Damon cautiously parted the drapes of his living room window with the barrel of his hunting rifle and looked out. There were no signs of life on his residential street, nor had there been for at least the last 24 hours. He could see two pale columns of smoke still rising from the direction of the airport. Had he dared to venture outside for an unobstructed view, he could have seen several more extending along the line of the landing approach. Each marked a four-day-old crash site--a marker of the moment when the planes had dropped from the sky. Also when every car stalled, every computer screen went dark, every power station failed.
Damon parted the drapes a little wider and craned his neck to look further down the street. Nothing. His eyes returned to the smoke columns. Somewhere across the country, the bodies of his wife and 12-year-old son likely lay among the ruins of a similar crash site. They should have been in the air for about an hour, returning from a visit with Claire's family. Maybe their flight had been delayed and they were still stranded at the airport, but it was unlikely. Damon had no way of knowing now in any event. He hadn't heard any news for over two days. That was the last time there had been any power at his home. When the lights had last flicked on he had immediately turned on the television and radio for news. He had finally found a beleaguered-looking newscaster grimly recounting reports of a large body of unidentified objects detected in orbit, accounts of huge ships landing near some cities, and swarms of small but deadly flying craft shooting anything that moved.
Damon had seen the floaters in action himself. Just down the street sat the wreckage of a pickup truck that had the misfortune to be driving when a floater came by a couple of days ago. Damon had heard the explosion and run to the window in one of the front bedrooms where he could see that part of the street. The floater hovered over the smoking hulk of the truck for a minute or two before moving on. If the desultory media reports of the floaters' lethality hadn't convinced him to stay indoors, viewing one in action certainly did. Since then he had restricted his outdoor forays to quick trips into his backyard to retrieve buckets-full of pool water for use in the toilets and bathing.
Why he bothered to stand sentinel at his window, Damon couldn't articulate. His hunting rifle would probably be no more effective against the aliens than a pop gun. Still, it gave him some sense of power to heft the familiar weapon, as false as that sense might be.
A movement on the street caused Damon to abruptly pull back from the window. He very slowly parted the drapes just the slightest bit and peered out. An old passenger car very slowly drove past. It was not only going very slowly, but appeared to be slowing down. Indeed, the car coasted to a stop a few yards past his house, then slowly drifted backwards down the slight incline of the street. It came to a complete stop almost directly in front of his door. He couldn't see the driver well as he was on the far side of the vehicle and the windows were tinted, but he could tell he was frantically turning the ignition in a futile attempt to get the engine to turn over. Damon knew that one of the intermittent power blankets must now be in effect, when any and every electronic device simply refused to work. That car wasn't going to start anytime soon. It would be at least a couple of hours before anything with electric power would function again, based on his experience over the last few days.
The driver, increasingly agitated, was alternately turning the ignition key and slamming his hand against the steering wheel. Finally, in frustrated resignation, he ceased his frantic actions and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.
Damon paused for a moment, then acted. Still cradling the rifle in his arm he ran to the front door and opened it.
"Hey, over here!" he shouted from the doorway, waving one arm.
The driver didn't seem to notice him.
"Hey, come here!" he shouted again, stepping forward onto his front porch waving both arms, one still holding the rifle.
That seemed to get the driver's attention. Damon saw movement inside the car, then heard the driver's side door open. A figure emerged, righted itself, and looked in Damon's direction.
To Damon's surprise it wasn't a "he" at all, but a young woman who looked vaguely familiar. Damon anxiously scanned the sky for signs of a floater but saw nothing.
"Hurry!" he said, urgently motioning her in his direction. "You don't want to be in the open. It's not safe."
The woman hesitated for another instant, ducked her head in the car, grabbed something, then ran around the car and towards Damon. She was wearing a green Starbucks polo shirt and hat, wrinkled black slacks and clutched her purse.
"Hurry," Damon encouraged one more time as she came trotting, then running up his steps.
He ushered her into the house, slamming and latching the door behind him, then ran to the living room window and once more parted the drapes to look out onto the street. Seeing nothing after a moment, he turned to his unexpected guest, who stood panting and looking panic-stricken in his foyer.
"You were lucky no floaters came by. What on earth were you doing? Do you realize how dangerous it is to be outside?" he scolded.
The young woman looked at him with tears welling in her eyes, then burst out sobbing.
