Unfortunate Events of an Invasion

I’ve never been a fan of how dark it gets by 4 o’clock in the afternoon. That’s how the days have recently started to come out to. Strange, since it’s not wintertime anymore but the air still has a chill in it while the sky gets a highlighter yellow before it just completely goes dark.

It’s another day that I’m coming out late of the Oak Grove Merchants Bank. My name’s Clarence Mason and I’m the Vice President at this branch. All day, I’ve been working in the vault and my break was short lived when I came up to the break room to my coworkers acting like drones. Must be the hump day hump. That’s what my wife calls it on Wednesdays when everything feels like it’s moving in autopilot.

I say goodnight to the security guard who’s too glued to his phone to return it as nothing less than a mumble. As I walk to my car, people past me the opposite way and don’t say a word. Usually, there’s casual hello’s but there’s nothing today. My car feels like a throne once I’m finally in it, likely because I know now, I’m closer to being home. Once I pull out into the street, there’s a figure that catches my eye. It’s…hanging. In front of the police station, is this some type of hazing? A sick joke?

Once I pull my car around, I recognize the person. It’s a gentleman whose last name can come to mind Loyce. He’s never been the type to be in any trouble at least not to constitute for a punishment like this. As I’m lost in my thoughts, a cop comes out of the station, looks up at Loyce hanging, points and smirks then returns back in. Only to return with three other officers who then stand around and from the looks of it, are reenacting something.

Slowly, I pull my car around to hear what they’re saying but tried to be discreet about it.

Cop one, grinning says, “The commissioner tells him ‘Oh you exposed yourself, let’s get you out of here before it’s too late.”

They all laugh then the next cop joins in on the story, “What made him think the commissioner wouldn’t have been in the first few people to have been infiltrated. He was better off leaving the state.”

The police groan in agreement and then small talk about what they’ll do after work. All while casually standing under a man hanging. Still, I’m lost and misunderstanding.

Infiltrated? What’s happened while I was in that vault. Without time to waste, I race home to find my wife and daughter. They’re not in their usual places they’d be when I would come home.

As I walk through my home, I see that my basement has a light on, and I hear tools being used—specifically drills and hammers.

My wife is downstairs blocking off the windows from the inside while my daughter is hammering nails into a plank. I’m torn between being afraid, amazed, and confused. Afraid—because my daughter is only 12 and handling the hammer better than me on most days. Amazed for the reason that I’m not sure why my wife is boarding things up, but I hope it’s for the same reason I’d do so. As far as confused, that should be self-explanatory due to the chain of events that led us to this moment.

Jamila, my wife, notices me standing there then aims the drill at me. As some sort of defense. “You’ve been working in the vault all day?” All I can do is nod slowly while still keeping my eyes on what she’ll do with the drill.

She drops the drill after some examining and runs over to me and engulfs me in a hug.

“Oh, thank God! It’s something weird as hell happening and I have a theory. Don’t laugh at me but I think we’ve been infiltrated, by aliens.”

Before she can try to debunk this theory, I stop her. “You don’t have to say anymore. It is something going on and your belief isn’t wrong. What do you think we need to do?”

Her eyes search around our basement of the home we’ve shared together for 9 years. This is the most time we’ve spent in it, ironically enough.

“I was thinking, we spend our time down here during the day and only go out at night if we need to. Those things only go around trying to find the ‘unaffected’ during the day. Until I get word back from my friend in the CIA. Something makes me think they’re aware of this.”

Now the CIA being involved sounds far-fetched, but my wife has a point for everything else. This will take some getting used to, but we can make it more comfortable. For us to make this a new normal.

I scan the room for my daughter who’s just standing at the bottom of our stairs looking up blankly. Her face is unreadable, but her eyes are popped out as if she’s seen a ghost.

“Daddy,” she turns her head slowly to me, “did you leave the door open?”

The man I saw hanging in front of the police station—Loyce—is standing at the top of my stairs.

His neck fragmented, he grins then says, “You should really learn how to eavesdrop from your car better. And always lock your door, we can come during the night as well.”