When Aliens Weep: An Alien Apocalyptic Saga (Species Intervention #6609 Book 7) Page 6

  “Hello?” she whispered. The silence threatened to overwhelm her. She reached out to touch, encountering a human shoulder. She shrank back, surprised. She admitted to herself that she’d fully expected an injured creature.

  “Hello, can you hear me?” She ran her hand across his muscular chest, fumbling on his face. Her fingers danced lightly, absorbing his features. She felt the stubble of his beard confirming his sex and allowing her to guess he was mature. Her heart sang with the possibility he could help her.

  The man groaned again and smacked his lips, his hand reaching up to clutch at her wrist—luckily her good one—and pulling her down to his face.

  “Wa . . . ter, pl . . . pls.” The man mumbled and choked but she knew what he needed. Wrenching her arm away, she stood to inch her way back, retracing her steps and carefully counting her way. She couldn’t afford to get lost now.

  Finding her way slowly back to her pallet, she knelt to feel for her protein mush and water. She could hear louder whines from the man as he reacted to her absence.

  “Hold on, please. I’m getting you water.” She made her way back to the wall, carefully counting her steps, her burden held awkwardly, pressed between her good arm and her body.

  She set the food and water on the floor when her foot signaled she had returned to the man. Ineptly, she tried to cradle water to his mouth after locating his nose.

  “Easy . . . easy.” As the man insatiably lapped the water, it spilled all over her lap, further chilling her. Guttural sounds fermented deep in his throat, scaring her. She set the food and water down and carefully moved away, back to the security of the wall. She listened as the man continued to consume her supplies. The noise finally stopped with a sigh.

  He cleared his throat, his voice low and dejected. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . please don’t judge me by this. I’ve been through hell. I’m just . . . just not myself.”

  She sat silently weighing a response. She thought she heard a sob, melting some of her caution. She desperately needed an ally. Inching forward, she moved back to the man.

  “Who are you?” she asked eagerly. “Where are you from? Have you been here long? Can you tell me your name?” Her questions were met with silence. A minute ticked by and Ginger Mae began to doubt her chances of finding help from this man. She gave him a nudge with her foot, hitting what appeared to be his bandaged wrapped arm and getting a sudden scream for her efforts.

  She quickly sat down. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I can’t see.” The screaming subsided to a low moaning.

  “They took my hand. They took it . . .”

  She recoiled in horror. “They took your hand?” The thought left her speechless. His groaning turned to a whimpering as he spilled out some of his story.

  “I don’t know where I am or how I got here.” Sobbing between his sentences, he made it clear how useless he would be. “I can’t see either. I’ve had this bandage on my eyes as long as I can remember. They . . . they came for my hand a day or so ago.”

  She remembered the strange sounds she’d heard as if in a dream. “I’m so confused. I thought I was alone here. Do you remember when I was brought in?”

  Her hands began to roam carefully over his face. She felt the bandages on his eyes. “I have the same bandages. I seem to recall I had problems seeing when they brought me here. Then I had . . . I think . . . a dream or something and when I woke up, I had these.” She felt her loosening bandages.

  “I don’t know when you came in. I was in pretty bad shape. Vomiting . . . so sick.” His voice was getting stronger.

  “Yeah . . . me too. And the smell made me sicker. Did you smell it, too? Like something bad was burning?”

  “Yeah. I get a creepy feeling of dread when I smell it. It usually means they’re going to take me. It’s never a good thing.”

  She sat in the dark and examined his voice with her ears. His tones were friendly but confused. His crying had stopped and he seemed more rational now. She needed more information. Much more.

  “You haven’t answered me. Where are you from? Who are you?” These seemed to be the wrong questions to ask as he clammed up again. “Can’t you answer me? What’s the big deal? I’m not going to do anything to you, for Pete’s sake. I can hardly walk as it is.”

  He finally broke his silence. “It’s not that. I just . . . just . . . don’t know.”

  “Just don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing here, where I’m from. I can’t remember anything.”

