The leader of the free world sat wearily on the hard, faux leather couch that made its home in government and military offices everywhere. This particular one made its home deep beneath Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado like some bland, stupid animal in its den. The President had been rushed to the bunker to preside over the American troop movements occurring across the world in relative safety. He didn't need to. He couldn't conceive of a winning strategy any better than the finest minds leading his military. He assumed it must be symbolic. The President was still alive and still in charge. The media kept showing him glaring stoically into this screen or at that map. He couldn't even recognize himself in those photos. Where had all of the lines on his face come from? Since when did he have gray in his hair? What happened to the brash and confident fighter pilot who handled his F-35 Lightning like it was an extension of his mortal coil? It was depressing. He was as much as a symbol of military might as a scarecrow propped up in front of a wildfire. There were no birds to scare here, and the fire could care less.
The members of his cabinet that had been with him were still waiting in the other room. Somehow an appearance at an election rally for an influential governor turned into the end of the world. If he was honest with himself, he was relieved. He didn't think he wore politics too well. His face was drawn, and the appearance of a five-o-clock shadow was making itself known. He was dressed in a white button up with the top button unbuttoned and his cerulean blue tie discards. It was a startling contrast to the dark coat and slacks that cost more than most people made in a year. He hated those clothes. Growing up he had never worn something so reeking of affluence. In his youth, he scorned people who would wear their gilded vanity for all to see. It was bitterly ironic that now he found himself the most powerful man in the world. Until today that is.
The Beretta M9 symbolized that loosely dangled in his left hand was a symbol if his desperate position. Throughout his political career, he told his constituents that he spoke truth to power. What he didn't tell them was that the only truth this world possessed was power. This weapon was power. The power to end a life or save it and if he were lucky -at the end of this- he would look his enemy straight in their twisted demonic eyes, and he would show them the ultimate Truth. The only truth worth knowing.
Even now, lightly held in his palm, the Beretta was loaded but on safe. His finger was held straight and off the trigger even after all these years after his military service. Some things never changed with time. The heft of an M9 and the way it felt could never be entirely erased even a decade later. He sighed and raised his hand to grasp the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. The pressure behind his eyes was building. It throbbed in the consciousness. It was distracting in its intensity. He ran his hand through his raven-hued hair and reached for the remote controller sitting next to him like an old friend. For at least the twentieth time he turned on the television in front of him. Setting down the Beretta, he fished for his stash of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He picked up the habit in law school, and it was one that his wife Isabel had always scolded him for. He placed a cigarette in his lips and lazily lit it. He let the lighter clatter to the ground as he took an experimental puff. The relief was palpable. Even the headache began to fade away. The cherry glow illuminated the darkness in a way that contrasted the harsh glare of the television. He picked up his Beretta again before taking the tv off mute.
The voice of the reporter flooded the room. Her voice was invasive and made a sick feeling spread in his gut. It wasn't her fault he thought as he philosophically puffed on his cigarette. Everyone shoots the messenger. Bad news always has a price and people instinctively shy from the source of the cost.
"It has been seventy-two hours since the Appearance occurred at the United Nations headquarters in New York City. Since then, beings of unknown origin have appeared and all but eliminated most of the world's militaries. They do not fight conventionally and can teleport in and among military formations at will. They seem to know exactly where and how to target critical infrastructure, command centers, and military and civil leaders. The result has been widespread chaos. America's military has held on the longest mostly because of advanced technology and sheer numbers. The Marine Corps and the Army have been advised to break up into fire teams, set up ambush points, and wait for the appearance of the enemy. This technique has mitigated losses but has not made any measurable difference in enemy effectiveness."
The woman's co-host took the opportunity to comment. The man's eyes were wide with thinly veiled fear. He looked like a rabid animal just before it snapped the chain and went loose. If he didn't lose it right now, he would soon. The President could see all the signs of combat-induced hysteria. What a world, he reflected. How odd to see a reporter with some of the same symptoms I only saw on young men and women as they went toe to toe with the worst evils of the world. The realization was not a happy one.
"So Meredith, has the government or the military put out an official comment on what it is we're facing?"
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"No, Donny. Aside from the official correspondence delivered at the beginning of this crisis, there has been no further word. Local authorities are encouraging residents to stay in their homes until the military can defeat the invaders."
The man swallowed heavily. "Are they invaders?"
Meredith sighed. It was evident even through the screen that journalism school didn't prepare her for something like this. A grim determination came upon her face. It rose from the depths of her eyes and spread across her face. It was slow and gentle like the slow rotation of the moon. It was dark and mysterious in its intensity.
