Falling Skies 1. Chapter 1

Law of Omertà

Like everything else in the self-proclaimed capital of what was left of the United States of America, the compound's kitchens were underground. Stacked in between the laundry facility and dry goods storage, the cooking areas switched from bustling activity to virtual vacancy in between daily work shifts. A few Charleston residents assigned to specialty tasks could be found here and there at off-peak hours, which was information Tector Murphy was putting to good use.

He paused for a moment at the kitchen doorway and drew in a calming breath. After such a long time acting without thinking first, he was a little amused with his own trepidation and decided to walk in without immediately announcing his presence. The young woman standing at a long metal table in the eastern quarter of the baking galley was intently crimping the edges of a pie crust with her fingers and didn't notice her approaching visitor.

"And just who's been beatin' on you with a Pretty Stick?"

"Hey, you." She looked up and smiled as Tector drew a nearby barstool up the table and sat down. "What brings you down here this time of night?"

"I'm partial to the scenery."

Still smiling, she turned from her pies and handed him a cloverleaf roll plucked from a cooling rack on the countertop behind her.

"Flattery gets you everywhere, doesn't it?"

"Yes ma'am. It certainly does." Tector replied, his mouth full of soft white bread. "How much longer do you figure you'll be working tonight?"

"I just started these. Maybe an hour and a half, but probably closer to two."

"That long?"

"Yeah. I don't think it would be to my benefit to deprive Manchester or the upper echelon around here of their baked goods, do you? "

"Probably not. I'll step on out then and let you work. Maybe you'll stop by when you punch out for the night?"

"You still in the same place?"

"Yeah. You know where to find me. "

"Well, don't wait up or anything." She leaned across the prep table for a quick kiss and slipped another roll into Tector's hand to replace the one he'd just polished off. Using the bottom of her apron, she attempted to dust away the flour that had found its way to the front of his jacket.

Tector tucked the bread into the inner pocket of his jacket and headed out of the kitchen, whistling a breezy tune she couldn't name but had come to recognize as something of a signature element for the Texan she'd recently been spending an awful lot of time with.


	2. Chapter 2

* * I don't know if I'll keep this as the second chapter or not, but I wanted to go ahead and get what content I have written for the story uploaded. This chapter doesn't make any sense. I was bored and really, really hungry during Spanish class this afternoon and it just kind of went from there. * *

Survivors of the invasion represented a varied sampling of the population the aliens had all but wiped out. Individuals who would've never otherwise known one another existed suddenly shared quite a few traits and habits, one of which was a great propensity for making lists. They made lists of possessions they'd lost, things they wished they'd never done, things they regretted putting off until it was too late. There were lists of loved ones lost, the number of days in between certain events and occasions, and so on and so forth. Some lists were official, saved on record with the chance that it might mean something to someone else, someday. Others were less formal, created in conversational exchanges and friendly chatter. A popular theme among these lists was a cataloging of all the things a person missed about his or her former way of life.

That's how Tector and libby found themselves spending that particular afternoon. They'd covered the household appliances they'd love to have back, and movies they'd regrettably never see again. Somewhere after satellite radio and _Beetlejuice_, the topic turned to food.

"What I wouldn't give for a _panino_ from Umberto's. The Monterusso…grilled chicken and roasted cherry peppers, the mozzarella melted into the craters of the ciabatta…olive oil searing in the basil. Mmmm. You would probably love it." libby drew her fingers to her lips and made a kissing sound.

Neither of them bothered to note aloud that there wasn't any such place anymore.

"I don't know about chicken craters and olive oil and all that, but I'd gnaw off my right hand right now for a hotdog from the Gulp n' Fill right off 171 in Cleburne. Day-old frank and an even older bun. You line the bun with onions and mustard and smother the top with jalapeno slices and the nacho cheese that's like equal parts orange lard and Turtle wax."

