ALIEN PET (M/M/M)

.1

BENNETT

I knew I had royally fucked up the moment I opened my eyes. My head swam, the room tilting around me as blurred shapes slowly sharpened into a place I didn’t recognize. The air carried a sharp antiseptic smell that turned my stomach.

The last clear memory I had was stumbling through the Colorado mountains. It had been cold enough to numb my hands and dark enough that every step felt like a gamble. Above me, low clouds smothered the stars, leaving only the jagged outlines of the peaks. The wind howled down the slopes, cutting through my clothes no matter how tightly I wrapped my arms around myself. My teeth chattered, and with every mile my legs felt heavier than the last.

So, where the hell was I now?

If I’d been rescued, then maybe I was lying in some tiny ER on the outskirts of Denver—or at least in some ranger station made to patch up idiots like me. But another, darker possibility lodged itself in my head:maybe I was dead. The thought carried a strange weight, like an echo I couldn’t shake. Still, if that were true, if this really was the afterlife, then it seemed odd that I would wake up with my tongue sandpaper-dry, a desperate thirst clawing its way down my throat.

Dead people didn’t get thirsty. Did they?

I rolled onto an elbow and pushed myself upright. The movement was awkward; my body slow to respond. Then something snapped taut around my neck. Pain lanced through me, and a startled gasp escaped my lips.

The sudden clang of metal rang through the room, far too loud in the stillness, and my hands flew to my throat. My fingertips met cold iron, thick and unyielding, and a broken whimper slipped free before I could stop it.

A collar.

Heavy. Solid. Locked tight around my neck.

A short length of chain—maybe three or four feet—ran from the collar to an eyelet bolted into the wall near the floor. My stomach lurched as I grabbed the links and pulled with everything I had. The chain didn’t budge. The tension shuddered through my arms until my muscles gave out and I slumped back, panting.

I let it fall from my hands, my gaze dragging to the wall itself. It had the thickness and stubbornness of concrete, but the surface wasn’t quite right smooth in places, strangely seamless, with none of the porous grit or jagged edges I expected. Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural stone. And whatever this place was, it wasn’t anywhere I was meant to be.

Definitely not a hospital. Which meant—dead then. I had to be. There was no other way to rationalize being chained to a wall like some medieval prisoner.

My mother—though I hardly considered her worthy of the title anymore—had finally been right, after all. I had gone to hell. Not for murder, not for treason, not for anything grand or headline-worthy, but for the petty, ordinary sins she’d warned me about since childhood. For the stack of dog-eared porno mags I thought I’d hidden well enough under my mattress. Or maybe it was for the sex before marriage, the shots of cheap liquor, the smokes bummed off strangers behind gas stations. Take your pick. Any one of them—or the sum total of twenty-five reckless years—apparently added up to eternal damnation.

The thought barely had time to settle before a sharp series of clicking chirps sounded somewhere above me.

Something struck my side.

Pain detonated through my body.

Every muscle seized at once. My back arched off the floor, fingers locking into claws as a strangled scream tore from my throat. For a heartbeat I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except endure the agony racing beneath my skin.

Instinct took over. I scrambled away from whatever hit me.

The collar snapped taut.

Pain flared through my throat as the tether wrenched me backward. Stars burst across my vision, and I crashed hard against the floor, coughing and clawing at the iron band around my neck.

And then I saw it.

Towering above me was the ugliest monster I had ever had the displeasure of dreaming up, a grotesque silhouette that eclipsed the dim light. Too tall, too wrong, with a shape that my mind scrabbled to make sense of.

Because that’s what this had to be, right? A dream. A nightmare. Proof that I hadn’t survived the mountain, that I’d finally crossed over. I had gone to hell, and this thing was waiting for me to show me the way into its depths.

Yet as I stared at the thing looming over me four-foot-tall, lizard-skinned blimp of a nightmare with six beady, lightless eyes, I knew this was far too vivid to be something I’d conjured in my own head. Its greyish-purple skin looked leathery and diseased, pocked with welts that oozed a sluggish, greyish fluid, each drip leaving a sour tang in the air.

Its eyes were small, black, and bead-like, set on either side of the massive vertical mouth like those of a fish. The slit ran from brow to chin, opening and closing with a wet, sucking sound that reminded me of something dragged from the bottom of the ocean. Inside, rows upon rows of needle-like teeth flexed and shifted, grinding against one another with every shuddering breath it took.

