by Lydia Hope
“You’re talking about today,” Simon said without turning. She could see his breath in the cold as he spoke. “But you’ve touched me before. You’ve been touching me since the moment you found me.”
“That’s different!”
“Is it?”
“Of course!” He put her on the defensive. “You were sick and you needed care, and yes, I have a compassionate nature. I wasn’t… it wasn’t like I wanted to kiss you then, it never entered my mind. I simply wanted you to get better… for you not to be so alone… ”
She trailed off, shaken by what he was making her realize. From the get-go, she’d singled him out, a male of a species completely unfamiliar to her. And the truth was, she couldn’t keep her hands off of him. She washed him, fed him, and brushed his hair, petting him in a thousand different ways. Because at the very first time she’d laid eyes on this perplexing, foreign creature, the heavy load of loneliness had lifted from her shoulders.
“If I didn’t want to be touched, you wouldn't have been touching me,” he said quietly. “Not then, and certainly not now.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I wish I never met you!”
His head whipped around so fast it scared her. He moved like a snake; she could hardly track him.
“Why?” he demanded to know.
“You can’t miss what you don’t know. And now I know… ” She was crying for earnest now, and her tears appeared to fascinate him.
She wiped them angrily with her mitten. “Rix don’t cry, do they?”
He shook his head, his eyes hot on her face.
“Stupid aliens,” she mumbled, which only succeeded in amusing him.
“That overactive mind of yours has been at work again.”
“Yes,” she sniffed, defiant.
“You can’t miss what isn’t gone,” he pointed out.
“But it can’t last.” Gemma stomped her foot, feeling contrary and desperate for things to be different. “There’s no future for you and me. Us.”
His firm mouth softened, and the curved eyebrows rose above his large eyes.
“Why do you always say words that make no sense?” he chided gently. “What future is there except you and me? Us?”
Chapter 22
The atmosphere at the McKinley household had grown depressing. Following Uncle Drexel’s poor prognosis as breadwinner and Leena’s misfortune with her seamstress training Aunt Herise, already worried about money, had gone completely off the rails with her preoccupation with the family’s dwindling reserves.
“If things go well, the boys may have to quit school early. We have plenty of eggs. The yogurt I make is better than any you can find. If we cut back on breakfast,” she glanced meaningfully at Gemma, “there will be enough leftovers to offer for sale at the market. The boys can take turns manning the stand.”
“Aunt Herise, they are only nine,” Gemma ventured carefully. “It’s hard for young children to conduct monetary transactions. They can be taken advantage of. Not to mention the fights and violence that can occur at any time.”
“Pft! They will manage. I am raising men not wimps. Speaking of money, I am expecting your new room share to be paid next week.”
“Next week? We agreed on the next month!”
Herise shook her head. “I can’t wait that long.”
Gemma bit her tongue knowing the futility of starting an argument about money with Herise.
Uncle Drexel’s arm was on the mend but his personality had undergone a huge turnabout and deteriorated into that of a chronic complainer. He didn’t just vent his emotional frustrations; he relished in finding fault in everything, from cold weather to Aunt Herise’s house dress. He saw setbacks where there was progress. Minute daily struggles had become insurmountable problems. Things he used to enjoy were stupid and no longer mattered.
Vocal and unrestrained, he spewed doom and gloom and end of days predictions for hours, scolding Gemma, berating kids, and arguing with Aunt Herise for no discernible reason. Caring for him, and even being in his presence, had become a trial for the family.
And then came Leena’s dinnertime declaration. “I am getting married!”
Forks frozen in mid-air and startled faces around the table would have been comical, except Leena was dead serious.
“Who?” Aunt Herise managed the whistling word from her constricted throat.
“Our neighbor, Mr. Raclou.”
Uncle Drexel’s fork clattered to his plate. “He’s fifty if he’s a day, Leena! And you’re fourteen.”
“Mature men can better appreciate the glow of youth,” Leena said primly, her unusually wise tone suggesting she’d picked up this tripe from the would-be groom. “Mr. Raclou grows a lot of vegetables in his garden and sells them for profit. He can provide for me. And I will live close to you. A win-win for all.”
Gemma’s overactive imagination immediately supplied a picture of plump young Leena and weathered unkempt Mr. Raclou as husband and wife. In the summertime, they would be wheeling manure for his garden, together, in the cart currently on loan to Drexel, and her aunt and uncle would be looking out of their window and smiling obligingly down on the newlyweds.
Aunt Herise recovered her power of speech. “You’ve lost what little wits you had.” She leaned across the table and slapped Leena soundly on the cheek. “If you must wiggle your fat butt at a man, pick a young one with potential. What’s the old goat good for? He’ll be dead before you turn thirty! Stay away from Raclou!”
Leena burst into loud sobs. “But we love each other!”
“Love! Did you hear her, Drexel? That old lecher! He’s dirt poor, that’s what he is. He drinks moonshine. What a catch. A husband! Drexel, you’ve got to put a stop on it.”
Uncle Drexel looked alarmed. “Put a stop to it how? I’ve got no arm, remember?”
The last Gemma checked, he still had it, but lately he liked to act as if he’d lost it completely.
