Page 45 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

The glove box yields a ring of keys. My hands shake as I try each one in the handcuffs until - click! Freedom. I toss the cuffs aside and grab the wheel.

What's left of the police cruiser groans as I gun it toward the exit. The ragged edge where the crusher bit through drags along the ground, throwing up a shower of sparks. The frame scrapes against concrete with an ear-splitting shriek.

Chain link fence looms ahead. I floor it. Metal tears as the cruiser bursts through, leaving half its bumper behind.

Varak can take care of himself. He's basically indestructible - I watched him fall thirty stories and walk it off. But my parents...

"Shit!" I slam the steering wheel. Mom and Dad are alone with those things. Those shapeshifting zealots who want to rewrite human history.

Dad's probably giving Smith attitude right now. He gets lippy with everyone - especially people he thinks are disrespecting his pizza place. And Mom's even worse. She'll back Dad up and escalate things until somebody snaps.

The cruiser fishtails as I take a corner too fast. More sparks spray from the mangled rear end. The engine makes a concerning rattle but I push it harder.

I picture Dad puffing up his chest, getting in Smith's face. "Nobody tells Sam Marella how to run his kitchen!" Mom standing behind him with her arms crossed, that look that could strip paint. "That's right! Show him, Sammy!"

The Grolgath won't hesitate to kill them both. To them, my parents are just two more primitive humans in the way of their mission.

I need to get there before my family's big mouths write checks their bodies can't cash. Before they push the wrong alien too far.

The cruiser's engine coughs black smoke as I race through a red light. Hold on Mom and Dad. Your loudmouth daughter is coming to save you.

The engine gives one final wheeze and dies. Steam hisses from under the mangled hood. Perfect. Just perfect.

I slam my palm against the steering wheel. What I wouldn't give for one of those fancy portable phones Varak carries around. But those things cost more than I make in six months at the pizza place.

The street signs tell me I'm in the wrong part of town. Graffiti covers every surface. Broken glass glitters on the sidewalk. Most of the buildings sport boards instead of windows.

A payphone. There has to be a payphone somewhere. I lock the car doors and start walking, keeping my head down. The sooner I find a phone, the sooner I can call Varak or the real police.

The rhythmic thump of a basketball draws my attention. A group of guys play on a chain-link enclosed court. One of them spots me and nudges his friend.

Great. Just keep walking. Don't make eye contact.

"Hey mamacita!"

I quicken my pace. Footsteps follow behind me. More than one set.

"Los Lobos kick your ass!" The chant starts low, then grows as more voices join in. "Los Lobos kick your face!"

My heart pounds. The nearest cross street is two blocks away. Breaking into a run might trigger their chase instinct, but walking feels too slow.

"Los Lobos kick your balls into OUTER SPACE!"

The chant gets closer. I count at least five different voices now. My legs itch to sprint, but I force myself to maintain my brisk walk.

Just stay calm. Don't run. Don't give them a reason to attack.

A neon sign flickers at the end of the block, casting blue and red shadows across wet pavement. My heart leaps - a bodega! The owner will have a phone. Maybe even a working one.

The footsteps behind me get closer. My shoulders tense.

"This is a dangerous neighborhood this time of night, Chica." The voice is closer than I expected.

I spin around, hands raised. "Look, I don't have any money. I really need to be somewhere important right now."

The group exchanges confused looks. The tallest one - the one who spoke - furrows his brow.

"What? You think we're trying to rob you?" They burst out laughing. The sound echoes off brick walls.

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