Page 2

Chapter 2

Elsie

T he mouthwatering aroma of barbecue hits my nostrils, waking me from a bizarre dream.

Wait, why is there barbecue in the hospital? And why does the fried meat smell so appetizing when I haven’t been able to smell anything edible without wanting to barf for months?

I sniff again, not yet daring to open my eyes in case the visual stimulation brings back the nausea.

Still smells like barbecue. Still smells good.

And there’s something else. An earthy, loamy scent that makes me think of Costa Rica. My parents took me on a rainforest vacation there after my third and final bout with leukemia, and it was one of the few trips I didn’t hate because I was feeling good for once. We saw howler monkeys, and I tasted a bunch of tropical fruits.

It’s a good memory, so the wet jungle smell isn’t unpleasant, but it definitely doesn’t belong in my sterile hospital room. Nor do the male voices speaking in some guttural foreign language nearby. Also, I’m wet and cold, especially where my back and my bare feet touch the damp ground.

Seriously, what the fuck is going on?

I open my lids a tiny crack.

It’s dark. Like pitch-black kind of dark.

The kind of dark that’s all but impossible to achieve in our age of modern electronics.

The kind of dark you never see in a hospital.

My heart begins to hammer. Hard. Much harder than should be possible, given that said heart is on the verge of failure.

Is this it? Am I dead?

Is this what there is after death—darkness, wet earth, and barbecue?

Wait a minute…

I cautiously turn my head, sensing something in my peripheral vision.

Yep, there’s a red glow from a fire to my right. And dark figures silhouetted against the flames, sitting with their huge backs toward me.

No. No fucking way.

Even if hell were real—and the future scientist in me is still convinced it’s not—I haven’t done anything to merit that kind of punishment in the afterlife. Wait, what am I saying? I don’t believe in the afterlife. That’s just a comforting myth people made up to try to come to terms with the fact that eventually, they simply cease to exist.

So… if this isn’t hell, where am I? And who are the figures around the fire?

Shit. Did I get kidnapped?

No, that’s ridiculous. Who would want to kidnap a dying girl?

Unless… oh, fuck. Of course.

I sit up, outraged. “Hey, you! Tell my parents to get me back home, pronto. I don’t have time for this farewell nature immersion or whatever. I have fucking exams to study for!”

The figures around the fire—all five of them—stiffen, then rise to their feet and turn to face me. The firelight illuminates their faces, and I swallow as my outrage evaporates, replaced by a cold wave of fear.

I don’t think my parents hired these men to take me from the hospital and show me the good life before I kick the bucket.

I’m actually not sure they’re men at all.

Even if I were to ignore their linebacker builds and the skintight snakeskin clothes they’re wearing, their features are unlike anything I’ve ever seen, in real life or on television. Their eye sockets are comically big, and their glittering, red-hued eyes sit deep within them, with no hint of eyebrows on the narrow, sloping foreheads above. Their noses are just two nostrils in the middle of their faces, and their chins recede into their necks, while their disproportionally wide cheekbones jut out sideways. And their mouths are—wait, do they have mouths?

One of them opens the horizontal slit below his nostrils, and upon hearing the guttural speech that emerges, I realize that they do have mouths. Flat, lipless mouths filled with shark-like teeth.

Now I’m sweating. It’s a cold, clammy sweat that gathers under my armpits and trickles down my back. Have I been wrong all my life? Is there, in fact, an afterlife, including heaven and hell? And have I somehow ended up in the latter… maybe because I didn’t believe in it?

I run my tongue over my dry lips and try to think rationally.

Unlike the demonic figures before me, I do have lips, and they get dry. That’s good. And my armpits sweat. That’s even better. Would there even be such a thing as sweat in the afterlife? Wouldn’t it all be metaphysical? Then again, how do you burn in hell if you can’t experience physical sensations? You have to have nerve endings to feel the fire scorching you, right? So why not sweat glands as well?