Its body made even less sense, a grotesque patchwork of wrong parts. The upper half looked as though an orangutan had been twisted inside out, long arms dangling low enough for its clawed, four-fingered hands to rake the ground. Its torso sagged into a swollen potbelly, heavy and distended, the skin stretched taut and mottled. Below that, it stood on a pair of spindly birdlike legs, each ending in three hooked toes that dug into the floor with a click, click, click as it shifted its weight.

It shouldn’t have been able to exist, but there it was—breathing, dripping, watching me.

I shuddered as another harsh, buzzing chirp rattled from the leathery thing’s vertical mouth, the sound vibrating in my teeth. From an open orifice along its arm, the gray, viscous substance dripped steadily, each drop striking the floor with a wet spat that made my stomach churn. In its other hand, four clawed fingers curled around a long black rod. Twin prongs jutted from one end, curving toward each other like fangs, while a trigger sat beneath the grip.

Before I could brace myself, the creature jabbed the prongs into my side again.

White-hot agony ripped through me. My body locked up, a strangled sound tearing out of my throat before I even realized I’d made it.

Then it moved, grabbing at the chain.

A violent yank snapped my world sideways. For a second, there was nothing but pressure crushing my throat and the raw panic of not getting air.

The thing—my brain offered up something ridiculous like monkey-chicken abomination, and I didn’t have the strength to argue—ripped the chain free from the wall.

I was lifted. Not carried. Not supported. Just... hauled by the collar, my feet scrabbling on the floor looking for purchase and finding none.

I tried to move. I think I did. It didn’t feel like anything worked right. My hands found the collar, then lost it again as the hallway smeared into dark shapes and motion.

Every breath scraped on the way in. None of them felt like enough.

And it just kept walking.

Then the endless corridor opened into a much larger chamber.

My vision cleared as the tears and shock fell to the wayside, and what I saw made my stomach drop.

Lined along the far wall were creatures—dozens of them—each bound by the same chain threaded through collars at their throats. They stood in silent rows, shackled like livestock.

They weren’t like me. Not even one.

Some had gills that pulsed faintly with each breath. Others bore wings that hung limp and useless against their backs. There were claws like blades, scaled hides, twitching tails, and forms so wrong they made my headache just trying to process them.

None of them looked at me. Not one lifted its head. They stood bowed and still, as if even the act of noticing was dangerous.

And that was when it hit me.

This wasn’t just a cell.

It was storage. I was being added to the collection.

Once I was shoved into place along the wall with the other captives, the chain clinking as it was threaded back through another eyelet on the wall, more of the chicken-monkey things descended on us.

They moved with brutal efficiency, jerking heads forward, ripping at clothing, stripping every captive of whatever scraps they still had left. Systematic. Impersonal. Like it had been done a thousand times before.

When one of them turned its fishy black eyes on me, something in my chest snapped.

I lunged.

I don’t even remember deciding to.

My hands caught at leathery skin, my foot kicked out, and I was screaming—words I couldn’t even make out—while it barely reacted at all.

Its four-fingered hand tightened around the black rod.

The prongs touched me and my world detonated for the third time since waking up.

Pain wiped everything clean. My muscles locked so hard my joints ached. Sound vanished into a ringing void. I think I hit the wall again, but I couldn’t tell where my body ended and the shock began.

A jolt ripped through me, short-circuiting every nerve. My body convulsed, seizing so violently I dropped like dead weight to the floor. My chest heaved in shallow gasps, but the collar bit so tight I could barely drag air in at all. Every muscle twitched helplessly, my fingers curling and uncurled in rapid, jerky spasms, my legs kicking against stone like they belonged to someone else.

By the time the current faded, I was nothing but a shuddering, breathless heap, tears and spit stringing down my chin. I wanted to scream, to curse, to fight again—but all I could do was lie there, body betraying me, while leathery hands stripped away what little dignity I had left.

Once we were gutted of what little we had left, the chains were unhooked from the eyelets in the walls. One by one, they dragged us forward again, forcing us into motion through sheer tethered pressure.

We were herded into another room packed so tightly with cages that some looked barely large enough to hold a body at all. The air inside was thick and hot, metallic with something sour I didn’t want to think about.

I didn’t particularly try to resist this time, but even so, it was hard to get myself to comply. My muscles shook with exhaustion, every step uneven and weak, reflex more than defiance now. The fight had already been beaten out of me.

Then the black rod came down again, this time unprovoked.

