Attack of the Alien Horde

  “GYARRGH!” the giant alien who’d blasted him bellowed. The cry reverberated down the street. Windows shattered.

  Through the gaping hole created when Miles crashed into the building, he watched the alien lift the front bumper of Mr. Taylor’s truck with one hand. The alien sneered and spat in a guttural language Miles could no longer understand, but its meaning was obvious—it was going to toss the vehicle bought and paid for by Atlanta Voltco like a Frisbee.

  “Look alive!” Mr. Taylor yelled.

  He and Henry tumbled from the truck’s open doors just as the alien launched it into the third floor of an office tower. It landed with a crunch, its rear end hanging out of the building.

  Miles had never felt so hopeless as he did at that moment. His dad had plowed into the alien at full speed, crumpling the front of the truck on impact. Still, the alien showed no sign of injury.

  It strode over to Mr. Taylor and Henry, who sat huddled together in the street. It garbled something that Miles could only guess was a threat of the no-ears-or-head-to-hang-them-on variety.

  Henry turned to Mr. Taylor and saluted stoically. “Mr. Taylor, it’s been an honor serving with you.”

  Mr. Taylor blinked. “You are, beyond a doubt, the strangest kid I’ve ever met.”

  The giant alien lowered the tip of its weapon, aiming it at Mr. Taylor and Henry.

  Henry gulped as Mr. Taylor scanned the street, finding Miles amid the rubble the way only a father searching for his son could. Blue eyes met blues eyes. Taylor eyes.

  “You can do it, son.”

  Time slowed to an uphill crawl.

  Miles watched General Breckenridge and his soldiers fight with everything they had against an army from beyond the stars.

  He saw his dad, who worked so hard to give Miles the best life he could. Who’d charged into battle against the aliens armed with only a pickup truck.

  There was Henry, the smallest seventh grader at Chapman, who’d dedicated himself to helping Miles without ever once asking what was in it for him.

  And Miles thought of Josie. Beauty wasn’t the only thing that drew him to her (though it certainly didn’t hurt). He liked her because she was the type of girl who sat where she wanted at lunch, regardless of what others might say. She was the type of girl who braved an F-4 tornado to try to save a kid she hardly knew.

  A realization hit Miles like a lightning bolt out of the blue: Everyone had the ability to be a hero.

  The tip of the giant alien’s weapon glowed red. Some beast with acid snot was planting its claws in Miles’s hometown, pointing a death-ray hockey stick at the people he cared about.

  What was he going to do about it?

  He was going to fight, that’s what. Maybe he didn’t have a chance against all those lizard-monsters, but his dad always said anything worth doing wasn’t easy. So he’d keep fighting until either he or the lizard-monsters didn’t have any fight left to give.

  Not because he wasn’t scared. Not because he wanted to. He was going to do it because it was the right thing to do. And he was the only one in the world who could do it.

  The clasp halves rose from his chest on their own, eager to get back in the battle. Miles’s pain evaporated, replaced with more power and energy than he’d ever experienced before. He was a thoroughbred racehorse straining at the gate. A rocket on the launch pad, engines rumbling.

  Do the clothes make the man, or is it the other way around?

  Only one way to find out.

  CHAPTER

  21

  WHAT DID THE PRESS DO when they couldn’t interview the Golden Great, the Halcyon Hero, the Twenty-Four-Karat Champion who thwarted planetary decimation? They interviewed everyone else.

  Meter maids. Window washers. Citizens walking their dogs. Parking a space cruiser over a major metropolitan area lends itself to a herd of eyewitnesses. There was no one the press talked to more, however, than Hollis Taylor, the valiant electrician who charged into the fray with his fully loaded Ford.

  Miles’s dad had Dawn come pick him and Henry up from the attack zone, and they hoped that’d be the end of it. Turns out, though, that leaving your work truck parked in the third-story window of an office building makes you a fairly easy person to track down. With the military cordoning off downtown again, Mr. Taylor soon became the best story in the city. Or, at least, the most accessible.

