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Grav eyed the container of water and licked his dry lips. He was thirsty again, but it was just as well he couldn’t get to the water because the urge to urinate had become painful.

From the tenor of her breathing, the woman had fallen asleep after tossing for hours. His own slumber had been fitful due to his uncomfortable spread-eagled position, hunger gnawing at his belly and a painful urge to urinate. The healed chest wound itched.

Light from the lamp spilled over his bed, but hers, across the room, remained in shadow. But there’d been enough light for him to see her slip her weapon under the pillow and slide into bed fully dressed. She’d kept her shoes on, as if she needed to be prepared to flee at a moment’s notice.

Her smell disturbed him. She exuded an odor he’d come to associate with Earth’s inhabitants. Until her, he’d never met a human face-to-face, but their habitats were marked with their stench. But the human odor mingled with the woman’s unique botanical signature into a scent that was…not unpleasant.

He’d offered his name to elicit hers. Not because it mattered what she was called—although he was a tad curious—but to gain a concession. Little capitulations would lead to bigger concessions toward the ultimate aim of getting her to release him or at least lower her guard and give him an opportunity to escape.

That’s why he’d asked for water. He had been thirsty, but mainly he needed her to say yes to something. Small yeses led to bigger yeses. Yes, I’ll loosen those ties so they don’t cut into your wrists. Yes, I’ll let you up so you can urinate.

Best-case scenario, he would prefer to get loose while she was gone. Then he’d have time to search for weapons. He eyed the handgun butt jutting out from under her pillow. Hopefully, there were others stashed away. He would need some way to defend himself. Few humans were left, but the survivors would have a score to settle. They wouldn’t have the reservations about killing him like the woman. One had already tried.

He flexed his fingers, tugging at the restraints.

An effortless campaign had collapsed into the worst disaster in Progg history. The takeover had proceeded as planned. The air assault had eradicated humans from major and medium cities and military installations, and ground troops had landed to raid small towns and rural areas.

Always hands-on, Admiral Drek moved with the ground troops. While the troops finished cleansing the area, Grav had been sent ahead to scout out a new base of operations, i.e. a dwelling worthy of an admiral, when the commander had messaged him that he was shuttling to the command ship for medical treatment. Drek had developed some unusual symptoms: sore throat, sneezing, runny nasal passages, malaise.

Grav offered to accompany him to the ship, but Drek had instructed him to remain. “I won’t be long. When I return, we’ll need a new location.”

Those were the last words the admiral spoke to him.

If Grav had gone with Drek, he might have prevented the tragedy. He likely would have died, but he might have saved millions of lives if he’d pressed the admiral to enter quarantine.

But either Admiral Drek had refused to isolate himself, or no one had dared to suggest it.

With the med unit unable to cure the foreign disease, the admiral had passed the contagion to everyone aboard the command ship—including some senior officers who’d departed for the home world shortly after greeting the admiral.

Not only had the entire military wing assigned to the Earth Campaign been taken out, but millions on Progg-Res had perished, the largest loss of life ever sustained. Worse, it hadn’t occurred through battle but through negligence , failure to take common-sense precautions.

Do it once. Do it right.

Had the admiral lived, he would have been court-martialed and executed.

Which raised the question: If Grav got rescued, what would happen to him? Would he be deemed responsible for failing to prevent the tragedy by allowing the ailing admiral to return to the command ship?

In the four months since that fateful conversation, Grav had received only two communiques—the shocking one that Drek had died and others aboard the vessel were ailing, and an even more disturbing one several weeks later from the GM that the disease had spread to Progg-Res, the Earth campaign had been aborted, and any remaining ground troops would be extracted when it was safe to do so. He’d been instructed to avoid humans and their dwellings, but to kill any he happened to come into contact with to prevent contamination. There’d been no further comms, and his requests for updates had gone unanswered.

Now, he’d lost his comm device. It had been stolen along with his weapon.

