Tagged: alien
Horizon
Dear Planet Earth,
We drove all through the night, heading in a single direction to find our missing companions. It was a long shot, even by global mole men invasion standards.
We started having real conversations about what could have happened. Sure, mole people could have kidnapped them, but why? Why leave us? Why use ninja-like skills to take everything but my broken walkie talkie, but keep us alive? Did our friends leave on their own? It seemed like we were all getting along just hunky dory, all things considered. Yeah, the army guys made all the major decisions, but no one seemed to complain about it.
The word “tyranny” came up. Along with “abandoned,” “suicide,” “spy.” “Rapture.”
I was squashed in the back seat next to Maria. Our bare arms touched each other several times during the bumpy trek, and I felt like I was back in middle school, wondering whether the contact bothered or excited her. Portly Private Linares crushed me on the other side. He didn’t smell nearly as good.
Then we saw it — 90 to 100 miles away on the horizon. The rising sun illuminated its silhouette, instilling an otherworldliness that it already had enough of on its own. Our first Californian drill.
One
Dear Planet Earth,
It was an uneventful couple of days if you don’t count the homeless army slowly amassing outside the base’s perimeter.
I’ve been spending a lot of time catching up on cartoons on YouTube. I’d been surprised that people weren’t uploading their own news reports about what going on, until someone here pointed out to me the now obvious fact that since the media blackout started, no one’s been able to upload any new content to the site. Regardless, YouTube remains an unfathomably large library of our culture to the point of October 23, 2011.
A couple hours ago I heard some screaming going on, and when I poked my head outside, I could see a group of soldiers forcing someone into my former interrogation cell. I caught Lieutenant Christiansen walking past and asked him what was up.
“We caught one,” he said. He let it sit like that, and gave me a smile and a wink before following the others into the tent.
“One.” It echoed in my head and formed a dozen different images I would have considered fiction before October 23, 2011.
It still echoes. I don’t whether to think they grabbed one of the homeless mercenaries or if there’s an actual living, breathing extraterrestrial 20 yards away from me right now.
Judging by how easy it was to get Christiansen to spill some beans, I’m sure I can get the full story from Eimer when I see him next. Until then, I still have plenty of cartoons to keep me busy.
Elephants
Dear Planet Earth,
The plot thickens. Dr. Eimer revealed some more details to me about the ominous drill. He seems to think that it might not be a drill at all.
It turns out the radio signals I was told about before aren’t what you and I know as radio signals. The object is giving off incredibly fast vibrations to send out messages. Through the ground.
He calls it seismic communication and it’s used by some animals like elephants to speak to each other. This could make much stronger signals, conceivably from one side of the planet to the other. The only problem is this takes a lot of energy, more energy than any current country could utilize for this scale. On Earth, at least.
The strangest thing the good doctor told me was that he doesn’t think this is the first time we’ve been visited. He said the army brought him here to consult about his theories of past visitations from these kinds of objects spanning back to the dawn of mankind.
I’m going to let that one sink in and drink some more of his whiskey for the next several hours.
The Drill
Dear Planet Earth,
The sky’s unusually clear today and the dust from the quakes is finally starting to settle, which gave me the perfect opportunity to examine the mysterious object that people here are calling “the drill.” It’s easy to see why when you’re this close. This is nothing like the alien spaceships Steven Spielberg promised us.
Dr. Eimer says the mountain surrounding it is entirely new and it continues to grow a little more each day. This thing is coming out of the ground, and when it’s done, we’re done. Or at least that’s the theory I’m flying with.
The R&D department is supposedly planning on getting closer to it with all kinds of fancy equipment that your average Joe Taxpayer could never dream of. I’m not regretting my decision to stay here, but I am reaching a whole new level of anxiety that I thought I already passed. This drill is poking its way up to the surface of my psyche, constantly citing my own mortality.
My Regards
Dear Planet Earth,
Old habits die hard, and apparently my habit is getting easily kidnapped. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad and terrifying.
I made it to the giant cone late last night, assault rifles in hand and vengeance on the mind. I followed the swarm of other cars heading there, at least three of which had bumper stickers that read, “My other car is the Millennium Falcon.” I could barely make out any of the features of the space ship/time machine/zombie containment device in the moonless night, and the dust from the quake was still out in full force.
Our caravan eventually hit a perimeter of numerous gates topped with barbed wire. We followed these around to a single entrance, where it looked like people were getting turned away by a detachment of military personnel. I waited in the Hummer for a few hours, listening to radio static and trying to think of a clever witticism to say when I finally had my revenge on those I deemed responsible for Diana’s death.
“Give my regards to Hitler, dirtbag!”
“Suck my Glock, motherfucker!”
“ID, sir?”
I stared at the flashlight outside my window — and the heavily armored young soldier behind it — in confused terror. “What?”
“Can we see some ID, sir?”
I came back to reality some moments later and slowly handed him my learner’s permit. He gave me a similar look of confusion after inspecting it.
“How did you get a hold of this vehicle, sir?”
I laughed. “I stole it from a homeless guy.”
Apparently those were the magic words, because two minutes later I found myself thrown face down in the sand surrounded by the cast of Battle: Los Angeles. One of them screamed, “Are you Scott Arthur Panus?” over and over, and when I said yes, they put a bag over my head and brought me to this canvas tent cell.
It would be funny.
Easy
Dear Planet Earth,
I said goodbye to Diana today. I propped her up against a tree and said a few words about her out loud. I wept like a baby. I tried to remember everything she ever said to me, what defined her as a human being and how she became an important part of my life in ten short days.
