Occupied Earth: Stories of Aliens, Resistance and Survival at all Costs

By Gary Phillips and Richard Brewer

RESISTANCE IS ALL

For years, writers and filmmakers have speculated about the possibility of the Earth being invaded by aliens from another planet. But what if the aliens have been watching us, infiltrating us via human collaborators, or even surgically altering themselves to look human?

Occupied Earth is a groundbreaking anthology that explores the idea of what the world would look like years after its conquest. 20 years after a successful invasion by the Makh-Ra, humanity still exists, only it has become subservient to a race of occupiers who govern the devastated planet. But, as much at things continue with some sense of normalcy, something has happened in the Mahk-Ra’s empire. Earth, once considered a strategic beachhead of major importance to the Empire, has been downgraded in its value. Things are starting to degrade. Our planet is the last place any self-respecting Mahk-Ra officer wants to be assigned. Yet, despite everything, life continues.

These stories bring us face to face with annihilation and show how we can pull ourselves back from the brink. Featuring Rachel Howzell Hall, Lisa Morton, Matthew V. Clemens, Howard Hendrix, Nathan Walpow and more, OCCUPIED EARTH is coming. Stay safe. Stay strong. Survive at all costs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polis Books
• Release date: Oct 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781940610573

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title Page

Introduction

Hunter X – Part One by Richard Brewer and Gary Phillips

Do No Harm by Rachel Howzell Hall and David W. Hall

Pike Street Pick-Up by Adam L. Korenman

Union Day by Lisa Morton

How the Game is Played by Rob W. Hart

Strange Alliance by Cliff Allen

Hope by Matthew V. Clemens

Hunter X – Part Two

Location, Location, Location by Howard V. Hendrix

Letting Go the Ghosts by Marsheila Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte

A Day in the Life by R. M. Johnson

Second Coming by Craig Faustus Buck

The Devil You Know by Jessica Kaye

Johnny and the Warehouse Women by Nathan Walpow

Traitor by Adam Lance Garcia

Hunter X -- Part Three

Occupied Earth contributors

About the Editors

Copyright Notice

Alien invasion. World in jeopardy. The fate of humanity at risk.

The story of Earth facing an alien threat has been with us for well over a century. H. G. Wells’ book War of the Worlds stunned readers in 1897 as mankind faced imminent destruction from a hostile invasion by the inhabitants of the red planet.

Completely outmatched by the Martians and their huge machines of destruction, humanity is saved from annihilation by common microscopic germs that humans are immune, but to which the Aliens are fatally vulnerable. Conversely, in Michael Crichton’s classic novel The Andromeda Strain, Earth is threatened by a biological microorganism from out there to which we are the vulnerable but are saved when the virus mutates into a nonlethal form.

Over the years speculative fiction has shown the Earth threatened by deadly plants, Day of the Triffids, sentient seeds, The Body Snatchers, extraterrestrial children, The Midwich Cuckoos and even elephant-like warriors, Footfall. But with each invasion, each tale of ultimate world doom, human kind ends up victorious. By hook or by crook, simple human pluck or just damn good luck, the people of earth come out on top and the world, as we know it, continues.

But… what if….?

What if we didn’t win? What if they came, they saw and they conquered? What then? What would life be like under the rule of an alien species? Who would those aliens be, what would they look like? What would they want with us and our planet? What kind of society would we find ourselves in then? This was the discussion that led to the birth of the Mahk-Ra invasion and the stories in this collection.

These fourteen original stories look to answer that what if question; what is the world like now, years after the invasion. They explore life in a world that is still familiar, but ultimately different. People still get up and go to work, do the shopping, fall in love, have families, but the resources and freedoms that are taken for granted today are not so abundant. Twenty-five years into the occupation there is an entire generation that has only known life under alien oppression. Some of the younger populace are pressed into Mahk-Ra military service and taken away to fight in a far off, great interstellar war, while others are left on the planet to survive as best they can.

But humanity continues to function, to do what they have always done under direst of circumstances, they endure. There are still crimes being committed and officers of the law to solve them, small acts of heroism and big acts of political intrigue, and the indomitable human spirit continues in the form of an organized resistance, created by humans who have never accepted defeat at the hands of the alien overlords and dream of, and fight for, a free Earth.

