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by Christopher Stires

Thermopylae. Rorke’s Drift. El Alamein. War of the Worlds. Coulston Drive.

Yes, Coulston Drive will soon be listed on that heroic roll of honor. I am ready, and here in my home I will make my stand. I know they will win. But it’s going to cost them dearly to take me.

My friends and neighbors did not believe. They said it couldn’t happen here. My Emma didn’t believe, either. I showed them the magazine stories and web articles. I pointed out the physical evidence on our own block. They shook their heads and said I was wrong. They said worse behind my back.

But I was right. All are gone now except me. Emma would’ve been safe, but her denial and disbelief was stronger than her love for me. She slipped outside while I was dozing and they grabbed her. She has been gone for eight weeks.

They know I am well fortified. A Remington pump-action twelve-gauge. A .45 Colt automatic pistol. Plenty of ammo. There will not be a direct assault. Not yet anyway.

They’re trying other ways to drive me out into the open. The electricity and water have been shut off. I was prepared for that. I have flashlights and candles. I have a butane stove. I have bottled water and canned goods. Some days I have cravings for a rib-eye steak and strawberry ice cream. The urges pass though. I have willpower. I have good old American determination and resolve.

Yesterday I finished dismantling the last bookcase. I have used the wood from the bookcases, tables, and other furniture to cover the windows and doors. It will be difficult — but not impossible — for them to get inside.

They think they are so superior. They’re not. I’m sure I’m not the only one in the city that caught on before they took over. Too bad we survivors couldn’t have hooked up. That would have made a glorious last stand.

I hear them outside. They are rigid and predictable in their routines. I have documented their habits. Hopefully someone will find my notes later and put them to good use. I’d like to think my death served a greater purpose.

Here they come. A large company, perhaps even battalion strength. At eight-ten every morning they pass my house moving west. They laugh and talk loud. Sometimes play strange music. A yellow transport carrier passes, too. At three-twenty each afternoon they return, heading east. Later they send patrols out. Once in a while someone pounds on the front door. They call out in a guttural language I don’t understand.

So far they have not tried to enter. I know they will when they think I’m weak from hunger. They will think that they can take me then without losing any of their own. They are in for a major surprise. I will not go gently. I will spill blood.

That time has not yet arrived however. I am patient. I can wait. For as long as it takes.

Copyright © 2006 by Christopher Stires

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