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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CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA
August 28, 5:56 PM
My heart slammed in my chest. The panicked thumps became my world's soundtrack. Eclipse of the heart. Survival. One thump, two thump, three thump, four.
Giving my anxiety a name didn't change that we could've avoided this if Luna and I had just evacuated with everyone else.
Why did we stay again?
The sound of water sloshing in the streets increased. I flattened myself against the brick interior wall of Domingo's Corner Store, just two blocks from my apartment. With my cheek pressed against the cold slab, I glanced out the nearby window at the grey fog, and what seemed like forever-rising water.
Ah, Lake Michigan...
"Hey, George, I think we need to find cover, man. We got three minutes until the next pulse," a voice spoke outside.
Narrowing my gaze, I followed the outlines of three men pushing through the dark streets. Judging by the distinctive shapes in their shadowed hands, they were armed—weapons to attack those who remained in the city. Aliens hovered above us, but assaulting people who didn't leave was uncalled for. Sure, many of us broke into buildings, squatted, and looted, but we had our reasons.
The bottle of Tamiflu clutched in my grip was mine. Luna's fever had to break this time.
"Okay, George, George," a second voice spoke, higher than the first, and a little more panicked, "my watch says we've got two minutes. Two. We need to strap onto something or—"
The figure in front of the small group twisted in my direction. I jerked back from the window, my boots splashing against an overturned shelf. Please don't let them hear me.
The man didn't move for a few heartbeats, then pointed and spoke. "I saw someone, some guy, red hoodie, rain boots, a backpack—you know what our orders are." This had to be George. His voice was deeper than the other two. Obviously, the leader. Very commanding. Very observant. Very motherfucker.
"At this point, who gives a flying fuck about the orders?! I'm not trying to float to this ship like some fucking abductee. That falling shit fucking hurts, man!" The trailing man spoke, then spun and, headed in the opposite direction George had indicated. The middle man, Mr. High-Pitched-And-Panic, was hesitant but quickly followed the deserter.
George flicked a hand. "Fine, that's fine, I will report you to—"
I glanced at my father's old wristwatch. Cracked in the face, water drops trapped under the glass, the time made my eyes widen. 5:59. One minute. Despite their actions, I hoped the two cops who'd bailed could latch onto something within the next few seconds. George could kiss ass.
