NINETY-ONE

The booming bass of the ship’s landing shook Ryland to his core, feeding his migraine. He turned to his bed, took 1000mg of pills, downed a NyQuil, and promised himself he’d shower tomorrow.

While he slept, he dreamed of screaming and raging animals scratching at his door, a cat howling in his ears, and within three hours he’d wet the bed.

A grown man who peed in his own bed as aliens were invading. He would never have imagined that this would be the description of his death in the papers.

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