Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
“If that was nuclear, our faces would have melted off already.”
“Good point. I don’t think it was an explosive. Not enough… explosions. I think it was just a crash.”
“I think you might be right,” I agree. Squinting into the wreckage at a distance through the dust covered windshield doesn’t reveal a whole lot.
“Is that a guy? It looks like someone’s there.”
“If anyone was in that explosion, I mean, crash, there’s zero chance they survived,” Jerry points out pragmatically.
“I think there’s someone out there. Look. There’s an arm. And a head.”
“Are they attached?”
“Yes.”
“So it wasn’t a plane, and that still looks like a flying saucer to me. You reckon this is some kind of movie promotional stunt?” Jerry is still eating the donut. Jerry’s getting close to retirement. He has two little kids and a dog. He’s a good guy. He’s been negotiating with distressed people for decades. He could talk anything off a ledge. I once saw him talk a pigeon off a ledge.
“No,” I say. “I don’t. I’m going to go check it out.”
I get out of the cruiser, pulling my mask up over my face in case there’s, I don’t know, particles or something. It makes me feel like I’m taking precautions, even though I am throwing caution to the potentially poisoned wind.
My eyes are fixed on what I think might be a body. I’m keeping in mind that there’s close to no chance whatsoever that the person is alive. But I keep walking, on the off chance that there’s something I can do to help.
“Holy…”
I reach the body, and find myself standing over something so spectacularly weird that the demolished pier seems reasonable by contrast.
It’s…he’s… huge.
He’s lying flat on his back, intact, but not moving an inch. And he is not human. Or at least, he doesn't look human.
He’s fucking green, for starters. He's also at least ten feet tall, and easily as broad as two men. I am guessing the impact put him through the equivalent of the spaceship’s windshield. His clothing has been largely seared or ripped or melted from his upper body.
He has markings on his arms and his shoulders and chest. They sort of look like a dragon’s scales, or a crocodile’s plated armor. I don't know if that’s how he usually looks, or if those are crash injuries. This guy looks as though he could be the villain in almost any superhero movie.
His skin is really strange. Smooth in some places, ridged and plated and scaled in others, particularly over his chest and shoulders. He has thick, flowing dark hair, and facial features vaguely approximating a human face in terms of having two eyes, one nose, and a mouth. All those features are very angry looking. He has fangs extending from under his upper lip. They look kind of cute with just the tips sticking out over his lower lip.
He’s really not moving. At all.
That’s when I realize this really might be a model of some kind. Maybe Jerry had it right. Maybe it’s a movie prop. Some sicko has blown up the ferris wheel and put a bunch of props at the base of it.
I guess there’s only one way to tell for sure if he’s dead, or alive, or just a pretend thing like a robot or maybe a model. Humans have been applying this test from the dawn of time, and even some animals have also mastered it. That’s how you know it’s a good idea.
I pick up a stick, and I poke the thing.
Poke.
Poooke.
Poke!
On the third poke, his eyes open and I am caught in a golden gaze wrapped around two dark pupils.
Results confirmed:
Not fake. And not dead.
“Whoa!” I exclaim, taking a step back. I’ve never seen eyes like that. I guess I knew the moment I saw him he wasn’t human, but it didn’t fully register until I looked into those eyes. Now he seems very real. Now he seems very, very alive.
The creature lets out a furious roar, a sound which makes me damn near shit myself. I feel his rage vibrating through me. He has so much fury locked inside that scaled green flesh that it threatens to overwhelm me. Those fangs that looked kind of cute when he was passed the hell out don't look cute now that his lips are curled back and they are extending, all the better to slash the fuck out of me with.
Fortunately, I am trained to keep my head and stay cool and calm. And I am also trained to look as though I am calm even when I am freaking the fuck out like everybody else. Those skills have never been more useful than they are right now.
“Sir, you need to calm down.”
I’ve said those words a hundred times before. Usually, the man I’m talking to is distressed for some reason more horrible than I care to think about. I guess that applies here too.