It is into this world that the authors have set their stories. Through their eyes we see the day-to-day struggles of humanity. A harried EMT finds a second chance at life in Rachel Howzell Hall and David W. Hall’s, Do No Harm. While in Mathew Clemen’s Hope, two plainclothes detectives, partners, a human and an alien, prove that it may be a new world order but old world crimes carry on, as they race against time to track down a political assassin. Letting Go the Ghosts by Marsheila Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte take us to a Native American reservation for a unique perspective from an already occupied nation dealing with their newest occupiers. While Howard V. Hendrix’s Location, Location, Location, shows that resistance always begins as a concept.

Fourteen tales of adventure, intrigue, suspense and of the strength of the human spirit, told by an exceptional gathering of writers, each giving their own particular take on a world that may be under the dominion of the Mahk-Ra, but one where humans still fight, every day, in ways big and small to make it their own.

Down, but not defeated. Resistance is all.

Richard J. Brewer and Gary Phillips

IT WAS Paul Harper’s birthday and he was not happy. The day, his day, had actually started off well. Really well. His family had made him a special breakfast of ham, eggs and pancakes. His wife must have been putting aside ration cards for months in order to pull such a meal together. It was like the days before the war. It was also possible that she had bought the hard to get food off the black market, but he didn’t want to think along those lines. He knew his wife loved him, but he didn’t want her loving him to foolishness. Now, that warm Norman Rockwell meal was hours in the past…right now he was wet, cold, bleeding and trying to figure out who had just tried to kill him.

Earlier that morning, with the memory of his breakfast still in his head and stomach, Special Agent Harper arrived to work at the Seattle FBI office smack dab on time. He found his partner, JoHannas-ra, waiting for him at his desk. The seven feet of Mahk-Ra held a brightly wrapped package in his hand that he held out to him. Harper gave the alien a bemused smile.

What’s this? he said.

It is customary to celebrate the day of one’s birth with a gift, said JoHannas. Happy birthday to you, Agent Harper.

Just don’t sing, said Harper as he took the gift and proceeded to tear away the wrapping. Under it he found a two pound vacuum packed can of prewar coffee. He looked at his partner with a genuine look of surprise and gratitude.

Han, he said. This is… I can’t accept this.

JoHannas raised a hand in protest. It is little enough.

Harper leaned in and spoke in a low voice.

Look I appreciate this, honestly. But I know what this stuff costs and it ain’t cheap.

Please, think nothing of it. Especially do not worry about the cost. A rare half-smile came to the alien’s lips as he said, ‘I… know a guy, who knows a guy."

Harper barked a laugh. Three years as partners and JoHannas-ra still occasionally managed to catch him off his guard. Okay, he said. You can keep the details to yourself. I’ll just say thank you and we’ll leave it at that.

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and put the coffee away. Then, thinking about it, he locked the drawer. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his fellow agents, but….Arabica beans. Harper’s thoughts were interrupted by their deputy director.

Harper, JoHannas! he said. In my office.

Deputy Director Ben Bellusci was five-feet, five-and-a-half inches of I don’t give a shit what you think, just do your fucking job. At sixty-seven, he was old enough to remember the times before the Occupation and to know that those times didn’t matter anymore. He had been an FBI agent when the war broke out, had fought the Mahk-Ra invasion, had gone along with the armistice and Earth’s eventual surrender and afterward he returned to the Bureau, a changed Bureau, but one where he worked his way diligently up the ranks to his present position.

Harper and JoHannas entered the deputy director’s office. Bellusci sat behind his functional metal desk. He picked up a folder and did a quick glance at the inside papers before holding it out to JoHannas. He did not offer the agents a seat.

I need you two to do an escort run, he said.

Who to where? said Harper.

Some hotshot, big deal Mahk-Ra is christening the new cruiser out at the docks, he said. Massatataa, Mafasstass?

Masstas-ra? said JoHannas. Harper could hear the respect in his partner’s voice. Major General Masstas-ra is a war hero. He is highly revered by our people for his bravery in several significant and dangerous campaigns. His service to the Empire is legend.

Yeah? said Bellusci. Well, I never heard of him. Where was he during the war?

He was not serving in this system, said JoHannas. He didn’t elaborate more than that.

It was well known that the Mahk-Ra was engaged in a prolonged conflict far away from the Earth’s solar system, but they were notoriously reluctant to talk about it. However, every year a certain percentage of the planet’s youthful population -- 18 to 25 year-olds -- were drafted into serving in the empire’s military. Most were used to help maintain the huge mother ships that orbited the planet and as repair crews for the damaged space cruisers that would arrive from time to time from parts unknown, and a select few were sent off to those unknown parts as soldiers in the great expansion of the empire. Most of them were never heard from again. Those that did return, with only a few exceptions, lived in secluded enclaves and had little contact with the general populace. Where they served, what they saw, wasn’t a subject of public conversation – though rumors had gotten around.

