The cities of New York, Paris, Moscow, Madrid, Cairo, Beijing, Sydney, Lima, Rio de Janeiro, Johannesburg, Tehran, and New Delhi were already in flames by the time the people of Earth realized they were under attack. Skyscrapers toppled, apartment buildings exploded, bridges collapsed, housing tracts were incinerated, forests were consumed by fire, and pillars of black smoke speared the sky.

The nations of Earth wasted precious minutes hurling accusations at each other, and two actually launched missiles before they realized the nature of their mistake and tried to abort. But it was too late . . . and the cities of Bombay and Islamabad vanished in the twinkling of an eye.

The truth was that the attack originated from space, from the great blackness that started just beyond the planet's atmosphere, and extended past the edge of the galaxy. Monsters, the same ones that children so wisely fear, had finally arrived. And they were bad, very bad, which was why more than three billion people died in less than three days.

Those who survived, who lived to endure the days ahead, would remember Black Friday in a variety of different ways. For Jack Manning it was the noise, the sound of sonic booms that rolled across the land, each one overlapping the last, like the hammers of hell.

He was on vacation near Newport, Oregon, when the thunder started to roll and contrails clawed the sky. The wind caused his eyes to tear as Manning looked upward. There were others on the beach, not many given the time of year, but a thin scattering of tourists salted with locals. They shaded their eyes against the glare and pointed toward dots that raced out over the Pacific. Most assumed it was some sort of military exercise -- role-playing for the kind of war that no one expected anymore.

The first hint of what was actually taking place came from an older man in a yellow windbreaker. The words "The North Face" were emblazoned over his left breast pocket. A cloud of windblown hair danced around his ruddy face. He waved his unicom like a high-tech talisman. His voice was hopeful, as if the tall, lean stranger might be able to explain the news, or make it go away. "Have you seen this nonsense? These idiots claim Portland is under attack! But that's impossible! My daughter works there . . . not far from Powell's bookstore. Here . . . look at this."

Manning looked at the little screen and was amazed by what he saw. The video quality was pretty good considering where they were. The old Pittock Mansion was on a hill west of downtown Portland. A guy named Frank had gone there to get a better view. Now, thanks to a home videocamera and his wireless connection to the Web, Frank's video was available worldwide. The footage managed to be both horrible and awe-inspiring at the same time. The two men watched as three aircraft, one the size of a city block, systematically destroyed the city. The attackers used energy weapons, high-explosive bombs, and a variety of missiles to do their bloody work. The new fifty-story Willamette office tower took a direct hit, folded like a tube of wet cardboard, and fell on the Morrison bridge. The span collapsed into the river. Boats, barges, and other debris were swept downstream and into the wreckage, where they were trapped. A dam started to form. "Jeez," the man named Frank said feelingly, "somebody needs to stop these bastards."

A windblown shout carried down the beach. Manning looked up into the sky. One of the black specks wheeled, did a nose-over, and dove for the beach. He could have run, should have run, but there was nowhere to go. The nearest cover was more than half a mile away. Manning had never felt so exposed -- so vulnerable. The blob grew into a delta-shaped hull and roared overhead. It was so low they could feel the wind created by its passage and read the hieroglyphics on the fuselage. Engines howled. Both men turned to watch it depart. The ship pulled up, climbed at an amazing rate of speed, and was gone. The boom followed a few seconds later.

"Damn!" the man said. "Did you see that? It looked like the ones on TV. Who are they? The Chinese?"

As with most members of his particular profession, Manning knew a thing or two about military aircraft. "No," he answered slowly. "The Chinese don't have anything like that."

"Then who?" the older man demanded desperately. "Who do the planes belong to?"

"I don't know," Manning replied grimly, "but I doubt they're human."

The older man's jaw dropped, and remained that way, as Manning turned and walked away. Thunder rolled -- and the human race continued to die.

Copyright © 2002 by William C. Dietz