Occupied Earth Read online

  Andreas dipped into his shirt pocket and plucked out a joint. “We should report this,” he said, striking a match.

  Trudy’s cocktail had slowed my thinking, and I rubbed my forehead. “And then what?”

  He offered me the joint.

  I pushed his hand away and watched the darkened streets around us.

  The ship coming in so low at full power had caused this ten-square mile section of Los Angeles to lose all electricity. The food truck. The street lights. Grocery stores. Even jacked up the natural electricity that kept people alive—heart, nervous system, brain signaling. Twenty-percent of the old-old folks, the coots born in the 1970’s, dropped dead when those ships re-entered on a whim like this fucker had—the power sap screwed with their pacemakers. Last year, during the EMT graduation ceremony, Mayor Corbin Ortiz had collapsed right there on the grandstand as he congratulated the new class of medics.

  During the first invasion, Mahk-Ra forces hadn’t used all of their wizzy-wig weapons and technology. Too much BANG! and there’d be nothing on earth left. And what kind of idiot destroyed the place he wanted for himself? So they had fought us—and won—with one hand tied behind their backs. But after one fatal mistake involving unleashed alien-ship power and the resulting death of the president of one of Earth’s last superpowers, Mahk-Ra powers-that-be decreed that ships would only use their secondary engines, and no EMP drives at all, within 300 feet of a populated area. And nearly every Mahk-Ra captain heeded this ordinance.

  But now, jerks like the one now navigating the ship above us, hated seeing the Ferrari parked in the garage and wanted to rev the engine. He had punched the EMP drive, who the hell knows why. Guess he wanted us earthlings to remember that he had the whole world in his hands.

  Assholes existed in every galaxy.

  Pungent smoke wafted from Andreas’ nostrils and drifted toward me. “Hope that Code 3 ain’t bleeding to death,” he said, slumping in the seat.

  I pushed it all back. Even sipped some of the weedy air, just so the numbness stayed with me a little while longer. I stared at the ship’s ass and its yellow landing lights slowly retreating northeast, behind what remained of the Santa Monica mountains.

  9:22 P.M.

  My fillings stopped buzzing.

  The sherbet-colored street lights popped back on.

  Radio noise filled the cabin.

  Time for the living to collect the dead.

  “You there, 87 CHARLIE?” the dispatcher asked.

  Andreas grabbed the handset from the dashboard and keyed the mic. “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “mock ship came in strong. Where we supposed to go again?”

  “5639 Curson. Sending it now to the CAD.”

  “Curson?” Andreas cocked his head. “A little far west for us, ain’t it?”

  The dispatcher chuckled. “Had to send a lot of rigs over to the old Forum. Beyoncé concert.”

  Andreas flipped the siren’s switch. “When that bitch gon’ die? What is she? Seventy?”

  The apartment complex known as Park La Brea had been built at the end of World War II. Located between 3rd, Cochran, 6th and Fairfax, this complex boasted 18 13-story apartment towers and 31 two-story townhomes. The luxury apartments built in the early 2000’s (and held together by spit and staples), had crumpled during the first battle of the Occupation. But the older buildings, having survived 20th-century earthquakes and riots, survived the big battle and every skirmish since. Back in the day, mostly older people had lived in this more than 100-year old development. As a young EMT, I drove up in here all the time, and on most of those trips, left with silent sirens.

  After the invasion, though, and because of constant electrical outages and changes in the way we lived, Park La Brea now experienced a 50 percent drop in occupancy. The rent was still too damn high—not because of its location but because the damned things were literally fortresses.

  It took a lot of swerving and braking to reach Curson—some drivers had died after that ship’s re-entry and their stalled vehicles still blocked every third intersection. But we got there and I raced through Park La Brea’s main entrance.

  A cluster of grim-faced tenants huddled together on the dried lawn of 5639 Curson, one of the townhouses near the complex’s center. Arms crossed, the neighbors threw worried glances at the rig and whispered to each other. No one spoke as Andreas or I grabbed our med kits and rushed to the open front door.