Christ, Ben, they do this to us all the time said Harper. We’ve got cases to work on.

And they’ll be here when you get back, said Bellusci. This is what you get for being the first Mahk-Ra-human investigative team, a shining symbol of interspecies cooperation. Harmony among the species and all that. The networks love that shit, looks great on the evening news.

I could shoot Han in the leg while on camera, Harper said. That would go a long way in showing inter-species harmony. Then maybe they’d leave us alone and let us do our work.

JoHannas gave his partner a look.

What? said Harper. I thought you guys heal fast.

Enough, said the deputy director. These orders come straight from the Needle. You want to argue with them, I got a number you can call.

Harper started to speak but decided not to.

That’s what I thought. So this is how it goes, you two escort this Mafasstass or whatever the hell his name is to the space port. He says his blah-blah-blah. . .whatever, does whatever he’s gonna do and then you escort him back to the hotel, or wherever, and you’re over and done and out. Tomorrow he’s on his way out to who the fuck cares and you’re back to work. Those are the orders. Now get outta here.

Two hours later Harper and JoHannas were in the back seat of an armored Lincoln Town Car limousine, a slight rain spotting the car’s windshield, facing their Mahk-Ra VIP, Masstas-ra, who, at 7 feet, 5 inches barely fit inside the car. The old world form of transportation was a concession to the human public. They loved to see such a reminder of the old days and it was good publicity for the Mahk-Ra to be seen using it.

It is an honor to meet you, said JoHannas in the formal High Blade Mahkanese. Your actions in combat are well known and an inspiration to all Mahk-Ra.

Masstas-ra waved a hand dismissively. What I have done, I have done for the glory of the empire. No more, no less, he said, with an inflection that sounded like he’d said it a thousand times. If this trivial ceremony can help pacify the relationship between the Mahk-Ra and these humans then it is my duty to be here. I was on my way home to Ra-Prime when the order came to detour to this Ra forsaken rock of a planet. The sooner we’re done and I can be on my way, the better.

Well, said Harper in the same language, I don’t know about my partner here, but I guess you and I can agree on that last point.

Masstas-ra was visibly taken aback by the Earthman’s ability to speak Mahkanese, but he recovered quickly.

I am merely frustrated, Agent Harper, he said in English. I have not been back to the home world in many years. This was an unexpected and, yes, unwanted change to my itinerary. I am sorry if you took offense.

Forget it, said Harper still in Mahkanese. I think we all had things we’d rather be doing than what the higher-ups have us doing today.

This is actually a rather historic event, said JoHannas to Masstas-ra. He was studying a hand-held computer tablet. The christening of the first Mahk-Ra battle cruiser, comprised completely from Earth materials and constructed by a 90 percent human workforce is something to be remembered, and given that the ship will be bearing your name makes your presence even more significant.

I am surprised that the ship doesn’t bear a human name, said Masstas-ra.

Progress is one step at a time, said Harper. "I don’t think the Mahk-Ra are ready at this point to follow a ship called ‘The Benton’ or ‘The Bieber’.

Bieber?

Justin Bieber, a great Earth hero from before the Mahk-Ra arrived, said Harper. He was held in the highest esteem by our people, much like you are respected today.

Like your George Washington or Ulysses S. Grant. said Masstas-ra.

Harper took a beat before he replied.

Yeah, he said, Exactly like that.

Masstas-ra settled back in his seat. How long will this ceremony take?

JoHannas checked his electronic pad. We should have you back to your ship within six hours, he said. Once we arrive at the docks you will take the stage. There will be a short series of speeches from various officials, and then you will be introduced. You will deliver your speech and then push a button that will cause a bottle of champagne to swing from a ribbon and shatter against the hull of the ship, officially naming it the Masstas-ra and declaring it ready for launch. There will be some photo opportunities and a short reception following. Afterwards, we will escort you back to your shuttle and you may continue on your journey.

And what does the shattering of this bottle of Sham-pane against the hull of the ship have to do with its launching? asked Masstas-ra.