The man—demon?—who spoke before says something again. His tone is sharper, angrier. A command. It’s not directed at me, though, because one of the other demons responds to it by heading toward me.

My heart rate spikes, and adrenaline floods my body.

Maybe this isn’t hell. Maybe these creatures aren’t demons but football players in strange masks. Or maybe I’ve fallen asleep over my laptop, and this is a really vivid nightmare.

Whatever it is, I don’t wait to find out.

I turn, and I run.

Or at least I try to run.

I make it exactly two steps before my bare toes catch on some root and I faceplant onto the wet ground.

A ground that hisses and bucks underneath me as stinging needles bite into every inch of my exposed skin.

“Ahhh!” I leap to my feet and back away, frantically slapping at my burning arms, face, and legs as the “ground” rears up in front of me and opens its horrific vertical maw, the dripping sideways fangs inside glinting in the distant firelight.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

I am in fucking hell.

The hairy, tube-like creature—which I’d call a caterpillar if it weren’t my fucking size—hisses again and lunges at me, maw open as if to swallow me whole.

I let out another scream and turn to run again, only to hit a steel wall.

Or, as I realize with the small portion of my brain that still retains some functionality, the chest of the demon coming after me. He must be wearing a metal plate underneath his snakeskin attire because I bounce off his chest, hard, and fall backward on my ass.

Right next to the giant caterpillar thing and its stinging hairs.

I scream and cover my face as it drops down onto its dozen legs and lunges at me.

Instead of its fangs biting into me, there’s a whooshing sound, followed by a cold, slimy spray across my arms and face. I gag and cough-spit as the taste, bitter and acidic, seeps into my mouth.

I’m still coughing and spitting as a huge, clawed hand yanks me to my feet and a rough palm sweeps painfully across my face, wiping away most of the slime… which I’m now realizing is the caterpillar’s guts or blood or whatever it had inside.

To say that I’m grossed out to the point of puking would be a major understatement.

I dry-heave as my demonic savior drags me toward the fire, where the other figures are still hanging out. As we approach, they growl something in their foreign tongue, and he replies, not looking at me. Which is good because I’m still trying to process the fact that I was just attacked by a creature straight out of an entomophobe’s nightmare.

Seriously, am I in hell? Is that what the weird circle of lights was about—a portal to the underworld?

The demon dragging me shoves me in front of him, making me stumble and nearly fall into the flames.

“Excuse you,” I snap and twist my arm against his grip. He must not have been expecting any resistance because I actually break out of his hold.

For a moment, that is. In the next instant, he grabs my wrist, growls, and twists my arm behind my back with such force that I scream and fall to my knees.

The fucker laughs—full-on cackles, like a movie villain—and his buddies join in.

Then he releases my wrist and backhands me.

He probably uses only a fraction of his enormous strength, but my ears ring and I taste copper in my mouth.

I’ve never, ever been hit, and I can’t say I’m a fan.

I do, however, have a high tolerance for pain—and apparently zero common sense. Operating purely on instinct, I scoop up a handful of dirt and embers and fling the mixture at his face.

He roars in shock, and this time, the retaliatory blow across my face is less restrained. I can practically feel my brain rattle inside my skull, and my vision darkens as sounds fade in and out.

When my vision clears and the worst of the ringing in my ears stops, I spit out blood, along with something small and hard. I run my tongue over my upper and lower teeth until I find the tender, gaping socket where one of my lower canines should be.

One of the other demons barks out an order, and my assailant releases me.

I fall onto all fours, too dazed to do anything but pant weakly. If I were still in the hospital, I’m pretty sure I’d be diagnosed with a concussion. No, scratch that. If I were still in the hospital, none of this would be happening.

