Apocalypse Before Finals, Julie Steimle [black authors fiction txt] 📗

reporters and people simply contesting their traffic tickets. Though pity for these individuals swelled through the pair, those people had to be passed by. Jeff and Zormna had to go Home.

The pair marched out of the building, down the wide steps, and onto the street, looking for any available spacecraft to steal. Spotting one, Zormna tugged on Jeff's arm, pointing immediately to a shuttle. He nodded and continued with her across the street, marching past the troops of People's Military officers who were now stopping city traffic. It was painful to ignore the confused and frightened drivers as they were ripped out of their cars, screaming. Some were brutally beaten by the PMs for opposing the invading army's orders, which rattled both Jeff's and Zormna's resolve as they were forced to move on rather than help. The door to the shuttle gaped wide open. In five more steps and a hop, Zormna quickly climbed in and positioned herself directly in the pilot's seat. She immediately pressed buttons as she sat down and flipped switches, restarting the still-warm engine.

"Neem tar!" a voice from the group of traffic-stopping PMs called out to them. They couldn't see his face, as all the soldiers were in helmets.

Jeff peered out of the open door then quickly pressed the button to close it. The door panel pulled out from the slot and over the hole, shutting with a snap.

"Neem tar! Yiin'kai[5]!" the man cried, running up to the shuttle.

Because the engine was indeed still warm, it was easy for Zormna to quickly get it going again. With just a few buttons pressed, the shuttle began to blow air and heat underneath the craft, lifting off the ground. The man who had spotted them toppled over from the gust of hot air, blown back over the ground like tumbleweed. Heads turned, as this act was clearly not in their invasion plan. The entire squadron watched the space shuttle lift off, their eyes widening when it shot into the air as if piloted by a Surface Patrol flymite. The proof was how it skimmed close to the buildings but hit nothing. As it zipped quickly off into the sky above the skyscrapers and then higher into the clouds, one ship patrolling the skies overhead zoomed after it - but it might as well have stayed on the ground with the way Zormna flew. The shuttle was out of sight and gone after just three minutes.

Expertly calculated, targeting key locations, the citizens of the United States of America were entirely surprised when an alien task force of just a few ships overran their nation's capital. They were equally surprised when their military bases were taken long before their soldiers could arm themselves, in spite of all their military preparation. And they were infinitely surprised when nations outside the US were also captured in the same manner.

Civic buildings, police stations and main television networks were seized by the smallest, but deadliest, of armies. The invaders spared no one who chose to oppose them. The fighting in some areas lasted only three hours, if that. But in Pennington, just a few miles from the county courthouse in Harvest Town, the presence of the People's Military of Arras was still virtually unknown. Business ran as usual until the third hour of the attack. By then, the People's Military moved on to public schools.

Brian Henderson was sitting in Calculus with his friend Jonathan, gazing morosely at Jeff's empty seat. He sighed to himself, knowing that Mr. Vicksler would expel Jeff from school for cutting class with Zormna again. After both of his classmates did not arrive in English that morning, he knew it was over. They didn't even show up late as he had hoped they would. Since Jeff and Zormna had been agitated the last time he had seen them, Brian knew something was up. He just didn't know what.

The teacher had also glanced at Jeff's empty seat during class and sighed when he had called roll. Jeff was a genius at Calculus, and the teacher always liked to see the boy look amused in the class. Mr. Dallas seemed to think Calculus an entertaining sport and not at all dull as so many less 'enlightened' mathematicians made it out to be.  Jeff was the only one who took his view on the subject, though he could tell the boy tried to hide it. At the moment, Mr. Dallas sketched out their current equation on the whiteboard for the entire class to work on, moving with rather enthusiastic leaps when he drew the colored lines.

"All right. Bring out your homework from yesterday. I want the following problems displayed on the board," Mr. Dallas said, walking to his desk. He opened his roll book and glanced down the list. "Mr. Sawyer, Mr. Henderson, Mr. Jones, and Miss Brown, come up and - "

But he never got that far. The intercom buzzed, then over the loudspeaker they heard a gruff voice urge a weepy, shaky one. <<Speak.>>

<<Attention students. This is Principal Anders speaking. The school has been overrun by hostile...arg!>> Cut short, some kind of argument ensued, projected over the intercom. Everyone gaped, listening as it sounded like their principal was fighting in their defense. Was it a school shooter? <<I won't tell them that!>> they heard from afar off. Then they also heard him scream, a terrible buzzing sound, and a heavy thump like something hitting the floor.

The class murmured. Their teacher fell back against the desk, placing his hand over his lips.

<<Attention students.>> It was Mr. Vicksler now. <<This is your vice-principal speaking.>> His voice was shaking. <<We are now under the control of the People's Military of Arras....>>

Darren Asher fell out of his seat with a heavy bang. Many heads turned to look at him. He clamped his hands over his mouth like he would vomit, his eyes goggling open in terror. No one had a clue what had struck him, but as they listened to the intercom message, they began to feel a deep oppressive foreboding.

