The Rain: The End, Marietta Standlee [year 7 reading list TXT] 📗

I roll my eyes at him but stop myself from engaging him into a spat as Bellows puts the handcuffs on me with an apologetic smile. He secures them in front of me instead of behind to make it easier for me.

To say I'm not nervous would be a lie. I am. Too many unknown factors are at play, and honestly, we don't have much of a plan; we're just winging it, and that makes me always nervous.

Briggs resumes command, and once we are close to the space station, she makes contact with the Gorongiaths, requesting Quill to be informed that I'm in their custody and that they are ready for the exchange. The Gorongiaths send out a sleuth of instructions on how and where to dock, and a few minutes later, a small shudder goes through the ship.

We make our way to the corridor connecting our spacecraft to the space station much like a jetway at an airport, except here, too, the walls seem to vibrate slightly. I throw a nervous look at Colin, but he has faded into the back.

Quill knows and will recognize him if Colin gets too close. Briggs stays back for the same reason. Whatever we can do to avoid Quill getting spooked, we will do. There is also the worry that Quill might want to retaliate for the havoc we created on the three planets against all the humans entering his space-station.

This worry, however, has to go on the backburner; we have to trust him to keep up his end of the bargain for now. Even though we have no intentions of keeping ours, something that strangely doesn't faze my conscience whatsoever. In my book, they deserve whatever is going to happen to them for all the atrocities they committed on Earth and against the human race.

The large doors open sideways, and Bellows pushes me gently forward towards the opening. The door on the space station opens as well, and there is High Commander Quill in all his glory. His eyes find mine; his are filled with hate and triumph for having caught me. I lift my chin a little to let him know I don't fear him or the fifty or so Gorongiaths behind him.

"Where is Greg McFarland?" Bellows demands through the translator setting on his tablet.

Quill yells something, and several of his men part to let the President's son pass by. Like me, he's handcuffed. His face a mess of bruises, and from his limping gait, I assume his body didn't fare much better. He looks up at me and shakes his head. "It's a trap."

"Shut up!" The guard behind him pushes him brutally.

Somehow McFarland manages to keep his balance and stay on his feet; his face twists in pain as he winces quietly. He stops dead in his tracks, though, moving his chin forward defiantly. "Run!"

The same guard, who pushed him, cuffs him hard against his head. "Silence, human!"

I think everybody underestimated Greg McFarland. He twists around, clamps his hands together, and swings at the alien who hit him in the head. His interlocked hands connect with the Gorongiath's chin, and with an oomph, the alien's knees buckle, and he goes down to the ground.

Quill yells, enraged, "Now!"

His words take a few seconds to translate; it seems like everything happens in slow motion now. I watch in horror as another Gorongiath lifts his gun and shoots McFarland right in the head. The meaning of Quill's words, spoken in Gorongiath, becomes clear to us simultaneously, with his translator finally picking them up for us. This is it!

"Move!" Colin yells.

Guns are drawn, and shots ring out from the Gorongiaths and us. Cries of pain erupt as humans and aliens fall to the ground, wounded or dead. I twist to the side but don't get very far, as somebody jerks me back by my hair. Intense pain spreads all over my scalp. I stumble back, right into whoever is pulling my hair. With my back pressed into my adversary's chest, I kick blindly, hoping for a lucky hit.

Fingers probe for my neck, my scalp burns in pain, and my bound hands in front of me are all but useless.

Muffled, I hear Colin's voice yell out, "Get McFarland."

Good, I think, at least that will be taken care of.

Realizing I need to take control of the situation and that my blind kicking isn't doing me any good, I change tactics. Instead of kicking, I use my foot and wind it around the back of my attacker's calf. Once anchored, I pull my leg forward with all the strength I've gained during the last year.

I can feel him topple, losing his balance and his fingers loosen some around my throat, enough for me to twist and jam my angled elbow into his side. From our anatomy lessons, I know I won't be able to hurt him, but the jab is strong enough to get his equilibrium even more off-kilter.

He begins to fall back, the hand buried in my hair lets go, grabbing for leverage or balance, but his fingers around my throat tighten back up instinctively. It's more of a reflex than trying to choke me before he seriously begins to fall.

My foot keeps pulling against his calf until he loses his battle with gravity, dropping straight back, pulling me down with him. I force my body to go limb, knowing we'll hit the ground any second, and my chances of going unscathed are a lot higher if I don't tense.

It's a fight against instincts, telling me to try to stay on my feet. It only takes a second, though, before I land straight on him, my body knocking the wind out of him.

My bound hands hinder me from getting up gracefully or any other way, and I only have a couple of seconds before my attacker will regain his wits. I sit up on top of him, twist around and bring my arms up, interlocking my hands. My stomach muscles scream at me as I