Chapter 4: Noah’s Ark, Alien Edition

Now there were eight of us here—our whole van, split between two dorm rooms. We’d always gotten along okay, at least on the surface.

Class President, Academic Slacker, PE Rep, and bespectacled Caleb made up the guys.

Me, the queen bee, the council rep, and my quiet roommate Lillian rounded out the girls.

Four and four. Just like Noah’s Ark, if you want to be bleak about it.

Now we each wore something like a collar on our wrists and necks. Girls’ neck bands were silver, boys’ gold—probably to keep us sorted. Each band had weird pictographic symbols—looked like numbers.

Mine was 8. The insectoids called me Eight—same as my nickname since freshman year.

When I blurted out my awful theory, Caleb’s face went beet-red, eyes wide.

Queen Bee rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed: "What are you staring at, perv?"

She tucked a perfect curl behind her ear, still trying to play it cool. "It’s not that bad. Right?"

Class President and council rep both got really quiet.

"It can’t... not so soon, anyway."

"We gotta figure out an escape plan, fast."

We all looked around. Surveillance cameras in every corner, no angle left blind—just rows of shiny compound eyes watching, waiting.

Even Academic Slacker shuddered. "No way, man... I’m still a virgin."

Lillian, voice trembling, whispered, "What do we do, Eight?"

Her knuckles were white around the hem of her shirt, eyes darting like a cornered rabbit’s.

Insect eyes have tens of thousands of facets—ommatidia, I remembered from bio. Each one a tiny camera, picking up every twitch, every microexpression. We might as well have been living in slow-motion.

As soon as Lillian started to sob, her insectoid nanny moved in. I hissed, "Don’t cry—smile, quick!"

Lillian tried, squeezing out a weird half-laugh, half-sob. "Why?"

"They can’t understand English, but they read moods by our faces. Cry, and they’ll think you’re in danger. Remember how we used to separate lab mice if they freaked out?"

Everyone went silent. I realized the crowd outside the glass was thicker than ever.

I’d noticed earlier, during med checks: insectoids ranked themselves by their necklaces.

Regular workers wore stone or wood beads.

Doctors had crystal necklaces.

Managers sported fat gold chains—like something straight out of a 90s hip-hop video, if the bling came from outer space.

The bigger the beads, the higher the rank.

Right now, a leader insectoid in a massive gold chain stood outside, its antennae waving slowly.

Insects’ antennae are crazy sensitive—some pick up sound, some smell, some even taste the air. This one’s antennae never stopped moving.

Only now did I notice Natalie had gone full glam—hair curled, last dabs of perfume. She caught my look and shrugged, like, "What? Girls gotta look cute." Natalie muttered, "That was the last of my perfume. Hope it was worth it."

Apparently, that was enough to catch the boss insectoid’s attention.

A moment later, it pointed a claw at Natalie.

Her nanny scooped her up, carrying her off like she was made of glass.

The boss nodded, satisfied, then looked back at us. Judgement day. The boss’s eyes lingered on each of us, antennae quivering. Who would be next?