He suspected he couldn’t go home—but he didn’t see how he could remain on Earth either. He guesstimated 95 percent of the Earth’s population had been obliterated, but that still left an angry, vengeful 5 percent. He eyed the sleeping woman. Who had she lost, he wondered. A mate? Parents? Siblings? Children?

Unaware the invasion had been aborted, she didn’t realize it was probably safe to return to her home—as long as she remained vigilant. There remained an unknown number of Progg who, fearing the contagion, would kill any humans they came into contact with—including the ones who’d been promised safety in exchange for their assistance.

Grav had assumed that after cleansing the last town, the ground troops under the admiral’s command would have remained in place, awaiting further orders. But Grav returned to the location and found it deserted.

Most likely, they’d sickened too and had shuttled to the ship for treatment, only to die. They could have been absorbed into another unit and moved on. Or they could have deserted and scattered. Not everyone agreed with the methods used to build the empire; new recruits sometimes balked.

An air assault was clean and easy. You didn’t see the targets. Ground troops came face-to-face with the populace. They had the technology to cleanse the entire planet from the air, but vaporization killed all living creatures—people, animals, birds, fish, insects, microorganisms. A global assault would have obliterated the ecosystem. Who desired a dead planet?

As the admiral’s aide, Grav had never taken a life, never participated in a raid, but knowing what occurred had bothered him more than it should until he hardened himself to it. There was nothing he could do to stop it. It was the way of his people.

He studied the woman with the enticing scent. Having looked her in the eye, he couldn’t take her life.

Like she hadn’t been able to take his.

At least, not yet.

By happenstance, their paths had collided, locking them into a twisted fight for survival.

His shoulder joints were killing him. Thirst he could deal with. Hunger he could ignore. But the pressure in his bladder had grown unbearable. If she didn’t wake soon, he’d soil himself. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey! Hey! Wake up!”

* * * *

“What the fuck?”

Laurel jolted upright, her dream vaporizing like people on a doomed planet. Her mind awhirl, she’d lain awake for hours. It seemed like she’d just fallen asleep, and then her prisoner had the nerve to wake her up? Clearly, he didn’t understand his role here.

Vainly, she tried to recall the dream, sensing a significance, a message. Something about…chains? Dammit.

She scowled at her hostage. No, not a hostage, a prisoner. A hostage got traded for something. Grav was a dangerous albatross. Who’d woken her up.

“I have to urinate,” he said.

“So, urinate.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She needed to pee; she could imagine how badly he needed to go.

“Please,” he said.

“I’m not letting you up.” She got to her feet and slipped her gun into the holster. She left the chamber and went into the storage room where she kept the portable composting toilet and relieved herself.

Upon returning, she scrutinized him with growing frustration. Allowing him to soil himself was not a good long-term or even intermediate-term solution. And unless she kept shoving a straw in his mouth and spoon-fed him, she would have to figure something out.

Chains… The remnant of the dream drifted through her mind. What did it mean? Their fates were now chained together?

He twisted on the bed, probably trying to relieve the pressure on his shoulders. He couldn’t go anywhere, thanks to the zip ties. The prepper had purchased a mega-sack of the plastic ties. Police officers had used them when they arrested a big group of suspects and didn’t have enough handcuffs. To get them off, you had to cut them off.

Chains…

“A chain! That’s the solution!”

She ran to the storage room, grabbed the ginormous sack of zip ties, wire cutters, a bucket, and a tape measure. After setting the items on her bed, she measured the distance from the posts on the bunk bed to the table beside it.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Calculating.”

She returned to her bed and made three zip tie chains—one for his left wrist, a longer one for the right, and a short one for his legs. When the chains were complete, she shoved a handful of zip ties into her pocket and approached her prisoner. After moving the chair and water jug out of the way, she attached new zip ties to the two front bedposts then slipped a plastic strip under each of his wristbands and attached them to a chain. Next, she connected the chains to the just-added bedpost tie.

“I’m not trussed enough?”

