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)
When I look in their direction, I see that the military is assembling barricades and probably has all sorts of weapons aimed at us right now. I have the strangest feeling of calm washing over me. I don’t think I’m going to get out of here alive. I don’t think there’s any way to survive this.
I can only imagine all the orders flying about between various directors, managers, and presidents. There’s no way there’s any protocol on this situation. It’s never happened before. So we’re going to revert to typical humanity. We’re going to kill the thing that scares us. I know that like I know the sun will rise and rain will fall. It’s inevitable.
“Shit,” I say.
Jerry nods, agreeing.
I always knew there was a risk of dying on the job. For a brief period, I thought it would be an honor. Then I realized how stupid that was. It’s my job to survive, and ensure that the people I interact with survive as well. That extends to this alien. Maybe there’s hope. Maybe…
I can see that the perimeter is getting more established. It is incredible how fast twelve foot wire walls can go up when people really want them to. If they wanted to capture the alien, they wouldn’t be building walls to block him in. They’d be rushing the pier to catch him.
Jerry’s eating my last donut now. I’d complain, but now doesn’t seem like the time to get petty over pastry ownership.
“So what’s going on?” He asks the question with a mouthful of jam. “What’s his deal?”
“I have no idea who this guy is,” I lie. I lie because I don’t want to be the one who ends up on record babbling about aliens if we somehow survive this.
I do not have a good feeling about what is happening. People are scared, and when people are scared, they get stupid. I’m glad I’m here with Jerry. Jerry may be many things. He might be slow, and unfit, and maybe not all that smart, but he doesn’t panic.
“You have any water, Jerry?”
“Uhhh…”
He leans around and shuffles through a bunch of stuff that shouldn’t be there. This cruiser rarely gets used to pick up any perps, and Jerry has a habit of using the rear seats to carry the stuff his kids forget to take to school.
“Here,” he says. “This probably has water in it. Or juice. Either way, probably not alcohol.”
“Okay. Cool. Thank you. Try to get in touch with the station. Or make contact with the guys over there.”
“The military guys?”
“Yeah. Them. Drive over to them. See if you can negotiate something.”
“Alright. I’ll see what they want us to do.”
Jerry puts the car in gear, my donut still clutched in his hand to see what the military types are up to. I go back to attend to King Brawn, as he likes to call himself.
I notice, as I once again draw close to the massive alien beast crushing various signage, that his eyes are closed, and he is breathing shallowly. He looks like he is in a lot of pain. The dark streaks of blood are still there, but they appear to be slowing in their spread. He might have some natural ability to heal from serious wounds. Either that, or he’s running out of blood and is about to pass out completely.
“Mr. King Brawn?”
He opens an eye, pure gold from the heart of the universe glaring at me with immediate affront.
“You say that like it is a human name. Like Don Brawn or something equally pedestrian. My name is not King Brawn. My name is Brawn. My title is King.”
“So… Brawn, then?”
“KING!” He thunders the word, as if it is the most important thing in the world to him. I don’t think he’s going to die anytime soon. At least, not from his current injuries.
“I got you something to drink, your majesty,” I say, handing him the sippy cup.
He takes it with two of his fingers and looks at it askance, bringing it very close to his fearsome, be-fanged face.
“What is this motif?”
“They’re rubber duckies.”
“Why would this vessel be marked with,” he pauses, attempting to mimic my words. “Rubber Duckies? Are these in some way revered by your people?”
“No. The bottle belongs to Jerry’s daughter. She’s four.”
“So you give me the liquid of infants!”
At this point he’s just looking for an excuse to be offended.
“You need liquids. Drink it.”
“You do not tell me what to do, little female human,” he snarls, looking over my head. “What are those other humans doing?”
“Something else.”
“How incredibly vague,” he says, taking a drink from his little yellow sippy cup. I wish I had a camera. He looks absolutely adorable. There’s something about him, in spite of his grumpy demeanor, which makes me want to, I don’t know, kiss him or something.