From the front page of the Boston Globe, May 18, 20XX, 6 hours after the Event:

  "WHAT THE HECK?"

  That is the reaction of many Americans as fallout continues from President Bannister's stunning revelation three days ago. The DOW continues to plummet as top economists struggle to grasp the implications of the Event--as it's come to be known--on American supply chains. "I can't even begin to wrap my head around the implications," said Paul Wentford, professor of economics at Louisiana State University. "This is going to cause a shortage of so many different things: we're looking at a potential economic crisis the likes of which we've never seen. I hope your computer's a good one, because it's going to be a while before you're able to replace it. And that's just the tip of the iceberg."

  But while academics and policy officials wrestle with the path forward, ordinary Americans are trying to keep things together as best they can. "I've still got a job, and I've still got a wife and kids to feed," said Ronald Moore, a 35-year-old corporate employee who spoke to this reporter. "Don't get me wrong, I'm as worried as anyone else, but what can I do about it? The best thing I can do for my family right now is to keep working and keep the lights on."

  Sandra Harris, a kindergarten teacher at a school in rural Maryland, had a similar perspective. She has dealt with the strain by throwing herself into her work, putting in extra hours at the school, baking cookies with her students and organizing impromptu singalongs to keep their minds, and hers, focused on other things. “The parents need us to be the normal ones right now,” she explained to the Globe. “If you see the news, you’d think the world’s ending. But the kids still want to finger-paint dinosaurs and play tag at recess. I’m not telling them about what’s happened. It’s not my place.”

  Others, however, are not as sanguine. Dr. James Franklin, a trauma doctor at Boston Hospital, bleakly described to this reporter the potential implications of the Event—as many are now calling it—on the healthcare system. "So many of our pharmaceuticals and medical technologies rely on complex supply chains and international trade," he said. “If we've lost access to the Asian or European manufacturing base, we could see a collapse in specialty drug supply within a month. And that's assuming we can keep the power grid, sanitation, and fuel distribution functional in the meantime, given the sudden technological orphaning of basically all mission-critical infrastructure." Franklin described the past seventy-two hours as a triage scenario extended to encompass not just the hospital, but the entire country—a thousand little problems, each a hemorrhage. “And let's not even talk about the mental health crisis that's about to hit us. The sheer shock of this will push some people over the edge."

  Indeed, many mental health professionals say they've been inundated with calls for sudden appointments. "I've got so many people wanting to come in and see me that I've had to extend my hours," said Dr. Laura Castillo, a psychologist in Washington D.C. "Some are just in denial, trying to process this as if it's some kind of collective hallucination. Others are dealing with panic attacks and severe anxiety, especially those with family members who were traveling abroad when this happened. It's heartbreaking.”

  Meanwhile, law enforcement officials continue to fear the outbreak of civil disorder as news of the event continues to sink in. "We're all on tenterhooks," admitted Boston Chief of Police Wendy O'Connell. "We're seeing a spike in looting and violence in some areas. No full-on riots as yet, but it's in the back of our minds. People are scared and confused, and when they're scared and confused, they sometimes act irrationally." She went on to say that her officers are working around the clock to keep the peace and offer reassurance whenever possible, but that their resources are stretched thin. "We're doing the best we can," she said, "but we're going to need help from the community if we're going to get through this. The worst thing we can do right now is drive ourselves into hysteria."

  Along the Mexican border--or rather, what used to be the Mexican border--citizens of West Texas are still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that they are now a coastal region. The residents of the border town of Presidio, which used to lie right on the edge of the Mexican border, are already trying to adapt.

  "I kind of like it," Presidio resident Mary Juarez admitted. "The beach is less than a mile from my house. My kids are already clamoring to go there when they get off school today." Presidio Mayor Jorge Gonzalez, however, had a different view. "We're going to have to bring in experts from New Orleans or Miami or one of those places," he groused. "We're going to have to build levees and bulwarks and seawalls and whatever the hell else to make sure we're not swept away by a flood or something. It's going to cost the town a fortune!"

  FEMA Director John Camilton was more circumspect. "I'm sure we can offer places like Presidio all the support they need," he said, "but they're not the only one. There are lots of places like it that need our help. The infrastructure changes alone are going to keep us busy for years, assuming Congress allocates the required funding. We'll need to assess the condition of roads, bridges, and ports, proof them against severe oceanic weather...it's going to take a while, but we'll get it done."

  Meanwhile, reports continue to filter in from fishermen, airplane pilots and others of unknown creatures in the skies and air.