  There were phone calls around the clock. Reporters followed him to and from work. Faces Miles had only ever seen on TV dropped by unannounced and invited themselves in, snapping photos and filming impromptu tours of apartment 2H. Mr. Taylor stopped by Krispy Kreme for coffee one morning, and they gave it to him on the house. In other words, he was famous.

  By extension, so was Miles. The kid with the stack of Gilded Age comic books wound up with a real-life hero for a father. The feel-good headlines wrote themselves. Miles was sure that Henry would blow a gasket over all the attention, but he loved every minute of it. He called it “hiding in plain sight.”

  All the while, Miles’s backpack went undisturbed. Not once did a reporter ever think to ask what was inside.

  • • •

  By the third night following the foiled invasion, Mr. Taylor was a household name. After a busy evening of interviews, he was ushering out the last reporter, an anchorwoman from a national morning show who’d just finished the grand tour, stack of comics and all. Just as he closed the door behind her, the kitchen phone rang.

  “Lord, do I ever need an answering machine for this nonsense,” he muttered as he lifted the phone from the cradle. “Interview time is over,” he barked. “Call back tomorrow.” A moment paused, and he sighed heavily. “Hi.”

  Miles knew that “Hi.” It was the “Hi” that meant his mom was on the line. She’d called every night since the “event,” as she referred to it. She couldn’t seem to wrap her head around the fact that a murderous alien mob had rampaged in her old hometown.

  “No, Eve. I didn’t—

  “That’s not what—

  “It’s not like I asked to be—

  “Aw, what’s the use?” Unable to get a word in, Mr. Taylor held out the phone to Miles. “Talk to your mother, son.”

  Miles reached for the phone, but his dad suddenly pulled it back. He gave Miles the look he’d given him after the time they went off-roading with Uncle Cole and nearly flipped the four-wheeler. It was a look that said, Talk to her, but don’t tell her too much.

  Miles nodded and took the phone. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”

  “How am I? I’m worried out of my mind, after all that’s happened. How are you?”

  “I’m okay, Mom,” Miles said. “Honest. I know it sounds weird, but I’m really not that freaked out.”

  “You swear on Grandma’s grave?”

  “I swear on Grandma’s grave.”

  Mr. Taylor gave Miles a thumb’s-up.

  Miles’s mom was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was heavier. “I’m sorry, Miles. I’m just concerned. Why does this keep happening in Atlanta? Can’t the Martians burn down a cornfield or something for a change?”

  Miles knew why the Unnd had attacked Atlanta. They wanted Gilded’s cape. If he told his mom that, explained how he knew, would she come home? Maybe, but that would be using the cape for selfish reasons, and no good would come from it. Not for Miles, and certainly not for his parents. Facts were facts. They just weren’t right for each other.

  “I think it’s lucky they came to Atlanta,” Miles said. “That’s where Gilded is, so he was able to stop them. If they were smart, they would’ve gone anywhere else.”

  “You sound just like your father.” His mom sighed. “When we were younger, he used to go on and on about Gilded. Absolutely adored him. I suppose that’s what put that harebrained notion in his head to play chicken with one of those things. He always wanted to be a hero. But you can’t be a dreamer all your life, Miles. Someday, everyone has to grow up.”

  Miles glanced at his dad, who looked nervou
s enough to gnaw his fingers down to their second knuckles. “He did good, Mom. He did really good.”

  vrrrrrrr

  Miles reached for his cell phone and checked the screen. It was nice to be able to do that without having to hide from his dad.

  Peachtree Plaza damaged.

  Structure needs shoring up.

  Things had been quiet since the attack—most of Miles’s calls dealt with assisting the cleanup and repair crews. Apparently, wide-scale alien invasions make even criminals want to hunker down indoors. Still, the job needed tending to.

  “I have to go, Mom. Things are still a little bonkers here.”

  “Be safe, okay? I meant what I said. Maybe Jack and I can have you down here during the winter break.”

  “That sounds good.” A trip to Florida couldn’t be all bad, could it? Besides, whether Miles wanted to admit it or not, he missed her.

  “I love you, Miles.”

  Miles knew she meant it. It was just that, after twelve years of motherhood, he wished she knew how to show it a little better.

  “Love you, too, Mom.”

  Miles set the phone back in its cradle and tapped out a response to Henry.

