It’s been thirty years since their last attempt to breach the shield protecting St. Louis. The charred stump of the Arch, the part that didn’t fit under the hyper-dome, is a stark reminder of that attack. Yet some, mostly those born since that assault, claim we no longer need to stay inside; they feel locked in, trapped, with no future.
Those of us in the defense force know better. The occasional distant heat flare on the horizon, we speculate are reapers scouring the wasteland for stragglers, the faint ghosts on the radar, and the lack of communication from outside caution us to remain vigilant, safe in our enclave.
And the city leaders remember. They remember how the science team, with stolen tech, completed the dome barely in time to save the city. How the invaders methodically worked their way in from the coasts, destroying city after city, harvesting the population. For what purpose remains a mystery.
Like many survivors my age, I live at the old Jefferson Barracks, located along the river south of Lemay. We’re stationed just inside the energy dome’s edge where it meets the ground and curves along the Mississippi, training in case they come back.
We don’t know what to expect. We have stories told by the city fathers about what the invasion was like. Some surviving video, transmitted during the assaults on the coasts, gives us vague clues to the aliens’ nature. But nothing concrete.
We do know that they control energy and matter with ease. The scientists and engineers were able to create the dome from the shield tech they stole, but they can’t replicate the tech and adapt it to other uses. We can’t manufacture the materials or the electronics. We can only hope the alien technology lasts for as long as we need it.
We live with limited resources in what’s left of the city. Growing crops in the former parks, husbanding livestock in old suburbs, refurbishing and recycling equipment, is about all we can handle. Still, it keeps us safe and alive.
So, we train. We practice. We stay vigilant.
Not today, though. Today we’re outside the dome, tracking down moron dissenters, including my hair-brained sister, Lucy, who insists we don’t need the dome, trying to prove their point by breaking into the secure passage through the river and escaping into the battle-scarred prairie, which nature is just now reclaiming.
Observers in the watchtowers had pinpointed their location—a small encampment, with a goddamn fire. Total assholes. I’ve told Lucy about her dumbass friends, but does she listen—hell, no.
Yet it’s our duty to keep them safe. So here I am, tramping around in the open with my team, betting our lives they’re right, that there’s no danger, but wary enough to keep our eyes sharp and our weapons ready.
We’re approaching from the north. The dome behind us, lit by flashes of light from windblown dust and debris disintegrating on the energy shield, should obscure our advance.
Without warning, in a screaming rush of air, an alien craft hurtles in from the west—a reaper, just as we suspected. Lurching to a stop, it hovers above the dissenter’s encampment. Long tendrils drop from the ship, reaching, grabbing, ensnaring the panicked men and women.
Damnit—they’ve got Lucy.
My squad opens fire.
“Watch your fire,” I yell. “Aim high.”
We target the tendrils; we sever one, then two—saving those poor souls.
Fusillade after fusillade of high-caliber, armor-piercing projectiles we fire at the craft. They bounce off the hull with no effect. Only the tendrils are vulnerable. We maintain our fire.
With all its tendrils destroyed, the alien ship turns to retreat.
A last volley from my forces on the right flank slams into what could be exhaust ports. The rear of the craft explodes in a cloud of purple vapor and shrapnel and crashes fifty yards to the east.
We rush to where the group was camping, and the medics get to work on the wounded—some from being grabbed, a few from the shrapnel; none of their injuries are life-threatening.
I find Lucy. She’s got a few scratches, but otherwise she’s okay.
“What the hell were you thinking? I’ve told you about the danger. Maybe now you’ll listen.”
She’s shaking, looking contrite. “I’m so sorry, Shannon. I had no idea.”
I squeeze her shoulder where she sits. “At least you’re alright. Mom and Dad would have fit if I didn’t bring you home safe.” I smile. I can’t really stay mad at my baby sister. “But now we know for sure they’re still out here.”
With everyone attended to, we approach the crashed ship, keeping our weapons at the ready. The hull is cracked open, exposing the interior. The pilot is a mess. The crash shredded the front of the craft; shards of metal lacerated the pilot. They’re smaller, humanoid, but huskier and more muscular than us. It looks tough—but clearly dead. We can let the scientists figure out what these damn things are.
For now, we’ve got this gift—their ship. With the help of the dissenters, who learned their lesson, we start to drag it back to the dome, picking up pieces as we go. I radio ahead to send additional forces and a truck. My bet is the techs will be in heaven digging into its guts, figuring out how their technology works, how we can adapt it, and build on it.
Our training paid off. And now we might just have a way out of the dome and back into our world.
Time will tell.