Chapter 1

The very first lesson Mike Morrison learned in the Marine Corps was nothing else matters if you don't survive.

It really was not a lesson that could be taught or practiced. You either had that instinct or you were dead. He had seen some of the strongest and fittest young men lose that battle either because of weakness of will or just plain bad luck. Mike had gone through the most intense years of combat winning neither medals for valor nor the "purple duck" for sheer stupidity. His mentor, Master Sergeant Noble who had survived the chaos of World War II and the killing grounds of Korea impressed on him the value of keeping his head down and never volunteering for anything no matter how benign.

After the Marine Corps, Mike became a faceless worker drone pushing boring bits of paper from one side of his desk to the other. His high school sweetheart had waited for him and they joined together in the joys of matrimony. The honeymoon disappeared into the past upon the arrival of his twin son and daughter spaced only by a single minute in time.

The next 18 years were a blur to Mike. He tried to keep up with his running skills and went to the shooting range at least once each week. His wife thought it was all a silly waste of time but Mike felt it was always better to be prepared for the worse scenario. He got rid of the AK-47 he had liberated from the unfeeling fingers of a dead NVA infiltrator and adapted to the Henry .22LR conformed in the survival mode. It was light, compact, and the ammo was easy to procure and dirt cheap.

He taught both His son Wesley and his daughter Wendy to maintain the rifle and the correct way to shoot and handle a weapon. His wife Ginnie was not in the least bit interested and constantly pestered Mike about the "political incorrectness" of his gun-toting activities. They settled on a truce of sorts by ignoring their differences entirely.

On a very dreary and uninspiring Monday morning, Mike guided his ten year old pickup truck into the outskirts of Los Angeles to confront the stack of papers left untouched from the previous week. His legs were still sore from the spirited basketball game against his son and daughter on Saturday morning. They were getting bigger and stronger now and soon he would not be able to hold his own against the two of them combined.

The traffic was moving along at the usual snail's pace when the radio ceased the soothing country western tunes that he had become addicted to. At first, Mike thought something was either wrong with the radio or the station had suffered some sort of catastrophic broadcasting glitch.

Just when he was about to chance trying to adjust the station, the familiar beep of the Emergency Warning system filled his ears. He figured it was most probably a test drill for an approaching weather system coming in off the Pacific Ocean. His senses came to full attention when the excited voice of a young woman announced,

"This is not a test ... I repeat, this is not a test!"

Mike hated it when radio people used the word "repeat". It was a cardinal sin for military radio operators because of the off chance of an unwanted artillery barrage sparked by the single word "repeat". He pulled off to the side of the road and listened intently to each word of the message that the EBS was broadcasting in the middle of the L.A. rush hour.

Before the first sentence was fully complete, he had picked up his cell phone and called home to his house hoping that the kids had not yet left for school in the valley.

His wife answered the phone after four rings.

"Morrison residence!"

Mike really disliked her way of answering the phone and he had mentioned it to her several times but she seemed to really not care what his opinions were on that subject, or on any other subject, if the truth be told. He felt a simple "Yes" was more than enough information to be giving out to strangers at the other end of the line.

"Ginnie, have the kids left for school yet?"

"They are almost to the front door, dear. Just a minute. Wendy, don't forget your lunch, dear!"

Mike shouted into the phone,

"Tell them to not leave the house! Don't ask me why, just do it and I will be home in less than 30 minutes."

"Kids, your father wants you to stay home today. He will be back home any minute. I have absolutely no idea why he is so adamant, so don't pester me with questions. Just go back to your rooms and let me get back to cleaning the kitchen."

"What is all this foolishness, dear? You know I don't like them underfoot on Mondays. Mondays is wash day and they will slow me down with all their silly questions about this or that or the other thing."

Mike counted to 5 slowly and willed his blood pressure to stay at a reasonable level.

"Ginnie, I want you to forget about cleaning the kitchen or starting the wash right now. I want you to go to the basement and start putting all the canned goods into those plastic tubs left over from the move. Then I want you to collect all of our important papers and passports and stow them in the camper along with the food. Get Wes to help you with the heavy stuff and tell him we may be taking a little vacation very soon."

"This is all very mysterious, Mr. Morrison. You know I don't like you giving me orders like I was in the Army or something!"

Mike closed the cell phone and guided the pickup into an off-ramp making a sharp turn back onto the ramp heading in the opposite direction. The entire 4 lanes of traffic were relatively open and he was able to increase his speed to the maximum limit without any difficulty. At this rate, he would be back home in less than 30 minutes.

He listened again to the announcement on the radio which was being broadcast alternately in English and in Spanish. It almost seemed like an Orson Welles spoof of an alien invasion.

Chapter 2 »