  “Are you kidding me? How can that be?” Oh . . . my . . . God. She stopped cold, goose bumps crawling up her back. She reacted as if hit by a steam shovel. Overtaken by a bottomless fright she realized she didn’t know her own name, or where she was from either. She’d been so preoccupied with what was happening to her she hadn’t even realized. She remembered thinking she needed to get back to . . . to where? Her insides began to crawl, snakes making tracks inside her where her confidence used to be. Who am I? I know I’m me but . . . who am I?

  “You okay?” the man asked. She shook her head, trying to clear the feelings of abandonment that overtook her.

  “No,” she whispered. “I am very much not okay.” She tried to blink her eyes inside their bandages, wetness testifying to her unconscious tears. She reached out her good arm to find the stranger’s remaining hand. She felt a reassuring squeeze from him.

  His tone was low, almost a whisper matching hers. “Go ahead say it. You don’t remember either.”

  Ginger Mae choked with emotions. “How did you know?”

  “Just goes to reason. We seem to be in the same predicament. You’re just a bit luckier than me.”

  “Why do you say that?” She wrinkled her nose in puzzlement.

  “Well, dear lady. You have both of your hands and probably all of your hair.”

  Ginger Mae snorted. “If you can call that lucky.” She leaned in toward his voice. “Do you mind?” Without waiting for an answer, she held out her hand to locate his head. She slowly ran her questing fingers over his bald pate, free of shaving stubble, warm and smooth. “You used to have hair. Before you came here . . . ?”

  He reached up with his remaining hand to cover hers. He brought their hands down to rest at his side. “Sorry, I guess I’m just not used to it yet.”

  “I noticed your head is smooth. Shouldn’t you have stubble if they shaved your hair off?” She had completely misunderstood. “It’s a lot easier to get used to something like that than the blindness caused by these infernal bandages.”

  The man released a sigh. “I guess you’re right. It’s just one more hard adjustment at a time where I seem to have no control over anything. That’s not easy for a man who has been so darn independent his whole life.”

  “How do you know you’ve been independent? You can’t remember anything.” She hoped he was wrong and their memory would come back. She had to bank on that or she would just lose it right here, right now.

  “It’s just a feeling I have. That’s all. As a matter of fact, I think we should get rid of these damned bandages. I can’t go another second not seeing. And if we're going to figure out how to get out of here, we need to be able to see, damn it.”

  Ginger Mae felt the man remove his hand that covered hers. She sensed him working at his bandages.

  “They feel like they’re ready to come off, anyway.” She heard the sound of adhesive parting, and the man laughed with a sense of relief.

  “It’s okay . . . I can see. The light hurts.” A moment of silence.

  “Okay, it’s your turn. I think you need to take yours off, too. Let’s see if you can see anything.”

  Ginger Mae raised her hands to her eyes, her bandages already loose. She felt for a slack end she could unravel as she wondered at the new note in the man’s voice. Scratching insistently at a pucker in the bandages, she slowly unwound them and tossed them aside.

  Her eyes remained closed, her trepidation getting the best of her. The
man found her hand and gave it a squeeze, his voice strange with apprehension. “It’s okay. You can get through this.”

  Ginger Mae slowly opened her eyes. The gummy residue of accumulated inactivity failed to obliterate the fact that she could, indeed, see. The light caused her to blink and squint painfully but she felt her eyes would be alright.

  “You have beautiful blue eyes.” His statement drew her attention.

  She examined the man in front of her. He had a wide, trusting face and fair complexion although muddy and slack. His frame looked muscular and healthy under the circumstances. At the moment, his face had arrayed itself in a demeanor of compassion, of all things.

  “What’s the matter? Not what you expected? And for your information, my eyes are brown.”

  The man laughed, his face lit up by his effervescent smile. The sound was wonderful to her ears. So human . . .

  “My dear, you have the most amazing crystal blue eyes. No one would make a mistake about that.” He laughed again.

  “Honestly. I know what color my eyes are. And they’re brown.” The man stopped laughing, his face sobering again with a look of pity. He reached out to her shoulder as if to pick off a piece of lint. He held out his hand for her to see.

