World War Seven broke out while I inspected the Doomsday Shelter seventeen miles below Area 51. Incommunicado, I didnít even know.
I was there only three days. But during that time, Martians waged nuclear war, won, and departed Earth with the spoils.
I checked nearby Las Vegas. No survivors. I checked other cities. Same thing. Horrors! Beside me, the only other survivors were cockroaches.
Fortunately, the Doomsday Shelter had lotsa supplies. Except for human companionship, life was normal.
Months passed. I was dying of loneliness. Then it dawned on me: I had a divine mission.
I contacted the King of the cockroaches. When I discussed my plan, he agreed.
We held a beauty contest. I married the winner.
Weíve mated hourly to repopulate Earth. Itís working. When we have sufficient offspring, Iíll build a humongous army, nuclear weapons, and rocket ships. Then weíll get revenge.
Beware, you genocidal Martian bastards! The cocka-humans are coming.
submitted at 6:36pm
7 May 2009
Michael's stories have been published by 107 magazines and 30 anthologies.