Boots scraped on the porch and the front door rattled slightly as the knob turned.

Hidden in the cushions, John waited. He had covered as much of his body as he could manage with the limited supply of cushions and lay with his mouth open in expectation.

His preparations would be for naught if the soldiers abandoned the standard entry tactics.

The sweet smell of natural gas pervaded the house. The outflow from the stove was so great that with several of the windows open to the night, there should still be a hell of an explosion.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

That was the plan. If he survived, Turner would try to take down a few of the helicopters if the aliens left any to fight.

The house had to burn, to reduce to a pile of ash, taking the evidence of the survivors with it. The tape on the front lawn would persuade no one in the house evaded the aliens. It would look like one man stayed to fight a last battle and lost or mistook the soldiers for the aliens.

That was his hope.

A window near the front door broke with a distinct sound followed by the thud of a solid object hitting the hardwood floor of the dining room.

Turner tightened into a fetal position and waited for what was to come.