Why am I not still in the hospital? What the fuck is going on? Nightmares aren’t supposed to be this detailed or prolonged, and despite all the weirdness surrounding me, I can’t bring myself to believe that I’m in literal hell. Or that I’m dead. I smell, feel, and taste things far too acutely for some metaphysical realm. Not to mention, the empty tooth socket in my mouth and my split lip are throbbing like I’m very much alive.

Something else is going on, but I’m nowhere near figuring out what. Until I do, I should probably operate on the assumption that I am alive and avoid getting myself killed. So, as the demons launch into what appears to be an argument, I stay meekly on all fours and do my best not to draw any more attention to myself. Silently, I study them, taking note of the reddish-orange hue and leathery texture of their faces and the way their snakeskin outfits cover them from the neck down, fitting them like second skin. Unless… that is their skin.

I peer closer.

Yep, it’s attached to them, their leathery but smooth facial skin transitioning at the neck into the snake-like scales covering the rest of their bodies.

Driven by a prurient curiosity, I sneak a peek below their waists.

Huh. I don’t see any manly equipment whatsoever, though each demon does have a bulge in the groin area that suggests something is there. That’s what made me think they were wearing skintight snakeskin pants. Their lower bodies look like those of male ballet dancers in tights, only way bulkier and more lizard-like.

Wait a sec…

Are these actual lizard people ? The ones the conspiracy theorists would have you believe are secretly ruling Earth?

My mind makes another, more logical leap.

Have I been kidnapped by aliens ?

Holy shit. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier. Aliens are at least theoretically possible. Humanoid aliens are highly, highly improbable, even lizard-like humanoid aliens, but they’re more likely to exist than demons.

So… have I been abducted by aliens? Like for experiments and stuff?

Argument against: I’m not on a ship—at least I don’t think I am—and these lizard dudes huddling around the fire like cavemen don’t look like anyone’s idea of alien scientists.

Argument for: My throbbing face and burning skin aside, I feel… fine. I ran and fought, got hit by a linebacker-sized demon and stung by a giant caterpillar, yet my heart isn’t giving out. It’s pumping in a strong and steady—albeit very alarmed—rhythm, and I don’t feel any dizziness, weakness, nausea, muscle spasms, or any other fun sensations that come along with having various organs failing. It’s as if I’ve been healed… or given a new body.

Fuck. Could it be?

I quickly scan myself. There’s no mirror, so I can’t see my face, but my hands—small and skinny—look the same to me, and what I can see of my knobby knees is familiar as well. Oh, and I’m still in the pajama shorts and T-shirt I insist on wearing in hospitals in lieu of a typical hospital gown. They wouldn’t bother changing my body and then putting the same clothes on it, would they? I wish I could see my hair to check if it’s still the same shade of strawberry blond, but it’s not long enough.

Ever since all the chemo, I’ve kept it in a pixie cut, just in case.

A familiar clawed hand grips my upper arm, once again rudely cutting into my thoughts. I fight the urge to struggle as the lizard dude who hit me drags me up to my feet. This is not a battle I can win. The top of my head barely clears the middle of his chest, and he has the bulk to go with that height.

At least I’m assuming it’s a “he.” Could just as easily be a “she,” given the lack of obvious male equipment. I’m going with “he,” though, if only because of the mile-wide shoulders and the a-hole behavior. He drags me closer to the fire and forces me down into a sitting position before shoving a piece of charred meat into my hand.

“Bvcherru,” he barks, staring down at me.

Huh. Does he want me to eat the meat?

He brings his hand to his face and opens his shark-like mouth to bite at the air above his empty palm.

Yeah, okay. That’s definitely a command to eat.

I debate not obeying—who the hell knows what this meat is?—but I am hungry, weirdly enough, and presumably, humanoid aliens who kidnap earthlings should know what to feed us. There’s no point in bringing someone through a swirling-lights portal if you’re just going to poison them, right?

Fuck it. I’m supposed to die in a few days anyway. Or was supposed to. Whatever. I bite into the charred meat in my hand.