When she was really starting to go yesterday, Diana said she was a fraud. She said her name wasn’t really Diana Sunday and she was never a student at UNLV. Phyllis O’Conner was just another deadbeat post-teen working at Blockbuster when the tremors started and she realized she could make herself whoever she wanted. She was sorry, she said. She said I didn’t have to blame myself for her death because she never really existed.
But things are never that easy.
I’m heading toward the mysterious object outside the city, just like Diana and I planned to do last week. Judging by the number of cars on the road, I’m not the only one.
The dust is starting to clear around it, showing some very weird features. I don’t know if this is a satellite, an alien spaceship, or even a time machine. I only know that whatever it is, it’s inextricably linked to these crazy phenomena all across the globe and those homeless people were willing to kill to keep us from it.
I checked the back of the Hummer today and found it filled with assault rifles, body armor, hand grenades, and plastic explosives. I’m a grieving, hormone-filled teen with murder on the mind. Those bastards better hope I run out of gas.
On the Road Again
Dear Planet Earth,
And we’re off. Diana and I are heading outside the city to check out the strange object that appeared after the quake. We scored the keys to a decent pickup (it’s no Ferrari, but beggars can’t be choosers in the pre-post-apocalyptic world), and I even found a new netbook with working broadband wireless capabilities so we can access the Internet on the road. Finding power sources to recharge it might be a problem though.
Something weird happened as we left the Strip. There was a big group of homeless people holding those signs that read, “The end is here! All upworlders will die!”
Diana, who apparently has the bigger cajones between the two of us, pulled over and asked one of them what their message meant. He laughed in our faces. He laughed so hard he started coughing violently, and when he was finished, he smiled with the few teeth he had left and said, “You’ll see, kids. You’ll all see very soon.” When she asked if he or any of the others wanted a ride to see the spaceship, his face quickly changed and he gave us a stern warning not to go anywhere near it. Cue The Twilight Zone music.
Diana
Dear Planet Earth,
I think I’m in love. Some say opposites attract, some say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I say full scale invasions of our planet lead to strong, monogamous relationships.
Diana works at the front desk here at the Bellagio. Or at least she’s pretending to. She was a sophomore at UNLV (University of Nevada, Las Vegas) until the tremors hit and they decided to cancel classes indefinitely. With nothing to do, my ambitious amour decided to fulfill her lifelong dream of working at one of the ritziest hotels in Las Vegas. She hired herself since most of the staff had already abandoned their lives here to flee west. This is pretty much how I and, according to Diana, countless other young vagabonds scored free hotel rooms (though strangely enough, not a single homeless person has tried).
But I’m getting off point here. The point is I’m in love. Diana Sunday is smart, funny, and has tits the size of my id. She’s everything I’ve imagined college girls to be. Even her name sounds cultured, right out of a James Bond film.
We’ve spent the past two days together and tomorrow we’re planning to trek outside the city to investigate that strange object I took a picture of the other day. She’s betting me $500 in spa credit that it’s an alien spaceship, but I’m starting to lean towards something more terroristy. This isn’t exactly how I pictured my first date with a girl would be.
Viva
Dear Planet Earth,
Greetings from my new digs, room 21014 of the luxurious Bellagio Hotel and Casino. Sneaking into one of the Strip’s most high-end resorts is really only one immoral step above looting a supermarket and other petty crimes (or it would be if the words “petty” and “crime” had the same meaning they had one month ago). In our pre-post-apocalyptic world, stealing a hotel room is just as easy as picking up one of the many room cards from the lobby floor, where countless tourists hastily discarded them in their rush to flee whatever it is we’re supposed to be fleeing.
You’d never know that people are freaking out about an invasion while inside this fully-furnished-room-service-included bubble. The electricity, water shows, and spa are all up and running; the front desk even still has a cute girl who doesn’t seem to mind freeloading teenage boys milking global catastrophes for everything they’re worth.
And you can stay this happy and stupid as long as you don’t look out your window.
The dust is still everywhere from the quake and it’s crazy to see not a single car on a stretch of road internationally famous for having bumper to bumper traffic 24 hours a day. The real mystery of this picture is whatever that object is between Planet Hollywood and Paris. It looks to be about two miles away from the strip and it is definitely not any building I’ve seen in the city before. My crummy camera phone doesn’t project the whole alien spaceship vibe I get when looking at the real thing.
Whatever. I’m still giddy, I’m on a high. I feel like I could steal a Ferrari.
I Left My Heart in Aisle Four
Dear Planet Earth,
I took part in my very first looting today. It seemed as good a time as any, what with the whole world under attack from hackers, terrorists, communists, or aliens.
I’ve never stolen anything in my life, and so I figured I might have some reservations about taking part in a massive collective heist. Not so. It turns out, breaking the eighth commandment is incredibly easy to learn, especially when you’re surrounded by hundreds of other rational-minded people focused solely on gathering supplies for their and their loved ones’ basic survival.
The stock at Alberston’s on Flamingo Road was still surprisingly full when I got there. I was able to make out with a hefty supply of oatmeal, Pop-Tarts, and even a copy of my favorite book. I was surprised at how civil and normal the whole scene seemed to me. My fellow looters and I gave each other understanding glances, even made small talk. I was reminded of how screwed up our situation really is when I left the store with my brimming shopping cart and saw this guy shouting some things that would have sounded crazy one month ago:
This in itself isn’t that unusual. Vegas has a significantly high homeless population. What really started The Twilight Zone theme music in my head was when I passed three other homeless people holding signs with the exact same message, “The end is here! All upworlders will die!” They stared at me and smiled sly smiles through gaps of missing teeth.
Needless to say, I didn’t offer them any money.