While JoHannas tried to explain this old maritime tradition and the superstition surrounding it, Harper looked out the side window to see the towering Mahk-Ra war vessel waiting at the Military Space Port of Seattle that now took up so much of Elliot Bay. It was, to say the least, impressive. Five years in the making, hundreds of workers toiling round the clock. Even with the rain sheeting down its sides, Harper could see that its black hull was polished to a mirror finish. As they drew closer, the sheer size of the ship was almost overwhelming. It rose, high into the clouds, dwarfing everything around it.

They arrived at the docks to find a large crowd awaiting them. Word had spread that the famous Masstas-ra, the Mahk-Ra warrior hero would be there. This was a once in a lifetime chance to catch a glimpse of this legend, whose exploits were taught in schools and the subject of books and films. Despite the cold wind and rain, the crowd had grown to hundreds of Humans, Mahk-Ra and Mahk-Re waiting for them.

The Mahk-Re were the lower class members of the home world. To most people’s eyes the Ra and Re were damn near indistinguishable. Over the years Harper had learned that there were slight physical differences between the two that he and other practiced observers could note, but if in doubt the overall arrogance of the former was always a dead giveaway. Personally it made no sense to him, but the societal division between the two races was a wide chasm that went back for countless generations. Harper had often reflected that such divisions had long existed on Earth as well -- though they weren’t as pronounced since the arrival of the alien overlords.

Looking out the window at the gathered crowd, it seemed to Harper like everyone was holding an umbrella, magazine or some damn thing over their heads to shield themselves from the rain; no one’s hands were empty. Harper didn’t like it. It would be too easy for remnants of the Red Spear to have a hitter or two in such a crowd. Harper knew that JoHannas would be having the same thought and when the three of them climbed from the limousine to the cheers of the crowd, they both scanned the faces around them, searching for any potential threats as they moved Masstas-ra toward the waiting podium. So intent were they at observing the crowd that it took them completely by surprise when the explosion erupted in front of them, throwing them to the ground and taking out most of the stage where Masstas-ra would have been sitting had they been just a little faster.

JoHannas was the first to recover. He pulled himself to his feet, straightening his sunglasses with one hand while reaching for his bleater with the other. A stunned Masstas-ra was on his hands and knees, shaking his head trying to clear it. Harper, a gash on his forehead and blood running down his face, crawled over the rain soaked pavement to the downed alien, his hand pulling his own weapon, an old-school 9 mm Glock. He staggered upright, wiping the blood and water from his eyes. Grabbing Masstas-ra by the arm, he helped the shaken alien to his feet. All around them, people were screaming and running away from the blast site in uncontrolled panic. True to their training, Harper and JoHannas took up protective positions on either side of Masstas-ra.

We have to get him out of here, said JoHannas.

Copy that, said Harper. Let’s get him back to the car.

Moving quickly, shoving their way through the surging crowd, Harper gave some small thanks to the fact that everyone was at least moving in the same direction. They reached the limo intact and without hesitation Harper whipped open the door while JoHannas pushed Masstas-ra into the back of the vehicle and then climbed in behind him, followed closely by his human partner.

Get this car moving, said Harper to the driver as soon as the door was shut.

But the people around us, sir.

Will get out of the way, said Harper. I’m not telling you to mow anyone down, just get us moving.

Yes sir.

Slowly the car began to move forward, picking its way, with the help of one of the escort skimmers, through the crowd of people and aliens. As they moved, a path gradually began to clear in front of them. Harper put his head back against the limo’s car seat and shut his eyes.

And many happy returns of the day to me, he said, and then added with a sigh, Moses on a pony.

Take calculated risks. That is quite different from being rash.

George S. Patton

5:50 P.M.

I yawned as the middle-aged white man bled to death on the sidewalk.

Hot dogs wrapped in bacon or…?

Hot dogs not wrapped in bacon?

I yawned again, pushed back my sweaty blue baseball cap, then peered at the shuttered liquor store behind me. Smelled like urine and spilled malt liquor. The more things change…

Meanwhile, the 65-year old man—Seth Friedlander, according to his I.D.—kept dying.

Carotid artery. Ain’t no comin’ back from that.

Andreas, crouched beside the patient on the bloody sidewalk, pressed useless pads of gauze against the man’s neck. Sweat and blood glistened on my partner’s tawny-colored arms.

We both ignored the two Mahk-Ra over-sheriffs monitoring the call.

The September sun sat low in the cigarette-smoke sky. The little light that broke through the cinders reflected on a fallen alien ship four miles from where I stood. It spanned from Olympic Boulevard all the way north to Wilshire, and rose just as high. The new skyline of Downtown Los Angeles. No more fancy 90-story skyscrapers with rich men’s names on top. Anything over twenty stories had been blown to shit.

