He’d been thinking about his mother’s butter-soaked yams when the first ship appeared. Massive, metallic, the shape of a perfect hexagon. Five more materialized in quick succession.
They hovered high in the clear blue November sky. Sounds of gears grinding pierced the air. The ships shimmered, unleashing a shower of green lasers.
The library exploded beside him.
He sprinted through the quad, his backpack slamming against his spine, his high-tops slapping against the red pavement.
All he wanted was to reach his beat-up Civic on the other side of campus.
All he wanted was to make it home for Thanksgiving.
The Weekday One Hundred 