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“Crabtree. Crabtree? Crabtree! Oi! Wake up!”
George snapped awake, courtesy of the shaking. His throat felt raw and scratchy, like he’d swallowed several sheets of sandpaper. “Sir?” he coughed, prying his head off of his desk.
Inspector Brackenreid squinted at him. “Bloody hell, you look awful.”
George blearily rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled sarcastically. He blinked, suddenly recoiling. “Sir!” He whipped his head around the station house. “Where are all the plants?” he gasped.
“Plants?” Brackenreid frowned.
“Yes, sir, the plants! All the… creatures were carrying them around with them! And the tea! Everyone was acting strange! And those… those creatures!” George paled, pointing a shaking finger at the inspector. “And you, sir! You were one of them!”
“What the bloody hell are you rabbiting on about, Crabtree?”
“Sir! They—” George broke off, coughing hoarsely into his fist. “Sir!” he choked once he caught his breath. “They came from outer space, sir! They took us over one by one!”
The inspector frowned, stretching out a hand and touching the constable’s forehead. “Just as I thought,” he shook his head. “Crabtree, you’re hotter than a stove.”
George coughed again. “Sir?”
Brackenreid’s expression softened. “Oi. You’ve got a fever, Crabtree,” he said kindly. “You’re ill. Get yourself home and have a nice lie down.”
“But, sir, the aliens—”
“Just a dream, Crabtree.” Brackenreid slid an arm around the constable and hoisted him to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home so you can have a rest.”
“Sir—”
“Oi, shut it, Bugalugs,” the inspector smirked fondly. “Let’s get you to bed.”