  The parquet wood floors were cluttered with video game controllers and flip-flops, blankets and remote controls. The aroma of fried meat wafted in the air and a dirty plate full of chicken wing bones had been abandoned on the sofa.

  “EMT,” I shouted.

  “Up here!” a man shouted back.

  Andreas and I considered the flight of stairs that would take us up to the owner of that voice.

  “Pretty narrow,” Andreas said. “Hope we don’t need the stretcher.”

  The hot dogs and bacon bubbled in my stomach. “I hope a lot of shit, Dre,” I said, starting up the stairs.

  At the top of the second-floor landing, I shouted, “EMT,” again.

  “In here!” the man called out.

  I made a left into the first doorway.

  An elderly white couple stood just inside the pink-walled bedroom. Next to them, a gray-faced white man wearing the jersey of a basketball team that no longer existed hugged a trembling black woman wrapped in a yellow kimono.

  A nighttime breeze was drifting in through the open window, lifting the gauzy rose curtains. The top corner of a ‘Reading is for the Birds’ Big Bird poster flapped in the draft. And a male Mahk-Ra, just under seven feet, lay on the floor. His crimson-gunmetal-colored blood gushed from a wound hidden beneath his EVER RIDE A MAHK? T-shirt. There were scratches on his face. A Big Baby, tucked in a holster, glistened with his blood.

  “Oh, shit,” Andreas muttered. “He dead?”

  The alien’s chest moved up… down… up… His breathing sounded like gravel caught in a vacuum cleaner.

  “Not dead yet,” I said, “but—”

  And then I saw her.

  A toffee-colored girl lay in the bed, lost in pink sheets, a pink duvet and pillows. Eleven years old, maybe twelve, with sandy-brown braids draped around her head like a halo. She wore a vintage Rihanna T-shirt and dachshund-printed flannel pajama bottoms. Blood was caked beneath her fingernails.

  My breath caught and my heart shuddered—Kiara had adored dachshunds. Kiara had worn braids in the summertime.

  The girl’s lips were turning blue but her chest still moved, but not in the rhythmic way her chest should’ve been moving. Nor was she breathing the way she should’ve been breathing. With the purple bruising around her thin neck, she wasn’t supposed to be breathing at all.

  “Her…” the man said.

  I placed my kit on the floor, then turned to the voice that had guided me here.

  “Her name’s Promise,” the woman said.

  I glanced around the bedroom at the drying Mahk-Ra blood speckling the walls and baseboards, lamps and bedpost.

  “Can’t…” the man said, shaking his head. “This is… crazy… I just...”

  “You the dad?” I asked.

  “Oh my…” he said, eyes glazed, pacing now. “What did we…?”

  I snapped my fingers in the man’s face. “Are. You. The. Father?”

  He found my eyes and focused. “Yes. Flynn.”

  Eyes still on Flynn, I pointed to the woman in yellow. “Mom?’

  He nodded. “Mackenzie.”

  Andreas pointed to the unconscious alien. “Y’all didn’t tell 911 that one of them was down.”

  Flynn shook his head. “No. We… no.”

  “Cuz that thing…” Mackenzie swallowed and her angry eyes glistened with silver tears. “I told you, Flynn. I told you.”

  Flynn’s nostrils flared. “Shut up, Mack. You’ve told me enough.”

  “It ain’t enough. I told you that we shoulda left this pl
ace right then, and—”

  “It’s not right,” Flynn shouted. “They can’t do whatever they want. They can’t take our daughter.”

  “You shoulda known,” Mackenzie whispered. “It doesn’t matter what planet he’s from, a woman knows that look.” She turned to me. “She’s eleven. A baby. I told him that I didn’t care who he was or where he came from. Didn’t matter cuz he pushed his way into my house and stormed up the stairs to take her.” She twisted her lips and spat, “‘it’s my right.’ That’s what he told us. And that’s when I got… got…”

  Anger depleted, her knees buckled. Flynn caught her before she collapsed to the floor. She inhaled and slowly exhaled. With a shaky hand, she held out the Glock.

  Andreas and I gaped at the ancient weapon, then gaped at each other.

  “I had no choice,” the mother said. “I wasn’t about to let him take her. Not this one. Not today. Not ever.”

