Page 21 of Stranded with the Alien

She laid him on the floor. Sweating and out of breath, she took a moment to gulp down some water. She couldn’t help anyone if she passed out. She tried pouring some between the alien’s lips but most of it ran down his chin.

His tunic was hanging in shreds and she carefully removed it, balling it up and using it to wipe away the blood.

Fuck, that looks nasty.

His wounds were deep, the edges puffy and raw. The torn scales around them had taken on a sickly tint. Infected, no doubt.

The remote control hanging round his neck was gone. Probably torn off by the animals. At least they’d saved her a job.

She wet the cloth with a little water and sponged his injuries. He didn’t stir as she moved from his arms to chest to abdomen, noticing how his scales shaded paler the lower she went.

She stopped at his waistband. There were a couple of deep gashes on his thighs which she could see through the shreddedmaterial of his trousers. If she wanted to clean them properly, she should really take them off.

Her hand hovered over his belt and she couldn’t help a flicker of curiosity. She and her friends had often joked about alien anatomy. She’d seen a Vraxian’s private parts in diagrams during army lectures, of course. But this was different. This was a real, live Vraxian dick just inches away from her.

She eyed his still form. If he was in proportion, it would be huge.

In the end she decided against trying to remove his trousers. For one thing, he was simply too heavy for her to man-handle him out of them. And for another, it was uncomfortably close to voyeurism.

She contented herself with dabbing at his wounds through the rips in the leather-like material, cleaning them as best she could.

When she turned him onto his side to treat the gashes on his back, she saw a line of flattened spikes running from neck to coccyx. They were lying flush against his spine but looked as if they could rise, like porcupine quills.

Another Vraxian defense mechanism. One more reminder that this creature was a mortal enemy of mankind. She paused, wondering for the umpteenth time why she was doing this.

You could just leave him to die. It would be easy.And sensible.

But she couldn’t. If she was going to do that, she might as well have saved herself some effort and left him in the scrubland.

For whatever reason, she’d made a choice. She had to see it through.

She found her med kit at the back of the cave and pulled out the antibiotic plasters. Circular adhesive pads, they were designed to fight a range of infections. In humans, that was. God only knew if they’d work on an alien but it had to be worth a try.

She stripped off the plastic backing and pressed the translucent patch onto the Vraxian’s upper arm. He didn’t move. Worried about his blood loss, she tried again to pour water between his lips. This time he coughed and swallowed before falling still again. Kara sat back on her heels.

“Okay, big guy. That’s all I can do for you. It’s up to you now.”

There was justone more thing.

She lifted his limp hand and pressed a finger to the flat surface on theyashaklock around her neck. It sprang open and fell to the ground. With grim satisfaction, she smashed a rock on it until it was pulped.

She made sure to leave water and rations next to the unconscious alien in case he woke up. Then once again she reached for her backpack. Her limbs were screaming with fatigue but she didn’t have the luxury of resting. She had to get to the hills and set off her beacon.

It was only when she checked it that she saw it had all been for nothing.

It was broken.

The casing was cracked right down the middle. She could see the interior wiring exposed and when she pushed the ‘power’ button, nothing happened.

Kara stared blankly at her last hope of getting rescued. It must have been damaged when the hounds attacked. She tried to figure out how it might be repaired, but she knew it was hopeless. She didn’t have the tools, for one thing.

Blinking back tears of frustration, she let the beacon tumble from her nerveless fingers. Then she sank to the floor in a huddle and buried her head in her arms.

She was trapped here. Stranded with the enemy. She’d never see the Idaho again, nor hear Koenig yelling at her for insubordination. She’d never get to make her mother proud of her.

It was over. She was done.

Thirteen

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