Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
If it’s him and he dies on my doorstep…is she going to come seeking revenge?
I can handle it. I can handle her. I just don’t want the hassle. So I tap on the broken security screen that looks out on my porch. The glass is cracked, which makes the picture flip over and over like bad tv reception, but it’s definitely a praxiian out there. I recognize the soft-looking fur, the cat-like triangle ears, and the tail. Oh, and the massive, terrifying size. He’s bent over on hands and knees on my porch, his shoulders clenching.
I clutch my makeshift bat harder, unsure what to do.
“Help,” the man says again. Then, he vomits all over the thorn bushes I have planted under the windows.
Shit. I open the door a crack and peer out at him. When he doesn’t immediately spring through my door, I start to suspect it’s not a trap after all and he really is sick. “What’s wrong?” I bark at him. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
He groans, rolling onto his back. “Water.”
Frowning, I clutch my bat and back up a few steps. “If I get you a drink, will you leave?”
The stranger doesn’t respond, just makes more pitiful noises.
And maybe I really am a fool, because he sounds miserable. If I was in this position, I’d want someone to help me, too. He’s not asking for much, just a bit of water. I can let him drink a glass and send him on his way. I move to the kitchen and grab a glass, filling it from the tap. The water comes from a well-pump with a purification filter, and it’s cool and clean. I resist the urge to hoard it, remembering the days that I had to drink from puddles and runoff as a slave, but I have an entire well. I can share one glass. I swallow hard, gazing down at the water in my hand, and turn.
He’s crawled inside.
The cat-alien—the praxiian—isn’t the one married to my neighbor. I’ve seen that one. He’s a dull color—more beige than orange—and has one piercing in his ear. This one is a more vivid striped orange and his ear is studded with rings. He looks leaner than the other, too. I don’t like that there’s two praxiians nearby. I don’t like that at all.
Nor do I like that this one is a stranger that’s made his way into my home. Instead of staying on the porch, he’s belly-crawled onto my floor, his flat pink nose pressed to the tile. He’s panting and shivering, and then he braces one hand on the tile as if he’s going to get up.
Not if I can do anything about it. I set the precious glass of water down on the counter, stride over to the couch, and pick up my stun-stick. Fully charged.
Good.
Marching over to the intruder, I give him a cold look and jab the stick against his shoulder. He trembles violently and then collapses to the floor, unconscious. A moment later, vomit dribbles from his mouth and I’m glad his head is turned to the side, because the last thing I need is for a praxiian to aspirate and die on my floor.
Now I have to figure out what to do with the asshole.
I decide to tie him up. It takes all of my strength (and some creative use of straps) to roll him over onto his side. I keep his head angled sideways in case he vomits again, and tie his hands together in the front, and legs together, too. Then, I clean up the vomit, grimacing at the smell, and watch as he shakes and trembles on my floor as if he’s got a fever. It’s been ages since I’ve been this close to a praxiian—I have dim memories of meeting one very briefly on a space station—and I remember how cat-like they’d seemed with the whiskers and the split mouth and even the cat nose.
This one’s definitely sick, though. His nose is sweating and pale, his fur is sweaty, and the insides of his ears are flushed a bright pink that seems unnatural. The tunic he’s wearing is damp with his vomit, and if he keeps rolling around on my floor, he’s going to continue to make a mess.
I decide to cut the soiled tunic off of him. He can explain that to the custodians later…if I turn him over. If he’s a threat to me, I can just bury his remains in my compost pile. With my knife, I approach him, checking to see if he’s waking. It seems like he’s still passed out, so I crouch over him and cut down the front of his clothing, then the sleeves. A big chest is slowly revealed, with two nipple rings that make me snort. Someone thinks he’s hot shit.