  Stunned, I pointed to the old couple huddled near the doorway. “Who are you?”

  The man cleared his throat, then futzed with his wire-rimmed glasses. “We live next door. We heard the commotion and… We don’t know…” He nodded toward Mackenzie and Flynn, then he and his wife left the bedroom.

  Promise’s chest rattled and her breathing sounded strained.

  “She needs a trach,” Andreas said. “And we need to call—” he pointed to the alien—“in cuz…”

  “I know,” I said. “Call it in and I’ll clear some space.”

  As Andreas contacted dispatch on his shoulder radio, I pushed the bed to the wall and piled all the dolls in the corner. My eye caught a small, brown-crusted object sitting atop a tie-dyed teddy bear. “Found a bullet,” I said, leaving the bloody stub of metal in its spot. “Okay, let’s move her to the ground.”

  Andreas paused, and said, “Umm…”

  “Let’s move her,” I said, bass in my tone.

  Behind us, the Mahk-Ra’s wheezing intensified.

  I kneeled beside the girl and found the soft spot on her bruised neck. Slid my finger down until I found that dent, the place where I’d make the first cut.

  Andreas handed me a scalpel.

  With a firm grasp on the cutting tool, I made the horizontal, half-inch deep cut.

  Mackenzie gasped.

  Flynn whispered, “It’s okay, babe.”

  I made another cut through the trachea, then whispered, “I’m in.”

  Andreas handed me a blue straw.

  Holding my breath, I slipped the straw into the incision I’d made.

  Soft sucking—she was breathing again. Her eyes fluttered open.

  I smiled and whispered, “What’s your name, sweetie?

  Her lips moved but she could only whisper. “Promise.”

  Kiara.

  “I’m just gonna bandage you up now,” I told her. Gauze. Tape. A pat on her braided head. “All good.”

  Mackenzie darted over to the bed as I moved to the floor.

  “How’s this asshole doing?” I asked.

  Andreas’s hands were covered in weird-colored Mahk-Ra blood. “She shot his ass up. Left side. Right shoulder. Fuckin’ knee cap. I cleaned ‘em, packed ‘em, but all them bullets had to have hit something so he’ll probably need surgery.” He jammed an I.V. needle into the alien’s arm. “Lookin’ at his face, seems the girl got in a few licks.”

  Sirens screamed in the distance.

  “So… he’s gonna live?” Flynn asked.

  I nodded, then walked over to the bedroom window. “Yeah.”

  Red and blue lights from fast-moving cars reflected off windows near the complex’s apartment windows.

  Mackenzie whispered, “He’ll know that I shot…?”

  I turned back to face them. “Yeah. He’ll know.”

  “But our baby,” Flynn said. “She’s gonna live?”

  The sirens sounded closer.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but they’re coming.”

  Flynn squared his shoulders, then took the Glock from his wife’s hand.

  She started to protest, but he placed a finger on her lips. “I’m not scared, honey. Just… go, okay?” He turned to me. “You’ll take Promise to the hospital?”

  I squinted at him. “You know—”

  He nodded. “I know. And I’m ready.”

  Andreas and I jammed down the stairs and pulled the stretcher from the back of the rig.

  The engine in the patrol car roared in the distance, bringing the Mahk-Ra closer to us.

  We ran back up the stairs.

  Mackenzie held Promise in her arms, but was now struggling to walk. “She’s gettin’ to be heavy,” she said with an apologetic smile.

  I plucked Promise from her mother’s hold and ran back down the stairs. I slipped the girl into the foot-well of the passenger seat and placed a finger to my mouth. “Be very quiet, okay?” I whispered. “Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t let anybody know you’re down here, okay?”

  She nodded.

  Two patrol cars raced down Curson.

  I ran back into the townhouse and dashed up the stairs. “They’re here.”

  “Where’s my baby?” Mackenzie asked, eyes wild.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “She’s safe.”

  Andreas rolled the injured Mahk-Ra on to his right side.

  I slipped the board beneath him.

  Boots clomped onto hardwood floor.

  I strapped the alien to the board, and on a three-count, I lifted my end.

