Page 25 of Dealing With Drak

The flight is a short one this time, and Drak decides to land the ship on top of an old bank. Since this is the closest city to my old house and not the closest one to campus, we don’t have to worry about running into any of the other Aprixians. This means everything popping up on the ship scanner is either a zombie or humans surrounded by a bunch of fucking zombies.

I shiver in my seat, looking at the screen. Zombies aren’t like they are in the movies. They don’t look like humans running around with dead, rotting flesh. They look more like bald bears or dogs, walking around on their hands and knees. They’re not hairy, so their skin looks stretched. And they’re almost always dirty, covered in blood and dirt from fighting.

When I first learned that the Aprixians came here to eat them, I was appalled, even though I’d been secretly killing off strays that wandered near the house for months. Just because they don’t look like humans doesn’t mean they look appetizing. But I mean, a cow doesn’t look delicious until it’s cooked, either.

Brooke thinks the aliens from Aprix developed their tastes for survival purposes. Like they eat things that don’t belong in order to get rid of them. I don’t know how good of a theory that is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was onto something. These aliens seem massively advanced, so evolving to the point where they eat dead things could be some kind of revolutionary feat for the universe for all I know.

They eat other stuff too, of course. Apparently their planet has no shortage of food, no shortage of anything really. Marrec, Stevie’s boyfriend—er, mate—used all of his money that he made as a war hero to make sure no one on their planet wants for anything. It’s an interesting concept but hard to believe. On Earth, nothing is truly free.

While we were planning this little trip, though, Drak made sure to tell me he wouldn’t be feasting on the undead.

“You find it repulsive,” he told me, smiling playfully. “I will refrain from indulging, I prefer to hunt without eating anyway.”

For some reason, I felt the need to tell him he could eat whatever he wanted. “You probably find the idea of eating something that looks like Harold disgusting, don’t you?” As his face twisted in distaste, I nodded. “Exactly, so eat whatever you want. Humans used to eat Harolds aaaall the time, Drak. Chicken was one of the most eaten meats, if not the most.”

He decided he would still refrain, but more for his focus than for my ability to stomach it. So at least I don’t have to feel bad about that.

When we exit the ship, we look down over the edge of the building, a swarm of about thirty zombies already doing their best to scatter off. They’re slow-moving but climbing all over each other to try and hide as fast as they can.

“A grenade would be nice right about now,” I say, muttering the joke.

“A bomb?” Drak asks, eyebrows doing that thing they do when his translator doesn’t have an exact match.

“Fragmentation bomb,” I clarify. “It’s a small device that explodes with metal pieces when it goes off. Pretty dangerous in close quarters, but small in comparison to some of the other huge explosions bombs can make.”

“Ah,” Drak grunts with understanding.

Without blinking, he pulls a metal ball from behind his belt, twisting it between his hands once. It lights up with a purple glow and starts to beep like a kitchen timer might. Causally, he tosses it into the horde below.

“What—holy shit!”

Blinding purple light sears through the crowd, cutting through the zombie bodies with insane precision. Black blood splatters the streets like buckets of paint being spilled. There isn’t a zombie in that group still moving.

“What the fuck was that?” I demand, mesmerized and horrified all at once.

Drak smiles gleefully down at his handiwork. “Laser bomb.”

Of-fucking-course, he has laser bombs.

“How many of those do you have?”

His lips purse, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “Why do I need more than one?” Before I can yell that he’s just used his only one, he whistles.

The sound is more chirpy than a typical humans, sharp and loud too.

And like a dog, the ball responds. Using some kind of magnetic pulse, the little thing flies straight up to us, bouncing back into Drak’s hand.

“They’re reusable?”

“Of course. Are yours not?”

“Definitely not,” I say firmly. “Bombs are one-time use here.”

“Huh,” he mutters. “This is interesting.”

“You just obliterated like thirty zombies, and you think our bombs are interesting?” I gape at him.

“Would you like to learn how to use mine?” he asks, wiggling the little ball at me.

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