Chapter One

Dust. I’ve heard rumors that it once was just a small annoyance. Occasionally, a fine layer would coat the tops of bookshelves and refrigerators. It was something that only housewives would have to clean up before their mother-in-laws came over. These are just rumors of course. I cannot remember a time in which this was true. In which dust was not something that continuously circled our planet, snowing on cars, clogging storm drains, and occasionally blocking out the sun whenever there has been a large attack. And to think of where that dust came from. All of the lives, all of the families, all of the bodies---dust. And we have become so indifferent to it all.

At that I slide my squeegee across my car’s dust-piled windshield. The gray matter clumps as I drag it towards me and then dissipates into a cloud as it falls off the side of the car. Some of it spills on my green jacket; I don’t even bother to brush it off though because everyone walks around with dust on themselves these days. It’s the new cat hair.

I walk around to the other side and open up the door of my yellow bug. I throw my leather satchel in the passenger seat and climb in. I hunt around the back seat for an old granola bar I know I stashed back there. I haven’t eaten for two days because my mother is on another hoarding binge. She’s convinced the next big attack will hit Tracy, California of all places. Unless they’re appetite has changed from people to cows, I think we’re safe. We’ve only had two attacks in the history of the Trespass. One was on the 580 due to a military operation and the other was in the produce department of Safeway. Apparently they’re picky about their apples. Well, at least I’d like to think they would be if they ate. I often find myself fantasizing about them. Not that I’d like to be one, just wondering what they’re like, once you get past the whole out-to-get-your-soul thing.

Giving up on the granola bar, I backed out of my driveway and pulled on to Cherry Blossom street, made a left at Happy Mountain, and another left at Spring Trails. With the names they give these streets, you’d think we were all giddy on weed and cocoa puffs like some frat boy, not in the middle of a silent war. It’s a twelve minute drive to my bakery. It’s just a small hole in the wall in a strip mall, but it’s my hole in the wall and that’s all that matters. After failing calculus due to finding my British professor more dreamy than the notes he wrote on the board, followed by the government’s gossip about shutting down all major universities because they were presumed feeding grounds, I decided to leave San Francisco State and pursue a career in baking. I’ve never had any professional training, and at times, such as the Éclair Incident of 2006, it shows. But it’s the only income my family has, so I keep the beaters a’ spinnin’.

I never met my father. According to my mother he was one of the top scientists in Operation K-16, before it got out of hand. But then again, she’s full of stories. It seems that she is in a world of her own, where fantasy meets reality, and not in the good way like at Disneyland. My mother may be the oldest of my household of three, but she sure doesn’t act it. On a Friday night one is more likely to see my mother hussy-ing it up, and me staying home to do the laundry, than the other way around. Her favorite bar is the Pink Skyline; drink of choice would be the Patron margarita; man of choice would be some hunk of burning love her age, divided by two. And my sister, Kayli, is smart, real smart. Let’s just put it this way, she may have only been fifteen at the time of my calculus class, but if I had had her as a tutor, I may have actually stood a chance. She’s nineteen now and works as a substitute teacher. Mom won’t let her go to a University because she’s convinced they’ll get her. So her IQ is wasted, sweeping up my hole in the wall on weekends and secretly dating a senior at the school she subs at. And the third ingredient in my crumbling gingerbread house would be me: Madilyn. Let’s see, I’m 23, have mousy brown hair,a slightly heavier build, and haven’t been on a date in two years, but yes, in case you were wondering, I do enjoy long walks on the beach and dinners by candle light. Well at least in theory I do. Kayli says I’m undatable. The only thing that would want me would be one of them: a Katarhian. He would probably be six foot tall, with jet black hair, pasty skin, and look something like the one standing right in the middle of the road.

His black eyes met mine, and I knew what he was here for. I was about to become dust on my windshield.