Back under the old skyline, lookie-loos would’ve crowded us. Man down? Camera phones up and out. Selfies with the body in the background. Now, nobody gawked or hung around. Folks were more scared of these Mahk-Ra mo-fos than the LAPD.

What a world, what a world, what a world.

Back under the old L.A. skyline, Mr. Seth Friedlander would’ve died a more dignified death. In a hospital bed. At a beachside condo. A final squeeze of his nurse’s ass, and a ‘good night, sweetheart’ and that was that. Now, his bloody Italian loafer sat in a gutter. Now, a size 15 combat boot worn by some sum-bitch from some planet way over there had trampled on his bloody silk tie. And now, his classic Tag Heur watch was being hocked by a thug who specialized in all things pre-Occupation.

Life had changed for Mr. Friedlander. So had death.

Or maybe grilled chicken. Better for my heart.

I glanced at my digital wristwatch: seven minutes to six.

The man on the ground finally stopped breathing.

Andreas craned his neck to look at me. Call it, Joe.

I lifted my scarred brown wrist again. Five fifty-five. Then, I reached into the back of the rig, grabbed a white sheet and tossed it to Andreas. Eyes on the ground. Eyes on the vic. Eyes anywhere except for the strange gaze of the Mahk-Ra over-sheriffs who now monitored the scene. And us.

Their eyes. Couldn’t see the whites of the Mahk-Ra’s eyes cuz they didn’t have any. All pupils. Just black. Strange shit.

Fortunately, these two mocks still wore their sunglasses. In an hour, though, once the sun set, those sunglasses would come off. And then, those eyes…

Scared me more than their weapons.

Just don’t look at ‘em, Joseph, my mom, Porsche, had instructed me so long ago. But kids don’t listen, and so I looked. Nightmares until I hit my twenties, and by then, there was other shit to fear.

Once the meat truck rumbled off to take Mr. Friedlander to the county morgue, I climbed behind the rig’s steering wheel. Kept my attention on the alien cops now questioning my partner. Ready to jump out if he needed me to. Certain death? Yeah. But he was my partner. He was all I had.

The mocks towered over Andreas, and strong enough to bench-press Sherman tanks. Not that height and strength mattered when they all carried those Piecemakers.

Andreas Saldana was taller than me, six foot three easy, and built like a heavyweight boxer. Born just a year or so before they came, he’d grown up in East L.A. and didn’t remember that life at all. He did remember burning buildings. Corpses left in the streets. The vibrations in his silver baby teeth as alien ships roamed the skies in search of more shit to blow up. Andreas didn’t know that 20th- century and early 21st century people in his neighborhood had been scared of ELA13 and Avenues who had wielded AK47s and Uzis to kill each other.

Sunrise, sunset.

And now, Andreas slammed himself into the passenger seat. Fuckin’ mocks.

What they say?

He screwed up his pug face and sucked his teeth. Wanted to know why we didn’t stop for the mocktard back on Vermont.

What you say?

That another crew took the call.

I flushed. So, you lied.

Yeah, I lied.

I grit my teeth and ignored the burn in my belly. They write us up?

They can kiss my butter-Rican ass, man. I been on for three days. I look like I care? Andreas plucked his flip-phone from his shirt pocket.

You’ll write the run report?

Yeah, yeah. Mr. Friedlander dead so he don’t give one fuck about no report. You decide yet?

Yep. I turned the rig’s ignition. The rumbling engine made the steering wheel quiver beneath my palms. Dogs with bacon.

Sure. Why not?

6:45 P.M.

Static and chatter burst from the ambulance’s radio but no calls came for us, 87 CHARLIE. As I drove the rig east, I spotted an alien ship just a mile away, hovering about one-hundred feet from the ground. That’s gotta be about twenty semi-trucks-long, I said, awed by the engineering.

What’s it doing now? Andreas asked.

The ship’s spotlights were shining into apartment and business windows. Inside, people probably stood facing those lights, eyes squeezed shut, hands held up, prayers on their lips.

Reminds me of police helicopters that used to patrol where I grew up, I said.

Coliseum Avenue. Palm trees. Apartments. Jungle Bloods.

My grandpa told me about them helicopters, Andreas said. He called ‘em ‘ghetto birds.’

Yeah. I squinted at the Mahk-Ra ship. But these fools, though. They’re worse than the cops. They don’t fuck around. If you run from ‘em, you die and ain’t nobody marchin’ in the streets demanding justice.

