IT SHOULD’VE BEEN a perfect night.
I was out for a midnight stroll along a dark, deserted highway, somewhere in the middle of Kentucky. Billions of stars were scattered across the sky like sparkling diamonds on black velvet. The air was so crisp and clear I could see the Milky Way. I could also pinpoint several of the planets I’ve visited during my dangerous days on Earth as the Alien Hunter. It’s true. I may only be a teenager, but I’ve racked up some serious intergalactic frequent flyer miles working my way through the list of Alien Outlaws on Terra Firma.
Quick CliffsNotes: Terra Firma is what we friendly neighborhood extraterrestrials call your planet. The alien outlaws who are here to destroy it? They basically call you guys “dead meat.”
Anyway, I had recently taken out Number 2, the second-most heinous, foul, and all-around evil creature on The List, so I should’ve been feeling pretty good, right?
You’d think I’d take a victory orbit around your planet or dump a cooler of ice water over my head, the way athletes do when they win the Super Bowl or the World Series.
There was only one problem: After you take down Number 2, guess who’s left?
You nailed it: Number 1.
Everything I had ever done in my life had been leading up to my next and most powerful enemy.
It was finally time to take down the top dog. I needed to eliminate, once and for all, the abominable alien who looked like a slimy, NBA-sized praying mantis (which is how he earned his nickname, The Prayer). If you’re wondering how this overgrown, bug-ugly insect became Number 1 on my hit list, the answer’s easy: he was the ruthless monster who brutally murdered my mother and father twelve years ago back in Kansas. I was three at the time, but trust me, I remember each and every gory detail.
So, as I was walking along that peaceful highway in the middle of the night, a certain ’80s hair-band tune was blaring through my head: “The Final Countdown.” That’s the 1986 rock anthem with the synthesized keyboard riff that gets blasted through stadium speakers right before the biggest sports games of the season.
Because this was it. My last round in the ring. My NCAA finals. My sudden-death overtime. The big test all the little tests had been leading up to.
So I wasn’t just out for a starlit stroll, even though the night sky was full of hope and promise and wondrous far-off worlds. I was out there racking my alien brain, trying to formulate some sort of plan to take down Number 1—a plan that didn’t include me dying.
The way my parents did when they went up against the six-and-a-half-foot-tall insectoid with the bulging, plum-colored body and stringy red dreadlocks dangling down between his antennae.
Oh, yeah. Number 1 is a real charmer.
Suddenly an air horn blared behind me.
I whipped around.
A speeding tractor trailer came roaring up the road out of nowhere.
I did the math. Analyzed the trajectory.
The answer wasn’t good: the 18-wheeler would be plowing into me in the blink of an eye.