Chapter 2
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.
“You know who I am, then you know my sister is married to a Mahdfel. Big, ugly guy too. Teeth like grr,” she said, hooking two fingers in front of her mouth to mimic fangs. “He’ll do anything for her. He’ll tear apart every star in the sky to find me.”
The Suhlik continued to watch her, unimpressed with her vague threats. Weasel kept chattering about the quality of the other specimens.
“My sister—my twin—knows I’m missing because of our… our twin bond. She knows, which means he knows, which means he’s coming. You better run. Right now.” She mimicked the fangs again, because that made as much sense as a mystical twin bond.
The weasel gestured with two fingers. Suddenly, rough hands were hauling Gemma out of the cage and onto her feet. She screamed as white -hot pain flared in her ankle. She blacked out.
Gemma really couldn’t say what happened next.
She was tied to a chair in the middle of the warehouse.
The ceiling above had a large gap, letting in the first bit of sunlight she had seen in who knows how long.
That was the thing about being abducted by aliens—she had no way of knowing if she’d been gone for days or months.
The goons were moving the other captives.
“Hey, what was the date when you were taken?” Gemma asked as they walked by.
No answer. Fair enough. Now was not the time to compare abduction stories.
One by one, the cages emptied until only three held occupants: Tinsley, Paloma, and Blake. Five other women were left on the cold concrete, hunched over painfully with their hands and feet bound. Gemma alone had a chair. The fifteen had been reduced to nine.
The goons arranged metal plates with blinking lights in a circle around the captives. Blinky lights were never good news.
The Suhlik stood outside the circle, looking pleased with himself. The weasel looked aghast, like he was about to set a pile of money on fire.
Gemma didn’t like anything about that metaphor. Or was that a simile? She only got a B in English, so she had reasonable doubts. Simile or metaphor, either way, it could fuck right off.
“This won’t hold me,” she said, struggling against the rope. It wasn’t tied very tightly, and the chair felt wobbly, like it would give up the ghost if she sneezed.
Another smirk. “If you insist, but do mind the pressure bombs.”
She stopped struggling immediately. Of course the blinky lights were bombs.
The Suhlik took in her expression of dread like an emotional vampire. His expression brightened. “Your twin should be arriving soon. Give her my regards.”
They were alone. Abandoned. No pellets. No water. No buckets.
Gemma stared at the bombs on the floor that created a circle around the group.
The rope that held her hands was loose. With a bit of effort, she could free herself, until the other women, and then what?
Defuse the bombs? She’d blow herself up sky high.
No, thank you. Carefully pick her way across the minefield?
On a broken ankle? Not happening. Best to stay put and wait.
Half a day had elapsed, judging from the way the sun moved across the floor.
The temperature had been steadily climbing and would soon be broiling.
She was so thirsty that it was all she could think about.
Her lips were dry and cracked, and her throat felt like razor blades.
Literally the only good thing she could say was that being dehydrated meant she didn’t need the bucket.
“Hey,” Sarah’s hoarse voice called out. “Were you serious about that twin thing?”
“Hell yeah. Creepy twin powers are real.”
Emry was coming to the rescue. She had to believe that.
“I’d kill for a burger,” Sarah said.
Someone groaned. “Please stop talking about food.”
“When I get home, I want a big plate of spaghetti with my nonna’s sauce. Meatballs. Garlic bread. The works,” another person added.
“When I can, I’m making my unicorn cupcakes.
Vanilla with rainbow frosting. I roll the fondant into a rope for the horn and ears,” Gemma said.
The recipe was simple and more about presentation than taste.
They served no other purpose than to bring whimsy and joy into the world and were her very favorite item in the bakery.
“Sweet tea. A gallon. Ice cold,” a new voice added.
“Tacos.” Sarah again. “The crunchy shell kind from the grocery store with sour cream.”
“No. Street tacos. Don’t be gross with your sour cream.”
Others called out their favorites and what they would eat when they got home. Greasy fries. Pizza. Ice cream. All the classics. Butter chicken with naan. An improbably large steak. Bread fresh out of the oven. Cheese. So much cheese. Gemma’s mouth watered, imagining it all.
Shouts of favorite foods echoed in the warehouse. It was hunger and anticipation all rolled together. It was the sound of hope.
Rescue came. Two red guys with scorpion tails and a big purple guy with horns. A few of the women cried when they saw their rescuers. Whether from fear or relief, Gemma honestly didn’t know. She was a strange, fizzy mixture of both and felt ready to bubble over.