August 9, dawn in the Midwest

Timothy "Webmaster" Fontaine sat in his vinyl booth at the Squeeze Inn and watched her
from afar. She was what the guys, in the shop class that Tim failed, called a 'carpenter's
dream'. Her denim shorts covered bony hips, and the twin bandannas she'd fashioned into
a halter top covered nothing at all. Her platform sandals only served to accentuate her
long, thin legs, and her overall appearance was otherworldly, to say the least. Tim
thought to himself that this would be to his favour, for if they were found by the
Martians, they might take kindly to a human who was paired with one of their own.

Tim concentrated on his menu as she walked past. "Webby?" she ventured, pausing for a
moment on her way to the bathroom. "Um, Pamela, hi." he answered

Tim killed the engine and the headlights as they turned off the main road to the farm, but
his Grandmother knew the precise moment he'd returned. Grandmother's intuition, she'd
always claim, but the truth was she was constantly worried for her grandson, and probably
kept him closer than would be considered 'normal'. She peered from her upstairs window
to see Timothy and a girl exit the cab of the truck. She smiled to herself as she climbed
back into bed beside a snoring Grandpa: Timmy's got a girlfriend.

Pamela stifled a nervous giggle as they entered the kitchen. Webby shot her a withering
glare that she completely ignored. Tim thought his high-school nickname came from his
knowledge of computers, which was pretty scarce in these parts, but Pamela knew that it
came from the guys who'd taken phys.ed with Tim, and after seeing him in the showers
had certain questions about the lack of branching on Tim's family tree. Tim's sock feet and
Pamela's thick cork soles hid the sound of their retreat to the basement.

Tim's oasis was lit by a single bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. 60 watts doesn't go
far in the dark and dank, and Pamela found herself both marveling at the tidy space and
rubbing the goosebumps from her bare arms. "Hungry?" Webby asked, and when she
nodded yes, he led her to a paisley TV tray flanked by two overturned apple crates. She
sat and absentmindedly rubbed a bruise on her shin while he messed with a plate of
sandwiches and opened twin bottles of soda. As they ate their olive-loaf sandwiches, Tim
told her why he'd fashioned the storm cellar as he had. The Martians were coming, he was
going to be prepared, he was going to survive.

Pamela's eyes remained flat to any observer, but in her mind, they were the size of dinner
plates. This guy was a fucking fruit-loop. She rationalized it, as she always did at closing
time, and continued to nibble the crust of her bread as Tim continued the much-practiced
speech of his plan to survive, and eventually infiltrate Martian society. "....and that is
where you come in," he finished with a flourish, "....my pure bride, my Eve." At this,
Pamela choked mid-drink and copious amounts of grapefruit soda dribbled from her nose.
"I saw you last weekend with Jack Cooper at the grocery store," Tim continued, handing
her a paper napkin, "You said you wouldn't get in his car and go with him because you
were saving yourself, well, this is what you were saving yourself for."

At this, Pamela laughed and her smile was wide enough to take Tim's pickup truck in
sideways. She used the tissue to both wipe the grapefruit foam from her upper lip and the
tears from her eyes. "Had I been drinking?" she offered "Sometimes I'm a virgin when
I've drank too much..." She collapsed into laughter again and only stopped the split
second before he punched her in the face. That Web-Toed sonofabitch HIT me!
was her last thought before Tim hit her again, and again, and again, and again.

Grandma lay in bed, she'd heard a muffled female laugh and then a rhythmic thumping
against the support pillars in the basement. The cobwebs fell away from her passions and
she reminisced as she watched snoring Grandpa sleep. She rose and looked out the
window again to see Timothy in the dawn, carrying his spent lady-love to the barn. To
be young and in love she thought as she snuggled back into bed.

Timothy walked behind the barn and scraped a small hollow into the manure pile. He
threw Pamela and her bony limbs into the pile with no regret. Today's straw and manure
would cover her body, and with the Martian attack imminent, he was sure no one would
ever find her. He cleaned the stalls as numbly as he ever did, and scattered the offal across
the spot where Pamela lay. He wiped his forehead and sniffed the air as the smell of bacon
and eggs wafted out to the barnyard.

The one thing that never crossed the breakfast-cooking Grandma's mind as she sipped her
tea and perused her "National Sleeze Martian Issue" magazine was that there are worse
things on Earth than in all the heavens combined.