  Charles Boudreaux, a third-generation shrimp fisherman based out of New Orleans, described his terrifying encounter while out on the water with this son. "We were a few miles out in the Gulf, morning after it happened," said Boudreaux, still pale days later. "At first it was normal. The water, the birds—it was almost like nothin’ changed. Then, we hit one of our good trawling points and it got...quiet. Real quiet. No pelicans, no gulls, just the wind and the chop. That’s when we saw the thing." According to Boudreaux a long, ridged shape surfaced about forty yards abeam their trawler, bigger than any marlin or shark. "At first I thought it was a log, or maybe some hurricane debris. Then it raised up, and you could see the damn head. Had so many teeth it’s a wonder it could close its jaws without killin’ itself. Spines along its back, and eyes big as bowling balls. I shot it in the eye with a flare gun and we skedaddled as fast as our boat could go.” When asked if he planned to go back out on the water, Boudreaux just laughed—harsh and nervous. "I’ve got a mortgage to pay, don’t I? My daddy didn’t run from Katrina, and I won't let some monster scare me off my pond, but you better believe I’m loading up on harpoons and getting myself some elephant guns before I head back out onto the water."

  Jack Markovich, an airline pilot rerouted to Portland for lack of international airspace, recounted the story now bouncing around aviation message boards. “We were en route from San Francisco to Seattle and had just hit cruising altitude when we saw it,” said Markovich, whose commercial jet was redirected after the Event’s unknown boundaries caused a global air traffic meltdown. “A bird, but not like any bird I’ve ever seen. Like a condor, was the first thing that went through my head, but its size…I’ve flown in Africa, seen eagles take lambs off the ground, but I’ve never seen anything that big before. Its wingspan was about twenty, maybe thirty feet at least.” Markovich, whose expression grew grim as he described the encounter, shook his head. “If I live to be a thousand I’ll remember what that thing looks like: its head was similar to a vulture or a condor, its beak curved like a pair of meathooks. Dark plumage, like matte black, all over its body. It followed us for a few minutes and then just vanished below the clouds. Control tower later said we were one of thirty pilots to report something similar that day.”

  But no matter how they're coping—if they're coping at all—the question on everyone's mind is the same: How did this happen, and now that it has, what's next?"

  --By Haley Babcock, senior reporter, The Boston Globe.

  **The White House, Washington, D.C.**

  For the second time in 24 hours, Bannister met with the members of his cabinet. Now that they had an idea of what happened--Bannister didn't dwell on the impossibility of it for the sake of his own sanity—the most urgent priority was to chart a way forward. He turned to his Secretary of Commerce, Bill Mason, and put his question bluntly.

  "How bad is it going to get?"

  Mason sighed. "Pretty bad, unless something changes quickly. While we have the agricultural and mineral wealth to sustain ourselves, we can’t ignore the goods we used to import. Specialized machinery, rare metals, and a vast swathe of manufactured goods we used to import from places like China and Japan are now luxuries we may not be able to produce on our own. We’re not facing a famine, thank God, but we’re going to be facing shortages of lots and lots of other things if we don’t find a way to rebuild our trade network quickly.”

  “How long will it be before those shortages set in?” Bannister pressed.

  Mason sighed. “Optimistically? Six to twelve months before we start to see disruptions at scale. But that’s for finished goods. Microcomponents for consumer tech could run out much faster. Pharmaceuticals? Eighteen weeks, tops, unless we find something to replace them with.”

  Mason’s expression was grave, and the only sound in the Cabinet Room was the distant, almost soothing tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

  “We need to reshore whatever we can, immediately. And we need to find out what, if anything, passes for civilization in this world. If they have the capability to produce, we need to establish trade, yesterday,” Mason finished. “My recommendation, Mr. President, is that we send out feelers in every direction, try and make contact with as many of this world's inhabitants as possible. We need to know who’s friendly, who’s not, and who’s got what we need."

  The Secretary of State stroked her chin thoughtfully. “We need linguists, anthropologists, and diplomats in the field, fast,” she said. “And recognition that every interaction may set precedent. If we fumble a first contact, if we offend the wrong local power, or stumble into a culture with a hair-trigger honor code, we might be at war overnight. We can’t act like we’re dealing with some Amazonian tribe—this is first contact at a national level. We can’t risk a technological or cultural misstep.”

  “We also need to prioritize reconnaissance,” the Director of National Intelligence put in. “Our satellites are still operational. We have mapped out a radius of two hundred miles past our coastline already and we’ve been sending out long-range recon drones to get the lay of the land. The ones we’ve sent furthest have found evidence of settlements on other landmasses. Fortified, pre-industrial by the look of some of them, but others show signs of heavy industry—the kind that puts out black smoke and leaves smog in the upper troposphere.”