<<...Do not leave your classrooms, and cooperate with the soldiers in every way. I repeat. Do not leave your classrooms, and cooperate in every way possible with the soldiers here, or you will be shot.>> His voice cracked. They could hear him sobbing.

"People's what?" a boy across the room asked loudly.

"What's going on?" a girl squeaked.

A new voice came over the intercom. <<Students of this school. I am your new headmaster, Dural Kelz. We will be dispatching teacher's assistants to your rooms immediately. You must remain in your seats or reap the consequences.>>

That sent a shudder through each of them. What consequences did he mean exactly?

One of their classmates stood up. "This is a load of - " The boy never got a chance to finish his remark. The classroom door burst open. A man in a fully-enclosed helmet armed with a freaky-looking rifle-like weapon in his hands stepped through, followed by a pale man in a blue uniform with a fancy stripe down the sleeve. His helmet was under his arm. Pale as a ghost, with sandy blonde hair, the man grinned, surveying the room with pleasure.

"My students," he said with a proper sounding air, gazing grandly at them.

His students saw that he had a kind of pistol at his side. Another guard stood in the doorway. The man looked about the room, at the board and then at the terrified teacher. Mr. Dallas had said nothing. Their Calculus teacher wasn't the fighting sort, being a tall yet frightfully skinny man that had very little muscle on his bones and only flab in certain places that showed that he had aged.

"What are we learning, children?" the man in the blue uniform asked.

The word 'children' had the usual effect on a high school crowd.

"Us children," a mouthy senior who led Academic Decathlon said, "are studying Calculus."

The blue-suited man stared decidedly at the boy and walked over to the teacher's desk. "Your name?" the man asked tersely.

The senior heard his tone, but unwisely challenged it. "Tony. Tony Borowitz."

Their new 'teacher' looked down the roll and nodded. He gazed up at the boy and grinned in a way much like a shark would if it occasioned to hold its mouth another way. "Well, Mr. Tony, now you will be learning your place in this world. I am a High Class man and a member of the People's Military of Arras. And you," he said walking close to the boy's desk, lifting his weapon out of his strapped holster and holding it threateningly, "are nothing but a rat - a citizen of the new Arrassian protectorate."

The boy's face turned a hot red - but he saw the gun and closed his mouth.

"Like heck we're not!" a voice across the room burst out with disgust.

The People's Military officer looked up to see where the voice had come from.

"Who said that?" he demanded looking up. "Tell me who said that."

No one spoke.

The PM's eyes glared. "You will tell me who said that."

The entire crowd kept silent, looking at each other but no one finking. Then Brian stood up. "I did. I said it."

Jonathan gaped at him. "No, you didn't!" Then he looked at the angry soldier and decided to do what Brian had tried to do, save the hide of the one who did blurt out without thinking before someone did tell on him. "I did it."

Both boys were standing now.

Admiration at their craziness drove the other students to also stand declaring, "I said it."

Nearly all the class was standing except for a few who were shaking in their desks. Darren was still sitting on the floor.

There was a powerful murmur of allegiance among those standing, and a murmur that the man couldn't shoot them all - but Darren's miserable wailing broke it up.

"Shut up! Shut up! You idiots! Don't you know they will shoot you all? They're People's Military. They're killers! They'll kill you all!"

Half the class turned to look at him, as he still was on the floor, but the other students saw more soldiers come into the room readying their guns to fire upon the crowd.

"Get down!" Brian yelled out. His classmates scattered to the floor and their chairs.

The blue-suited official had raised his gun, ready to fire, but he peered quizzically at Darren through the aisles of desks. Curious, he walked over, passing the terrified teenagers, and bent to look down at the lanky boy that was shrinking toward the back wall. He shook his head. "You're not Arrassian."

Darren vigorously shook his head. "No," he uttered, but it was barely heard.

The man then stood up. "Then how do you know about us?"

Everyone watched Darren, who had grown increasingly pale.

"Uh... uh...." He couldn't say anything, as he usually became when he was terrified.

The dark-suited man turned and walked back to the front of the room. He spoke to one of the armed soldiers.

"Take him," he said, thumbing toward Darren. "And those two," he said pointing at Brian and Jonathan.

Both boys went white, but Brian stood up to be seized by the armed men in shiny blue helmets and matching blue uniforms.

Jonathan protested, jumping to his feet. "But he really didn't say it..."

A soldier struck him in the stomach with the butt of his weapon. He doubled over in real pain.

The class cowered and closed their eyes. The PMs dragged all three boys to the front of the room. They pulled Darren away from the other two and set him aside to the left, farthest from the door. Brian and Jonathan were taken to the center front and forced to stand there with gun barrels rammed in their sides. Soldiers at Brian and Jonathan's side moved their rifles into their faces. Brian swallowed but tried to control his fearful breathing.

"What are you going to do with those boys?" Mr. Dallas jumped forward.

The blue suited man grinned smugly and replied, "Make an example."

Mr. Dallas gasped. The People's Military officers that had invaded his