Page 63 of Alien Jeopardy
Wiping the water from my eyes, I finally spot what I’m looking for—hopefully. Only one way to find out. The boat’s a weird cross between a pontoon and a canoe, metal benches spanning the width, and underneath one, the prize I was looking for: a metal tacklebox, like the one my dad used to keep his sparkly fishing lures in.
“We’re gonna need a bigger boat,” I say, laughing maniacally, lightning punctuating the remark.
“Hope you had a close-up going for that line,” I yell at Ken, who is no doubt listening in, the creep. “Are you not entertained?”
Russell Crowe would be proud. I have no idea who wroteJaws, but I doubt they would mind my little stress-fueled allusion. Of course, Russell Crowe’s character died in the end ofGladiatorand most of theJawscast did, too.
A splash catches my attention, and Rex’s green head surfaces in the foaming water long enough for him to take a deep breath.
He’s still alive, and I’m gonna do my best to keep him that way.
The latches on the tacklebox are slippery from the rain, which has subsided a little further, but I manage to pry them open and tug the whole heavy box into the standing water at the bottom of the weird boat.
I haven’t fallen overboard yet, but I need to hurry if I have a shark’s chance in a Spielberg movie of saving my Draegon alien.
I file away the thought of him being mine to look at later, rummaging through the huge box. There’s foil-wrapped packages that look suspiciously like MREs, and I ignore them, opening up the next layer as fast as I can.
My hands are shaking from adrenaline and the cold, and then I see it.
A big old knife. I have no idea what kind of knife it is, true, because the knives I’ve handled could all easily be designated into three categories: butter, steak, and the big kitchen one I have to be careful using so I don’t slice my finger off.
This knife’ll do, pig.
A plan forms, a stupid, dangerous plan, but it’s better than nothing.
“Snake,” I crow. “It’s what’s for dinner.”
Lightning flashes, the reflection sparkling off the blade and very nearly blinding me. Ken must have a flair for dramatic cinematography. Good for him, we all need hobbies.
I’m already bleeding, so that part of my hare-brained plan is taken care of, at least, until I spot the plastic package labeled “bait” in screaming red letters.
If I know my reality TV, and I sure as shit do, I am supposed to use this.
There’s no way I’m not supposed to use this.
Plus, it will likely be doubly potent with my blood. I mean, maybe. I don’t know much about fishing and hunting or killing giant alien snakes, but adrenaline has only steered me wrong ninety percent of the time.
I kneel in the bottom of the boat, not willing to lose my balance and fall overboard at the wrong time.
Yes, must fall overboard at the RIGHT time for this plan to work.
It sure as shit better work because I am not doing this reality thing alone. Rex isn’t getting out of this that easy. Nope, no way, no how.
The cut on my hand isn’t bleeding as fast and furious as it was, and I decide right here and now that if I’m going to do this, I’m going to make sure I do it right.
First things first, though.
I pull off my shoes, tying them together and looping them around one of the support struts anchoring a bench to the boat. I’ll be faster in the water with my shoes off.
An unhinged laugh comes out of me, because it’s either that or cry.
“Go, hyrulis, Ellison, save yourself.” Rex’s voice is closer to the boat now, the current from the floodwaters pushing him downstream.
“Fat fucking chance,” I yell back.
Lightning flashes long enough to illuminate his gorgeous face, a jagged cut running down his cheek and dripping blood.
Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me.