She retrieved the wire cutters and the bucket, placing the latter next to his bed. After chaining his ankles together, she released his legs from the post with a snip of the wire cutters.

At the head of the bed, she cut the original ties from the posts. He was now chained to the bed. He could feed himself and urinate, but he couldn’t escape. As long as she stayed out of reach, she would be safe.

Groaning, he lowered and flexed his arms. “Thank you.”

She pointed to the bucket. “For you to urinate.”

She watched while he sat up to ensure she hadn’t given him too much leash. She supposed he might be strong enough to drag the entire bunk bed, but he wouldn’t be able to get the bed through the narrow cave entrance. Satisfied she’d secured her prisoner, she went to make a cup of coffee. I can’t believe I took care of his needs before I even had my coffee. She heated water on an alcohol camping stove while she retrieved the instant coffee and a couple of power bars.

Taking her cup, she went to check on her prisoner. He was sitting up. He’d used the bucket. She eyed the amount of urine. He really did have to pee. She deposited the power bars on the table. “Food,” she said, and snagged the travel mug. It was empty. He’d finished off the water. She refilled it and set it on the table.

Immediate problem solved, she sat in the chair out of reach, sipped her coffee, and contemplated him. He looked a little less gray today, a little more silver, the chest wound healed. What does it take to kill these bastards? People did survive gunshot wounds, but not like this. The bullet just popped out of him. They can’t be invincible. Nobody is invincible. Not even vampires and zombies. If you hammer a stake into a vampire’s heart or cut off a zombie’s head, they die.

Except those creatures were fiction. This monster was real.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Coffee.”

He wrinkled his nose. “It smells…pungent.”

“And it smells better than it tastes. Coffee is an acquired taste.” She chuckled and then scowled, angry at herself. There was nothing amusing about this situation. This wasn’t a chat with a friend or a casual conversation with a stranger. It was a confrontation with the enemy.

He stood up, and her heart nearly leaped out of her chest, but he rocked on his heels, and she realized he was stretching his legs. Still standing, he tore the wrapper off a power bar and hesitantly bit into it. He made a face. “This is an acquired taste, too.” He swallowed and washed it down with a drink of water. “Actually, it has almost no taste. You regularly eat this stuff?”

Power bars did taste like cardboard, but he had some nerve complaining about the food. He was damn lucky to be fed at all. She fumed. “Only when our planet is invaded, and we can’t get regular food.”

Thanks to the prepper, she had buckets and buckets of freeze-dried meals: beef stroganoff, spaghetti with meat sauce, chili, chicken fettuccine, mac and cheese, scrambled eggs with hash browns, and more. If she desired other rations, she could shop at any house or market in the area. Perishables had long since spoiled, but getting food wasn’t an issue. At least not yet. Ten years from now, twenty years, might be a different story. Assuming she survived that long.

Heat. Ample light. Electricity. A hot shower. That’s what she needed. The cave stayed at 60 degrees Fahrenheit, but that was still chilly. The oil lamps didn’t light the chambers bright enough, and she needed to conserve the oil. Had they been prescient as teenagers, she and Brent wouldn’t have used the oil lamps so much. But they’d burned through the fuel like somebody else was paying the bill. Somebody was—her future self.

Now, she had to keep the light on around the clock to monitor her prisoner.

If she dared to fire up the generator, she’d have electric heat and light, but because of the harmful fumes, she’d have to place the machine outside .

Since everyone had died, the world had gone eerily silent. No traffic, no planes, no sirens, no lawn mowers, no yelling kids playing ball. No barking dogs. Pets had been vaporized with their owners. In the dead of winter, wild birds and cicadas didn’t sing, coyotes didn’t howl, crickets didn’t chirp.

In the silence, the growl of the generator would travel for miles.

The Progg or a colluder would hear it.

Plus, she’d need to get gasoline. There was none in the cave. She assumed the red jugs in her parents’ garage were full, but she preferred to save the fuel in case she needed to flee in the car. The vehicles should be gassed, but she couldn’t count on being able to get fuel once she was on the road, especially in rural areas. She’d have to go to town for gasoline for the generator, and every foray in the open increased the risk of detection and death.