"That is disgusting. Shamefully disgusting. You…"

"Hold on, I'm not done. Impulse says to devour the thing right there in the parking lot and wash it down with a purple Slushie or Coors-depending on if it's breakfast or not, but that's an amateur move. To get the true experience, you have to take it home, fry up a couple of pieces of bacon and lay 'em right on top, and then go end-to-end with _both _the red and green Tabasco."

"I'm appalled in at least three languages right now."

"It's great. You get the grease from the bacon, the heat from the peppers, and that unique salt-and-artificial-everything-else taste indicative of all-American gas station cuisine."

"Oh my God. You are such a freak."

"Well excuse me, then, Miss Culinary Arts. I reckon you're gonna tell me you've never eaten anything that was guaranteed to knock a year or two off your life. I caught an episode or two on TV of that dude who went around eating the world's weirdest shit for the fun of it. I'll take Slim Jims swirled around in peanut butter over lion eyeballs or God-only-knows-what-else."

"I could never bring myself to touch most of the stuff Anthony Bourdain put in his mouth. Not knowingly, anyway, and definitely not with the kind of ritual devotion of you and the nuclear landfill you call a snack. I'm amazed you survived the first layer of that crap. We had a term for stuff like Gulp n' Fill designer hotdogs in school…_White Trash Eats._ Cheese-and-pickle hors d'oeuvres, cocktail franks floating in grape jelly, yellow mustard, and bottled barbecue sauce, that kind of stuff. "

"I've been called worse."

"No, not you…it's just the concept like casseroles with layers of Doritos and bologna slices or those cheeseburgers some stadium tried to peddle that were made using Krispie Kreme doughnuts. "

"You had my Aunt Danita's Christmas morning casserole?" Tector asked, laughing at his own joke.

"But I can see why some people love that stuff, gross as it may be; maybe there's a good memory in between the Miracle Whip and green Jell-O." She smiled for a moment, one such memory flooding to mind.

"When I was little and my mom was around, sometimes she'd make spaghetti. And by spaghetti, I mean a pack of Ramen noodles topped with ketchup. That's so wrong on so many levels, but I still kind of miss it. We'd set up a couple of TV trays and toast each other with red Kool-Aid…_to new beginnings. _She'd light candles, usually because the power was cut off, and we'd pretend we were in a fancy restaurant. It's pathetic by anyone's standards, but I can remember being happy during those faux-spaghetti dinners. It always seemed like it really was a new beginning and that things would be so much better, but then she'd be gone again or whatever. It's crazy how many times I'd think about her and then think about dumping some Heinz over some Ramen; like that would get the past back or anything."

Tector wasn't sure what to say to that, so he erred on the cautious side and refrained from comment.


	3. Chapter 3

Captain Weaver was right, the ACUs issued by the new Continental Army itched like hell, but that wasn't the only reason Tector felt more than a little uncomfortable in his own skin that morning. He'd never wanted to slip on a uniform again, but there was something unmistakably familiar and attractive about being part of a clearly defined group once more and the realization of this made him shudder. For all the strength and genuine kinship of the Second Mass, it lacked the immediate security that came with recognizing you belonged with those around you. After letting it dominate his thoughts for the last two days, Tector decided that part of the uneasy feeling carried around now stemmed from the reawakening of sorts he'd experienced as he brought himself to attention and saluted General Bressler upon arriving in Charleston. He wondered if he'd poked a metaphorical sleeping bear or if he'd finally found the sense of direction he'd lost in the Afghani desert. Even with the mountain of regret he felt shackled to his ankles, and the guilt that nagged the back of his mind like a persistent toothache, Tector couldn't help but embrace for the time being the fond memories he had of his time in the Marine Corps.

"Murphy!" Corporal Koppel called out to him from the hallway leading to the right side of the third level. "Morning chow, man. You don't want to miss out. Are you a waffle man or are pancakes more your style?"

Tector turned around. He'd been on his way to the main dining area, which was on his left, when Koppel stopped him and motioned for him to come over.

"That's for civilians. We eat down this way," Koppel explained and directed Tector toward a set of doors at the far end of the hallway.

