Unwelcome Visitors

Chinese Food

       Rick pounded on the door of apartment 4B for the second time and waited for Donovan to answer. The fourth floor hallway of the apartment complex reeked of burnt food and cigarette smoke. Crumbled newspaper and McDonald’s cups littered the hall. Rick’s puncture wounds were dripping warm blood on the already stained carpet—it added nicely to the decor.

“Fran, I already told you I’m not buying your stupid knives!” Donovan’s hoarse voice yelled from inside.

“Open the door, Donovan! It’s me,” Rick groaned. He rested his forehead on the gold-plated numbers of Donovan’s door before the deadbolt unlocked.

The door swung open revealing a balding middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses. His mouth gaped as he scrutinized the disheveled, bloody mess at his doorstep.

“Are you insane?” Donovan asked. “Get in here!”

Rick was yanked by his friend inside the cramped studio apartment. He shuffled inside while Donovan frantically shut the door and applied multiple locks to the door. The stench of burnt toast filled the tiny kitchen where a blackened ham and cheese sandwich sat sizzling on a griddle over the stove.

“Fancy dinner,” Rick quipped.

“It’s a loss. I got Chinese on the way,” Donovan said. He frowned and his beady eyes buried into his pale face. “What are you doing here, Rick? I saw what you did on TV. There’s cops and feds looking for you right now.”

“Yeah, I heard. Mind if I crash here a few days until it blows over?”

Donovan’s cheeks flushed. “You just killed a friggin’ alien in broad daylight with dozens of witnesses around and you wanna know if you can spend the night? Absolutely not!”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Rick replied. “Can I sit on your couch and bleed to death then?”

“More jokes? You haven’t changed a bit.” Donovan shook his head. He walked out of the kitchen for a moment and returned with a first aid kit.

“You ain’t changed much either, Donovan.”

“Everyone’s got their flaws,” he said. He handed the kit to Rick then walked into his tiny living room and plopped down on an old leather couch in front of a large screen LCD.

Rick opened the first aid kit, sorting through the unorganized items inside until he acquired a roll of gauze, large bandages, and antibacterial ointment. He patched himself up as best as he knew how, stopping the bleeding punctures in his chest from Francesca’s attack. When he finished securing some gauze on his forearm, Rick walked into Donovan’s pathetic excuse for a living room. The 5 o’clock news was playing security camera footage of Rick shooting up the office.

“That’s a really gutsy move,” Donovan said, fixed on the television.

“You like that? I thought I wasn’t going to make that dive into the cubicle without getting a barb in my side—”

“I’m not talking about you, idiot,” Donovan said. “The shifter. It doesn’t make any sense why she’d reveal herself and let you take her out.”

“I shot her in the head, Donovan. She didn’t have much choice when her green goo splattered all over the place.”

Donovan sighed. “Shifter’s can change their blood color too, you know? Didn’t Katie teach you anything about alien physiology?”

Rick swallowed hard and headed back into the kitchen. Katie. He hadn’t thought about her in days.

“Oh crap, that’s right,” Donovan said, standing up from the couch. “You two broke up. I forgot—I’m sorry.”