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Thirst kicked in next, and the succulent aroma began to give me a headache.
“Hey, could I get a bit of water?” I asked stupidly.
“Aliens don’t require water to survive,” he intoned before starting on a four-minute diatribe on something that only made my headache worse because it made absolutely no sense.
A small buzzing sound cut him off, and my heart leaped into my throat.
That’s a cell phone.
“Oh… the Sergeant will be here soon,” he squeaked. “I can go now.”
“Please don’t,” I begged. “He’s going to kill me when he gets here. Is that what you want? For me to die?”
Sweat began to drip down my face, the fusion of anxiety and heat meshing together. I was losing it as I strained against the zip ties holding my wrists and ankles in place, tears welling in my eyes.
“Your kind doesn’t die. They only repopulate and regenerate and become other aliens or comets,” he explained.
“I’m not a fucking alien!” I howled, rocking my body. “I’m a person! My name is Mylee Lynn, and my family is worried about me!”
He scoffed, unfazed by my declarations. The tears began to fall, and his footsteps plodded against the hollow floor. I gleaned that I was in some kind of cabin or cottage, but I couldn’t see much through the sack.
“Before you go, please take the sack off my face,” I mewled. “I’ll suffocate… and the Sergeant won’t like it if you kill me before he gets here!”
The footsteps stopped. I held my breath, and then he came back toward me. With a whoosh, the potato bag came off my face, and I stared at a startlingly innocent face. I remembered him now. I’d seen him in the lobby of the hotel, his guileless blue eyes staring at me as I strode through on my way to the conference.
I’d been right about the location, a single-room shack, outfitted with nothing more than a rickety table and the chair on which I sat, a naked bulb hanging from the center of the beamed roof.
Where the hell was I?
The saccharine, earthy smell was overwhelming now, and I tried to look out of the windows, but they were filthy, and night seemed to be upon us.
“Aliens don’t cry,” he mumbled, perplexed by my tears. “They don’t have no tears.”
“I’m not a Venetian,” I whispered. “I’m a person, and you’re going to get me murdered if you don’t let me go.”
He continued to stare at me like he was considering my words seriously.
“What’s your name?” I asked again. “I’m Mylee.”
“Billy.”
“Billy, please, can I use your phone?” I rasped.
He shook his head. “The Sergeant wouldn’t like that.”
“He wouldn’t have to know. No one would have to know. I wouldn’t tell.”
Billy shook his head again, and I dropped my chin in resignation. “Please, Billy. Just let me go. I won’t get you in any trouble. I know this isn’t your fault—”
Headlights flashed over the wall, and Billy squeaked for joy, bouncing from one foot to the other, the hem of his faded blue jeans catching beneath his filthy, red sneakers.
“He’s here! He’s really here!”
It’s okay. I’ve had a good life. I’ve had more than most people can ever hope to achieve. Please don’t cry for me, guys. I’m okay. I loved you in a way I never believed I could love anyone, and you loved me better than someone has ever loved before me.
The door flew open, and Richard Crossman grinned at me, his eyes cold and mirthless.
“Well, would you look who it is,” he sneered, striding toward me. “The little bitch from the café.”
