Writing For No Reason Makes Brain Juices Flow

[benchilada]

            We called them the Blue, on account of their coloring being the only discernable difference between us and them, save that we wear clothes. They first appeared outside of Grangeville, Idaho, a town of about three-thousand people over by Hell’s Canyon. It used to have a three-day rodeo celebration around every Independence Day.

            A survivor said the initial hole opened around two or three in the afternoon, a few miles outside the town limits, bright and shining like a mirror reflecting the sun. He saw a few naked figures stumble out, confused, pushing on the ground like they were making sure it would hold them. We’re now pretty sure that’s because they don’t know how the holes work any more than we do.

            After the first ones came out, they gave a keening wail that we’ve all come to fear and out of hole they poured. Estimates put the first batch at somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand. Anybody in Grangeville not near a car was doomed.

            They swarmed—like they do—holding massive sticks or sharpened stones, grabbing whatever seemed like it would be good for smashing a human being to death. It's fascinating to see a crowd of them coming. Their skin ripples with different shades as they move, from a deep navy to a bright sky blue. Covered with fresh blood, they’re almost pretty to look at. 

          They ran through town killing anything that moved, smashing anything that stood in their way, hunting people down like they could smell where everybody was hiding. Somebody tucked away in that shed over there? Dozens would start pushing on the wall until it bent and tore open. Hiding in your car? They’ll tear straight through the glass to get you.

            It was like a zombie movie, with appearances isolated at first. The National Guard was called in wherever they appeared, and the President gave orders to kill on sight. The Blue don’t seem to understand bullets. A fifty-caliber set up on a tripod can mow them down like nobody’s business, but the rest will keep running. You see, they don’t see seem to care if any of their own get killed. I’ve seen footage of thousands of them clogging roads, hundreds getting killed as they’re hit by cars. The others don’t seem to care, simply descending on the vehicles, now stuck on a barrier of corpses, as easy pickings.

            They don’t eat us, though. Well, they do, but only when they’re hungry. They eat damn near anything that is or was alive, but their primary drive remains killing. Eat, sleep, kill, that seems to be all their capable of. At first the scientists and pacifists and intelligentsia demanded that we attempt to communicate with them. Didn’t do any good. The only language they have seems to be that scream, the one they use to call others to where they are. There’s no structure to the way they move, or they way they attack. They just kill until there’s nothing left to kill. A few military bases were doing research on them, promising results, but we never got word of a damn thing.

            Pretty soon the holes were showing up everywhere, without warning, sometimes emptying out a dozen, sometimes tens or hundreds of thousands. The holes hang around for about a month before fading away. There’s no rhyme or reason to their appearances or to how many come out of each one; fifty thousand might show up in the fields of Kansas, or seven might show up in downtown Atlanta. They’d frequently show up over oceans or lakes, handfuls of Blue pouring out before the ones on the other side somehow figuring out not to come through.

            In the end, it doesn’t matter how many came or where they showed up; we were overwhelmed. Nukes were used in a few places, until we realized that it would kill a horde of them, but that it was no deterrent at all. They’d still try to cross the blasted wasteland left behind and some would make it, poisoned and dying from the radiation, still trying to kill until they collapsed or fell apart, their skin falling off in sheets.

            A lot of people tried hiding malls, or high-rises, but nowhere is safe. A hole will show up inside a building, or a crowd of Blue will smash against doors, the dead being kicked aside, until the frame itself gives way. We’ve seen a few instances where so many have crowded around inside of the first floor of a tall building—smashing anything and everything to get at the people above them— that the structure has actually collapsed.

            And the holes are no escape for us or for them, as they’re all one-way. You touch one, you burn, simple as that. Never stops some people from trying when desperation hits, but most of us have learned to look away when it happens.

            These days, there are gatherings of them so large they can be seen by satellite. For the time being, I’m safe here, down at McMurdo Station in Antarctica. We’ve managed to set up a nice place here, between us and Scott Station a few miles away. None of the blue can survive the walk to us, and since they can’t master any tool more difficult than a stick, we know they’ll never succeed in making their way to us. I’ve heard tell that some people are surviving in the middle of deserts, too.

            We’ve been accumulating supplies, flying to cities for supplies whenever we can. Both McMurdo and Scott have anti-aircraft weaponry now, but he haven’t had to use it in months. We had to secure this for ourselves, you know? If too many people found out about us, we’d be overrun. As it is, we’re already having to build more structures to accommodate what we know will be a slowly increasing population.

            A few holes have popped up near us, but none close enough that the bastards don’t freeze to death before they reach us. Being buck naked and stark raving mad aren’t characteristics conducive to surviving out here.

            Plenty of people think the holes will stop appearing at some point, or that they’ll all die out. They eat damn near anything that isn’t each other, so I know the latter won’t happen. As for the holes, I figure they’ll only stop being a problem when they run out of Blue on the other side.

            At this point, I don’t care if this is some sort of brutal pest control by aliens or some sort of cosmic fuckup, all I know is that the human race is functionally dead. We’re just playing house down here. We’ll never make it back to real land, or establish a permanent community here, not the way communities are supposed to work.

            It gets pretty fucking dull sometimes, so me and one of my buddies got an idea last time we made a run for fuel. We grabbed a couple of female Blues, and we’re keeping them chained up in one of the heated sheds that nobody but us pilots ever visit. The ladies are a few months pregnant now. Eve and Lilith we call ‘em, because we think we’re clever. We’re hoping the babies are manageable. If not, we’ll kill ‘em and try again. Maybe at some point we’ll get some kinda crossbreed we can do something with. Hell, it keeps us busy and entertained.

            Oh, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I figure I went crazy a long time back, but I’ll tell you what…it’s a hell of a lot nicer than being sane these days.