Herise put her hands to her hips. “Go tell him to stay away from Leena. Give him back his ridiculous buggy.”
“But I need it! How else would I go to the hospital?” Not in control of the situation, Uncle Drexel let his eyes roam wildly around the room searching for a solution. But Herise stood firm.
“Somehow else! Go. Tell him.”
“Now?” Disbelief and distress mixed in Drexel’s wide-eyed expression.
Leena wailed louder.
“Yes, now. As Leena’s father and the head of the family, put a stop to this nonsense this very minute.” Aunt Herise made ushering motions with her hands and pointed at the door.
“But I… the dinner… and Mr. Raclou has been such a good neighbor! He gives us turnips from his garden. Maybe he can have Gemma?”
Gemma blinked. “What?”
It wasn’t like Drexel to crack a joke so he must’ve meant it.
“She’s still young. Raclou may like her.” Drexel looked beseechingly at his wife. “What other prospects does she have?”
Aunt Herise glanced at Gemma speculatively.
Gemma rose from her chair.
“I trust your ability to resolve the situation, uncle,” she collected her plate and utensils, “without involving me. Have a good evening.”
She dumped her plate into the sink for Leena to wash and went to her room, shutting the door firmly. Tomorrow, she’d take a more aggressive approach to finding a new room to rent.
The night turned out to be restless. Gemma fell asleep only to wake up from a distant rumble and faint sounds of a siren. Uneasy, she got up and moved the curtains aside, peering out of the window into the dark street.
Their street was quiet but she heard gunshots in the distance. Orange glow of fire illuminated the night, far away but so unnaturally bright against the dark sky.
She shivered and glanced around her room feeling unprotected by the walls of the old frame house. Even a fortress would offer no protection. She’d witnessed The Islands going under, a millennia worth of carefully erected infrastructure - buil
dings, bridges, factories, - gone like they never existed.
It was easy to imagine that the world was coming to an end. The clashes between the migrants, the locals, and Perali had so far been the underground tremors heralding an impending volcanic eruption. The conflict had been gathering force. Tonight, the eruption started.
Resigned to a bleak future, Gemma went back to bed wondering what she’d find when she woke up.
When she left the house in the morning, nothing appeared out of sorts until she came even with the docks. The area there teemed with activity. The fire had been extinguished but the smoke and the smell of burning materials lingered leaving a bitter taste in the back of her throat. A heavy militant presence was easy to detect even in the predawn darkness.
“What’s going on?” Gemma asked an onlooker standing on the side of the road, curious, like her, in the comings and goings.
“Perali aliens trashed the docks last night. Not sure how they breached the secure area, but they did a lot of damage.”
“What did they want?”
The guy spread his hands wide. “What do they all want? To take it. Make it theirs. Get control.”
“Of the docks?”
“I heard they wanted to hijack a new freighter.”
“Were they caught?” Gemma asked with a great deal of hope.
“Most were killed. Some were caught. Maybe their ilk will learn their lesson.”
Gemma sincerely doubted it. Avaricious Perali were growing bold. It wasn’t like they were going to stop their opportunistic invasion because this one takeover had ended in failure.
Predictably, the prison felt the consequences of the attempted grand larceny right away. Stony-faced militants brought in ten or so bloody, struggling Perali and passed them into the hands of the equally scowling guards for in-processing. After forcing them to wash under cold showers, shaving their heads, and dressing them in the crude prison scrubs, the guards dragged the newly-minted inmates to the third floor where Gemma and Arlo performed the lock-up and gave each new inmate a brief rundown of the rules. A welcome wagon, of sorts.
Every available cell on the third floor received a tenant.
The mood among the existing population was that of an acute, vibrating agitation. Everyone was banging around and shouting, adding to the floor-wide turbulence. Everyone except for Simon who sat in his cell without moving, seemingly unaffected by the upheaval.
Ruby hadn’t shown up, and Gemma and Arlo felt her absence keenly.
The morning outing was canceled, a great disappointment for the inmates. Gemma was glad, as she wasn’t looking forward to herding the restless third floor inhabitants down the stairs.
Lunch was a haphazard affair.
To Gemma’s surprise, Arlo did well all morning and even brought up the gruel from the kitchens without complaining. Together, the two of them went around and poured the measly rations into the metal bowls.
“Gimme that ladle,” Arlo said when they neared Little Green Man’s cell.
Gemma handed him the ladle. Arlo filled a bowl with gruel and set it on the floor. Staying out of the alien’s direct line of sight, he used the ladle to push the bowl against the floor to within the prisoner’s reach.
The constant babbling ceased.
A hairless swollen hand, nails bitten to bloody nubs, slowly emerged from between the bars. One finger hooked over the bowl rim and tagged it close. Little Green Man had to tilt the bowl to make it fit between the bars, spilling some mush on the floor.
“Spoon?” Gemma mouthed.
Arlo shook his head. “He won’t use one. As intended, I mean. And removing it from his anus isn’t something I am paid high enough to do.”
The sounds of loud slurping and mindless growling reached them from the cell. Indeed, spoons were overrated.
After all their prisoners received food, Arlo’s enthusiasm tanked.