  “Headed somewhere?” Mr. Taylor asked.

  “Peachtree Plaza,” Miles replied. “I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  Mr. Taylor combed a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “I guess we ought to talk about all this, huh? You being a superhero on a school night and everything.”

  Miles knew this conversation would need to happen, but he dreaded that it was finally here. “Do we have to do it now?”

  Mr. Taylor pulled Miles close and gave him a strong hug. “Just don’t sleep through your alarm. If I have to drive you to school, it’ll cut into my hours, and my paycheck needs all the help it can get.”

  Miles was stunned. “Is that it?”

  Mr. Taylor smiled. “I can’t exactly tell you to quit protecting the free world, can I? Now go on, son. Make me proud.”

  • • •

  “You almost got me killed, you know.”

  Miles shut his locker and turned to find Josie scowling at him. School had been closed for the past three days on account of the Unnd attack, so today was the first time the students had been under the same roof since the tornado. Saying that he and Josie had a lot to talk about was an understatement.

  “Right. About that . . .” Miles searched for an excuse and blurted the first one that popped into his head. “I was really scared.”

  No sooner than he said the words, he wanted to cram them back into his mouth with his fist. Make yourself sound like a chicken. Good thinking. That’s sure to win her over.

  He did his best to change the subject. “At least you met Gilded. That must’ve been cool.”

  Miles wasn’t revealing anything he wasn’t supposed to know. Word about Josie taking a flight with Gilded began to spread the minute she’d splashed down. Josie had always been popular. Now she was all the rage.

  “Oh, that,” Josie said. “I know. Pretty crazy.”

  “What’s he like?” Miles pressed.

  Josie considered the question for a moment, then shrugged. “He’s a superhero who can fly and blow apart tornados. He isn’t like anything.”

  “Right. Sorry. Dumb question.” Miles’s inability to make casual conversation was on full display, as usual.

  Josie cracked a smile. “Anyway, I just wanted to make a request. If we’re ever in the same place when a tornado touches down, do me a favor and run away from it.”

  Miles smiled back. “Away from tornados. Gotcha.”

  A long silence passed. Josie drummed her fingers against the textbook held to her chest. Her smile faded.

  “Um . . . guess I’ll go to class then. Bye.” She turned and headed down the hallway.

  Miles watched her go, a hummingbird on the wing. He wanted to say something, but his tongue felt twelve sizes too big. What chance could he ever have with a girl like her? Better to let her flutter away.

  Then again, why couldn’t he have a chance with Josie?

  Maybe Miles didn’t have a lot of friends. He definitely wasn’t a heartthrob or a star athlete or any of the other things that girls always went for. But he’d stopped armed kidnappers, natural disasters, and the hugest threat planet Earth had ever seen. Not because he was popular or good-looking or could throw a tight spiral. The cape didn’t care about that stuff.

  The cape had allowed Miles to do all those things because it had judged him to be a hero. He was good—deep down inside, where it mattered. That counted for something, right?

  “Josie! Wait!”

  Josie turned back, her hair falling across her shoulder just so. “What?”

  Miles got lost in her hazel eyes, his moment of courage slipping away. And he thought fighting lizard-monsters was tough.

  “I was wondering if . . . I mean, do you like to? Maybe we could—”

  “Quit it!” a voice yelled. It was a desperate cry that brought the rest of the hallway to dead silence.

  He and Josie looked and saw a small, thin kid—Miles recognized him, but didn’t know his name—scrambling to take back his sack lunch from Craig. Craig didn’t have to do much more than hold it up to keep it out of the kid’s reach.

  “Please?” the kid pleaded softly.

  “Please what? It says ‘rob,’ so I’m robbing it.” Craig kept the brown bag aloft but rotated it enough to show the letters R-O-B written in a woman’s cursive script.

  The kid’s mom still wrote his name on his lunch? Parents never understand how easy it is to ruin their child’s life.

  Craig tossed the bag to Dude the Teammate, who rummaged through the contents and pulled out some Nutter Butters. “Dude!” he exclaimed cheerily, biting into one of the peanut-shaped cookies.

  Miles was infuriated. He strode toward Craig with fists clenched.