Tector followed his new friend into the post-apocalyptic equivalent of a Holiday Inn banquet room. Round tables and stackable chairs were plotted throughout the open space with a buffet station and several long tables set up at the front of the room. Coming from the sparse amenities of the Second Mass, Tector took a moment to absorb the scene. All around him, other uniformed soldiers went about their morning routine. Some stirred powdered creamer into mugs of coffee while others waited in line at the buffet station, melamine trays in hand.

An access door behind the serving area swung open and a young woman backed into the room, carrying a covered basket in each hand. As she placed them on either side of large bowl of chilled pineapple chunks, Koppel spoke up again.

"Ooh, hurry. We're the first in line for the omelet bar."

Tector knew he hadn't heard the Kansas native incorrectly and he was unabashedly impressed. In another lifetime, cooked eggs wouldn't have merited very much enthusiasm, but after more than a year of lumpy oatmeal and instant coffee, he was going to have an omelet.

Koppel approached the woman who'd brought in the baskets and began giving her his order, Tector was too busy imagining the taste of a real breakfast to listen very closely; something about only egg whites and aged Swiss. If those were part of the "meager luxuries" of the new capital, just show him where to sign.

"Your turn. Tell the lady what you want and she'll fix it right up."

"Oh, uh, ham and cheese if you have it."

Tector knew he'd been had when Koppel erupted into raucous laughter, doubling over as if overwhelmed by the hilarity he'd just witnessed and unaware of the torturous death Tector had almost instantly planned out for him.

The woman at the table rolled her eyes and gave Koppel a disapproving look. "If that concludes this morning's hazing, gentlemen, I'd like to get back to work."

"Sorry, ma'am." Tector stammered while Koppel made an effort to stop braying like a donkey, but continued to wheeze in amusement.

"Clearly you're new here, so let me help you out. There is no omelet bar, I am not a short-order cook and, as I'm sure you now know, the man beside you is an idiot." She turned to face Koppel, who'd finally quieted down. "Seriously, Donald, why do you have to be such an asshole?"

"Geez. Where'd you leave your sense of humor?"

"It's not funny, Donald. It wasn't cool the first time you did it, and it's still lame. When you pull that stunt on someone who beats the ever-loving hell out of you _then_ I'll laugh."

Tector watched the exchange, thankful his embarrassment had taken second chair to Koppel's scolding. He admired this woman's unflinching green eyes and the way her right eyebrow arched up slightly higher than her left as she lambasted Koppel over his apparent affinity for childish pranks.

When it was over, Koppel shrugged and offered a casual apology. "No offense, man. It's just something we do to newbies. Don't take it too personally. And, hey—Libby must like you. Usually she stomps off after calling me an asshole, but today she gave the full song and dance."

_Libby._ Tector rolled the name around silently in his mouth and let it drift into his head. It sounded a little familiar, as if he'd heard it in a song on late-night radio years before.

After a day spent in one of the three designated army training classrooms, Tector remembered very clearly how much he'd always hated the paper-pushing side of his military career. Learning Charleston's crowd control procedures and the civil laws to be enforced was certainly important, but it was also certainly _inactive_ and left Tector with a restless urge he couldn't really do anything about. As one of the Berserkers he was rarely at a loss for something to do, and he could choose, more or less, when and what he wanted to do. He told himself it would take some adjustment to sync in with doing things the Charleston way and realized that, for the first time, he was actually planning to stay. He didn't make a conscious decision on the matter; it seemed to have simply fallen into place. In another lifetime, Tector might have been alarmed by the prospect of operating on auto-pilot, but today it felt like a warm handshake from an old friend.

He was almost to his assigned living quarters when Koppel called out from behind him. "Hey, Murphy, wait up!"

Tector groaned as he turned around. The breakfast joke was nowhere near a distant memory. For all intents and purposes, he was over it but Tector was still more than a little peeved with Koppel.

"You gonna try to sell me the Alamo, Koppel? All I've got are traveler's checks."

