It's late in the afternoon two days later when we pull into the back of the makeshift dirt parking lot. The road here is dusty and long, much longer than I expected, thanks to a completely new landscape. The truck’s GPS, which still works, nearly has a conniption, so I shut it off and travel by Xeno’s magical ability to locate parts of his ship. I’ll spare you the arguments during the journey caused by dead ends and wrong turns. Because it took so long to get here, I hoped the event might have dispersed by now, but the party seems to have just gotten bigger.

I turn off the ignition and hop out. The heat, which is unusually hot even for late August, hits me like an oven.

“Come on, boy,” I say, as Gus jumps over my seat and into the dirt.

There are so many vehicles here, mostly trucks, all scattered around cacti and red boulders. And there’s people. Lots and lots of people. People sitting on tailgates, eating, people walking around campfires, eating, people popping in and out of tents, and eating. There are families. Kids. Elderly. Groups of college kids looking dazed and confused. It reminds me of the massive gathering at the stadium the night of the impact, save for less injuries. Everyone looks displaced and dirty. It’s the most people and the most food I’ve seen in over a month in one place.

“Jack, the platform,” says Xeno.

I turn to look at the trailer. “What about it.”

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea to cover it with something? Someone might steal it.”

“There’s a tarp on it,” I say, feeling the marbles in my pocket just to make sure they’re still there.

“I don’t think that’s enough. Do you think that’s enough? What if the wind picks up again?”

“What do you want me to do, put a rock on it?”

“Actually, yes. That’s a great idea.”

“I was joking, but okay. If it makes you feel better.”

“It does.”

I walk around the truck, looking around. I find a rock the size of my head, and pick it up with a grunt.

Gus barks at me and I snort a laugh.

“No, boy, this is not a ball.”

I rest the rock on the edge of the trailer. “Woo, that’s heavier than it looks. You sure this isn't going to damage it?”

“Nah,” says Xeno. “You could hit that thing with a train and it wouldn’t even make a dent.”

“Alright,” I say, shoving the rock onto the tarp. It makes a loud, Thwang.

“Well don't go trying to dent it!”

“I thought you said—”

“It’s fine, Jack. Let’s move on.”

I hear music in the distance coming from the direction of the crystal. I pull myself into the truck bed and then onto the cab to get a better view of the arena ahead of us.

The crystal has to be as tall as a four or five story building. To the left of it, (to my right) there’s a large open-air stage with a light show canopy. On the other side of the crystal, there’s a busted up gas station, and some other building that’s been abandoned for so long I can’t determine what it originally was for.

The music calls to everyone, inviting them to gather in the wide open expansive area in front of the stage, which is what they do—in droves.

“Last chance for hot dogs,” I hear someone shouting to my left. I hop down off the truck and Gus barks at me. It feels like a scolding, probably for not inviting him to join me on top of my truck.

“How about a hot dog, boy?” I say, as I make my way to the voice. It’s a woman’s voice. She sounds older. A heavy smoker.

“Get your hot dogs before the show starts,” she calls.

I finally find her a few vehicles down, sitting in the driver’s seat of a Subaru. She’s maybe in her late sixties, and she’s holding a ziplock bag of boiled hot dogs.

“Hi there,” I say. “How much for two dogs?”

“How much?” she says, confused. “Where've you been? Nobody uses money anymore. All the banks are shut down. I’m trading for medical supplies.”

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“Do you need a first aid kit?”

“I need anything I can get, sonny,” she says, maneuvering so I can see her right legs. It’s in a plastic brace up to the knee.

I cringe. “Are you here with anyone?”

“I … no. I, uh, lost my George-y a few nights ago. God rest his soul. A lot of us here have lost people. Do you have any supplies? These hot dogs are getting cold.”

I look around. We’re at the very edge of the lot. Behind us nothing but desert and dusty fields. Most everyone else has started making their way towards the stage.

“Here, give me your hand,” I say. “I want to show you something beautiful.”

—•—•—•—

“I think we should go around to the back,” I say. “There’s no way I’m getting to the crystal through that crowd.”

“Agreed,” says Xeno. “Best to take the truck around, see how close you can get.”

“And just to be clear, we’re just doing recon right now. We may have to attempt this at night.”

“Again, agreed.”

“Wow,” I say.

“What?”