"I didn't know what else to do," she sobbed. "We were trapped at the store for days. There was no more food, the toilets wouldn't work, there was no place to sleep except on the floor. It was terrible. I thought if I could just make it back to my apartment I'd be ok there. It's not too far. I thought if I took back streets those--things--wouldn't notice me. But then my stupid car broke down. Why now? Why did that have to happen now?"
Her sobs had turned to sniffles, but the tears still flowed.
Damon lay down his rifle and approached her, reaching out to gently touch one arm.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to upset . . . I mean, everything's so topsy turvy. We're all upset, I didn't mean to make it worse. For what it's worth, your car didn't break down. The aliens, whatever they are, they have something to make things stop working. It goes on and off. You just happened to be driving when they turned on the . . . the whatever it is that makes it happen."
"Oh," the woman replied, her tears now somewhat under control. "Well, thank you for taking me in."
"What's your name?" Damon asked.
"Bobi."
"Hi Bobi. I'm Damon." He stuck out his hand and she took it hesitantly to shake it.
"Thank you, Damon, for helping me." A pause. "But I don't know what to do now."
"Well, unless you have a death wish, you had better stay put. Besides, I guess I could use some company."
"Isn't your family with you?" Bobi asked, looking around.
Damon gazed into the emptiness beyond Bobi's shoulder for several seconds, then looked down at his feet.
"They were on a plane when . . . when it first happened. I haven't heard from them. They're probably . . . probably gone . . . now."
"I'm sorry," Bobi said, touching Damon's arm gently. "Your wife and . . ."
"My wife Claire and my son Trevor. He is . . . was 12."
"I'm sorry," she said again quietly. They were both choking back tears. "I'll pray for them."
"Thank you."
Damon picked up his rifle and put it in the hall closet.
"I don't know why I bother," he told Bobi with a sheepish expression. "Doubt it would do much good."
"Well, all you can do is try, when it comes down it," she replied.
"Guess that's true. But I'm not sure if it matters whether they come and kill us or just starve us out."
As if in reply, Bobi's stomach made a quite audible gurgling sound.
"Oh my God!" Damon exclaimed. "You said you'd had nothing to eat. You must be famished. Here, let's get you something."
"Oh, thank you so much! I'm really, really hungry! Thirsty too, if you have something."
Damon led Bobi into the kitchen. There was a large plastic jug of drinking water on the counter. He grabbed a glass from a cabinet and filled it from the jug.
The kitchen counters were littered with various foodstuffs: boxes of crackers, loaves of bread, jars of jelly, peanut butter, honey, ketchup, and various other items that would normally inhabit the back shelves of a typical refrigerator. There were also several bowls of fruit: apples, bananas, and oranges mainly.
Bobi's eyes widened as she took in the scene between gulps of water.
"Wow, it looks like you had prepared for this!" she exclaimed.
"Well, I guess you might think that," Damon laughed. "But it was just a coincidence I happen to be this well stocked. We were planning to go on a camping trip as soon as . . . as soon as my wife and son got back from their visit. I've got an RV behind the garage. It was all stocked and ready to go. Lots of canned food, packaged goods, bottled water. I . . . we could hold out for quite some time. It's not exactly gourmet, but it will keep us alive."
Bobi's stomach gurgled once again.
"What would you like?" Damon asked.
"PB&J?" Bobi suggested?
"Coming right up! And how about an apple to get you started?" he asked, taking one from a bowl. "It's getting a bit mushy, but it's still fine. We'll have to work on the fruit a lot in the next couple of days or it will start to go bad. How did people live without refrigeration?"
Damon continued to chatter on as he made Bobi's sandwich and she munched on her apple.
"Most of the perishable stuff from the fridge has already gone bad. I've eaten a shit-load of chicken over the last few days, let me tell you. But I can still do some cooking. The RV is well stocked with propane. I can cook in there, although it makes me a little nervous with those damned floaters hanging around. It's hard to tell what'll set 'em off. They only seem to go after things that visibly move around, so maybe it's safe. I've got a portable propane burner that I've got in the garage, so I've attached the spare propane tank to that and can at least do some primitive cooking on it. I've mainly used it to heat water for washing up a bit. I've got a pool out back and I fill pails of water from it for cleaning. The water smells a bit chemically, but it's not too bad."
He handed her the completed sandwich. In exchange she handed him back the apple core. There wasn't much left.
"So you work at that Starbucks down on Federal?" Damon continued as Bobi ate.
A nod.
"I go there a lot. It's on my way to work. I think I've see you there before. You look familiar."
Another nod.
