That kind of depended on him.
“I don’t know you,” was what I replied, though.
“You know enough to realize I am not the type to let you die needlessly.”
“You could be the type to kidnap women for torture.” Yup, that came out of my mouth. Accused him of being a sociopath.
He laughed, showing off beautiful teeth, all the better for nibbling me with. “What if instead I’m just a nice guy who happened to save a beautiful woman?”
“Okay, now you’re putting it on thick,” I grumbled, cheeks hot but secretly pleased. I headed for him. “You should have stopped at nice guy,” I added as I drew even.
“I doubt you’ll think I’m nice in a few minutes. How do you feel about stairs?”
Seven flights later, huffing and puffing, I hated them with a passion, especially since hot dude appeared unruffled. I, on the other hand, leaned on the wall and tried to not die.
“It’s not much farther,” he remarked.
“Ha,.” I croaked.
“It occurs to me, I haven’t introduced myself. Xavion.”
He would have a sexy name. Me? “Cecilia.” And I swear, if he starting singing the Simon and Garfunkel song that made my mother name me, I would hit him, cute or not! Growing up, I’d heard the many versions of “Cecilia” at every major event in my life. Hearing it now might make me snap.
“Cecilia.” He mulled over my name, rolling it off his tongue and lips like a fine wine.
“And you’re Xavion what?” He’d not mentioned a last name.
He smiled again. “Just Xavion. The one and only in the world. Just like you are the very last and first Cecilia.”
Because I like embarrassing myself, I blurted out, “Xavion and Cecilia, the new Adam and Eve.”
Chapter 7
The Past
The president didn’t get sick right away. Or if he did, he hid it from everyone. No one noticed, at first, that the group that met the aliens disappeared from public view. Everyone focused on the ET’s in our midst.
The aliens were given an abandoned embassy in the nation’s capital. Diplomatic ties with that particular country had been severed a while back due to election meddling in 2020, and not by the two superpowers always in the news.
The aliens moved in, and the president had the embassy heavily guarded. No protesting was tolerated and got shut down before it started.
The media screamed about the constitution. The president told them to fuck off and not start a galactic war.
America actually approved.
The spaceship was cordoned off; however, scientists were given access by the visitors. It didn’t run any mechanics or physics that made any sense to humanity but would revolutionize the world. Or so I heard on the internet.
I was glued to every single broadcast involving the aliens. What did they eat? Some weird paste stuff that they grew on their ship. Heavy on the protein apparently. They kept a day and night schedule. Spoke in clicks that were already being learned by an AI system for real-time communication.
The world spent those first few weeks in a celebration, which might be why the news took us all by surprise.
It was an alien who died first.
We didn’t know that though. The world might be watching the live, twenty-four-hour footage of the embassy, but we saw little from the outside, only what the government released.
When we finally did find out, it was to discover the spiders weren’t faring well. The body of the first dead one was brought back to the ship and a new person on board took their place. The next body was given to human scientists, because, by the end of week three since their arrival, the president appeared to be ill and two of those there for the landing had died. It led to all those at the first meeting being taken into custody for observation.
The aliens were put under strict quarantine and the ship under a military watch with orders to fire if they saw anything hinky.
Illegal drone footage—achieved by launching dozens at a time in the hopes of getting one good video—began to emerge showing the embassy courtyard with the spiders spending more time outside. Basking in the sun. Each day looking weaker and duller, their carapaces turning an ashy gray.
The president died. The vice president took over even as he appeared sick. The illness was spreading.
Hospitals soon became overrun with the sick. Morgues couldn’t handle all the bodies. The survival rate proved small, and of those who beat the plague, reports came out of strange violent behavior.
They called the airborne illness Arachvid-1. It would seem despite all the evidence to the contrary, aliens and humans were incompatible. Their very existence poisoned the air and made us sick.
Which led to the murder of the remaining aliens and the scuttling of their ship. Not that I cared, by that point. I’d locked myself in. Barricaded my door. Hoarded my food even as I wanted to eat all of it.
I watched the broadcasts and videos of the world dying. Arachcvid-1 had a ninety-five percent fatality. But those who survived were changed.
People tried to protect themselves from it. We pulled out our COVID-19 masks from the 2020 pandemic.
It didn’t stop the spread. Even more died as riots rocked the streets and despair killed those who thought suicide would be kinder.
Had I any drugs I might have been tempted to chug them.
Instead, I hid inside my safe cave, watching my food pile dwindle, glued to the internet until the day I lost the signal. I didn’t dare venture forth even as my supplies dwindled.
I feared what happened outside.
Two weeks into my self-isolation, the almost constant sirens stopped. The days and weeks following, I’d hear engines outside and the occasional screams.
A thump at my door had me muffling my whimpers with a fist in my mouth. I wanted to wake up from the nightmare. Instead, I ran out of food.
Hunger forced me out of my comfort zone.
I layered on my gear. Mask, face shield, hat over my ears, jacket, pants, all taped around the cuffs. I waddled out, made it to the lobby level, and looked out onto the results of a civil apocalypse. Burned wrecks. Garbage in the streets. And a body lying splayed on the sidewalk.
Oh God, a dead body.
I went flying up the stairs, panting and sobbing behind my mask, snotting up so badly, I yanked it free. My tears made it impossible to see as I headed up the third flight of stairs to my floor.
As I stepped through the door for my landing, a hand went over my mouth, calloused and painful. Another hand grabbed me and shoved me face first against the wall.
A low voice muttered, “Pretty pussy. Pretty pussy. Scream for me.”
Terrifying, especially since he grinded against me. I knew what he planned.
Would I let him do it? Maybe if I didn’t fight, he wouldn’t hurt me?
Like fuck. I found my lady balls and stomped his foot. He yelled and then gasped as threw my elbow back and slammed his diaphragm. Thank God I’d taken a few self-defense lessons. When I whirled, I swung my satchel while screaming nonstop.
I’m pretty sure that my unhinged behavior, and not my feeble blows, sent my assailant running.
Shaken, I went to my apartment and did not to creep out again until I ran out of everything edible—spices, salt, even the vinegar was gone before I dared. In one hand I had a kitchen knife. And as for my throat? I tried not to swallow my courage.