School by Nathaniel Hardman (top reads .TXT) 📕

Under him, the alien rolled hard to the side, throwing Jeremiah off balance enough to get free. Jeremiah grabbed him again and tried to wrestle him down, but the alien threw back his elbow and caught Jeremiah in the nose yet again.

Jeremiah snarled and punched him in the side, again and again. They wrestled fiercely; then Jeremiah took another elbow to the side of the head, and everything went black.

Jeremiah’s blackout lasted only a second, but he came-to so disoriented he couldn’t even remember where he was or why he hurt so much. Then Lori jumped past him, and there was the distinctive electric zap and sizzle of a stun gun.

He pushed himself to his feet and put a hand on the counter until his head stopped spinning. Lori ran to the interior door of the kitchen and swung it closed.

“Nice work,” Jeremiah said, not quite meeting Lori’s eyes. He pulled off his orange jumpsuit, revealing the shorts and wrap-around shirt beneath. Lori was pulling things out of her bag – green makeup, bald caps, assorted small fireworks, and another stun gun.

She pulled out a second tranquillizer pistol. “Guess we don’t need these,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Jeremiah, “Except...” He took the pistol over to the cook who was quietly trying to crawl to the door, pressed the barrel to the man’s back, and fired. The alien jumped forward a bit, then slumped.

“They DO work point-blank. That might be useful.” He pulled on the bald cap and turned to Lori for make-up, choking down a growing sense of panic.

So far, their plans had worked, more or less. But once they finished getting dressed and walked through that door, the plan would be a big, fat, “improvise.” They had no schematics for the castle, they didn’t speak the aliens’ language, they didn’t even know what floor the switcher alien might be on. And at any moment, the US Army could start attacking the castle.

Lori finished applying Jeremiah’s make-up, then he did touch-ups on hers. He didn’t worry about perfection – the disguises would only work for casual glances from a distance anyway, but something was better than nothing.

“Ready?” Lori asked.

He was going to get Jeff and Suzy back. He would see his kids again soon. He nodded. “Let’s go.”

THIRTY NINE

Tuynomosh awoke early on the morning of the Great Magic. He had slept fourteen hours and felt utterly well. He rang for breakfast, and it was brought to him, steaming and thick, prepared for maximum staying power. He ate well beyond full.

He used the bathroom, drank a little water, stretched, and dressed. He rang again, and servants entered, those most expert in massage and medicine. They kneaded his muscles, cracked his back, and applied a gummy salve to his feet. He ate again, used the bathroom again.

He was ready.

The king retrieved his wand and stepped out into the corridor where his men fell in around him. He could see the spring in their step and the eager energy in their eyes as they climbed the steps to the roof with him. As it should be, he thought. Today they will see the stuff of legend.

As the king strode onto the rooftop, his men fanned out in a wide circle around him, careful not to disturb the lines of chalk he had drawn there the day before.

He walked a slow circle around the design, inspecting it for any deterioration. It was perfect – a dragon in flight, its wingtips and talons just touching the circle that ringed it. He knew it could be done. It had worked once and would work again.

He nodded once and stepped up to the line. To take the Chushr’s strength and cripple them forever. Deep breath.

He began to dance.

It was a slow, steady, methodical sort of pounding. He held his long wand with both hands and let the beads clatter and bounce on his chest, arms, and ankles. Each step hit the chalk line, smudging it, obscuring it.

As he danced, Tuynomosh chanted.

Within a few minutes, he heard the noise of a flying machine in the distance, but he didn’t look up. That would be the concern of his men. He focused on the line of the chalk, forced his chant to stay even, matched the beat of his footsteps to the cadence of the words.

The first four hours went quickly.

All of the major news outlets had already been devoting much of their time to the situation with the aliens, but by noon, every one had a live feed of the king’s dance. Anthropologists gave interpretations and made comparisons to the various ceremonial dances of the world. A member of the Potawatomi tribe spoke admiringly of the stamina necessary to dance continuously for so long. Across the country, American workers snuck glances at phones, shaking their heads at the bizarre display.

By six pm, bars and restaurants around the country had filled with curious crowds staring in fascination at mounted TV’s while they ate, drank, and argued about what the alien was doing. Millions stayed up too late, hoping to catch the end of the dance. Many never went to bed. Men made bets on when the dance would end and what would happen when it did.

By midnight, curiosity was deepening to obsession, and for many, it was tinged with fear. Pundits raged about the significance of the dragon design – some argued the alien was summoning more dragons, some argued he was trying to send back the one he had brought.

In split screen, they replayed the footage of the appearance of the dragon – the alien raising his wand and firing, the drone’s replacement, and then the group’s hasty retreat to their castle. The more peaceful-minded noted that the circle and markings around the dragon resembled a world and the aliens were probably trying to return home.

At two