CHAPTER ONE
Sarah
A few years ago aliens landed on earth and the world went crazy overnight. They weren’t little green men like everyone was expecting. Believe it or not they looked a heck of a lot like us humans, only in a perfect sexy model kind of way. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been able to full on hate them like I’m supposed to. That would be like despising the entire human race, and I tend to be more selective with my animosity.
The whole alien invasion thing probably would have upset me more if my life hadn’t already been so off-kilter. I was a teenager when the Krinar took over. I was too busy trying to help my fragile mother keep a roof over our heads to care that the USA was no longer the top of the food chain. My loser father had skipped out years before, leaving her with two kids and no money to take care of them. To compensate for this, she tried to fill the gap with one live-in boyfriend after the other. None of them amounted to much, but I’d learned to get by with little.
They called the chaos that broke out after the Krinar invasion the “Great Panic”, and people responded in one of three ways: Group one felt as though the K’s, as the aliens were dubbed, were an answer to prayer. More than that they worshipped them as gods. As far as the “Faithful” were concerned, our new alien overlords were like Buddha, Jesus, and Elvis all rolled into one. I’ll come clean right off the bat and admit that I am not one of the aliens’ fanatical followers.
The second group went about their lives more or less the same as they had before the alien landing. They worked hard at their dead end jobs to provide for their families. If they complained at all it was about the fact that meat was no longer on the menu because the aliens had done away with our destructive agricultural farming methods. Turns out all you have to do to make America go mostly vegan is to make animal products outrageously expensive. I really, really, really miss bacon.
I’ve left the third group for last because if I had a choice I wouldn’t associate with their kind at all. When everyone was panicking and running about like the world was ending there were certain individuals that weren’t at all surprised. They were extremist anti-government preppers, just waiting for the end times to come so that they could rub it in everybody else’s faces that they’d known this would happen. The moment the aliens announced their presence, these groups had traded out their hatred for the government and rallied together against what they saw as the greater evil: extraterrestrials.
Lucky me, my mother just happened to be dating one of the end time nutjobs when it all went down. Before I could throw a teenaged hissy fit, everything I owned was shoved in the back of a red Ford pickup truck and my younger sister, Amy, and I were inducted into life at the compound of the Covenant of Man. It was like walking through some kind of twisted time warp where everyone spoke in Bible verses and the men held all the power. I soon learned that Moses was the leader of the religious fanatics, and my new stepfather, Ezekiel, was his right hand man.
I can’t even count all the times I’ve been quoted the passage from First Peter, “Even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord,” like somehow because my name happens to be in the Bible that’s supposed to make what they’re teaching more applicable to me. Like it it’s okay that they act like women don’t have any rights and should live to serve their men!
I was never able to settle in, never once thought of the place as home. The Covenant of Man was weird . . . like, what the hell is wrong with these people weird. And the craziest part was that I was the only one who seemed to think so. I was willing to overlook all that for a while because my mother seemed to be deliriously happy with my new stepdad.
Personally, I thought Ezekiel was a bit of a douche. But he saw to it that we were all fed regularly and he never made any pervy moves on either myself or my sister, so I was content to ride it out and keep my opinions to myself. As the years passed I never “embraced the doctrine” like everyone else. Maybe it was because I was already a teenager when we arrived. Perhaps watching my father abandon us all had made me naturally skeptical, but for whatever reason they never succeeded in brainwashing me. If it walks like a cult, and talks like a cult . . . it’s a cult.
One by one I watched my friends be married off to the men of the organization. All of them were instantly pregnant, and the moment one baby vacated the shoot, the next would be inserted in quick succession. Women were valued only for their uteruses. It was seriously twisted.
I made it past my eighteenth birthday and then my nineteenth and twentieth. With each year that passed by I got more and more nervous about the invisible noose tightening around my throat. They’re real big on marriage and the women seem to think it’s normal to have one child right after the other. It makes my lady parts tired just thinking about it!
I would have split the moment I turned eighteen if it hadn’t been for my sister. If I left, who would look out for Amy? I certainly couldn’t trust my mother to rise to the task. She’d been drinking the Kool-Aid for so long that she didn’t even realize there was anything wrong with the fact that women had no rights. Their one and only job was to make as many babies as possible to provide soldiers for the looming battle of man versus alien. If my mother hadn’t had a hysterectomy before my loser stepdad had shown up I’d probably have a dozen siblings by this point. I’m so glad she doesn’t have a uterus because it’s all I can do to try to watch out for my sister, Amy.
I still remember the day my mother sailed into my room without bothering to knock. I tried to wipe the grimace from my face because her joyful expression took me aback. She was holding a copy of a bridal magazine, which gave me a heads up about what she wanted to talk about. Yuck.