  Boots clomped up the stairway.

  “EMT,” I shouted. “We’re coming out.”

  Three Mahk-Ra over-sheriffs jammed into the small bedroom. No one wore their sunglasses and now, those black-black eyes searched our faces.

  “What happened?” the tallest one demanded. His name tag said, “Gabe,” and several bars decorated his shirt’s epaulets. “What do we have here?”

  “A dead man if you don’t get outta the way,” Andreas said.

  “Move,” Gabe ordered the other two.

  The over-sheriffs stepped aside as Andreas and I carried their injured species-mate to the awaiting ambulance.

  “Talk,” Gabe demanded of the parents.

  Out of the front door, and cool night air hit my face.

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Andreas whispered.

  We slid the mock into the back of the rig and my partner climbed in beside him.

  I slammed the door and hopped into the passenger seat.

  Promise still hid in the foot-well.

  At the townhouse next door, the two neighbors watched us from their front lawn.

  She was smiling.

  He was not.

  The burning in my stomach returned. Not good.

  “You okay, sweetie?” I asked Promise.

  Wide-eyed, she nodded.

  I turned the key in the ignition, and glanced in the right-side window before pulling away from the curb.

  At the complex’s main entrance, more red and blue lights reflected off apartment windows. Sirens screamed and echoed through the empty streets.

  “They sending everybody?” Andreas asked.

  “Probably.” I eased the rig past the Hertz’s place and slowly exhaled.

  What songs had Beyoncé warbled over at the old Forum? ‘Love on Top?’ Or her classic show closer ‘Single Ladies’? Mom had loved that one.

  Behind the rig, car tires screeched. Lots of car tires.

  “Oh, shit,” Andreas squawked.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Another patrol car, and then another, careened around the corner and stopped behind the first patrol car. Three more mock over-sheriffs, each clutching Piecemakers, jumped out of the cars. Two stormed inside 5639 Curson while one stopped on the sidewalk.

  The neighbor-couple whirled around to beat it back into their townhouse.

  Too late.

  An mockover-sheriff pointed at the couple.

  I braked as horror gripped my heart.

  They froze and slo
wly turned to face him with their hands lifted in the air.

  The mock spoke.

  The woman shook her head.

  The man nodded. He said something… He smiled…

  The mock spoke again.

  She dropped her hands.

  Her husband, still smiling, brought his hand around his wife’s shoulders. Then, he pointed in our direction.

  The mock followed the man’s finger, then raced into the townhouse to join the others.

  “That fucker,” Andreas said. “He just sold us out. He just—”

  A woman screamed.

  This far away, we could hear her scream. And that chilled my blood.

  Dazzling white light burst from Promise’s second-floor bedroom window.

  A woman wearing a yellow kimono raced out of the townhouse’s front door. Her arms flew in the air as the rest of her flexed and froze like she’d been dipped in nitro.

  “Shit!” Andreas shouted.

  I jerked in my seat. Tasted pennies—blood. I’d bitten my tongue.

  “Both of them?” Andreas whispered.

  I glanced down at Promise—her eyes were closed, and her thin fingers rested on the bandage around her throat. No longer feeling the rubbery hardness of the gas pedal, I drove toward 4th Street. My pulse slowed as the scene in the rearview mirror became a pinpoint and then…

  Another pulse of white light brightened back there at the pinprick.

  And then, another pulse of light.

  The neighbors?

  The mocks knew that Andreas and I had saved the girl. A girl who was, legally, supposed to belong to the mock in our rig, or worse— be dead.

  But…

  I’ll get another chance.

  “Now what?” Andreas asked from the back.

  I caught my partner’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “They’ll come for her. Which means…”

  “They’ll come for us.”

  I nodded.

  “And you’re cool with that?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Andreas gawked at me, then turned to gawk out the rear window. He sighed, then said, “Well…” He pounded the door.

  I slowed to a stop.

  He tossed me one last look, then muttered, “Fuckin’ mocks.” He pushed open the back door and jumped out of the rig.

  The door slammed closed as my partner of three years disappeared into the wilds of Occupied Los Angeles.