It was true that reality was the worst possible nightmare the old man thought as he woke up and automatically reached for the pills that he hated, but without which he could not survive. He was paranoid, schizophrenic, clinically depressed, and he was rapidly losing what little control he had left. In his head he could often hear the thoughts of the alien things plotting against him. The pills made the voices go away. His situation was hopeless. He was fighting not only a real enemy, but also an imaginary enemy that existed only in his head. He was losing both battles.

His medical training was the only thing that made him get up every morning and fight the day instead of just giving up and committing suicide or giving in to his insanity, Dr. David Fugate thought as the alarm clock rang and he forced himself out of his bed and into the shower. Even before the invasion, his life hadn't been that great, even though it had started out impressively. His parents had been so proud of him when he had graduated from medical school, and so happy for him at his wedding. Then his life had turned to shit. The marriage ended shortly after the wedding, and shortly after that both of his parents had died in an auto accident. They'd died so young, but maybe they were better off. Most of their relatives, friends, and neighbors had suffered a far worse fate.

Not only was the doctor's mind sick, his body was sick, also. He had an arthritic left shoulder, right hand, hip, and knee, and a heart condition. The bathroom mirror was cruel, reminding him that he was a sick old man. Once he'd been rather handsome—five-eleven, a muscular 165 or 170, with coal black hair. Now he had very few strands of black hair left, a rapidly growing bald spot, and his weight has slipped below 140. His once almost movie-star handsome face seemed to grow new wrinkles and deeper wrinkles every day He was 48 years old, but he looked more like 68, and he felt more like 88.

Depression is usually the worst in the morning. As he shaved, Fugate's depression deepened. His spirit was broken, his back was broken, and his medication was failing. Not that it mattered. The situation was hopeless. The work that he was doing was useless—futile. There was no way that the human race could defeat those alien things. They were too numerous, too powerful, and too intelligent. He desperately wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head, and just hide there forever, but people were depending on him. The whole world was sick, and he was a doctor.

The van was late, as usual. The beautiful May morning reminded Fugate of Betty, and his guilt returned and overwhelmed both his anxiety and his depression. It was his fault that Betty was dead. She had depended on him to protect her from those alien vine things, and he had failed because of his stupidity. She begged him not to leave her, but he had insisted on going ahead to see if the way was clear while she hid in an abandoned house. Then he heard the screams. He had to leave her or those alien things would have gotten him, too.

Unlike the beautiful park that surrounded the apartment complex, the land outside the wall was nightmarish and so unlike the earth during the spring. It was devoid of almost all vegetation. Most of the trees had been cut down and the bushes, shrubs, grass, and weeds had been bulldozed, and then the bare land had been covered over with asphalt and concrete, leaving no places for those hidden alien vine things to hide and grow. The whole area reminded Fugate of some mid-fifties, black and white B horror movie.

The Institute building was only three or four miles away. The former University Medical Sciences Building was a brand new, state-of-the-art facility. Supposedly, it was well-equipped to do the research necessary to effectively combat the alien threat. The Institute employed many of the best doctors and medical scientists in the world—MD's, PhD's, and double and triple PhD's, some of whom had MD's, also. Fugate was a DO, an osteopathic physician. He was one of the rarest of doctors, an osteopathic surgeon. Fugate wasn't a very good doctor. He had barely gotten through medical school, failing one year. He felt inferior to his distinguished colleagues, but Dr. Fugate had discovered the horror that all of the others had missed or dismissed, so the Institute had respected him, listened to him, and demanded that he take a position. They had wanted him to be the head man, but he felt unqualified and psychologically unfit, so he declined.

Back then he believed that the Institute would defeat the alien things. Now he knew better. The Institute was going to fail. Those things were too strong, too intelligent. The human race was going to lose and become extinct. Soon, those alien things would be coming after him. He couldn't commit suicide. That was against his religion. He prayed that he would die first, maybe of a heart attack, or in his sleep.

As usual, Dr. Fugate was late for work. He hated his job. As soon as he entered the building, he sensed that something was wrong. The building was empty. The corridors were deserted, the library was dark and closed, and the labs on the first floor were empty. Where was everyone?

"They're all in the auditorium, Dr. Fugate," the elderly security guard smiled reassuringly. "The president's giving a speech."

Fugate tiptoed in through the rear door and took a seat in the back. His paranoia was getting out of hand. Those alien things hadn't taken over the building. The staff was just having a meeting. It is disrespectful to call the President of the United States a liar, but the president was not telling the truth. He was telling the American people that the researchers were making good progress and that the federal government was slowly but surely weeding out and incarcerating more of those things—slowly but surely getting the alien problem under control. But then, Fugate thought, what else could the president say? Tell the truth and admit that the aliens were winning? That they were too numerous, too powerful, and too intelligent for mankind to defeat? And most of all, the president couldn't tell the American people that once again, as usual, their government had fucked up, had done everything asshole backwards, and had botched the job. And now it was too late.

The antidepressants made him drowsy and Fugate drifted off to sleep. Half an hour later he woke up, terrified. It was an unwritten rule nowadays that you didn't sleep anywhere but in your own bed unless it was absolutely necessary. Nervously, he glanced around. The speech was over and the auditorium was empty. The elderly security guard watching over him smiled and Fugate forced himself to return the smile. He tried to relax, but the terror within him continued to grow. His heart raced even faster, his lightheadedness grew worse, and his hands and whole body began to shake even more violently. Mankind's end was near and Fugate realized that his own end was near, too. Physically and mentally he couldn't last too much longer. He was extremely exhausted and steadily losing both his control and his mind. Very soon now he would have a complete physical and nervous breakdown. He accepted that. What else could he do?

The next day, Wednesday, was another depressingly beautiful day. The soft, deep-blue sky was dotted with scores of fat, fleecy white clouds, and the overhead sun was warm and bright. Yes, the sky above was beautiful, but the world below was hideous; denuded...