“You’re getting married!” she announced rapturously.
I stared at her in open-mouthed incredulity. This wasn’t one of those situations where the guy I was dating decided to be all old-fashioned and asked my parents for permission or something. I wasn’t dating anyone. I wore baggy clothing and tried not to draw attention to myself. I wasn’t interested in being Mrs. anything and I sure as hell wasn’t ready to be a mother. The day I’d been dreading had finally arrived. Why does my life have to suck so much?
“And who’s the lucky groom?” I mumbled, not that it mattered. I wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to marry anyone. I drew a hard line on allowing unwanted guests in my vagina.
Before answering me my mom got all up in my personal space with a tape measure of all things. She murmured compliments about my trim waist and my beautiful, long, brown hair. Blah, blah, blah. The only thing I didn’t have going for me was height. At five feet two inches I was even shorter than the average.
Her admiration didn’t make me feel like a princess. It made me feel like an object. I was going to throw up if I didn’t get away from her soon. Why couldn’t she ever just treat me like a normal mom should? That would have been such a wonderful change to our relationship.
“It’s Cain,” she gushed, finally putting an end to the suspense.
I suppose if I’d been any other girl I’d have been flattered. After all, Cain is Moses’ son. And Moses is the leader of the Covenant of Man. But I wasn’t any other girl. I’d caught Cain’s blue eyes on me on more than one occasion. He’s actually quite good looking with his wavy dark blonde hair, but the lascivious way he regarded me made it pretty darned clear that he was imagining me without my clothes on.
I deserved some kind of medal because I’d always managed to resist calling him a pervert to his face. I’d done my best to ignore him without being too rude. I’d hoped he’d turn his attentions onto some other female. There were plenty of willing victims out there, so why did he have to set his sights on me? Did he think I was just playing hard to get? I so wasn’t.
The only way to escape my mother was by pretending to be just as excited as she was. I’m not even remotely good at acting, but she didn’t see through my thinly veiled lies. Honestly, I don’t think she wanted to. The moment I got rid of her I raced over to my sister’s room. I knocked twice before entering, that was what we did so the other would know it was us.
“Did you hear?” I asked.
She nodded yes. The walls in the house are paper thin, so we pretty much heard everything that went on. That’s why the two of us were always so careful to whisper when we shared our sisterly secrets with each other.
“I can’t stay any longer,” I said softly.
I wanted nothing more than to take my sister with me, but she’s only fifteen years old so if I tried they’d send out an amber alert and sick the law on me. The moment they caught us, they’d haul us both back. I wouldn’t be any good to her if I had five other kids of my own to worry about. No, I had to stick to the plan . . . even if it broke my heart.
“Do you remember how to use the special email I set up for you?”
“Yes, and to always log out when I’m done and never tell anyone about it,” Amy said bravely.
“I can’t leave you,” I said, suddenly changing my mind.
“You’re not staying,” she said firmly.
“I’ll email you my number as soon as I can afford a phone.”
I’m ashamed to admit how relieved I was when she ordered me to go. I hugged her tightly, not wanting to dwell on the fact that if my plan didn’t work, that it might be the last time I ever held her in my arms. I felt like crying, but puffy eyes and a snotty nose would be a dead giveaway.
Amy followed me back to my room to keep me company as I dumped the contents out of my ratty old backpack, the same one I’d brought with me all those years ago in the back of the old pickup truck. I didn’t exactly have the money to replace it, or the opportunity to shop even if I’d had the funds.
I couldn’t put much in it because that might look suspicious. I stuffed in my piggy bank which held an embarrassingly small amount of cash. I wouldn’t have had any money if I hadn’t worked so hard to get babysitting gigs from outside of the compound. The cult wasn’t big on letting women have cash, so I’d always pretended to give most of the money to my stepdad.
The jerk seemed to think it was my privilege to work to provide for him, as if! Apparently access to money made it too tempting for us females to leave the good old Promised Land, as Moses called it. I stole my stepdad’s credit card from his wallet, hoping he wouldn’t notice right away that it was gone. I refused to feel guilty about it. The way I saw it, I was merely taking back all the money I’d been forced to hand over to him in the first place.
After hugging my sister one last time I slipped out of the house. I needed to break out of the complex before night fell, because they locked the gates after dark. The guard gave me a weird look but I lied and said I was babysitting, something that I did often enough for it to be believable. I didn’t have a car so I had to rely on my own two feet to get from point A to point B.
It went from cold to freezing as the sun slipped below the tree line, but I continued to trudge on. When I finally made it to the big box store, I hurried inside, grateful for the warm gush of air from the heated building. I walked straight up to the giant display of gift cards and grabbed a selection of prepaid visas as well as an assortment of cards to different stores and restaurants. Then I grabbed a few boxes of meal replacement bars and some chips and headed for checkout.