White-hot pain swallowed everything. My body locked and convulsed, a sound tearing out of me that I didn’t recognize as my own. My vision fractured into white static and heat.

When it finally faded, I was still standing—but barely—and my bladder had let go of what little it had left, running down my legs in shameful rivulets.

A cold, distant thought surfaced through the wreckage that was my mental:how many more of those could a body take before it simply stopped?

Hands gripped me by my hair, hauling me onto my knees. My fingers scraped and clawed at the cold, unforgiving floor as I was shoved toward the cage, my body slamming against the metal with a hollowclang. My feet slid across the slick surface, legs trembling under the strain, as the creature jerked me hard again, shoving me headfirst inside. The impact drove the wind from my lungs, the low ceiling pressing down, walls biting into my shoulders and back.

I crumpled to the floor, my body still spasming from the shocks, skin smarting where the rod had struck. I curled instinctively into the farthest corner I could reach.

My sobs were small and choked, barely audible over the chorus around me. From the cages beside me came a sickening symphony of suffering: low guttural groans that vibrated through the metal floor; high, broken screeches from creatures packed too tightly in their cages; the wet, squelching press of bodies against cold steel; claws scraping, chains rattling, teeth gnashing.

Every sound stabbed at my nerves, a relentless reminder that I was not alone in my misery—but that I was surrounded by it.

The grey monsters moved methodically between the cages, cattle prods flashing and crackling in their hands, but the noise of the creatures themselves—whimpers, cries, and suppressed howls—filled the room far more terrifyingly than the prods ever could.

I curled tighter into my corner, hugging my knees to my chest as the cold metal bars pressed in from every side. The cage was barely large enough to sit in, and each shallow breath felt like it scraped against my ribs. A heavy, sick helplessness settled into my bones.

If this was a nightmare, I prayed silently—desperately—that I would wake up soon. But deep down, something cold and certain told me what I didn’t want to admit: this wasn’t a dream.

Time blurred inside the dim, windowless warehouse-like space. Every second was filled with the chaotic noise of the cages around me—chirps, gurgles, rattles, and hisses blending into a suffocating, alien symphony. And amid the sensory chaos, my mind drifted—inevitably—to memories I hadn’t touched in years.

The Banty’s—that’s what I’d started calling them, thanks to their vile personalities, strange chirping language, and those unsettling three-toed chicken feet—reminded me too much of the banty roosters that had tormented me one awful summer at my grandfather’s farm in Texas.

I hadn’t been close to the man—rest in peace, I suppose—but I could still remember those birds chasing me across the yard like it had happened yesterday, their spurs scraping at my legs, their wings battering my face. That memory clung to me now, bitter and unwelcome, every time I looked at the creatures around me.

For what I guessed had been a day or two, they had largely ignored us. They moved through the cages in their routine patterns, but none of them lingered, none of them intervened.

I wasn’t sure how much longer I could go without food or water, but hunger wasn’t the worst of it. The cold was. With no clothes, I couldn’t stop shivering. It ran so deep it felt like it might crack my bones. Sleep was impossible. The noise and faint humming lighting was never ending.

And still they passed by, again and again. Even if I had tried to get their attention, I wasn’t sure what I would have said. They were more likely to eat me than help me.

I tried to accept the idea of just waiting, to hold still and endure, but fear has a way of unraveling logic. And I had never been good at handling being afraid.

So when a door suddenly shimmered into existence on the far wall—just far enough out of my line of sight through the bars that I couldn’t see it clearly—I felt a twisted rush of relief. Movement meant something was happening, and anything was better than the waiting. Three Banty’s waddled in, chirping and oozing in that grotesque way I knew I’d never get used to, their vertical mouths snapping open and shut in a maddening, insectile rhythm that chilled me more than the metal on my bare skin. They worked their way down the line with mechanical indifference, popping cages open just long enough to hurl in buckets and containers sloshing with some kind of liquid.

When they reached my cage, I pressed toward the door. The space wasn’t tall enough for me to stand—only crouch or kneel—but desperation drove me forward, hoping for even the smallest chance to slip past. The Banty didn’t so much as blink. Its gaping mouth clattered and clicking as it drove the cattle prod hard into my ribs.

The shock tore through me like molten fire, fiercer than any strike I’d endured before. My vision went white. Ears rang. My body convulsed helplessly, every muscle betraying me as the current ripped control away. Time stretched into agony; it felt like minutes before I could draw a ragged breath, before the spasms eased and the world snapped back into place.