  There, resting in his palm was a thick strand of blond hair. He dropped it in her lap and plucked another strand off her shoulder.

  In a panic, she reached up to find her hair missing, minor clumps still adhering to her scalp. She trailed her quavering fingers through them, her face crumbling as they fell out into her hand. Her face dissolved into quiet tears, her shuddering frame announcing the final degrading humiliation as she stroked the useless strand of her female identity and femininity.

  She looked up as the man, with a bashful look, knelt down and hesitantly took her into his good arm.

  “I know it’s harder for a woman. I’m sure it’s quite a shock. But we’re both still alive. Hold on to that. I think we have bigger problems, right now. We can help each other. I know I’m sure grateful as all hell to find I’m no longer alone.”

  Her sobbing abated in his embrace. He was right. At least she wasn’t alone anymore. The terrors had receded a bit. She pulled away from him to look into his face. She studied the honest planes of his bones and realized what an attractive man he was, maybe a few years younger than her.

  “I know you’re right. It was . . . just a shock.” She rubbed her traces of tears away and tried to smile. “Bad timing, I guess.”

  She glanced across the room to her pallet. She could see traces of her blond glossy hair littering the floor and her bed. She glanced back at the man’s pallet. It was a mess with strewn covers, dried gruel from old portions of the protein slop they gave them to eat and water spilt everywhere from his water container that lay on its side.

  “Well . . . I guess we can’t cry over spilt milk, as they say. That goes for hair and water too.” She gave a big sigh then turned back to her new companion, straightening her shoulders. “I’ll be okay, thanks.” She gave him a tiny smile.

  He smiled back. “Atta girl.” Together they rose to their feet, he wobbly, and she steadier.

  “Why don’t we move our stuff together?” she suggested. “We need to clean this place up. Then we need to take stock and try to make some kind of a plan. Agreed?” The man nodded his agreement and, with her help, gathered everything salvageable to carry over to her part of the room where they arranged their pallets side-by-side. A defense of two. Bald and broken but a defense none the less.

  An hour later, they had cleaned up her area and arranged their pallets to their liking. They both quietly wondered what their hosts would make of the new arrangement and whether it might have any deleterious effect for them.

  “Hey you . . . I’m beat with just that little work.” Ginger Mae sat on her pallet and watched the man shove his broken water bottle in the corner with the rest of their small pile of detritus. He turned and gave her his now characteristic quiet grin. She watched it transform his face, lighting up his eyes.

  “How long are we going to go on calling each other, Hey you?” he asked, his smile widening.

  She reddened, her eyes becoming slits as she looked down at her legs. “Sorry. I guess we need to fix that somehow.”

  He watched her, amusement now dancing gaily on his face. “Well, why don’t I name you and you can name me? I think that would work just fine,” he suggested.

  Getting into the spirit, newly bald Ginger Mae clapped her hands. “Okay. What should we name me?”

  The man cocked his head and thought. “I have a name that just popped into my head. It’s a pretty name, I think you’ll like it. It’s a happy name.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Let me have it,” she said with reservation.

  “How about, Bonnie?”

  Ginger Mae tapped her finger against her chin in thought. “I like it. It’s comfortable. And a happy name. Bonnie it is.”

  “And how about me?” The man looked hopeful.

  Ginger Mae studied him, trying not to smile, showing him her serious intent.

  “Since you are soon to become my lifesaver and figure out how to get us out of here, it needs to be something fitting. Something serious and strong.” She looked deeply into his eyes and a fleeting thought popped into her head. “Peter. You look like a Peter.”

  He smiled with relief. “Peter it is, then.” He walked carefully over to her and knelt down, extending his only hand.

  “How do you do, Bonnie? My name is Peter.”

  She paused; a look of confusion crossed her face then quickly disappeared as she slid her hand into his.

  “You have no idea how happy I am to meet you, Peter. I have a feeling we’re going to be fast friends.” They shook sincerely, hope now featured in both their newly seeing eyes.