When the screen prompted me to get cash back I went for the hundred dollar mark and I signed my best impersonation of my stepdad’s signature. I would use the cash last, just in case they were somehow able to freeze all the gift cards I’d just purchased. I transferred the gift cards to my ratty old backpack and slipped the cash into my jeans pocket.
I knew the way to the bus stop by heart. After all, I’d been planning my escape for years. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. I was destined for Peoria, Illinois. I couldn’t leave the state because I couldn’t bear to venture too far from my sister. What if she needed me? Also, I needed to stay in Illinois or I wouldn’t qualify for in-state tuition.
My plan was fairly simple. Go to school, work hard and get a degree as quickly as possible. Then, contact my sister and get her the hell out of the cult before the bastards tried to marry her off to anyone like they had attempted with me. She’d just turned fifteen and that meant I had three years to get my degree and send for her. If I took classes during the summer and loaded up my schedule I knew it was possible. I was facing a monumental task, but I was highly motivated and I knew I could make it work if I just tried hard enough. I was getting my sister out of that cult one way or another.
2 months later
I try to keep up with Professor James as he rattles on and on about one of his favorite subjects, cell biology. All of the students, including me, struggle to process the subject matter of his rapid fire lecture. This was supposedly an entry level course. Maybe someone forgot to inform Professor James about that. The seats in this cavernous lecture hall are wood. After sitting here for an hour though, it feels more like rock.
I wonder which is worse, the cramp in my butt from sitting on the hard wooden seat, or the cramp in my hand from writing notes at lightning speed. I shift positions to get some relief for my aching rear end, but there is nothing to be done for my right hand. Too bad I never learned to write with my left, but I’m not the slightest bit ambidextrous. I keep writing as fast as I can while the Professor lectures about biomolecules and nucleic acids. All the while I’m wondering why I have to take so many science and math classes when I’m studying to be a social worker. Gen Ed requirements make zero sense in my book.
The other students have laptops, smartphones, and talk to text apps to capture what he is saying, but all I have is a college ruled spiral notebook and a trusty #2 yellow pencil. It seems a little unfair to me, but I don’t have time for a pity party. The side door opens, and I see a student worker come into the room and hand the professor a small slip of paper. The good professor seems annoyed at the interruption, but he stops spouting scientific jargon long enough to read the note.
Thank Goodness. I drop the pencil to the table, relieved to have a moment to let my aching digits rest. I shake my wrist vigorously, trying to make the hand cramp release. Suddenly, I notice everyone is looking at me, which makes me uncomfortable. So, I stop shaking my arm and look up to see what the deal is. I glance back at the professor to see he’s staring at me with an impatient and annoyed expression, and motioning for me to come up to his desk. This can’t be good.
He refers to his seating chart then says, “Sarah, come here.” Now he definitely sounds irritated. Looks like someone doesn’t appreciate pausing his well memorized lecture. None of us were enjoying listening to it either, Mr. Dinosaur!
I hate being the center of attention. I never wear makeup and my clothing is baggy and unflattering so generally I don’t have to worry about people bothering to notice me, which suits me just fine. I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I make my way down the steps of the lecture hall. As soon as I reach his desk, he shoves the piece of paper into my now clammy palm and waves dismissively at me. He doesn’t even wait for me to leave before jumping right back into his antiquated lecture.
My heart sinks as I read the note.
“Crud,” I mutter under my breath. I climb the stairs back up to my seat to gather my stuff. Then I bend down to grab my ratty backpack from the floor where I’d wedged it under my seat. My long, straight, dark hair falls over my face. I like that it shields me from all of the curious eyes in the room.
Pretending that people aren’t still gawking at me, I swiftly cram everything inside. I want to get this business taken care of quickly, so I don’t miss the remainder of the lecture. Just because it’s boring as heck doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it. I need to pass this class. Actually, I need an A. I stand up rapidly, and bump my head on the edge of the table. A loud cracking sound announces to everyone in the room what has happened. Before anyone has a chance to inquire if I’m okay, I sling the backpack over one shoulder and head down the steps again.
I hear a small clatter, and notice my pencil rolling down the steps in front of me. Seriously? I wonder. Could I possibly draw any more attention to myself? I realize the pencil must have slipped through a hole in the bottom of the backpack. I consider just leaving it, but I don’t have any extras to spare.
I lower my head to look for the renegade writing utensil and once again my hair falls like a curtain over my face. After I bend down to retrieve my pencil, I decide to just keep my head down as I walk out of the classroom. This is better, I realize. I can’t see everyone staring at me, so it’s almost like they’re not. I glance up just long enough to make sure I don’t run into a door and then at last I’m in the blessedly empty corridor.
