After my shotgun-blasting, car-crashing, psycho maniac savior hit my boyfriend with his Camaro, he threw the dented little car into reverse, then pulled a one-eighty in the parking lot. He gunned the engine and drove us out of there as fast as he could, but once we were out of sight he slowed down to a safe speed.
I wasn't exactly comfortable with this guy just yet, but he seemed like someone who genuinely wanted to protect me. After all, he just dented his car. Normally jerks don't let their cars get dented, even if it means impressing a girl.
After a few silent minutes--minutes that seemed like hours--we drove into a basement garage. He turned off the engine, and clicked the remote that closed the garage door behind us. We sat there quietly for a few seconds before he turned to me and said "I'm sorry it had to go that way; normally I don't like shooting people's boyfriends." Was he actually trying to be funny? I couldn't tell. Something else occurred to me--how did he know that Timothy was my boyfriend? For all this guy knew, Tim could've been some random, redhead-choking jerk. Had he been stalking me?
With a slightly awkward-sounding "c'mon," the boy gestured for me to follow him into the next room. Realizing that I had nothing else to do but sit there in the car and be scared out of my mind, I followed him. The next room was still in the basement, but it looked almost like a bunker. There bits of machinery and weapons littered across long concrete tables, and more than a few torn-up robot arms. He kept moving up a staircase on the far side of the room, and I hurried to keep up.
When we reached the top of the stairs, I was surprised to see a rather nice home, lit gently by sunset light through the windows. Two large dark bookcases held hundreds of books, and in an office just down a short hallway I could see several clumsy-looking stacks of books. Perhaps because some part of me wanted to get away from the boy whose name I realized I did not know, I took a deeper look at the books. I half-expected them to be military or hunting books, but, as I looked closer, I saw that they weren't anything of the sort: they were science fiction novels.
Every single book in the entire house--that I could tell, at least--was science fiction of some sort. Apparently, I'd been saved by a member of the nerd militia.
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