Thirty days.
The countdown has started, North America shivers under the shadow of a massive alien spacecraft, and humanity is hurtling toward an unknown future that lurks at the end of the timer. Somewhere, somehow, the heroes are making their plan...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ON A DESERT ROAD, 8 HOURS FROM DUBAI, UAE
August 26, 8:00 AM
A soldier follows orders. Obeys and executes.
I hung upside down secured by the seatbelt on the passenger seat of the Land Rover Defender.
The air was a baneful swirl of thick dust, and my mouth was full of sand. I coughed it out. Most of it stuck to my face and eyelashes. My head felt heavy, and my limbs ached with pain. A thin trickle of blood ran down my left temple, and crimson beads plopped on the roof of the rover in a one, two...counting. I had been knocked out cold after our car toppled over. We shouldn't have traveled with a severe weather warning, but I dared my chances. I stretched out my hand to check the driver's condition.
His seat was empty.
I crossed my right arm over my suspended torso to reach for the safety harness to unbuckle. It was a game of touch. I couldn't open my eyes and risk more sand in them. My best chance of survival and rescue was retrieving my protective eye gear from my sling bag or Tactical Rifle Case. I pushed my thumb harder on the red buckle, again and again, digging my thumb deeper until the buckle released with a soft click, and my body dropped on the roof with a thwack.
"Fuck," I gritted out.
I crouched and felt my surroundings, navigating my hands to the rear side of the car for my bag carrying the Wiley X sniper's eyewear. Before I could take cover, a ghastly wind swirled towards me. A vicious smack of grit, soil, and debris knocked me on my back and rattled the car sideways. I inhaled a lungful and coughed the choking bits out. A bottle of water would be handy to cleanse my mouth, but the sooner I got out of the car, the sooner I could search for the driver and signal for help.
I found my bearings and pulled the military green t-shirt from underneath my uniform and covered my mouth and nose. I redoubled my efforts to look for the eyewear, stretching and touching with eyes firmly shut. My knuckles smashed into a cold aluminum case. Fuck. It was a metallic gray Rimowa luggage case, carrying my essentials and the trophy I'd won at the 9th International Military Games hosted in Jeddah.
My request to leave base before the closing ceremony had been rejected. Instead, my superiors saluted, shook my hand, and offered a flat "congratulations" before handing me a gold-plated falcon cradled on a wooden base. My name was engraved on a golden plaque with bold black lettering: RAMI ELZAAK, United Arab Emirates Army, Sniper Frontier, Winner.
Our last name, Elzaak, was worth nothing. We were nobodies in this sandy paradise dripping with gold. My brother and Lieutenant General, Haydar, was counting on this win. The ruling family would honor our house and reward our family with fuck you cash and a rise in rank for both of us: General for him and Brigadier General for me.