Again, she wished she knew how many aliens were in the area. How great was the danger? “Are you alone?” she asked.

“No, I’m with you.”

Was he trying to be funny? Her lip curled with annoyance.

He sat on the mattress to eat a second power bar. Although he posed no threat while in chains, she felt more comfortable when he was sitting.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll make you a trade.”

“You’re in no position to negotiate.” She downed the last gulp of cold coffee.

He finished the power bar in silence.

She held her tongue. I get what you’re doing. She stood up to leave. I won’t play your game. You are not in control here. But she wondered what he would trade for. Another power bar? Something better to eat? Why not just ask for those things? He hadn’t hesitated to ask for water or to be able to relieve himself.

She reached the chamber exit.

He spoke. “I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”

She turned. “What’s your question?”

“What’s your name?”

What difference did it make? His curiosity made her wary, but what harm would it do? If by telling him her name, she could find out how many Progg were in the area, that would be a good exchange.

If he told the truth. He might lie.

She could, too. She could give him a fake name. But that would be silly because it didn’t matter at this point. Hell, she could give him her full name, her mother’s maiden name, her birth date, and her social security number, and it couldn’t hurt her. But aliens? They could kill her.

“My name is Laurel Knight,” she said.

“Laurel,” he repeated. “Do you want me to answer your previous question, or do you have another?”

She inched into the room, mulling over how best to ask her question, open ended or yes or no. Numbers would be a big help, but what if he didn’t have them? “Are there other Progg in the area?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You fucking asshole! That’s the last damn thing you get from me!” He could die of thirst and drown in his own piss for all she cared. She whirled around, stomping for the exit.

“Laurel, wait! I don’t know because I got separated!”

She froze. Turned. “What?”

“I got separated from my unit. They either moved on or shuttled to the command ship. So, yes, I’m alone, but are there others in the area? I don’t know. I’ve been looking for them.”

She scanned his face. He appeared earnest, sincere, but how could she be sure? She had a pretty good lie detector, could tell most of the time when a patient lied about how he got injured or whether he’d been compliant with medical instructions. But she mustn’t presume alien expressions and body language conveyed the same meaning.

“Have you been through Big Creek—the town?” she asked.

“I passed through it.”

“ Nobody was there? No Progg?”

“No one. I didn’t walk every street of the town, but I did see quite a bit of it while trying to find food.”

He could be lying. Even if he told the truth, other Progg could show up at any time like he had. But the tension in her shoulders relaxed. She felt more comfortable about venturing into town, getting more clothes, stocking up on drugs and medical supplies she might need in the future.

She might even risk running the generator. But, what if a colluder heard? What if they were still working with the Progg? “Any humans?” She wiggled her itchy nose.

“I didn’t see any. But somebody shot me.”

“Why were you on foot?” She rubbed her nose.

“The fuel cell on my ground crawler died a few months ago. Without equipment, I couldn’t recharge it, and I couldn’t get any of your vehicles to work.”

He probably had no idea cars needed a key. Her vehicle, parked in her parents’ garage, was gassed, the key under the floor mat, ready to go in the event she needed to flee and had time to get to it.

She’d never considered getting in the car and driving. Why put herself out in the open and vulnerable to the death rays? Where could she go that would be safer or better equipped than the cave already stocked with supplies? Back roads would be passable, but freeways and major highways would be clogged by smashed vehicles. Cars had crashed into each other when the drivers and passengers disappeared.

She felt a sneeze coming on. “How did you get separated from your unit?”

He pursed his lips. “Not important.” He reached for the water and took a drink.

Not so fast, asshole. His avoidance indicated the answer to her question was significant. “No, tell me—” Laurel sneezed.

Once. Twice.

She opened her eyes to find Grav’s face frozen into an expression of abject terror. And then he went nuts.