“You just agreed with me twice in a row, Xeno. I think that’s a record.”

“Well, start making more sense more often and maybe we’ll hit three.”

I open the driver's side door, and Gus, finishing his seventh boiled hot dog, jumps up without any prompting. I get in after him, and we set off.

Reaching the crystal, however, turns out to be more challenging than expected. The terrain becomes increasingly difficult to navigate due to the rocky incline behind the pop-up venue, and there are just as many cars on the area's flanks as there are in the back.

We park as close as we can on the right side of the arena, which isn't close at all.

“Well that was a waste of time,” says Xeno. “Feels like we just drove around the perimeter of a semicircle.”

“Come on, boy,” I say, opening the door.

The music grows louder as we zigzag through the vehicles and tents. Eventually, we make our way into the pit of the arena, which is packed with bodies. I’m tempted to just start grabbing people and sending them off to paradise but I don’t want to cause confusion and end up starting a riot.

“Stay close, Gus,” I say, tapping my leg. “I don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

I maneuver through the dense mass, bodies tightly packed and the air thick with excitement and, of course, body odor.

“Honestly,” says Xeno, “You humans smell absolutely horrid when you’re all squished together like this. I mean, you yourself are pretty reasty, Jack, but—”

“Can’t you turn off your sensory input or whatever?”

“We’re doing recon, Jack. That means I’ve gotta be sharp, and—Ah, gross, that dude just spilt beer all over us!”

“Oh, sorry,” says a pot bellied man with droopy hound dog eyes.

“Hold me back, Jack, I’m about to tear this guy’s—”

I clench my fist.

“Whoa,” says the guy, as someone else bumps into both of us. “Am I just totally wasted right now or is your hand talking?”

“You’re super drunk, my friend,” I say, forcing a smile, and wiping my arm on my pants. “Come on, Gus, stay close.”

The arena reverberates with pulsing beats and cheers, making it challenging to move forward. With my dog faithfully by my side, we navigate the chaotic scene, carefully weaving between sweaty bodies, animated conversations, and half naked weirdos. I cringe as someone bumps into my wounded shoulder.

The stage looms ahead, its lights flickering like distant stars. Huge, gas powered generators are off to one side, powering the structure. The crystal stands out like a jade monument. Or some sort of shrine.

Towering over the people near the perimeter of the crystal is a massive barricade sign that says: Government Quarantine Zone in bold letters:. But it’s crossed out with yellow spray paint and replaced with the words Universal Christian Revival. As we get closer, I realize there’s a war torn horde of men with AK-47s surrounding the crystal, which is also roped off with caution tape.

There's definitely an interesting story behind how this place came to be what it is now, that’s for sure.

Finally, we get as close as we can without crossing the tape and I wave an armed gunman over. He’s a short guy built like a barrel. He’s sporting a bullet proof vest and a ball cap that says America on it.

“Hey, so what are the rules?” I say, motioning to the colossal alien artifact behind him.

“No one crosses the tape,” he says.

“Why?”

The guard blinks, frowns. “That’s just the rule,” he says, tightening his grip on his gun. “It’s dangerous or something. Unless you’re one of the researchers. Which, you’re not. Because I know all of them. Plus, we’ve lost a lot of people fighting the government over this thing, we’re not about to let just anyone do whatever they want to this.”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “The government has loads of resources: tanks, soldiers, rockets, bioweapons, you name it. How did your small group of a couple thousand hold them off this long?”

The guy shrugs. “Recent disasters have stretched the military thin, I guess,” he says. “Most of the government’s attention has been focused on the main ship up there that crashed.” He points into the distance, where Xeno’s vessel lines the horizon. “This is just a tiny fragment. Plus, I hear we just lost millions of people on the coast. There’s a lot going on outside of this crystal the government has to contend with right now.”

“Who makes the rules here?” I say.

He’s about to respond when the music abruptly cuts off and there’s a blaring screech of feedback from the stage speakers. Then a deep announcer’s voice comes on and booms an introduction.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my profound honor to introduce a beacon of faith and a tireless advocate of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Let’s give it up for our retired green beret, the Reverend Doctor Benjamin Brock!”

The crowd erupts and a tall figure with a gray beard and a dark blue sport coat walks out onto center stage.

“He does,” says the guard.

“Huh,” I say.