Page 7 of Zalis
The feline rose on her back legs and bumped the top of her head against his hand. A pleasing rumble emanated from her chest.
Astoundingly, Zalis felt the tension in his own chest ease.
He smiled. Perhaps there was some point to the feline after all.
GEMMA
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” the alien said, gesturing to captives as he walked down the aisle of cages. Not just any alien: a Suhlik. The literal embodiment of humanity’s nightmares. He was as gorgeous in person as the invaders had been on television screens: reptilian, with a shimmering golden complexion that glowed with ethereal radiance even under the impossibly harsh warehouse lighting.
Next to him walked a Sangrin man, better dressed than the normal crew that handled the food and water.
Must be the boss.
There was something about him that screamed weasel. Maybe it was the gold hoop that pierced his horn or the way he indifferently observed a dozen people in cages with a sneer, like they were worse than something he found stuck to the bottom of his expensive shoes.
Absolute weasel.
The Suhlik paused in front of Gemma’s cage and tilted his head to one side as if considering her. Unblinking black eyes watched her, and it made her skin crawl.
Instinct screamed at her to shrink back. Gemma refused.
“The twin,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt.
Not going to lie, it was alarming to have a Suhlik recognize her, like plunging into a tub of icy water while hugging a toaster. Shocking even.
“I didn’t know you guys talked. I thought it was all snarls and drool.” She tilted her head to one side, mimicking his pose. “You look like a drooler.”
The Suhlik blinked. A translucent film slid over the eye from right to left. A sense of wrongness rolled over Gemma, making the hair on her arm stand up. This time, she flinched.
“This one likes to cause trouble,” the weasel said, which was a very fair assessment. “We have other specimens for you.”
So far, being abducted and sold to aliens has been a nightmare. Real juicy fodder for years of therapy. Gemma doubted she’d ever have a peaceful night’s sleep again, but right now the unending terror left her numb.
She had woken up groggy and with a pounding headache in a cage in an abandoned industrial building. Likely an old warehouse. Classic scenario.
Accommodations were sparse. Concrete floor. The walls were some kind of plaster that always felt damp, and ominous black speckles decorated the surface. There was a hole in the ceiling that let in the rain. It was hot during the day and cold at night. The overhead light fixtures were rusted pieces of junk barely hanging on. Her abductors really leaned into the “you’re a piece of meat and we’ll treat you accordingly” aesthetic.
Yes, the dark humor was part of coping. Her choices were either scream and cry until she lost her voice, which was an option taken by many of the other abductees, disassociate completely, or make snarky commentary.
Gemma’s ankle was swollen, all sorts of interesting colors, and she couldn’t put any weight on it. Not that she had anywhere to go. She was cold, tired, and filthy. Every handful of days, the sprinklers came on and dosed them in rusty, foul-tasting water. Ice cold, of course. As for the necessary facilities, her captors provided a bucket. So yeah, it smelled as bad as you could imagine.
There were fourteen other women in similar cages. Other captives of varying races came and went, never staying more than a day or two. The fifteen human women remained constant, like they were being set aside for something. Half of those fifteen developed a rattling cough. They talked, of course, but the conversation got repetitive. Where are you from? How did they get you? Will anyone notice that you’re gone? Foods you miss. Pets. Crying. So much crying.
Gemma memorized their names because someone needed to know: Sarah, Rafaela, Ha-na, Hollie, Ines, Paloma, Scarlett, Maria, Tinsley, Amariah, Madilyn, Tia, Blake, Jessica, and herself.
Goons visited at least once a day, dropping off bottled water and dehydrated pellets to go in the water. Beyond being a tasteless slop, the so-called food offended her culinarily. Oh, sure, on a human rights level too. The pellets were beyond insulting, but she was a chef. The food was a personal attack.
At least the goons left them alone. That was the only good thing about the situation.
Gemma didn’t think they were on Earth, based on nothing more than vibes, the fact that the goons were purple with ram-like horns, and the nonhuman variety in the other captives.
She and the other women played a game of guessing where they were being held. She sucked at it, knowing nothing but the basics about other planets, and what she did know came from Sangrin soap operas. Hope Harbor was not a real place.
Captivity was so boring.
Sit and wait. What else could they do?
Make trouble.
