Dying with Her Cheer Pants On
Seanan McGuire
Bridget ducked behind the remains of a burned-out Impala, crouching low as the zap-zap-zap of blaster fire split the October night. The sound was already familiar enough to turn her stomach. Not just because it meant another survivor had been spotted—because there was nothing she could do to help whoever it was. She huddled against the wheel, making herself as small as possible. She didn’t think she’d been seen. She’d know for sure in a few minutes, when the patrol reached her position. There was nothing to do but wait.
It was still hard to believe that aliens were real, not just science-fiction bullshit for the geeks in the computer club to obsess over. Maybe they’d been science-fiction bullshit once, but not anymore. This was real. Some guy on CNN had called them blasters when the aliens first landed, before anybody had a clue how destructive their quaint-looking little ray guns really were. He’d laughed when he said it.
That was sixteen hours ago, nine hours before the start of the homecoming game and eleven hours before the game’s untimely end. Nobody was laughing now, least of all Bridget, who’d been chosen for the unenviable duty of leaving the safety of the gym and crossing the ruins of town to get what Amy was saying the squad would need.
. . .