Holy guacamole. It’s like the juiciest, most tender chicken ever. There’s no salt or spices on it, but it’s still freaking good—and I don’t even normally like chicken.

“Can I have more?” I ask, looking up at the lizard dude and mimicking an eating motion.

He shoves another piece of maybe-chicken into my hand.

Okay, I’m starting to change my mind about his a-holeness. That is, until my tongue lands on my empty tooth socket, and my bruised jaw begins to throb harder as I chew. Yeah, no. A-hole all the way.

I eat until I’m full, and then I notice the sky—at least I presume it’s the sky and not, say, a super-tall ceiling on an alien ship—starting to lighten. I squint, peering at the tree-like shapes that I can now make out around me.

My nose didn’t lie. I am in some kind of jungle. Only it’s unlike any jungle I’ve been in. As orange and pink rays streak through the darkness above, painting it with a warm glow, I see that we’re in a sizable clearing ringed by enormous trees. Their black trunks look wider than an average single-family house, and their canopies are so high up they seem to disappear into the glowing sky. Lush green-and-red ferns of various heights cluster on the ground around them, mixed with purple, red, and pink-striped palm fronds. In a few places, brilliantly scarlet plants sprout from the ground in six-foot-tall clusters of tentacle-like tubes.

Tubes that, upon closer inspection, seem to expand and contract rhythmically, like arteries through which blood is pumped.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Or in Cleveland.

Or anywhere on Earth.

Okay, yeah, now I do feel dizzy. Probably because I’m hyperventilating.

Sucking in fast, shallow breaths, I drop my gaze to the ground—just in time to see a rat-sized spider-ant thing stroll casually onto my hand. I shriek and flap my hand in the air, shaking it off. Then I spot more of the same giant insects around me.

I’m on my feet before I remember that I’m supposed to be trying not to draw any attention from my lizard-ish captors.

Thankfully, the bastards just guffaw as I hop from foot to bare foot in a futile attempt to prevent the spider-ants from crawling onto me. They’re all around me, so it’s not an easy task. I hop closer to the fire, and that seems to do the trick. The insects stay a respectful distance away from the hot embers, and after a minute, the swarm of them moves on, crawling on their merry way to terrorize someone else.

I blow out a relieved breath and stop hopping around. My heart is still racing, and I feel shaky from all the adrenaline, but I’m safe. For now, at least. I can’t stop staring at the ground, though, and my gaze happens to fall on my feet.

They’re dirty, as expected. But they’re also skinny, like my hands.

I blink.

Yep, no swelling around my feet or ankles.

I bend over and touch my legs.

They’re my own. I recognize their shape from before my heart started failing. But there’s no swelling and, more importantly, no scar on my left calf from my melanoma surgery.

The scar is simply gone.

I straighten to stare at the lizard dudes.

Did they do this?

Did they heal me, right down to the old scars on my body?

They must have. It’s the only explanation. But how? And more importantly, why? Why bring me here and heal me?

What do they want from me?

They notice my staring, and the one who fed me says something in his guttural language. His buddies cackle-laugh—I’m guessing at my expense.

That’s it. I’ve had enough.

“What’s so funny?” I demand, placing my hands on my hips. “Who and what are you, and where the fuck am I?”

They guffaw harder.

My annoyance rises. Since waking up here, I’ve been stung, hit, attacked by giant spider-ants, and now they’re laughing at me? Granted, I probably look funny with my muddy clothes and bare feet, but still, have some fucking respect for another sentient being.

I shoot them all a dirty look. “Fuck you all. Open the portal and let me go home. Now.”

They continue laughing. Then the one who spoke originally, issuing the command to the lizard dude who grabbed me, comes up to me. His lipless shark mouth moves, but instead of his language, what comes out is guttural, heavily accented English.

“Shut up, human. You on Zerra now. You slave.”

And as I stare at him, jaw slack, he reaches out a clawed hand and forces me to my knees.