Page 7 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

The crowd roars, and I feel it in my chest. “This is our home. Silver Creek, Mirror Lake—they’re ours. And we’re not gonna sit back while some billionaire tries to take them away. But hear this: no violence. No destruction. We’re better than that. We’re Coldwater, and we’re gonna show them what that means.”

Clem claps me on the back, grinning. “That’s my girl. Now lead the way.”

I step off the porch, the crowd parting like water. Behind me, the chant starts low and builds:“Save Silver Creek! Save Silver Creek!”Clem’s at my side, Seamus a step behind. Even Boris and Barfbag are in the mix, holding their misspelled signs high.

We’re marching now, all of us, a sea of people moving as one. The streets of Coldwater haven’t seen this kind of energy in years. I feel like maybe we’ve got a shot.

The crowd swells behind me as we march down Main Street, the chants of“No Dam Way!”echoing off the storefronts. City Hall looms ahead, its white columns glaring under the afternoon sun. Susan Reece is already on the steps, her camera crew setting up like she’s about to film the next big blockbuster. She waves me over, her grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“You think Boss Hoag has the guts to come out and face us?” I ask, my voice already scratchy from shouting.

Susan adjusts her mic, her eyes flicking toward the building. “We’ll make it really hard to ignore us. That’s the power of the press.”

“And the power of five thousand pissed-off people,” Clem adds, stepping up beside me. He raises his fist, and the crowd erupts into another round of“Save Our Lake!”

My throat feels like sandpaper, but I grab the megaphone again. “Silver Creek isn’t just water—it’s our history! Our future!And we’re not gonna let Gary Irons or Boss Hoag take it away from us!”

The crowd cheers, louder this time. Boris and Barfbag are front and center, their misspelled signs held high. “Yeah, no dams for jerks!” Boris yells, completely serious.

I glance at Susan. “He’s really committing to the bit.”

“Don’t knock it,” she says, her camera rolling. “Bad spelling gets attention.”

The door to City Hall creaks open, and Lt. Roscoe steps out, his uniform straining over his gut. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. The crowd’s chanting shifts—“We want Hoag! We want Hoag!”—and Roscoe flinches like he’s been slapped.

“We’re here to talk to Boss Hoag!” Clem shouts, his voice booming.

“Yeah, give us the wolf, not the sheep!” Boris adds, looking way too proud of himself.

I lean toward Susan. “That’s pretty deep for him.”

She smirks. “Seamus coached him to say it.”

Roscoe clears his throat, holding up his hands like he’s trying to calm a pack of wild dogs. “Now, folks, let’s keep this civil. If you want to talk to the mayor, you can make an appointment individually.”

The crowd boos, the sound rolling over Roscoe like a wave. He glares, his face turning red. “You people asked for it!” he shouts, jabbing a finger at us. “Mr. Irons has graciously given us a stipend to hire an outside security agency to deal with you pests.”

The words hang in the air, and for a second, it’s silent. Then the crowd erupts into angry shouts, and Roscoe backs up, slamming the door shut behind him.

The rumble starts low, a growl that vibrates through the ground and up my legs. I turn toward the sound, and there they are—Apocalypse Jack and his gang of lunatics, Cold Slither,roaring down Main Street like a pack of wolves. Their bikes gleam under the sun, chrome and black leather swallowing the road. The crowd’s chanting falters, replaced by murmurs of confusion and unease.

Boris and Barfbag, of course, are the exception. They’re practically vibrating with excitement. “No way,” Boris breathes, his eyes wide. “It’sthem. It’s really them.”

Barfbag starts chanting, his voice cracking with enthusiasm. “We’re Cold Slither, you’ll be joining us soon! A band of vipers, bringing your doom!”

Clem’s hand snags the back of Boris’s shirt, yanking him hard. “Will you punks knock it off? This isn’t a damn fan convention.”

The gang doesn’t slow down. Jack leads the charge, his bike skidding to a stop right in front of City Hall. The rest of the gang forms up behind him, a wall of leather and menace. Jack swings off his bike, the movement smooth like he’s done it a thousand times—and he probably has. He snatches a megaphone from a protester’s hand, barely glancing at them like they’re an afterthought.

His voice crackles through the speakers, sharp and mocking. “As the duly appointed, fully deputized security agent of the fine city of Coldwater, I’m politely asking you good people to go the hell home before we curb stomp you into red paste.”

He tosses the megaphone to the ground and crushes it under his boot. The screech of feedback is deafening, but it’s nothing compared to the roar of engines as the gang revs their bikes and charges into the crowd.

The protesters scatter, most of them too smart to stand their ground against a pack of bikers. But not Clem. He’s already stepping forward, his fists clenched. “Like hell I’m letting these clowns push us around.”

I grab his arm, digging my fingers in. “Not now,” I hiss. “You start swinging, and this whole thing turns into a brawl. We can’t win this way.”

“So what, we just let them chase us off like a bunch of scared kids?” Clem’s voice is low, tight with anger.

---