Jim Thorn - Invasion

Reno had always thought “hell on earth” was a terrible cliché until he found himself standing in the middle of it. His ankle had tightened and begun throbbing, but that was nothing compared to what had happened to Nashville.

Explosions continued to rock the city. Fires raged, and they served as the only source of light inside the eternal darkness. He watched helplessly while aliens disintegrated people as they ran, eliminating lives with the flash of a laser. Birthday parties, first kisses, weddings—all those personal memories wiped away in an instant. Between the mental anguish caused by the enormity of the situation and the real threat of death, Reno felt paralyzed.

As more blasts shook the city, Reno hid behind an abandoned car. He breathed heavily and kept his hands on top of his head. People ran by in every direction, scattering like ants in an exposed colony. Each detonation illuminated the darkened city in ghastly freeze-frames of death and destruction.

I can’t stay here. I have to move.

Reno tried to stand up again, but his ankle screamed at him. He collapsed to the pavement and squeezed it, knowing that this wouldn’t be enough to keep the swelling down but trying anything to ease the pain. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes.

He felt precious seconds ticking away. At any moment, an explosion could erupt beneath him or an alien could vaporize his body. And if a crowd was herded through the area by the aliens, they would trample him to death. Reno had seen hysterical citizens flipping cars for no other reason than sheer panic, thinking that might somehow be an obstacle to aliens who could fly. Though, he wondered if being crushed by a car might be a better end than what seemed to be the inevitable fate of the city of Nashville.

You’re not going to die here. Get your ass up.

Gingerly putting weight on his injured ankle, Reno pulled himself up using the open car door. He hobbled around to the front of the car, looking in both directions. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do.

Time slowed down for him like he was a shell-shocked soldier in the fog of war. Another blast went off in the distance and people ran by screaming, covering their ears or with their hands over their heads—as if either action would protect them. Many people dragged their children along as fast as they could without dislocating shoulders. Down the street, three men had jumped another guy, beating him amidst the chaos wrought by the aliens. No one stopped to help the man or even question why they had turned on him when the real enemy had launched an invasion which was leaving nothing but scorched earth behind it.

“In here!”

The words came from a door fifteen feet away, pulling Reno out of his head and cutting through the daze that had frozen him in indecision. A man stood in a doorway and waved his arms at people as they fled, urging them to come inside with an unspoken promise of safety. Even though he wore a police uniform, most people ignored him and ran by without even looking in his direction. The man was about to shut the door when he made eye contact with Reno through the crowd.

Reno guessed him to be in his early forties, a bit lumpy and with a perpetual five o’clock shadow. The man had short, curly hair and stood about six feet tall with broad shoulders and a gut made from Sunday barbecues and craft beer.

“Come on, buddy! Hurry!”

Reno stumbled forward, attempting to cut through the crowds. He tried to run while also keeping weight off of his ankle, but someone ran into him and it felt like a hockey player had body-checked him into the glass. He fell to the ground, landing on his side and feeling the hot scrape of his skin on cold concrete.

“Watch it, asshole,” the guy said before he took off again, clutching his shoulder.

The earth shook. Reno’s head was against the ground and the motion reminded him of having his ear to train tracks and listening for an oncoming locomotive.

I’ve got to get up.

He pushed himself to his knees, but someone running by kicked his injured ankle. Reno screamed, pounding his fist against the pavement. He’d collapsed to the ground again with the pain, almost wishing the next mass of people would just trample him to death and end the misery.

With his ankle throbbing, he was suddenly lifted up by the arms. He looked up to see the officer from the door on one side of him and a guy in his 30s on the other.

“We got you, buddy,” the cop said. “I’m not gonna let one of my own die out here in the street.”

With the men helping him, he was able to hobble forward while keeping his injured ankle in the air. The two men half-carried Reno through the open door, to where a woman waited inside, yelling for them to hurry up. Once the three men crossed the threshold, the woman slammed the door shut.

The entrance to the place opened to the top of a staircase. Reno looked downward to see a room crowded with people standing almost shoulder to shoulder. He knew the joint. The Beer Sellar. He’d never been there, but he’d heard it was one of Nashville’s coolest bars, the clever name’s meaning becoming apparent as he looked around the main room that was, quite literally, a cellar. Generators ran in the background and someone had tied one into the fuse box, bringing a temporary source of electricity to the place.

A sharp pain speared his ankle anew and he winced as his legs collapsed so that the men had to hold his whole weight.

“Marie, grab that chair over there,” the police officer said.

The woman carried the chair over and set it down behind Reno, who fell into it. He closed his eyes and exhaled, the pressure now off his ankle.

“I’m gonna go grab the first aid kit,” Marie said.

“Thanks for helping me out there,” Reno said to the cop.

“Hey, don’t mention it. Like I said, I wasn’t gonna let another first responder die out there.”

Reno extended his hand. “The name’s Reno.”

“Good to meet you, Reno. I’m John.”

Marie returned with a white metal box with a red cross on the top of it. She opened the first aid kit and handed it to John.

“There’s a wrap in here which should help keep the swelling down.” Marie handed the ace bandage to John before dropping two Ibuprofen tablets into Reno’s palm.

“Thanks, darlin’,” John said, already looking to Reno’s injury. “Why don’t you go downstairs and make sure everyone is as comfortable as they can be? We’ll be down in a minute.”

The woman smiled, then walked back down the stairs to join the others. John knelt and started wrapping the ankle as Reno downed the pain killers.

“Never been here. They got any beer specials? Microbrews?”

“You’ve never been here? Jesus, man. You’re missing out on one of Nashville’s hidden gems.” John smiled as he looked up at Reno.

“Yeah, well, I’m not too big of a drinker.”

“I think we’re all gonna be drinkers if we make it out of this.”

John pulled the wrap tight, forcing a groan from Reno. But between finally sitting down and getting his ankle wrapped up, the pain had already started to subside.

“That oughta do it.” John stood up.

“Thanks again.”

“No problem. We should probably head downstairs now. We’ve got some water, and I think Marie is going to—”

A blast shook the building and concussive waves rolled through the foundation—everyone inside felt the force of this hit, which was unlike any of the previous ones. Reno instinctively dived to the ground, covering his head. A collective scream of panic went through the bar as dust and plaster rained down on the people inside. The floor shook like they were experiencing a San Andreas earthquake. Hunks of dry wall and other debris pelted Reno’s back and he held his breath, hoping the old building could withstand whatever had caused the explosion, and that the entire structure wouldn’t bury them all alive.