“I’m tired,” he declared as they sat down on the floor to rest.
Gemma resisted a scoff. They did run around more than usual, but on a scale of one to ten, this morning ranked at maybe a six. Nothing like scrubbing off a dirty protest residue.
“I think they’re about finished.” Arlo peered at the nearest cell. “Can you start picking up the bowls? I’ll join you in a minute.”
From Gemma’s experience, in a minute in Arlo speak meant maybe I will help you when you’re almost done. Sighing, she rose. As always, her right ankle responded with a pinch.
“One day, someone will call you on your BS, Arlo,” she promised him.
“Don’t hold your breath. I’ve got this shit down to a science.”
“No, you don’t. I can see right through it.”
“But you buy into it anyway,” he countered with a sly grin. “That’s the important part.”
The truth was, Gemma didn’t mind going to collect bowls without him. It would give her a chance to stop by Simon’s cell to exchange a few words with him without Arlo hovering. Simon might still choose to ignore her, but it was a risk she was willing to undertake. She had ceased to be intimidated by his moods.
In general, Gemma was so damn tired of worrying. She’d had it with being scared of what the next day would bring. If she continued to be stressed by every obstacle that arose on her path, she’d end up like Aunt Herise, miserable and unhappy, with no joy left in life save for the satisfaction of pilfering mackerel from the barracks’ kitchens.
Today, right now, Gemma had a job. She had Ruby to cover her back on most days. And she had Simon.
She was approaching cell 35 where he was resting in deceptive repose when suddenly he flew off his cot and rushed to meet her. His eyes blazed with black fire.
“Gemma, look out!” His deep and rusty baritone, music to her ears, roared.
Arrested by his behavior, Gemma stumbled and stopped.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
She felt it, the moist breath, the animal heat of a great shape behind her.
Slowly, she turned her head and knew what primal fear felt like - like being dropped into an ice-cold torrent of a mountain river that sucked her in, and spun her around, and threw her against hard rocks.
She let out a wailing scream bolting away from the Obu who had materialized out of nowhere, but he caught her in a crushing embrace before she had a chance to take a step. He roared in victory and licked her face in long slobbery flicks of the thick tongue leaving her eyes and nostrils full of rancid saliva.
Simon threw himself against the door making the whole wall vibrate under the impacts of his body, but the iron bars were no joke. He couldn't break free.
The Obu, frenzied and giddy at having caught her, pawed her with his huge hands like she was a wad of molding clay.
Managing to free one hand, Gemma yanked her taser from its belt but he was on to her tricks. Wrestling the only weapon she possessed from her hand - and nearly breaking her wrist bones - he bent the taser in the middle and threw it aside.
Using her chance when his hands withdrew to mutilate her weapon, Gemma made another attempt to break free but the Obu caught her again and pushed her down to the floor. She landed hard on her side. The Obu came down to his knees and roughly groped her crotch. Hysterical, she became aware that he wasn’t trying to hurt her. He was only acting according to the instinct raging deep inside his animal body, the instinct demanding him to satisfy his mating urge.
There was no reasoning with the Obu. No way to make him understand that he was going to kill her if he tried to mate with her. The only option left to Gemma was to fight, and she did, pushing and hitting, scratching his tough hide for what it was worth.
The Obu was immensely strong. Gemma’s frantic kicks and slaps felt like she was beating on a hairy boulder for all the reaction she got from him. He never even winced.
“Gemma!” Simon snarled her name.
Gemma threw a desperate and apologetic glance in his direction noting that he was holding on to the iron bars with a death grip. She hated that he had to
witness her being raped and killed by the Obu. She was sorry their story would end on this garbled note. They’d never had a chance, she and Simon, but she’d never imagined the end to be quite this appalling.
The Obu bore down on her flipping her to her back and covering her with his body. She struck out blindly and got him in the eye. He grunted and shook her, rattling her insides and banging her head against the floor hard enough to scramble her brains.
When she could breathe again, he was busily tugging at her clothing.
Inmates in the neighboring cells lined up to watch, egging him on, yelling obscenities and making indecent gestures. Like Simon, they were locked up and unable to interfere but none would have on her behalf. The fate of a human prison helper meant no more to them than the fate of a fly on a hot summer day.
But even if they wanted to help, none of the prisoners was a match for the hulking Obu.
Gemma’s overcoat ripped under one arm where the Obu pulled to reveal her breasts.
“Arlo!” Gemma went insane with fright. “Taser!”
She twisted her head to catch sight of Arlo, to see if he was even here. He had been sitting on the floor when she went to collect the bowls.
Arlo was still here, alright. He was standing near the door that led to the stairs. His hand hovered near his holstered taser but he never took it out.
“Call the guards!”
The alarm button was located well within Arlo’s reach. Yet he made no move to press it. He simply stood there observing the assault with sharp cold eyes.
“Bastard,” Gemma exhaled.
The Obu’s wooden log of a penis thumped her on the stomach, heavy and slimy. The beast shoved one hairy knee between her legs.
“Gemma, open my door!” Simon’s deep accented voice touched her, penetrating the fog of fear and adrenaline. “You have to open my door.”
