Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“The US government’s been on red alert for two years, illegally tracking hospital records for patients bleeding from the eyes, mouth, and ass.”
“But wait? If they’ve been on red alert, preparing for a pandemic, why were they so woefully underprepared when the last one hit?”
Wilder threw up his hands. “That’s what I’m saying! It doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical,” he burst out. “They have warehouses full of vaccines and scientists on standby for new variants. Protocols were put in place. Aid stockpiled. The government wasn’t underprepared. They released the hounds, closed the gates, and let us fend for ourselves.”
“Why would they do that? Put all that money and effort into protecting us from one disaster, only to intentionally unleash another?”
“Oh, it’s simple, Sinclair. SB3A is a plague. It’s the decimation of three-quarters of the population and the end to the country as we know it. But that bastard they let loose, that’s control. That’s one million people wiped out. Thousands of businesses collapsed. Jobs lost. Homes lost. And everyone looking to the government to make it better.
“They hit the big reset button on wages, healthcare, and education, and now we’re not asking for more. We’re begging for the little we can get. They’re in our heads. They’re in your head.” He grasped my skull, giving it a little shake to prove it. “And you don’t even know you’re behaving exactly the way they want you to.”
Passion laced his tone, transforming his entire face... into Tom Hiddleston’s Loki laughing over his short-lived triumph. Undeniably handsome, and undeniably loony toons.
I smiled just listening to him, enjoying the peek into the mind of Wilder O’Rourke. Talking to Rafael about him made me realize why the guy wasn’t taking to me. Every time he talked, I looked at him like he popped his head off his shoulders and juggled with it. What if I just sat down and listened to him?
The answer was we’d talk for so long, I’d start the conversation drunk and wind up sober in the middle.
“You really think there’s a captured alien aircraft in Area 51?”
“It’s almost a certainty.” Wilder popped off the chocolate chip ice cream lid and handed me a spoon. Our fingers brushed as I took it, and he didn’t reach for the hand sanitizer. “The advancements we’ve made in technology over the last few decades is a direct result of studying that aircraft. Steve Jobs, my ass.”
Chuckling, I held out my spoon.
Wilder cocked a brow at me, getting his own. Ours crossed dipping into the carton. “Everything I’ve dug up on the site supports the evidence, but they’ve been smart. There are no cameras in or allowed into the facility, so I can’t hack them for the proof the world really needs: photographs.”
“If aliens visited once, they might again,” I offered. “Maybe next time, they’ll make too big of a splash for the world governments to cover up. Like crashing into Big Ben.”
He grinned—the curve of his lips catching the light and casting a tiny shadow beneath his mouth, drawing me to his hard, stubbly jaw. Every inch of him was strong from the ropey muscles to his name: Wilder O’Rourke. It evoked visions of hot, sweaty days and a hot, sweaty Wilder—his shoulders rippling as he swung the axe, cleaving firewood in two.
“Nice reference,” he said, tugging me out of the fantasy.
“You watch Doctor Who?”
“Religiously. There’s nothing fictional about sci-fi, Sinclair.”
“Really? All of it’s true?”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“Superintelligent robots?”
“We’ve already got them.”
“Intergalactic space wars?”
“There’s life out there, Luna. Odds are, they’re fighting over something that belongs to neither of them but they all want.”
I shivered at the way his lips formed my name. “Dragons?”
“That’s fantasy,” he said with a chuckle.
“Oh, right. Okay, how about... one of the first science fiction stories ever made? The creation of life cobbled together with dead body parts and a little bit of genius.”
“Ah, Frankenstein’s monster,” he mused. “Nah, that shit’s totally fake.”
We busted up.
“That really was impressive what you did,” I said after we calmed. “Even though you don’t need praise. Giovanni Natale played my sister like a violin, then he snapped her over his leg and threw Winter in the trash. Even though his millionaire parents are going to drop double what he lost in his bank account tomorrow, it felt great to see him lose something he cared about. He for fuck sure didn’t care about losing Winter.”
Wilder turned his head toward the stairs. “Come with me. There’s something I need to show you.”
He took my hand, leading me up. Surprise quickened my steps when I realized where we were going.
Wilder spent five minutes unlocking his door. Standing aside, he waved me in—to be a gentleman or because he didn’t want me at his back, I didn’t ruin the mood by asking.
I ducked my head in, lips parting as I swept the room. “Oh my goodness, where am I?”