  He flicked at the tablet in front of him; a grainy, satellite-captured image of a blocky city clinging to the side of a mountain appeared on the room’s big screen. “This one, for example. The image was captured from a very long range—we don’t want to freak anyone out or announce ourselves prematurely—but you can clearly see that there are watchtowers, curtain walls, defensive earthworks. Based on footpaths and heat signatures, we estimate a population of a few thousand. There are also miles of farmland around it, so they’re not hunter-gatherers. Could be an empire, for all we know.”

  “The inhabitants?” Bannister asked.

  “Human,” the director stated. “Well, most of them.” He zoomed in on a pixelated line of figures walking atop the battlements. “But if you look closely, you can see that one of them—that one there, in the middle—has long, pointed ears.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  There was a moment of incredulous silence.

  “Elves?” Bannister finally said. “Actual Elves?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” the Director admitted. “Right now, it’s best to avoid leaping to conclusions.”

  “Distance from the closest U.S. city?” the Secretary of State asked.

  “Several thousand miles. As far as we can tell they have no idea we’re here.”

  The Attorney General, who had until now kept his eyes on his notes, spoke in a low monotone as he changed the subject. "What about law enforcement? Domestic unrest?"

  The Director of the FBI was ready. “We are holding for now, but as the news sinks in and the shortages Secretary Mason outlined start to be felt, we anticipate a spike in suicide, alcoholism, and violence. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already, truth be told.” The Director placed his palms flat on the table, surveying the room. "Some people are using the chaos as a pretext to settle old scores, or just to indulge their worst instincts. That’s not the majority yet. For now, most people seem to just want to keep their heads down and wait for the dust to settle. We’re doing what we can, but make no mistake: it’s a pressure cooker. Any misstep, any sign that the administration isn’t in control? It’ll blow. And if we don’t rebuild something akin to our former supply chains quickly , it’ll blow anyway. When antibiotics run out, for example, and people start dying from infections that could otherwise be treated…” He sighed. “In the meantime, people want good news, and the faster we give them some, and the sooner the worst of our supply issues are dealt with, the sooner risk of widespread disorder will fade. Make no mistake, though. We’re up against the clock.”

  Bannister pressed his lips together, tasting the old dry bitterness that came from years of hearing nothing but bad news. “I agree. The question is, where to get it?” He turned to the Joint Chiefs and singled out the Chief of Naval Operations, “Admiral, what is the status of our naval and other military assets? Do the...creatures...encountered in the waters off our coasts pose a significant threat?”

  The CNO stood and saluted. “As to your first question, our current fleet capabilities consist of 12 Ford-class aircraft carriers, 9 Reagan-class carriers, 12 America-class amphibious assault craft, 20 Constellation-class Corvettes, 73 Arleigh-Burke Class destroyers, 71 Columbia-class submarines, numerous support vessels of varying size and tonnage, and approximately 4,012 operational aircraft. Additionally, our emergency reserve fleet comprises a further 120 vessels. The U.S. Army's current composition consists of 452,689 active duty personnel, 4,406 crewed aircraft, and around 225,000 vehicles of all types, including 2,200 tanks. Additionally, the Army has 325,218 Army National Guard personnel and 176,968 Army Reserve personnel to draw upon if needed. The U.S. Marine Corps has at this time 273,364 active duty and reserve personnel, along with 1,317 manned aircraft, 450 tanks, and 32 amphibious warfare vessels. Finally, the U.S. Air Force's current strength is tallied at 689,000 personnel and 13,000 aircraft. I can confirm that none of these assets sustained damage during the...whatever it was."

  He paused to take a breath. "As to your second question...that’s more difficult to say. The enormous serpentine creatures captured on some of the videos currently making the rounds on social media have not shown any outward aggression as yet, but they could potentially cause damage or loss of life if they turn hostile. We have also had reports, particularly from our submarine fleet, of enormous squid or octopus-like creatures. We are recalibrating sonar and developing protocols to engage these threats effectively, and we’ve begun deploying unmanned underwater reconnaissance craft to ascertain just what else might be waiting for us down there.”

  “Will sonar deter them?” Bannister inquired.

