves on, that not everyone was consumed by the alien presence. Then she found it.
“…Georgia, where residents have banded together as a community, pooling not only food and water, but medical supplies.”
A different voice spoke in a southern drawl.
“We’ve been through a dozen hurricanes, we know what it takes to keep things moving when the economy stops. The sky might be clear, but we understand what it takes to get through a crisis like this, what it takes to kickstart a community and get back on our feet.”
The reporter took up where the resident left off.
“Across the United States, from Maine to Florida, from New York to Los Angeles, we’re seeing a ground-swell of citizen action in place of government programs. Here in Atlanta, Georgia, the residents know the government is largely consigned to the role of historian. As well-meaning as FEMA officials are, the size and scale of a country in turmoil means they’re ineffective.”
Another resident spoke, only this time there was a distinct Mexican twinge in the accent and Bower got the impression this man was from nowhere near Georgia.
“The police, they’re too busy. They’re running around trying to help everyone, so they can’t help anyone at all. They tell me, don’t take the law into your own hands. I say, I’m not taking the law, but I’m not standing by either. There are thugs. There are people who take the shirt off your back. When the wolves come, you need to be strong, show them you’re not afraid, you’re not no sheep. You’re not gonna let them take your stuff.
“If you’re strong, they go away, but that makes the problem worse. They know they can’t take nothing from me, but my neighbor, they think they can take her food. So we stand up for each other. We stand up for those that can’t stand up for themselves.”
The reporter spoke again.
“Although officials have refused to sanction local activists like Jesus San Jassan, the reality is, with the US economy struggling to find focus, such groups have taken pressure off the police, fire departments and hospitals. With large portions of the workforce refusing to return to work in the factories and farms around the nation, the National Guard has stepped in, filling a vital hole in the supply chain. Estimates of the flow of essential goods such as fresh food and processed meats are at 80% of normal supply, and yet the shelves are still bare.”