"Lighten up, man. Listen, me and the fellas are throwing you a 'Welcome to Charleston' party tonight after Coker and Mead get off duty. Drink a few beers, talk to some pretty girls, get your ass handed to you at darts. It'll be fun."

"I think I'll take a raincheck, Kop. Those civil ordinances have me pretty beat. I'm just gonna call it a night." Tector had thought about wandering over to the other side of the compound to scrounge up some company within the Second Mass, but wasn't sure how his new look would be received.

"Bullshit. You're going. If I don't see you at the freight shaft next to the armory entrance by twenty-hundred I'll find you and drag you there myself."

"I'm not big on socializing, Koppel."

"Well get into it pronto, because you are going and you'll love it."

"How many ways do you want me to say 'no' before you go away, dude?"

"Libby's gonna be there and about thirty other fine specimens of the female form. Don't tell me you haven't missed _women_ ."

"Not interested. I guess that means more girls for you."

"If you won't do it for me, and you won't do it for the girls, do it for the beer. What has beer ever done to deserve being so rudely blown off?"

"Where'd you get the beer?"

"The Black Market is alive and well in Charleston, S-C, Murphy. Currency might not be worth anything anymore, but we're all still capitalists at heart."

"Fine, count me in for the beer. And you are not going to beat me at darts. Don't even flatter yourself."

"I'll meet you downstairs around eight, then."


	4. Chapter 4

Charleston wasn't endless, though it often appeared that way. The underground city was slightly smaller than a sixth of the original city's square mileage but there always seemed to be another bloc of concrete spaces beyond the next. Perhaps this was the case because many sections of Charleston remained unassigned and unoccupied, saved for future expansion and serving no current government purpose. The availability of such places within the compound lent itself to innate resourcefulness of the survivor-citizens.

Subsection L was designated as dry goods storage, though the city's location schematic needed updating. Certain residents had taken advantage of the empty rooms below the secure floor used to detain prisoners. The result, complete with scavenged, mismatched furniture and requisitioned lighting, was something of an end-of-the-world bachelor pad.

"Just don't tell anybody you were down here. If too many people know about it, you know…" Koppel explained as he and Tector walked from the deserted stairwell to a square area fashioned from chain-link fencing, indicative of its original storage purpose.

Tector recognized some of the twenty-or-so people already on hand, either by face or name, and heard a very early-and rather scratchy-Tom Petty playing on a nearby record player. He heard one woman in particular above the hum of conversation and looked around to find her standing with a group of friends, her blond hair swinging back and forth as she laughed with her entire mouth open. _Good for her_, he thought. Laughter was something of luxury these days and would probably be for a long, long time.

"Murphy," Koppel caught Tector's attention and gestured to three other uniformed men. Charleston's military service members wore their ACUs whether on duty or not in an effort to appear much larger in number than they actually were. "This is Egoff and Sasser and Stacey. You may've already met them on the practice range. Egoff cheats at cards, just to let you know."

"You Second Mass people making yourselves at home?" the man named Sasser asked, positioning his words so they implied a dissatisfied statement more than a legitimate question.

"The hospitality of Charleston is much appreciated, especially considering where we'd be otherwise."

"Let me introduce you around," Koppel suggested, interrupting the staring contest he felt developing between the two soldiers.

They walked over to the center of the room and up to a chest cooler bearing the RC Cola logo.

"What'd I tell you? See?" Koppel motioned to the cooler. "Domestic or import?"

Tector had seen hundreds of appliances just like this throughout his life, nearly every convenience store he'd ever been in had one. Underneath the lid one was supposed to find deliciously chilled beverages, but Tector had only to think of the omelet bar fiasco to remind himself not to trust anything Koppel might have to say. To his surprise, he wasn't being put on the wrong end of another joke; Koppel reached in and retrieved two bottles from the icy depths, handing one to his new comrade.

"How the hell did you all swing this?" Tector asked after twisting the metal cap from the bottle and enjoying a long swig.

"What were we supposed to do? Leave it up there for the cockroaches?"