  A scientist from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration spoke up, “Mr. President, while sonar may deter certain marine life, these creatures are of an unknown nature. We can’t guarantee they'll react the way we hope they will, but what we can do is make an educated guess based on the behavior of marine animals back home. Sonar produces sound waves that can be unpleasant or disorienting to aquatic life forms. We suspect that these beings might be affected the same way ocean-dwelling animals back home were, but we won’t know for certain until we are able to run some tests."

  "Run them," Bannister ordered.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll begin preparing first contact protocols," the Secretary of State added. "When—not if—we make contact with any of this world’s inhabitants, we’ll be ready.”

  The President nodded and surveyed the faces around the table, looking at each of them in turn. "The only way out of this is forward. We either pull together, or fall to pieces. There is no alternative.”

  No one in the room had any way of knowing it, but first contact was about to be made whether they were ready for it or not. A hundred miles off the coast of California, the bow of the Constellation-class frigate U.S.S. Lexington cut through the waves of a foreign sea like knife through satin. The vessel, only recently commissioned and placed into active duty, had received its orders not long after the Event, and the orders were simple: coordinate with other vessels in the fleet to establish a maritime perimeter, scout ahead as far as possible, and report back any unusual activity. The Lexington's CO, 24-year-old Lt-Commander Aisha Kingley, had just finished her third cup of coffee that day when the call came from the bridge.

  "Ma'am! You should see this!"

  Aisha put her cup aside hastily and hurried to the bridge, where she found one of the men stationed there looking through the viewport with a pair of binoculars. "What? What is it?"

  He pointed out at sea. "Contact, Captain! Bearing 045 degrees, approximately five nautical miles! See the smoke?"

  Aisha snatched the binoculars and held them to her eyes. "Vessel? What kind of vessel?"

  "Unknown, but it's not one of ours. It's got paddlewheels or something on either side of it, no masts or anything like that. Got a big smokestack on it, though, and that's what first alerted us."

  Aisha looked, and sure enough, she could see the telltale black plume of smoke rising against the horizon. Then, suddenly, a tiny ball of bright orange blossomed into light on its starboard side. Aisha didn't need to guess to know what it was. An explosion. A second later, she saw what caused it.

  From beneath the waves around the stricken vessel--now gushing smoke from the jagged wound in her hull as well as from her smokestack--a huge serpentine head appeared. Even from this distance Aisha could see the huge needle-teeth in its maw and the size of it...Christ, the size of it! It was almost as big as the Lexington itself!

  The thing opened its mouth and snatched something off the mysterious ship's deck. Aisha caught a glimpse of flailing limbs before it bit down on its prey. Sickened, she turned to her Executive Officer. "All hands to battle stations. Whatever that thing is, let's see how it likes picking on something more its own size. That ship needs help, and we're going to give it to them."

  "Aye, ma'am." The XO, a man a few years her junior, picked up the ship's comm and spoke into it. His voice echoed through the Lexington from stem to stern. "Now hear this. Now hear this. Vessel in distress sighted under attack from hostile marine wildlife. All hands, man your battle stations! This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill!"

  The Lexington burst into a frenzy of activity. Men and women scrambled, footsteps on steel deck a thunderous counterpoint to the muffled alarms. Boots pounded on steel decks, missile tubes spun open, and the chattering chorus of headsets erupted with terse commands. The ship’s combat information center flickered with the blue light of radar and targeting screens, illuminating faces taut with adrenaline and astonishment.

  On the bridge, the XO’s hands flew across the comms, relaying orders. In the CIC, sailors hunched over consoles, calling up targeting data and running through fire-control checklists. The smell of coffee and adrenaline thickened the air; somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship, the engine room crew cursed and coaxed the turbines for another knot, then another, pushing the hull so hard it began to shudder.

  Aisha returned her gaze to the viewport, tracking the carnage. The battered paddlewheel ship was trying to turn, but the monster had wound itself along nearly half its length. Over and over, the serpent hammered the hull with its head and smashed it with its coils, tearing at the deck with backward-curved teeth. Screams rolled across the water, faint but clear.

  The monster didn't seem to have noticed them, or if it did, it didn't care. It was too distracted by the crew of the other ship, which it was gleefully picking off one by one. As they got closer, Aisha could pick out more details about the vessel: it reminded her, in a way, of the turtle ships used by the Koreans against Japan in the 16th century: squat, almost rectangular in shape, with a raised forecastle and aftcastle that looked like they had been carved from a single piece of wood. The ship's hull was sturdy, reinforced with iron plating and powered by two large paddlewheels on either side of its stern. There were no masts, as she'd been told, only a now-demolished smokestack that protruded from the deck and which the creature had crumpled like a beer can in its mighty coils. As she watched, the sides of the ship opened and the stubby mouths of what were unmistakably cannons were run out and fired in quick succession. Several shots hit the beast, and they impacted with sprays of blood and mulched flesh, but the metal cannonballs--or at least that's what Aisha assumed they were using--didn't do enough damage to kill it. All they really did was piss it off.