  Four Days AE (After Earth)

  Chapter 7

  Kenya paced madly, her exasperation with Bonnie pronounced in her footwork. So much the better. She knew she could hardly yell at the woman. Not when her own hubby was safe and sound tucking the baby in before tonight’s memorial service.

  She stopped her pacing and decided to try a new direction with Bonnie. Joining Chloe and Bonnie at the bed, she took one last look around the ridiculously decorated bedroom.

  Polka dots and vibrant colors clashed with giant stuffed elephants. Where in the world did Dezi get this stuff from? The Kreyven just happened to have them lying around?

  Rolling her eyes over the top of Bonnie’s matted head, she signaled for Chloe to stand up, a task easier said than done as her pregnancy was just beginning its last month. Chloe groaned upon rising, her hands supporting her back.

  “Come on, Bon. It just won’t be the same without you,” she said.

  Kenya and Chloe both glanced at the purple plastic side table that contained bowls of food left untouched since lunchtime. Their eyes met as Kenya’s hand gently stroked Bonnie’s filthy hair.

  “I know, chickey. It’s hard losing your husband and your mother at the same time. I . . .”

  Bonnie slammed her fist in her bedclothes.

  “I didn’t lose Peter. He’s still alive. Now leave me alone. Please.” Bonnie turned her back to the room and her friends.

  “Why don’t you go ahead?” Kenya whispered to Chloe. With her eyebrows raised, Kenya nodded her head at her. “I’ll meet you at the nursery. Tell Kane to wait for me.” Reaching out, Kenya gave the other woman a quick hug. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to try to talk some sense into her. This has been going on long enough.”

  Kenya watched Chloe plod out of the room, Bonnie’s back unyielding. She quietly sidled onto the bed.

  Her head whipped back to the door as a new sound drew her attention. She was surprised to see Hud and Abby standing there, the Elder’s tawny tail twitching with tension as they tiptoed into the room.

  “Are you coming?” Abby mouthed. Hud’s expressively hopeful face and raised eyebrows revealed his feelings. Kenya gazed at the twosome sadly before sh
e slowly shook her head, holding her finger to her lips to keep them silent. They bowed their heads, Abby slipping her arm around Hud. With a scooting motion of Kenya’s hand, they crept back out of the room.

  Taking a deep breath, Kenya let Bonnie have it.

  “Well, you couldn’t very well go anyway, smelling the way you do.” Bonnie’s shoulders stiffened. “Don’t you think you’re becoming a bit tiresome? We all have burdens to carry. We have all lost someone we loved: Scotty, Johno, Crystal, Ginger Mae and the others. You don’t see Hud carrying on like this, do you?”

  “Leave me alone, Kenya.” The words dripped with venom; her shoulders remained frozen.

  “It’s been days now. How long are you going to stay cooped up in here not eating? Can you please take some time and think about the rest of us and get the heck off your pity pot? There’s a lot of work that needs to be done and you need to do your share.” Kenya held her breath, afraid she’d gone too far.

  The unyielding shoulders moved. Bonnie turned her body back to face Kenya and sat up. Her face was blotchy and sallow, her hair hanging in clumps. She reached over to the nightstand and calmly raised a glass of water to her chalky lips. She set the glass down after a long drink and folded her arms back under the yellow and red striped bedcovers; more of Dezi’s misguided efforts to cheer her up.

  “I know what you’re trying to do, Kenya, and it won’t work. You can say what you want but I’m just not going.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I know Peter is trying to find his way back to me. I need to be here when he arrives. He might not understand that we’re even here. I think you can all do without me at the memorial service. I’ve made my peace with the loss of my mother. I was damned lucky to have her as long as I did. She was where she wanted to be. With Clyde. Now, please . . . don’t even think about making me sit through a lot of sanctimonious garbage about my dead husband when he’s not dead.”

  Kenya ran her hands through her chaotic curly auburn mop and kept her expression neutral as she rose. Striking back now would serve no one and destroy any headway she may have made.