A YEAR UNDERFOOT – entry #233

A Year Underfoot


June 25th, 2034

We kicked over a beehive, that’s as best as I can describe it. We kicked over a beehive. One minute we were swooping down out of the hills, one hundred strong, full of fight and fury, and the next, it was every man for himself, running for our lives.

Once the power grid was hit, all bets were off. The Fuzzies woke up. Either we’d spurned them into action, or the hibernation – the festivities – the observance, whatever it was keeping them locked away, was over. And here we were, presenting ourselves to a blood hungry and revitalized enemy looking to get back in the game. Our timing couldn’t have been worse.

But, how were we to know?

Thousands of troopers poured from the base like angry wasps from a disturbed hive and the skies filled with warbirds too thick and too numerous to detail. It looked as if every ship they could muster hung in the air over the base and the snap and crackle of Threak blasters filled the night and sealed our fate.

The attack was over before it had even begun. There was no way I could breach the base, not a chance.

I cut west across the Interstate and ran for a stand of trees bordering a small dry creek bed and followed it for a few hundred yards before it rose up and disappeared into a clump of Manzanita bushes grown wild over its banks. From this point on the small creek ran beneath a dirt farm road for a mere twenty feet and emerged on the other side in an equally obscure manner. Rather than risk making a break for it across open fields, I chose to hunker down inside the narrow pipe and wait it out, – a routine that’s become all too familiar.

Two days and a half of a dozen close calls later, I slipped out of the creek bed and headed west. I didn’t stop moving until I’d dug myself deep into the brush on the Pacific side of the Coastal Range and let the events of the past few days wash over me. I’d escaped the Fuzzies by the skin of my teeth once again, but this time around I feel differently about surviving the close call. Rather than being elated, I feel as if the luck the Universe has graciously extended to me over the past year has finally been exhausted and that my next skirmish with the Threak may be my last.

If that’s the case, then I d better make it count.



About paul nevins

Fiction writer, reader and baseball fan.
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