Tagged: netbook

Song of Sirens

Dear Planet Earth,

A familiar feeling swept over my deaf, dusty body after Private Karter blew open my cell door with a surprisingly effective hand grenade. I forced myself up and sauntered to my new gaping opportunity of freedom, ignoring the ringing song of sirens playing in my head. A blurry version of Karter grabbed my arm and guided me through the fresh rubble. Some other, logical mirror of myself must have been active, because I somehow remembered to grab my laptop, broken walkie talkie, and the book, A History of the Inheritors.

I regained my senses faster than I would have expected. My vision cleared and I was able to make out dozens of jail cells identical to my own — all lined up like in a mental asylum, all empty. I had no time to interpret what this meant. Even now, I have few logical explanations as to why I was the only one in that underground mole people prison.

When we got to the end of the hallway, I could make out some earthen stairs and my ears had healed to the point that I could hear Karter say, “Eddy? Ah . . . oo . . . ee? Ah . . .” He shook me by the shoulders.

“Are you ready?”

I took deep breaths, flexed my muscles. The light coming from the surface was so sweet it blinded me in a whole new way, yet I managed to retain focus.

“I think so.”

“Trust me,” Karter said with a trademark grin. “You aren’t.”

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Negative Light

Dear Planet Earth,

Well, here I am. It’s anybody’s guess as to how long. They‘re telling me to write, to tell my story, busy myself and the rest of the world with the cold, hard facts to prove that they’ll get each and every one of us eventually.

I resisted at first, spat in their faces. I pretended to be the tough guy for two long days, but what does it really matter now? If I’m dead, I’m dead, and it won’t change anything to anyone if I retell what happened or not. I’m doing this now to be remembered. I’ve realized now that’s what’s been driving me from the very beginning. All I’ve ever wanted was for people to recognize my existence, be it in a positive or a negative light. And I don’t care if that sounds selfish now. I don’t care about humility, or pride, or any other quality I once thought made us human. I only care about being remembered.

I’m going to take my time with this. God knows they are. They keep saying it’ll be at least a week before “The Big Guy” comes. I’m trying to ignore the little voice in the back of my mind that might understand what that means.

It all started the day after I killed Jennifer Lopez. I couldn’t find my netbook in the morning. Halston, Linares, and Karter sat me down with the most serious faces. They asked if I knew where all the weapons had gone, if I heard the truck leaving last night. I sat open-mouthed, thinking a hundred different thoughts at once. Then Maria barged in and said they were gone. Mrs. Bing, Mr. Ozawa, Randall, Rachel. They were all gone.

Innocent Eyes

Dear Planet Earth,

My sources tell me that we’re probably going to be bunking at the library here for at least another week. The general’s scouts may or may not have seen the entirety of Fort Kross reduced to smoldering rubble. If mole people are out there with crazy snake drills that can tear apart trucks in a matter of seconds, maybe we don’t want to try to leave.

On the upside, I am feeling slightly more accepted in our rag-tag group. Today I even had an awkward conversation with the little wretch — aptly named Rachel — who stole my laptop. She’s not so much of “wretch,” as she is just another ten year old girl who mistakes her own annoying questions for adorability. Maybe she’s eleven. I’m not good with ages.

“What’cha doin’?”

I peered over the top of my computer to see the source of the inquisition, then instinctively clutched it to my chest after recognizing who it was.

“I’m not going to steal it,” she said. “I know you’re not one of them now.”

I relaxed my grip and continued my work on the laptop. I could still feel her watching me.

“My name’s Rachel. I’m sorry for stealing your computer.”

There was at least a minute of her big, blue eyes on me until I broke.

“My name’s Scott. I’m tired of getting fake apologies from kids for stealing my stuff.”

I glanced up quickly to see those innocent eyes fill up with moisture. I saw another scared child, unsure and unprepared for whatever’s coming next.

“I’m looking up more information about this book.” I picked up The Time Machine.

“I know that one,” she said. “I saw the movie.”

“It’s a little different,” I said, trying to keep the snobbery in my voice as low as possible.

“Can I borrow it when you’re done?”

I examined her face again, her ridiculously large eyes now devoid of any proof of prior conflict. I chuckled.

“Sure.”

She said I could borrow her Harry Potter book.

Sticky Fingers

Dear Planet Earth,

We’re not alone. I’m not just talking about the mole men, either.

My laptop went missing three days ago, and since I usually keep it closer to me than my own family jewels, I naturally assumed someone from the group stole it. Accusations were made, tears were shed, and widows and children alike spat in my lunches. Mind you, this is right on the heels of me being the number one suspect in the car graffiti mystery.