Tector shrugged at the idea and looked around the room again. The music had stopped. A trio of women sat on a sofa, supported on one side by cinderblocks, engrossed in conversation. The _normalcy_ of the whole thing struck a funny chord and he listened as it bounced around inside his head while he tried to decide if he liked the idea of it or not.

Koppel began making introductions again and Tector tried to keep track of the names and the faces they accompanied, but he wasn't entirely committed to the activity. Knowing the odds of realistically needing to remember Katrin the dental assistant or Allan-from-Ohio weren't very high, he considered himself conserving brain power to only halfheartedly pay attention.

"And you already know Libby," Koppel finished the obligatory introductions for a group of people sitting at a makeshift table, a Scrabble board set up between them, and nodded his head toward a brunette woman. She looked up from her letter tiles and smiled before inviting them to join in the next round of the game. Tector, never much for word games was grateful when Koppel declined the offer for both of them, though he was glad to have run into Libby again. He rarely liked anyone these days; rarer still, he seemed to instantly decide she was likable and hoped they'd have a chance to interact. Perhaps he could make up for the poor impression of him he was certain she was given that morning.

Tector realized he couldn't remember what she'd looked like during their earlier encounter and deliberately watched her carefully now, so he wouldn't forget again. Her dark hair was pulled back in an imprecise ponytail that hadn't been completely pulled through the elastic band holding it in place and now threatened to fall apart with the slightest movement. He focused on her ponytail to avoid making eye contact, not wanting to accidentally give away any of the things he was thinking. After a few minutes of small talk with the occupants of the table, he'd practically memorized her hairline-from her forehead to the pair of tiny silver hoop earrings she was wearing—and was relieved when Koppel steered him away from the table toward a group of men throwing darts across the room.

Even as he stood at the toeline, dart in hand, focusing on the section of the board underneath the handwritten number "20," to prepare his arm, Tector found himself trying to place the accent he'd heard when Libby invited him to play Scrabble. He didn't remember hearing it in the dining room, but he'd been preoccupied then by his own embarrassment. It was decidedly Southern, he was certain, but he couldn't narrow down the region of the Southeast she must've come from. It wasn't Texan, for sure, and definitely not Cajun, but those were the only two things he could decide at the moment; he'd just have to listen her to speak some more. He didn't bother to ask himself why he even cared, or how it could possibly matter if she was from one state versus any other.

After opening his fifth beer, Tector felt as if he could almost imagine this was a night of his old life. He'd certainly enjoyed things, plenty of them, in his post-invasion existence but having fun now felt like he'd passed a test. It was proof that he could still be normal, something he'd never thought to worry about before now.

By the tenth time _Tom Petty: Live in Japan 1985_ spun to an end, no one bothered to restart it. The crowd had thinned considerably. Tector's dart-throwing skills had suffered to the point of incompetence since he'd put away his hobbies in favor of the global resistance against the alien invaders. He'd wondered what else he might no longer be good at.

Winding up the last round of the game, Tector found himself wandering back near the table where Libby sat with only two of her former companions. Her arms were crossed at her chest and the raised eyebrow she'd used on Donald was aimed now at a young blonde woman wearing a UCLA sweatshirt.

"Okay, I let you have _'Zarc'_, but I refuse to believe even you think _'Qwet'_ is a word, especially since you challenged '_Fetid'_ when I had my turn."

"'_Qwet' _is really a word. I swear. It has to do with water quality. You could look it up, you know."

"Uh-huh. One of these days we're going to find a Scrabble dictionary and your made-up double-word-score reign will be _over_." Libby remained unconvinced, but there was little anyone could do about board game dishonesty anyway. She finished her beer and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms out to either side.

