Sequel to This Is How It Ends
The world went to hell on Black Monday and, against all odds, Billy Gunn and Rory Wilder survived. But as the months drag on and gigantic alien ships arrive, new threats in the form of new alien species emerge. Holed up at Rory’s grandparents’ farm in the woods, they run out of food and supplies and are forced to make a trip into the city. The once-flooded landscape is now a frozen waste of mud and debris. It will be their last trip.
The alien ships are gigantic and defy explanation and understanding. They block the sun and leave the savaged earth shrouded in darkness. What do the aliens want? Why did the vast majority of the population die when they arrived? And why won’t they stay dead?
Days later -- how many, I did not know -- I went to the bathroom with a flashlight and had a look at myself in the mirror hanging over the sink. I was a mess. I had a mustache and a half-assed teenage beard. My face looked sallow. Dark bags hung beneath my eyes. I could not remember the last time I had brushed my teeth or made any effort to care for myself.
I had to move on.
Leaving Rory's aunt’s house was the hardest thing I had done. I was reasonably smart and resilient, but the knowledge that I would be facing the world alone had taken the wind out of my sails.
I strode down the sidewalk and did not look back.
My backpack was filled with what few supplies I could rummage from nearby houses and stores. I had a shotgun, shells, and Mark’s baseball bat. Would they be enough to keep me alive?
With the giant ship overhead, the world was gray and black and full of endless shadows. In the distance I could see the sun trying to creep in on the horizons, but precious little of it made it to where I was.
But there was something else, a feeling that kept flitting about in the depths of my mind. I felt ... lighter. It was an odd feeling, but I felt less heavy. As though I were being drawn upwards. Lifted. Or as if I were nine again and weighed next to nothing.
I glanced up at the ship and wondered. Was it drawing me? Calling me? Or was the ship so large it had changed earth's gravity?
My footsteps took me back to Mr. Clawson’s house.
I stood on the sidewalk and stared at the busted kitchen window, a feeling of unease in my belly. I had to be sure Rory was dead. It was ridiculous, of course, but I had to know. I wanted to see his body. I wanted to be reassured, in my own mind, that I had not imagined the whole thing.
There was a chance he was not dead, that he had become a hybrid, or that the weird appendage had somehow taken up residence inside his body to feed off him. If it had, I would kill it. It was the least I could do.
I walked hesitantly to the broken window and peered inside.
It was too dark to see clearly. There seemed to be something lying on the floor, but it was hard to tell whether that something was Rory Wilder or something else. I would have to go inside.
Determined to finish the task, I went to the kitchen door and put my hand on the door knob.
I sensed movement behind me and turned.
A figure stood in the yard, regarding me with unreadable eyes.
Rory Wilder.
A small flare of hope welled up inside me at the sight of him, but warning bells also went off. I unshouldered my backpack and set down the shotgun, but kept my grip on the baseball bat firm.
Rory said nothing. His mouth was twisting, as though he wanted to say something but was not sure what.
How could he be alive?
He stood there, motionless, wearing the same clothes as when last I’d seen him. Clothes he had slept in. Why didn’t he have a winter coat, proper shoes?
He seemed oblivious to the cold.
“Rory?” I called softly.
His mouth continued to twist. His lips curled. He seemed to be struggling to respond.
It was not Rory Wilder who stood there on the frozen ground of Mr. Clawson’s front yard. Rory was gone. Who this was ... or what it was ... well, I did not know, but it was not Rory. My Rory. It was not the boy I had loved and planned to spend the rest of my life with.
He opened his mouth suddenly.
I knew what was coming.
Before the appendage could shoot out, I crossed the distance between us and swung my bat. I caught him beneath the jaw. He seemed startled. I swung again and he went down.
As I positioned myself closer to him, his mouth opened again and an appendage shot out, going for my face. I dodged it, brought the bat down on Rory’s face. There was a sickening crunch as the bat struck home. I did not pause to consider it further. I swung again. And again. I kept swinging until Rory Wilder’s face had been pounded into pulp.
I owed him that much. I could not let him live out the remainder of his days as some half-assed alien hybrid forced to prey on his fellow human beings. He deserved to be at peace.
I wanted to cry, but I did not. Instead, I hurried inside the house to fetch the keys to Rory’s grandmother’s old Honda. As I searched among our belongings in the basement, my hand fell on Rory’s Bible. It had been one of his most cherished possessions. I put it in my backpack, snatched up the keys, and left.