Just when I had exhausted every friend I had left here, some soldier went exploring around the library and found the entrance to a hidden attic above us. He found twelve famished people huddled in a corner. They were Anne Franking it (too soon?) up there since we arrived, apparently unsure if we were mole people or their homeless henchmen. Of course, that didn’t stop them from sneaking around at night to steal food and my precious laptop.

One of the little girls posted something on the blog. The keys are all sticky and smell like peanut butter.

Most of them seem to be kids, the few adults are still being debriefed in a study room right now. They’re eating like they haven’t had a decent meal in weeks, and they keep giving us suspicious glances, as if at any moment we’ll pull off our human masks and start shooting to the rhythm of our own maniacal laughter.

Someone’s going to have to tell them soon that I’m the only one who’s supposed to be despised here.

Fire and Ash

Dear Planet Earth,

I don’t know if anyone’s reading this. I don’t know if anyone’s left to read this. This blog has been more a personal diary for me since the beginning. It’s allowed me to isolate my thoughts and actions with little regard about the world at large. The truth is now more clear to me than ever — that I’m not alone, that I never was. I’m part of a much bigger group with a shared history that calls itself “the human race.”

The first explosions started sometime yesterday morning. I watched mystified as Lieutenant Christiansen disappeared in a swift blast of fire and ash. Other soldiers screamed in agony and confusion from all sides. Half of a Hummer landed inches away from my crouched body. I could feel the heat of the flames on my face as someone grabbed me by the arm and forced me to run.

I ran with the rest of our disbanded band of brothers, who sporadically turned around and blindly fired their rifles. I ran for hours, but no matter how far it seemed like I’d gone, I could still hear the explosions just as loud, could still feel the flames just as hot.

We’re moving out in the transport trucks any minute now. General Talpa said we’ll need to leave behind all non-essential equipment to stay under the weight limit, and that includes my netbook.

I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t know if I can survive a next battle. All I know is we finally have a name for our enemies. It’s been on the tip of our tongues ever since this started, but we’ve been too blind and proud to admit it. We’re being invaded from beings beneath the earth’s crust who’ve watched and waited for years, planning an unrelenting strike to wipe out every single member of the human race.

We’re under attack from mole men, and our world will never be the same.

General Talpa, I Presume

Dear Planet Earth,

I received a visit from the head honcho today, General Talpa. He came into my tent this morning and offered me a seat on my own cot. He stood the entire time, which felt awkward, intimidating, and fatherly all at the same time.

His face was creased and sunburned, suggesting either some Hispanic ancestry or a lifetime of hard work. He had to be in his late 40s or early 50s, and he showed no sign of shame in his protruding gut. Like all movie template military leaders, General Talpa had an exaggeratedly thick mustache under a porous nose.

“Mr. Panus,” he said cooly, almost uninterested. “I have a few questions for you.”

I nodded my head.

“First, we need to know how you came to have that military grade Humvee stocked with weapons.”

I thought over my answer for a moment. These people only seemed like the US military to me because of their camouflage clothing and American accents. For all I know, they could be responsible for the recent global catastrophes and in cahoots with my last captors. They’ve even treated me about the same, feeding me three meals a day and suspiciously letting me use my netbook. Then again, showing up bloody and armed for a zombie apocalypse does warrant some kind of explanation, and if I knew anything useful, I’d probably be dead already.

“I was kidnapped by a group of homeless people in an abandoned motel off the I-15 for three days. They had the Humvee and weapons. I knocked one of them out with a TV and stole the car.”

Talpa puckered his lips out slightly and exhaled over his trademarkable mustache.

“Okay,” he said.

He lifted the cover of my tent and whispered something to a guard outside before leaving. I haven’t seen him since.

Pass the Ambien

Dear Planet Earth,

It’s Turkey Day, and I feel like a chicken. Some army guy just gave me my netbook back and said I could blog away. He smiled and said I should tell my “legions of fans” (his voice was practically oiled in sarcasm) to stay as far away from the “drills” as possible. If that wasn’t ominous enough, he also said I’d be receiving a visit from a General Talpa soon.

I was in too terrified a state to ask him about anything, but at least I’m starting to feel things again. I haven’t had a wink of sleep since they imprisoned me. The constant noises outside are a mixture of shouting, beeping tower cranes, and what has to be dynamite. For the few moments my subconscious does take over and I enter dreamland, I see vivid glimpses of Diana’s red corpse and I instantly wake up to harsh, conclusive reality.

This may be my last post for a while since these canvas tent cells don’t come included with power outlets. Gobble, gobble.