Andreas snorted. "Fuckin’ mocks will shoot you even if you don’t run. They roll up on you with them pulsar-things and just… BAM! You ain’t you no more. Gone like tears in the ocean."

I tore my eyes away from the ship and considered the passing neighborhood. Historic Koreatown. Everybody squatted here now, though, and Koreatown was now Little Armenia, Little Ethiopia and Pico Rivera combined.

Black, white, asian, hispanic, blue-eyed, brown-haired… Arm in arm, hand in hand, chatting and laughing, like those Coke commercials from the 80’s. All of humanity had united once the 7-foot freaks with black eyes had landed. World leaders—earthlings—had come up with different ways of moving and living. Solar power. Desalinization. No nuclear. Fuck nuclear. But we still got around and did shit without a lot of oil. Had babies with whoever wanted one, just to be sure we’d still be here fifty, 100, 2,000 years from now. All because of the Mahk-Ra.

Thanks but fuck y’all anyway.

So different from the Los Angeles of my childhood. Yeah, there were still cell-phone towers and grocery stores and nail shops, but since Iran, Iraq and all of the Middle East had been cut off of from America, from the U.K., from anybody not them, oil no longer flowed as freely as it used to. Not a lot of cars now. More walkers. More bikers. A good thing in some ways. And if cosmic dust and human ashes weren’t still polluting the skies, the oceans would stop rising, and polar bears would get to fuck around on the ice again.

I chuckled.

Andreas glanced at me. What’s so funny?

Polar bears.

Heard about them, too. Like dodos and shit.

I nodded. Yeah. Like dodos.

Andreas’s phone chirped and he smiled. Aww, yeah.

I tossed my partner a look. Must not be Alizé.

Nope. My sweet-baby Letty. He opened the phone and cooed, "Estoy caliente y te deseo, baby."

At a red light, I plucked my own phone from my shirt pocket and peered at the cracked glass.

No voice-mail. No missed calls. Not even from a telemarketer hustling Mahk-Ra insurance protection plans. Looking at my phone, it was like I no longer existed. In many ways, I didn’t.

With a shaky finger, I pressed MESSAGE. Phone to my ear, I squeezed my eyes shut and waited to feel the hurt of living.

…supposed to get drops for the water. We can’t drink the water without the drops, Joseph. Boiling ain’t enough, okay? You don’t know everything. I read, too. Destiny had taken a deep breath and had then slowly released it. And hurry up, okay? Kiara’s scared. Get the—

Daddy, Kiara had shouted. Daddy, the lights ain’t comin’ on. Hurry up and come fix the lights!

Hot tears filled my eyes as my wife’s and my ten-year old’s voices surrounded me like fiery mist. Not the most romantic message but it had been Destiny’s last words to me. And Kiara’s.

Just one more chance. Lord, give me one more chance.

My everyday prayer. If God gave me one more chance, I wouldn’t stop this time at The Cork for beer and wings and the Raiders. This time, I’d stop at the army surplus store and buy those water purification drops. This time, I’d be at home and I’d hear that ship approach and I’d throw Destiny and Kiara into the F-10 and drive until the gas tank hit ‘E,’ somewhere up near Solvang. Just one more chance. This time, I’d save them.

Fifteen years had passed since then, and I still couldn’t tap the DELETE button to erase Destiny’s message. I needed to hear. I needed to hurt. I needed to remember that I didn’t come home until nine o’clock that night, and by then, my home on Haas Avenue had been consumed in flames just like the six other bungalows on that part of the block. Courtesy of the Mahk-Ra version of an electromagnetic pulse bomb with a fire back. So powerful that it had denied me my family’s ashes.

And now, I only saw Kiara and Destiny in my dreams. The sober ones, at least.

7:28 P.M.

The line at Doggy-Style wound west on Pico like a slow-moving snake. The aroma of onions and bacon called folks as far west as Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Fifty years ago, those snobby sumbitches wouldn’t have driven east of La Brea. But Doggy-Style mixed charcoal and wood in their barrels. Sure: infrared also got the job done, but the meat didn’t taste grilled.

We’re pulling up now, baby, Andreas whispered into the phone. "Is it wet? Yeah, baby… Diantre! He chuckled. My, my, my."

The radio squawked. 87 CHARLIE, the dispatcher called.

I reached for the handset.

Andreas swatted my hand. Next one. Earthlings gotta eat.

Like all EMT-Paramedics, Andreas and I didn’t have to queue up for