Thirty days.
The countdown has started, North America shivers under the shadow of a massive alien spacecraft, and humanity is hurtling toward an unknown future that lurks at the end of the timer. Somewhere, somehow, the heroes are making their plan...
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BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, USA
August 19, 1:15 AM
It is a cold, dark night—as every fucking night is thanks to that flying saucer overhead—when I step into the clandestine casino with a plan, a bag full of TP, and nothing to lose.
The tables are hot, and the waiters are hotter. That's the draw of Doctor King's Prudential Palace of Pleasure, at the top of the Prudential Tower. You can make your wildest dreams come true, provided you have the moolah to pay for it. On the far wall is a blackboard full of bets, the most lucrative one being: what will happen when the eerie blue countdown in the sky strikes zero?
But that's a long-term bet. If I wanna get out of here in the twelve days remaining before that flying saucer decides to finish the job, I need to make it big, and fast. I bee-line it to the highroller's table, Black Jack, a six-pack of Charmin on my belt, ready to paint the town red.
I toss a roll to the dealer, taking a seat between a gimp and steampunk lady. "Cut me in."
The dealer silently deals me two cards. A ten and eight. Not bad. Time to make my move.
I take out my calculator, ready to math out this bitch. I am gonna card-count my way to victory. "Okay, hit me."
The dealer looks at me with horror, as well as the people at the table. In fact, everyone in the casino seems to be staring at me. Do I have something on my face?
"What?" I ask, before a gloved hand grabs me by the shoulder.
I do get hit, but not with a card, but with a fist, squarely in the chin. Turns out, casinos aren't very keen on you taking out a calculator between moves. The only prize that gives you is being dragged to the backroom and tied up while someone practices boxing with your skull.
My head tilts back as my new friend gives my face a high-five with a closed fist. Every blow measures the karats of his diamond rings.
"You fuck—counting cards is legal!" I yell, earning me a backhand to my left cheek.
The person hitting me in the face repeatedly doesn't have the courtesy of replying. His seven-foot frame blocks anything besides his body, and the blood-red scarf and sombrero combo don't allow me to glimpse their face. He is a wall of pain, and I am the stress ball being hit against that wall over and over again.
The man wears a poncho, with a holster holding a slingshot—efficient, no bullets needed, economical, good for an apocalypse, a weapon not for amateurs—and a camping knife. He looks like some LARPer with a Wild West fetish. You can't negotiate with those weirdos. Looks like I am not going to sweet-talk my way out of this one.
"Look, I learned my lesson, okay?" I tell the man as I spit out a tooth. Damn, my upper left incisor. There goes my root canal. "You can take all the TP on me. I'll go away, never to return, and we can just ignore all this happened, comprende?"