"No... Donny. They're not. Invaders want something. They want your land, your property, or your resources. These...things don't want any of that. The teleport in, materialize walls of flame, ropes of lightning, or orbs of water and kill anything close by with brutal efficiency. Those aren't even the worst ones. The blackest fiends raise the slain bodies and have them dance around in macabre fashion. They use those same walking corpses to slay more humans. These monsters aren't invaders, they kill us with the same emotion you would expect from a cat playing with a mouse. It isn't human."
She looked straight into the camera. "If you're listening to this, don't hide. Grab a weapon. Fight back."
The President couldn't turn off the television once again and leaned back against the couch and studied the pistol in his hand. In its way, it was beautiful. The color of gunmetal always soothed him. It was shadowed ambiguity. Somewhere between white and black; dark and light. It was the perfect warrior. For a brief moment, he considered putting the gun against his temple and dying on his terms. His warrior spirit wouldn't allow him. That wasn't the truth. It was a pleasant lie. No one died on their terms. He could die fat, happy, and in the arms of an alluring woman and he would still wish for more time. People didn't get to choose the way they went, they just went kicking and screaming the same they entered this world.
A crack of displaced air abruptly brought him from his musings. Standing in front of him was a creature similar to the one that appeared in the main chamber of the United Nations. That one had asked the assembly for the leader of that planet. Of course, that didn't exist then, and it didn't now.
The creature was taller than the President's own six feet and five inches. The man noted absently that it was humanoid and bipedal. He idly wondered if all aliens were fashioned like humans or if some quadruped beasts were out slaughtering as well. Although humanoid, it didn't have the same dimensions. It was tall in a way that looked awkward. The creature looked like a frog in mid jump or a lizard that had been stretched to comic proportions. Its limbs were thin and weak looking. Excess flesh sloughed from it in mid melt. Its skin was a pebbled gray that was reminiscent of reptilian or amphibian origin. Exposed, webbed hands and feet that boasted long black claws alluded to an aqueous origin. Mottled spots covered the backs of limbs that he could see outside of a black one-piece jumpsuit. The fabric shimmered and seemed to transition from opaque to slightly transparent at will. The President clinically the alien in the way that a fighter sizes up the opponent. His mind turned to potential weaknesses, and he studied the monster with lethal intensity before tilting his head to look up into its face. The jaw was wide and strong with a crooked fence of razor sharp teeth set in a lipless mouth. There was no nose to be seen. Small holes flush with the flesh of the not-nose could be seen widening and contracting with each breath. There was no hair to speak of anywhere on the creatures body. Instead, on the top of its head, the alien had dark bone ridges that protruded from the flesh. The ridges were not unlike that of a dinosaur and lent the creature a streamlined, angular effect. Finally, the man met the creatures eyes.
The fiend's eyes were like pools of glossy shadow. They looked into his own from a great depth, and the secrets of the universe could be found within its dank recesses. A lurching sensation overtook conscious though in his mind. No longer did the creature look hideous, it was beautiful. A melodious voice played a concerto within his thoughts.
I have come to negotiate. We have decided that your species is worth harvesting in limited quantities.
The President didn't grasp the implied threat within the words of the creature. He was enraptured by the creatures majesty and splendor. He found it difficult to concentrate. Never had he seen such royal eyes. The creature's bearing was kingly and his stature titanic. It was no longer the awkward posture of a water-creature on earth but that of an angel mid-flight. Its naked teeth were not frightening. They were artistically splashed with bright arterial blood. Blood that he would give to it if it but asked that of him.
At this moment, he knew the Truth. He felt the Truth rising through his body and banishing the arcane sickness clouding his mind. He rose smoothly, brought up the Beretta and fired three rounds into the creatures face. Explosions of silver blood burst from the ruined mess of the creatures face. It collapsed to the ground and remained there. A mercurial pool spread from its wretched visage adumbrating the killing to come. The President was not afraid for he knew the Truth and the Truth is never beautiful.
Another pop of displaced air was heard, and the President turned to fire once more. The air felt like molasses, and he could feel the hair on his body rise to attention. Before he had fully faced his immediate peril, lightning burst into being and struck him in the chest like the hammer of an ancient god. He was thrown into the far side of the room, and he slammed into the wall before sliding to the ground. A streak of lifeblood marked his passing, painting the wall in crimson tones. He was dead before gravity finished its relentless pull. His expensive clothes burned dimly. The flames crouched as cornered beasts as if afraid of catching the attention of creatures whose power rivaled that of deities. If it took God seven days to create the Earth and all its creatures, it took only three days for it to be dismantled into its basest components.