  “Congratulations, Craig. You read three whole letters all by yourself. I’m glad the tutoring is finally paying off.”

  “Three?” Henry stepped forward to stand beside Miles. He must’ve been lurking nearby, giving Miles and Josie their space. “Last I heard, the tutor had only taught him two letters. Craig here cracked that third one all by himself.”

  “Attaboy, Jammer,” Miles jeered. “High five.” Miles raised his palm in the air, stopping it in front of Craig’s face.

  The Jammer flinched.

  “Dude?” Dude the Teammate was stunned. Miles Taylor had made the Jammer flinch.

  Somewhere in the crowd, a kid snickered. Craig narrowed his eyes, searching for the offender. Then he turned his attention back to Miles.

  “You never learn, do you, Taylor?” he growled.

  “No, I guess I don’t.” Miles guessed he didn’t.

  “See if this sinks in.”

  Craig palmed Miles’s face like a football and shoved him backward. Miles lost his footing and plopped to his butt on the cold terrazzo floor. The crowd burst into laughter.

  “Later, Taylor.” Craig snatched the sack lunch from Dude the Teammate and slam-dunked it into the trash. The recycling bin, not the bin for general waste. The Jammer’s evil was truly diabolical.

  The crowd thinned out, until it was just Miles, Henry, Josie, and poor Rob. Miles picked himself up and retrieved the sack lunch from the garbage. He dusted it off and handed it to Rob with an encouraging smile. “Good as new. Don’t let the idiots get to you.”

  “Thanks for the help,” Rob said. He risked a glance at Josie, blushed, and then headed off to class.

  “Speaking of idiots,” Henry said. “What were you thinking, Miles?”

  Miles looked down and smoothed his shirt. “I wasn’t. Obviously.”

  “Very obviously.” Josie put her hands on the straps of Miles’s backpack and adjusted it for him. “It was a nice thing you did, though. Brave, too. I see where your dad gets it from.”

  “My dad?”

  “Sure. He’s the one who rammed that alien with his work truck, right
?”

  Miles blinked. “You know about that?”

  “Miles, everyone knows about that. Nice stack of Gilded Age comics on your nightstand, by the way.”

  Josie was sunshine, pure and simple. Being in her presence made you warm and content, but she would always be impossible to grasp. Basking in her glow was a heck of a consolation prize, though. Miles soaked in as much of her as he could.

  “Yes,” Josie declared.

  “Yes, what?”

  Josie grinned. “The date you were going to ask me on? My answer is yes.”

  EPILOGUE

  GENERAL BRECKENRIDGE SURVEYED the contents of the military hangar and glowered. There were rows after rows of specimens, each one worthy of its own page-one write-up in the newspaper or magazine of record in any country on the planet. Bodies of reptilian aliens lay on surgical tables. Strange bladed weapons were stacked in heaps. Broken pieces of flying machines were being reassembled into complete vehicles by teams of jump-suited technicians.

  “How much have you recovered, General?” Dr. Marisol Petri asked. Dr. Petri was a theoretical zoologist who’d been flown in from San Diego overnight. She was only now getting her first look at the contents of the hangar where she’d be spending her days and nights until General Breckenridge decided otherwise. Which wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

  “There are two full cargo trucks still outside. I’m in the process of requisitioning a second hangar.”

  The enormous structure they were currently standing in at Dobbins Air Reserve Base was intended to house C-130 aircraft. The fact that there was more than enough alien material to fill it—and then some—was unsettling to say the least.

  Another doctor was bent low over a reconstructed vehicle that looked like it could be Satan’s WaveRunner. He waved a handheld device over the vehicle, and the readout squelched.

  “Remarkable!” the doctor blurted. “Eight additions to the periodic table in less than ten minutes.”

  “Nine,” a third doctor chirped from across the hangar.

  “Nine! Shall I name an element after you, General? Perhaps Breckenridgetonium?”

  General Breckenridge’s mustache twitched. Had it been a horse’s tail, he would’ve used it to swat the doctor like a pesky fly. “I’m not interested in scientific posterity, Doctor. I want to know where they’re from and how they knew to come here.”