  "All weapons, fire at will," Aisha said.

  "Yes, ma'am!" The XO turned to the bridge crew. "You heard her! Authorization given! Open fire! Fire at will!"

  A heartbeat later, the Lexington's launch tubes erupted with fire and smoke, and a bristling volley of Tomahawk missiles streaked through the air toward the sea monster.

  The Tomahawk has long been a staple of the U.S. Navy, and there is a reason for its enduring use. Its combination of versatility, accuracy, and range make it a valuable asset on land, air or sea and it is capable of being deployed from a wide variety of delivery systems. Its sophisticated guidance system allows it to change its course in mid-flight, making it difficult for enemy defenses to intercept. It flies at low altitudes, which makes it difficult to detect on radar. And, most importantly, the standard payload for the most recent iteration of the Tomahawk consists of a 1,000-pound high-explosive warhead. One of these was enough to create a crater 20 feet wide and destroy a two-story house in the blink of an eye.

  The Lexington fired three of them. They shrieked from their cells on a plume of orange and white, arcing low over the water before slamming with surgical finality and incredible speed into the beast’s head and midsection. The force of the strike—and the following two that landed in near simultaneity—ripped a three-story fountain of vapor, blood, and oily black smoke from the monster’s flesh. The thing writhed, releasing an ungodly, ocean-shaking roar. Its coils—shredded, burning, and leaking ribbons of tissue—unspooled from the hull of the besieged paddle ship, sending bodies tumbling onto the splintered deck below.

  The monster’s head, still attached by a stubborn knot of vertebrae and sinew, snapped upright as if trying to locate its assailant. Aisha, watching through the binoculars, flinched as the creature’s jaw exploded in a brief, crimson supernova. The beast collapsed into the water like a felled skyscraper. For a moment, all was silent except the crackle of burning wreckage and the panicked clamor from the beleaguered, battered ship. The water around the stricken paddlewheeler ran red as the remnants of the beast churned with the debris already cast off by the wounded ship.

  “Jesus,” murmured the XO, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

  Aisha lowered the binoculars, her hands trembling as the adrenaline curdled in her veins. “Bring us alongside,” she managed. “Engines to half. Let’s see if anyone’s left to save.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” said the helm, voice flat with the lingering shock of what they’d just witnessed.

  The Lexington edged closer, dwarfing the wounded steamer as easily as a blue whale swimming next to a dinghy. Lexington’s crew prepared for the unexpected. Sailors manned the rails, ropes and rescue gear in hand, unsure whether they’d be hauling foreign sailors to safety or fending off another round of sea-beast aggression. Medics stood ready with trauma kits; the ship’s interpreter—a navy brat who grew up on anime and hammered through four years at the Defense Language Institute—was paging through an old, battered copy of the Klingon dictionary, just in case.

  Aisha watched the battered craft as Lexington drew closer toward it. It was trailing oily smoke and wreckage. Its survivors crowded the deck, many bloodied, some missing pieces of clothing or equipment. They were, she could see now, short and stocky, more than the human norm, and to a man they all had full beards. Some were styled in forks, others braided, others worn untamed and scraggly.

  They wore garb straight from a Renaissance fair or Tolkien cosplay group—heavy leather jerkins, overcoats of mail, steel helmets banded in copper or brass. A few had lost their headgear and revealed faces with skin the color and texture of weathered wood, faces shaped by centuries of hard living and harder drinking. The weapons in their hands ranged from matchlock muskets to pikes and axes, all slick with blood and brine.

  Someone behind her finally said what they were all thinking. “Are those…are those dwarves?”

  The word hung in the air with the reek of cordite and the sickly-sweet tang of atomized blood wafting from the carnage astern. And although Aisha didn’t respond to the question aloud, she realized that maybe they were dwarves—or at least, something so close that, for all practical purposes, the taxonomy was academic. At the sight of Lexington’s colossal hull barreling toward them, the survivors had abandoned any pretense of discipline and crowded the rail.

  One of them, more stoic and less flappable than the others, folded his arms over his chest and stared up at the Lexington with gimlet eyes. Aisha instantly assumed he was the one in command.

  “Well,” she said, taking a deep breath. “One way or another, we’re about to find out.”