Thirty days.
The countdown has started, North America shivers under the shadow of a massive alien spacecraft, and humanity is hurtling toward an unknown future that lurks at the end of the timer. Somewhere, somehow, the heroes are making their plan...
This story is rated MATURE. It may contain elements of horror that some find disturbing.
We REALLY MEAN IT.
Trigger Warning: Cannibalism.
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SUMMITVILLE, COFFEE COUNTY, TENNESSEE, USA
August 13, 6:30 PM
The alien ship hangs above our heads, akin to a colossal, dark spectre.
Its metallic bulk suffocates the last rays of sunset like a cosmic umbrella. It's as if the sky itself had birthed a behemoth from another realm.
The deserted suburban neighborhood stretches before us, a haunting reminder of the world we once knew.
"Almost everyone evacuated," whispers Aadila, placing a protective palm on her tiny baby bump.
She's right. Rows of empty homes stand as silent witness to the exodus. We'll be leaving as well, right after we pick up Aadila's phone.
Soon enough, these boarded-up windows and overgrown gardens might create a post-apocalyptic scene straight out of The Walking Dead.
"Mick... The man on the phone—you sure he said Clark Road, fourteen?"
"I'm sure." I take out my cell phone from my pocket, placing my other arm reassuringly around her shoulder.
The address pointed us to a house like any other in this town—a dim and dusty wooden relic with its windows shuttered and curtains drawn, and a rusty circular handle looming at the door. This place stands as a mirage of the quintessential American dream home. Complete with a manicured garden and white picket fence, it whispers promises of suburban bliss. I half-expect a playful puppy to bound through the yard, adding a touch of warmth and companionship to the illusion.
Not so different from the place Aadila and I were looking to buy, for when baby Josh comes into this world.
With no bell to ring, the house stands in quiet anticipation, as if hugging its secrets close.
Knock, knock. The sound reverberates through the empty halls, unanswered.
The silence is deafening, and I can't help but wonder what story lies behind the door wide-shut.
"Should we head on inside?"
Before she can answer, I already have one sneaker on a lacquered, inviting threshold. It creaks underfoot, protesting my intrusion. The wood is splintered and rough to the touch, its grain raised and curling in places. The recently applied white coat of paint is fresh, camouflaging the remnants of the peeling and faded wood.