Tector tried to be discreet as he studied her face, searching his mind for the word he would use to describe her. He thought she was attractive, but if there was anything deliberate about her prettiness, he couldn't tell. She wasn't exotic, and none of her facial features were distinctively handsome. _Subtle_, he thought, though he didn't that was a suitable term to use. He snuck one last glance before deciding he was at risk of being caught looking. _Subtle_ fit. It wasn't exactly a compliment, but he was having a hard time finding another word to take its place. She did, in fact, exude subtlety. Two years earlier it might've even been appropriate to use the word 'delicate' to describe the soft, albeit nondescript, edges of her face, but delicate now would seem insulting. There was something derogatory in the concept of fragility when survival was now such an accomplishment.

Without noticing that she was being pondered, Libby had begun clear away the game pieces, sweeping them from the table and into the box. She brushed by Tector when she stood up to discard her empty bottle into a nearby trash barrel.

"Excuse me."

"I can't place your accent," he finally thought of something to say to her.

"What accent?" she smirked at him.

"Never mind." Tector felt a little foolish for bringing it up.

"I'm from Alabama, though I thought I'd gotten rid of the accent."

After so many months with the Second Mass he'd grown accustomed to the chiseled speech patterns of New England natives so the soft curves of Libby's diction seemed especially pronounced. It was nice to hear words again being spread like jam across bread instead of lined up like matchsticks.

"It's nice. I like it." As soon as he heard himself say it, Tector felt like groaning at his own lameness. Why should it matter to her if he liked her accent or not?

"Thanks, I guess. You're a Texan, right?"

"East Texas, born and raised. Is it that obvious?"

"Not in a John Wayne movie way, don't worry."

She was standing in front of him now, her hands behind her back, pushed into the back pockets of her jeans. It only took Tector a moment to realize she was giving him the opportunity to continue the conversation.

He started to say something about the weather, but thought better of it. People in Charleston lived underground, it may've been months since she last saw the sky or even cared to look.

Libby waited for him to think of a talking point, but he seemed to be floundering. She wondered if he was nervous around new people or just generally socially awkward. He'd seemed friendly enough earlier, but now she thought he might be uncomfortable and waiting for her to leave him alone.

"Well, I guess I'm going to head back upstairs and call it a night. It was nice meeting you…uh…Murphy."

"Yeah…yeah." Tector wasn't expecting her to call him Murphy, but he supposed that was who he was now. "It was nice to meet you, too. Do you hang out around here often?"

"Just when the symphony isn't in town," She wasn't sure if he was struggling to be polite or if he actually wanted to talk to her. Figuring there was only one way to find out, she pulled her hands out of her pockets and looked him in the eye. "Do you want to see something awesome?"


	5. Chapter 5

The standard issue fitted sheet had been stamped every ten inches in a straight line to identify it as _Property MUSC Hospitals_.

Libby traced the largest outlined letters again and again with her right forefinger barely hovering over the surface. The recessed fluorescent utility lighting overhead provided just enough gray glow to make out the details of the logo. Starting at the stem of the M and traveling through the curves in one uninterrupted motion. After more than a hundred trips through the valley of the U and out the bottom of the C she propped herself up slightly on one arm and gently rolled Tector's outstretched arm toward herself, checking his watch for the time. Despite her painstaking effort not to disturb him, he woke and stirred slightly.

"Stay asleep." she said softly. "It's still early."

He reached forward, his knuckles brushing against her bare shoulder, and caressed her upper arm as if to invite her to lie back down.

"I'm going to go," she said while reaching for her T-shirt on the floor at the end of the narrow bed. After pulling it on without checking to make sure it wasn't wrong-side-out, she began running her hand between the sheets and blanket, feeling for her ponytail holder. Without saying anything, Tector joined the search and soon felt the black elastic circle underneath his fingertips. Standing it up between the first two fingers of his closed hand, he gingerly offering it up to Libby and watched as she pulled her hair back in two swift, sure motions. Swoop and twist.

"Where are you rushing off to?" he finally asked as she edged herself off the foot of the bed and stepped into her jeans.

"I want to go for a run before work," she said with her back to him.

"So, uh…do…" Tector began, not knowing what was about to come out of his mouth, but sure he was supposed to have something to say.

"Go back to sleep."


End file.

Falling Skies, Romance, Sci-Fi