As soon as I get out of the room, I pick up the pace as I head across campus for the Financial Aid Office. Let this be quick. Let this be quick! I chant silently as I jog. I hope this is nothing major. Fingers crossed I can get it taken care of in short order and get back to my class. I can’t afford to get behind. Cell Biology isn’t an easy subject for me. But I need to get good grades if I’m going to keep my scholarship, so I will study as long as it takes to keep my GPA up.
The note said they needed to talk to me immediately. There was some sort of problem with my FAFSA application. This might be bad. Very bad. Am I overthinking things? Maybe it would all turn out to be nothing. Maybe I just forgot a signature on one of the pages or something simple like that. My feet slip in my ‘oversized’ UGGS rip-offs. When you do your shopping at The GoodWill Store, you can’t be too picky about proper fit or style. Attempts to be fashionable aren’t exactly on my list of priorities, so it all works out fine.
I’ve decided to take a shortcut through the green space to save time, but it’s winter so there isn’t anything green to be seen. As I jog through the deep snow covering the grassy area, I come dangerously close to leaving one of my ugly stained boots behind me in a snow bank, but shove my foot back inside just before it slips off. When you grow up in Illinois you get used to the snow and realize that there’s no point complaining about it because it’s going to fall one way or another.
Ending my brief ‘off-roading’ experience, I barrel back onto the sidewalk. I skid out of control, realizing too late that it’s covered with a thin layer of ice. I slide right up to the door of the Financial Aid Building, and grab onto the door handle to keep from falling on my rear end. At least no one was out there to witness my spectacle. I’ve never exactly been graceful, but this was just ridiculous.
My baggy grey sweater has slid down one arm in my short lived Olympic ice skating debut. No one would be giving me the gold, trust me. I pause to push it back up on my shoulder and yank open the door to the Financial Aid Building. My heart sinks as I spy the size of the line in front of me. Looks like I wasn’t the only person yanked out of class today. There’s no way I’m going to make it back to biology. I glance at my watch. In fact I’ll be lucky to make it out of here in time for work. Crud. Crud. Crud.
I take my place at the end of the line, which doesn’t seem to be moving at all. Snails were starting to look fast in the grand scheme of things. The girl in front of me looks chatty, like she’s raring to strike up a conversation with me. I detest small talk, so I turn around and pretend to look at something in my backpack. I don’t want to appear rude, but I really don’t want to get caught up in senseless chatter. Is it so terrible that I just want to stand there and let my brain rest in peace for a few minutes? There’s too much going on in my life and I don’t have the energy to screw on an interested smile, let alone feign interest.
“Is that our president?” I hear her ask someone else.
“Hey, I think it is,” I hear another girl respond. Thankfully she has found another temporary friend to converse with. I don’t mind listening to other people chatting, so long as I don’t have to contribute to the conversation. I look up from my backpack in time to see a group of well-dressed business men and women enter the lobby.
‘Woah, who’s the dream-boat?”
I listen to them gushing over some hot guy, so of course I look up to see what all the giggling is about. As I stare at the last man in the entourage it’s all I can do not to drool. He definitely takes tall dark and handsome to a whole new level. He is deep in conversation with another man in the group. His eyes dart suddenly toward the long line of students, so I drop my head. I busy myself with picking lint balls off of my ugly grey sweater. I don’t want him to catch me staring like all of the other girls in line. It’s too bad he had to look up. I know I shouldn’t bother looking at him, he’s way out of my league and the last thing I have time for is a relationship.
But it’s like there’s an invisible force reeling me in and I can’t help but glance up. Our eyes meet and although it’s only seconds, I feel so thoroughly electrified that I might as well have stuck my finger in a live electrical socket. Suddenly I’m aware of a strange tenderness in my breasts . And then I’m imagining what it would feel like for him to touch me there. When my mind filters in a raw image of the two of us naked and sweaty together I know it’s time to shut it down.
I jerk my head back down, grateful that no one can read my X-rated mind. I feel the heat suffusing my face and neck and know that a guilty blush is now coloring my features. Great. Just great. Feeling like a freak, I study the tops of my boots, afraid to look up, because what if he’s still there? Noticing a gap in front of me, I step forward a few inches. The line has advanced a bit and as I move closer to my destination I focus on grounding my thoughts back in reality. I have no time for dating and flowery romance so my hormones are just going to have to suck it. Even if I did have room in my life for love, there’s no way on earth that beautiful man would foster any interest in me. People in his social circle didn’t even notice poor losers like me. Great, now I’m going to get all weepy and depressed! Is it that time of the month already? God, I loathe PMS.