The ship quaked as its captain was blown from the premises. That foreign sound beeped louder and faster as the vessel rumbled underneath Sam.
He turned the shotgun to the flashing lights and killed the noise. Outside of the ship was the alien woman grunting and squirming around on the floor. He approached her in a quick pace down that irregular corridor that seemed to not want the uninvited guest in its space any longer. That bum knee of his was no match for the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He wanted to rub his wife, but he needed both hands on the gun.
She looked bigger sprawled out on the ground. Her tentacles were spread out, much like her limbs and he could see open wounds on her leg and stomach that he had nothing to do with. The shotgun blast did damage to her suit and her breath, yeah, but through that hole in the uniform, her brown-skin was unharmed. Blood poured out of her leg and shiny pieces of her ship were embedded in her stomach. It was a miracle she still moved at all.
Even her grunts were unnatural, as if she were speaking through a microphone. The sounds of her pain bouncing off the trees, smacking him in the face. His shoulders went up and he squinted as the noise became unbearable. Even his ears popped as he stood there through his own discomfort, watching her to make sure she would stay down.
Satisfied that she wouldn’t get away, he hustled back to the truck, and in the glove box, he grabbed some duct tape. Like a man twenty years younger, he returned to the scene, sliding on his knees toward the woman. He carefully placed the gun behind him as he taped her mouth shut. Then, he pushed her over to her side, pulling her hands behind her back, and taping her wrists four times over. As the adrenaline wore off, reality returned with a vengeance; his breathing increased, and his knees ached. With the shotgun as a cane, he pushed himself to his feet and watched her some more.
She started to come to as her eyes blinked open. The blood still gushed from her leg and stomach and he squeezed the roll of duct tape in his hand as he observed.
Her eyes were so familiar to him, when the tears rolled down the side of her face, he felt a grief in his chest that he could no longer take. “Goddammit,” he took the tape and wrapped her leg near the wound and threw a couple pieces over her stomach. Then, he grabbed her legs and with the help of a deep breath, he dragged her to the front steps.
It was only twenty yards, but it felt like twenty miles. Still, she didn’t fight back. He was doing all the grunting now, but his ego wouldn’t let him quit. The only audience to his struggles were her and the green towers surrounding the home. He kept on with a thought of his wife.
“Your pride will be the death of you,” she had said more than once.
His head hesitated down toward his wife’s smiling face between that gold pendant that dangled from his neck, but he didn’t dare look at her. At the steps, finally, when he dropped her ankles. He wanted to drop with them and catch a breath or take a nap. Instead, he placed his hands on his knees and slouched over. That’s when she rose, like a zombie from the grave; all legs, no hands. And he quickly backed up, looking up at her, unarmed. He tripped over his feet, and fell backwards toward where he left his weapon, but she stood there at the steps; calm, peaceful, yet in pain; her eyes were almost as loud as her voice.
He scrambled to the shotgun and jumped to his feet, pumping it and pointing it. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t move.”
She disobeyed, and turned her back, walking up the three steps to the porch.
“Don’t move,” he continued to threaten with the weapon as he marched after her.
Thankfully the door was closed and he caught up to her before she could enter the home. Still pointing that weapon, bluffing to shoot her. She stared at the door, waiting for him to open it, hands still locked behind her back, mouth taped shut, she didn’t take her gaze off that door.
This creature trespassed, yeah, but Sam was the aggressor from the moment they’d met. The realization of this one-sided hostile interaction began to soften. Yet, it didn’t compute with his stance. He still held her at gunpoint, but he opened the door for her.
She entered and walked left before she looked around to see where anything was. He followed her in as she approached the two-person table that separated the living room and the wall of a kitchen. She sat in Penny’s chair which made him pause in his tracks, before he could even close the door behind him.
A breeze had picked up as he stood in the entryway, and it blew the door all the way open. Sam watched this familiar foreign invader sit in his wife’s chair, deliberately it seemed. She had skipped the first sofa and rocking chair in the living room. She went past his chair, the one closest to the door, and went for Penny’s nearest the window. It was still pulled out from the last time his wife had sat in it. It didn’t upset him, only made him more curious.
Then, she broke free of her restraints and pulled the tape from her mouth.
He flinched, but didn’t raise the weapon. When the door behind him slammed shut, he jumped and swung the shotgun toward the noise, but no one was there. Just him and her.
“Have a seat,” the woman said, in an almost normal tone that didn’t hurt his ears like before.
Out of nowhere, a throbbing pain shot to the top of his head. He wanted to reach for it, but his hands were full, with the weapon. The shotgun pointed forward but not particularly at her as he approached the seat. If there was ever a reason to react with more gun violence, now was the time, but his thoughts were strictly on sitting and listening. He sat, peacefully. Unable to comprehend what was happening. Powerless to the request to join her at the table. His table. Then, he placed the shotgun in his lap.
“I come in peace,” she said.
Yet, he was the one restrained. Unable to speak or move, or command his limbs to do what he wanted. Never mind how she was able to do this, he only thought of her ship and others coming after it. Then soon, an invasion upon his land.
She stood and looked around for a second; admiring the home as she limped about, touching the drapes that Penny had picked out and hung herself. The alien stopped her tour at the front window and looked out in the direction of where her ship crash landed. “They’re coming!” she said, then turned to him and waved her hand.
He felt a pressure release from his head and a weight from his shoulders, as if he were held down by an invisible force. With the gun in position, he stood, pointing it at her. She didn’t flinch.
“I need your help,” she said.
Seven Sydnor 