Damage Control - ARC Read Free Page A

kind
of toilet. And I'm not your prisoner; I'm your pet."

2
the fire-box house

    J a de Massilon close d her eyes
and shook her head to try to get control of her imagination. But
when she looked again, he was still there, standing on the orange
leaves under the oak tree that grew almost too close to the
house.
    It would have been odd enough for a stranger
to walk into her backyard from the forest at all. But this stranger
looked like he should have been walking into a sci-fi convention.
His entire head was covered in a hairless, ridged and scaly mask.
He wore a futuristic-looking slate-gray jumpsuit with an intricate
design of shiny gold-colored circles embossed on the front. Heavy
gray boots came up to his knees. "My vehicle is disabled," he said.
"I require help." He had a deep voice.
    "Where is your vehicle?" Jade asked, stalling
for time.
    "About five hundred meters north-northeast of
here." He sounded congested.
    Five hundred meters north-northeast. There
were no roads in that location—only a rough jeep track. Then either
he was confused, or he was lying to hide something. "I'd be happy
to call someone for you," she told him, and went into the house.
She would lock the door and call 911, and they'd probably take him
to the hospital.
    But before she could finish closing the door,
he grabbed it and followed her inside. He was tall—at least
six-foot-six.
    With an effort, she looked up at the scaly
mask. It fit him well—it must have been glued on and touched up
with makeup. "Can you wait for me outside, please?"
    "No," he said, and closed the door.
    “Really,” she insisted, her pulse throbbing
in her ears, “you need to wait outside.” She tried to open the door
again, but he held it closed. She kicked the little throw-rug out
of the way, got a solid stance on the pine floorboards, grabbed the
doorknob with both hands, leaned back and pulled hard. But of
course she was no match for the much bigger intruder, and he stood
there looking almost bored, holding the door shut easily with one
hand.
    Telling herself not to panic, she
methodically put the mail down on the table, took off her coat and
fed the fire in the woodstove. She replaced the stove-lid, hung the
lid-lifter on its nail beside the bellows and whisk broom on the
stair-stringer and started for the telephone.
    But when she had the phone almost within
reach, he grabbed her arm, stopping her. His touch felt like
leather—and no wonder. He wore gloves to match the gray-brown
'alien' skin of his mask. The fingers of the gloves ended in claws,
but either they weren't sharp or he had been careful not to scratch
her with them. "I will not allow you to contact your government,"
he explained. He must have had a bad cold: he sounded all plugged
up.
    "Let me go!" Jade protested, trying not to
sound scared.
    To her surprise, he did release her, and she
made a dive for the phone.
    It was useless. He grabbed her arm again and
held her back.
    "Okay," she breathed, hoping she hadn't
angered him. "No phone calls." She paused, swallowed, took a deep
breath, and said, "But then, I don't know how I can help you."
    "I require heat," he replied. "You will stay
by the stairs." Still holding her arm, he pulled her back around
the table to the place where she’d just hung the lid-lifter. She
thought he might search her to make sure she didn’t have a
cellphone on her, but he didn’t. Maybe he knew there was no cell
signal there, or maybe he just didn’t think of it.
    He stood between the stove and the table,
blocking her way to the phone, and took off his outer piece of
clothing. It was a stiff piece, worn in front like the protective
gear of a baseball catcher. He pulled his arms out of his jumpsuit
and tied the sleeves around his waist. The long-sleeved jersey or
unionsuit he wore underneath covered him completely, from 'alien'
mask to 'alien' gloves.
    "What's your name?" Jade asked.
    "Zuke."
    "Zuke," she repeated. "Okay. Why the alien
costume?"
    Zuke—or whatever his name