Page 47 of Aviatrix

Maybe I’m imagining things. I haven’t slept properly in days. Haven’t eaten much, either. Between Lark’s betrayal, an alien invasion, and the obliteration of the White House, I’m probably a few steps from delusional.

I might need therapy. If I make it out of this alive.

“Captain Kinley Quay?” a woman in blues calls out.

“That’s me,” I answer, stepping toward her.

“Colonel Lark Jones left instructions,” she says, handing me a set of folded clothes. “Mess hall is this way.”

I take the clothes and tuck them under my arm. I should ask her name. But I don’t. Too tired, too frayed around the edges. I don’t want to learn another name just to lose it later.

“You can grab dinner here,” she says when we reach the dining hall. “Or I can show you to your quarters if you’d rather change first.”

“I’ll change first.”

We move briskly down a dated corridor, the cracked yellowing linoleum curling at the edges.

“Here you are,” she says, pushing open a door.

I flick on the light.

Bunk beds. Of course.

“Who am I bunking with?” I ask.

She shrugs. “No idea. Just told to assign you here.”

That’s suspicious. Lark doesn’t make sloppy assignments.

She leaves, and I stand alone in the dim room before changing quickly, folding my worn clothes and setting them on the dresser. Both beds are neatly made. Either my roommate hasn’t arrived, or they’re unnaturally neat.

I keep the thumb drive in my pocket as I make my way toward the dining hall. I'm not letting it out of my sight.

The smell of roasted meat and something starchy hits me as I arrive. My stomach growls in response as the muted news loop plays in the background. Flames, smoke, the skeletal frame of what’s left of the White House. And then, an image of the alien aircraft. The new one. Gray. Sleek. Almost… human.

More lives lost.

Amber. Lark’s daughter. What if…

My appetite vanishes again.

“Can you turn the volume up?” I ask a group of cadets huddled around a table, their plates licked clean.

One of them grabs a remote and un-mutes.

“Hours ago,” the news anchor reports grimly, “the White House was attacked by alien forces. There were two waves. The first took out much of the structure. The second made sure there was nothing left.”

“This is insane,” one of the cadets says under his breath.

“Why aren’t we out there blowing these motherfuckers to shreds?” another adds.

I swallow hard. We’re not even defending ourselves. Are we surrendering and no one told me?

“No confirmation yet if the President made it out alive,” the anchor continues. “There was no warning before these ships fell out of the sky and destroyed a vital piece of our government.”

She presses a finger to her earpiece. Her expression shifts. Professional calm replaced by something raw.

Fear.