Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
The shadows of two giant alien men tower over me a moment before two enormous hands grab my biceps and lift me out of the dirt as though I weigh nothing.
Screaming, I flail my arms and legs, trying to dislodge myself from their grasp. The aliens don’t touch any other part of me. They don’t need to. They’re able to suspend me between them, one on each side, holding my arms so tightly that there will be bruising.
I start shouting. “Put me down… I have rights… You can’t just waltz onto our station and kidnap people.”
The men most likely don’t understand a single word I’m saying. If they speak English, they haven’t let on. I find it unlikely, though. The sounds they make aren’t ones a human would be capable of imitating. The reverse is probably also true.
Jerking around and doing everything in my power to get free is futile. I’m so pissed. I don’t want to be taken from my home. I’m scared out of my mind. My heart is racing, and sweat is beading up on my forehead.
If these aliens think they can eventually subdue me, they’re mistaken. I intend to fight them with every ounce of my energy, every step of the way. Maybe they’ll decide I’m not worth the effort and choose someone else.
Not that I’d wish my unknown fate on another woman. I wouldn’t. But my sense of self-preservation is strong. I haven’t worked myself to the bone, planting, growing, and harvesting food for most of my life, so I could be kidnapped and transported to become a slave on another planet.
“Let me go!” I scream.
The men ignore my protests. I’m not sure it’s accurate to call them men. Other than their size, they look exactly like the men most of us have only ever seen in pictures.
I’m one of the few who have memories of living on Earth. I even remember my parents. I was four when they sent me to this space station. They did it to save my life, knowing they would soon die.
I’m lucky. My parents were wealthy. They had the funds to purchase my ticket to survival. There were parameters. With the exception of a few adults, only female children under the age of five were permitted tickets to travel to the space station.
Am I lucky, though? I’ve asked myself this time and again over the past twenty years. I’m not sure of the answer, but I’m certain I don’t want to be forced to leave against my will.
As we enter the medical bay, my pulse increases. I’m screaming like a madwoman now. I don’t care how ridiculous I look. This is all I have left—my voice. My protests.
The guards are dressed in black. They have been wearing this uniform every day since they boarded the space station. When they barge into the medical bay, another man is waiting for us. He’s just as large, but his suit is blue.
He’s eerily calm as the black-clad aliens unceremoniously lift me onto an exam table in the room. They hold me down with all four of their arms. Escaping them isn’t an option. I’m not strong enough to have any effect on them.
Before I know it, the man in blue has gripped my bicep, and he jabs a needle into me so fast I don’t have time to scream before it’s over. Within seconds, I’m fading. They’ve drugged me.
ONE
My head hurts worse than I ever remember experiencing. I don’t have any idea what happened to me, but when I open my eyes enough to see my surroundings, my blood runs cold.
The memory of being manhandled and drugged comes back to me. The syringe… The man in blue… The room spinning just before my vision went black.
Groaning, I try to push myself to sitting, letting the slits in my eyes widen. My heart starts racing as I realize I’m in some sort of cage. I’m in a metal box with slats like a jail cell all around me and above my head.
My stomach gives me no warning before I suddenly vomit. I don’t even have time to lean forward, so the nasty contents of my stomach projectile all around me, not only hitting the bars and through them, but also covering the front of my dress.
I’m shaking now. Violently. My headache subsides slightly from the vomiting, and my stomach feels less queasy, but I’m still miserable, and now I’m covered in my own throw up.
I lift the hem of my dress to wipe my mouth and then press against my temples with both hands as I look beyond my enclosure. Nothing about what I’m seeing is comforting. I’m in a room filled with cages like this one. Mine is suspended from the ceiling. Some are higher, some are lower. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the pattern. The lighting is dim, and it’s very cold. On top of that, I feel heavy. I’m struggling to hold myself upright. Is it from the drugs?