When the last of the tremors finally drained from my limbs, I sagged into a slumped sitting position, chest heaving, dragging air back into my lungs. That’s when I noticed what had been left in my cage.

The first was a grey bucket, similar to any 5-gallon bucket you would find at a hardware store or in a garage. Empty, but rimmed with yellow stains and carrying a stench so foul it made my stomach flip. The reek of stale feces clung to the air, heavy and sour. Gagging, I shoved it away with my foot until it rattled against the farthest corner of the tiny cage.

The second item was stranger: a short, cylinder-shaped canister, shaped almost like a thermos but oddly uneven, with no flat surface to set it upright and no twist-off lid. Instead, near the top sat a small black button—like something you’d see on the side of a flashlight. When I pressed it, the lid spiraled upward, breaking the seal with a sharp hiss and releasing a thin curl of vapor into the air.

Inside was an almost iridescent pale substance, shimmering faintly in the dim light. At first glance it reminded me uncomfortably of the ooze that seeped from the Banty’s skin, but the smell was different. Fresh. Clean. Something caught between cucumbers and roses, though not quite either.

Tentatively, I lifted it to my lips and took a cautious sip, praying it was food—and not something inedible that would leave me retching. The liquid was thick and slimy, sliding over my tongue like aloe vera gel. Its taste was almost nonexistent, bland with just the faintest trace of sweetness—like a piece of hard candy that had sat too long in its wrapper.

I waited, braced for cramps, dizziness, anything that might signal I’d just poisoned myself. But instead, warmth spread slowly through my chest and stomach. My thirst dulled. My gut felt faintly full. Even the shivering eased, just a little.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” I muttered. “Two in one survival... goo or something?” A weak, shaky laugh slipped out before I could stop it. The sound felt alien in my throat, but it was better than crying.

Clutching the canister, I steadied my breathing and let the faint warmth from the strange liquid settle through my chest. The fog in my mind was still there, but it had lifted just enough for awareness to creep back in.

I forced myself to look around the cages again. Staying aware might be the only advantage I had.

The creature directly to my left could only be described as aquatic.

Even in the dim light, it stood out. Its skin shimmered in shifting layers of color—opalescent along the torso, deepening into a dark blue along its limbs. The effect was almost like watching light move across the surface of a deep-sea monster from my childhood nightmares.

Thin, almost reptilian eyes sat high on its face, flanking a ridged structure where a nose might have been. Two vertical slits opened and closed slowly, suggesting gills rather than nostrils.

Along its head, those ridges extended upward into a fin-like crest that ran down its spine, tapering into a sharp, deep-blue tail.

The tail flicked irritably whenever my gaze lingered too long.

When I finally met its ghostly white eyes, a chill ran straight up my spine. I gave a small, careful smile—the kind I used to use on my mother, when I was trying to keep the peace.

The creature bared its teeth.

Not a smile.

A warning.

Long, needlelike teeth caught the dim light, and a thin, serpentine tongue flicked out as if testing the air between us.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. I was suddenly very aware of how little separated us.

Carefully, I shifted away from the bars, putting as much distance as I could between myself and it—and the creature I still hadn’t fully forced myself to look at on my other side—and curled my knees to my chest.

That was enough reconnaissance for now.

I didn’t exactly feel happy—despite the shaky laughter earlier—but I did feel a little better after a few cautious sips of the strange goo the Bantys had left me.

I didn’t know how long it would be before my bizarre, chicken-monkey captors returned, so I rationed it carefully, even though I was still far from full.

I didn’t trust aliens to know the first thing about keeping a human alive—even if they seemed to have perfected the art of trafficking people. Or exotic creatures, judging by my “Siren”-like neighbor in the cage beside me.

Better safe than sorry.

If only I’d remembered that rule before I’d stranded myself on a mountain in Colorado.

I’d gone out there to clear my head after another long, frustrating day—dragging myself through work, patching worn trails, and dodging coworkers I didn’t get along with. Some of them weren’t exactly friendly. Then again, I knew I could be difficult too. High school and college had not exactly help much with my social anxiety either. Not with my reputation for being gloomy, and my general inability to read a social situation.

Still, there were days when the solitude of the forest was the only thing keeping me sane. It was why I had chosen this job field in the first place.

But chasing that feeling—that brief, quiet peace—had led me straight into disaster.