Her lips tremble and her scrawny arms shake. Her dark dirty long matted hair barely moves in the breeze. Her eyes travel from his fist to his predator eyes that hold only the promise of injury to her. Her breathing is short; near hyperventilating. Awful helplessness twists her intestines. Her bowels are close to releasing.
The boys fan out behind him, creating a barrier she’ll not break this time. Laughing and goading Roberto, they cheer him on, “Make it a good one this time. Make the puta Mapuche cry.”
Bam. Bam. Bam. One boy beats out a rhythm of threat with a stick on a garbage can lid.
Nervously, her eyes flit from boy to boy, each face gleaming with anticipation.
When she looks back to Roberto, his eyes go mean as he starts to close the distance between them. She crouches down and defensively crosses her bare arms in front of her. Her tattered dress slides over her dirty legs to reveal filthy panties with a dark stain at the base.
He stops a foot from her, grins maliciously and stands triumphant as his buddies move closer, tightening the half ring barrier around them. One records her with a cell phone as she cowers against the parapet wall.
Then it happens. Roberto bends swiftly and lets loose with a wild right-hand punch at her face that glances off of her arm.
“Whoohoo,” a boy yells. “You never connect to her face,” he taunts. “She too fast for you, Roberto.”
Undeterred, Roberto swings his left fist into her, smacking her upheld arm and then lets loose with a direct right-hand punch that shoots past her defense and thuds against her cheek, knocking her face sideways and eliciting a pained shriek.
This is the moment. She’s in tears and her eyes are wild with terror. He grabs her right wrist with his left hand, endures the charge of her skin’s electrifying bite and yanks her to her feet, where he wraps his right arm around her; squeezing her to him. Taking the full brunt of her charged defense, he releases her wrist, drops his left hand down her back to the bottom of her buttocks, slides it in and hoists her nearly off her feet to a full body press.
Hopelessly bound by his sweaty body and strong arms, she squirms, attempting to wrestle out of his grip, but the harder she tries, the tighter he squeezes. Around them, the count has started.
“One, two, three” two boys start with a metered chanting count.
Glancing up into his face, she sees his bared teeth gritting against her defensive charge as he trembles while the current passes into his body.
“Seven, eight,” two more boys join in on the count.
His eyes seem like demonic black holes staring back at her, determined and awful.
“Twelve, thirteen.” Now all of them are counting.
Trembling from her increasing bite, his hand slides into her dress, pushing under and onto her bare leg, where his finger slides over darkly stained underwear and inside to the source of that stain; a blood flow that started only this morning.
“Sixteen, seventeen,” the chanting grows more excited.
Repulsed by the violation of his finger, she screams at the top of her lungs–ear-piercing and shrill–only an inch from his ear.
He grimaces in reflexive pain and pulls her even tighter, squeezing the breath from her lungs, taking her to the threshold of consciousness.
“Nineteen, twenty.” Each count accentuated by a bang on the garbage can lid.
Then time slows. “Twenty-twoooooo.” The yelling of the boys trails off, and then magically stops.
Her captor becomes a statue as if locked in a photograph. The boys around her become mannequins, frozen with their mouths in mid-yell, their arms outstretched and unmoving.
Glowing tiny white particles start to fall from the clear air above, like hot metal snow trailing thin tracers behind each gleaming flake, landing on them, sticking to them, coating them and the rooftop with their radiant whiteness. Quickly, the aberrant snow fills the air to become a bright blizzard of white, mounding on top of everyone and everything; covering them until everyone appears as snowmen, shimmering and light in a field of fluffy snow.
Arcing out from her and Roberto, blue bolts of thin twisting electricity snake over the buried boys and rooftop snowfield: popping and zizzing, crackling and exploding. Underneath the electric coils, the light particles pulse and brighten with a life all their own. The generated snow light glows brighter and brighter, to eventually obscure everything with its luminescence; becoming a rooftop nova, blotting out the surrounding city, sky, sun, and mountains beyond–everything.
Inside that roof born star, a bubble of stillness envelops and inhabits Isabel. As a warm calm fills her body, she mentally detaches from her attackers to become hidden in plain sight; protected in this new sanctuary where nothing can harm her.
Relief sets in and a never before felt strength fills her. Closing her eyes, tapping into her new inner power, she strikes out in one momentous burst of energy against all that is threatening her, sweeping everything away; clearing the deck of everyone.
Suddenly, only silence remains.
With her eyes still closed and her sensing their absence, she realizes she is safe and all is well.
When she opens her eyes, gone are the boy’s arms painfully squeezing her. Gone is the stink of the boy hurting her. Gone is the gang threatening and yelling.
It is as if they had never been there. She looks around. No telltale signs of the boys remain. No shoes left behind, no dropped garbage can lid, no abandoned cell phone. No sounds of them in the distance; just the typical grinding of diesel trucks and cars on the streets below.
Gone.
All gone.
She is alone on the rooftop, no longer threatened.
Before her, in all directions, streaks of grey and black on the rooftop surface radiate from where she stands. The rooftop is scorched and burnt, smoking and smoldering. Turning slowly, she takes in everything around her, noting burn marks on the adjacent building as well.
Amazed by the transformation, she stares stupidly, uncomprehending of it all.
What happened?
She crosses to the metal stairs, stops and looks over the edge of the building, down onto the alleyway below. Where are the boys? They should be back in the alleyway below, breaking bottles, smoking cigarettes, kicking cans, punching each other and laughing. She glances right and left, looking up and down the alleyway, but there are no boys.
Straightening up, she looks off into the distance towards the snowcapped mountains to her east; beautiful, even behind the gauzy haze of afternoon smog.
But what just happened? Where did the lightfall and blue lightning bolts come from? Why is everything burnt and torn? She looks back to the spot she came from and then the pattern on the rooftop surface mentally clicks with her. It radiates from where she stood.
Did she make this happen?
Never before has it been like this. Always, in the past, a boy would beat her and then hang on to her for as long as he could; enduring the bite of her electric fear and the pain it brought him. And when he had enough, he would let her go. Then the other boys would laugh and congratulate him for holding on over the count of thirty. She would be ignored as they all walked away, clapping their newly initiated gang member on the back for having survived her charged emanations that had earned her the nickname, “The Eel.”
Left alone, she would nurse her wounds and cry once more at a cruel fate that had left her homeless and treated like a pariah by everyone, to be avoided until another boy wanted to join the gang. Then she’d become an integral part of the ritual once more.
But this time was different. When the boy had touched her where she bled, something had snapped within her. Already humiliated by the presence of blood emanating from there, when his finger had gone to its source, it had violated the sanctity of all that made her female, panicking her, increasing her fears tenfold. Her emotions had boiled upwards, aggravating her defensive bite like never before. When he’d squeezed so hard in response to her electric emanations, she had thought she would die from pain and
suffocation.
But now there is only absence, within and without. No emotion. No threat. Just her alone, looking out over adjacent rooftops.
She considers the previous moments and goes back to her thoughts just before the white lights appeared. She remembers having looked off into the distance towards the snow-covered mountains, thinking wouldn’t it be nice to be there instead of here. Then the white snowfall of tiny lights began.
Is that what set this odd event off? Was she being protected by something that was watching over her? A guardian angel, perhaps? The Catholic nuns in one of the shelters had mentioned angels that watched over people. Was she being watched over? If so; why now and not in the past? Had she done something to now deserve protection? She would have to search her recent actions for a clue to what now made her worthy of protection.
This new occurrence required much consideration.
While her thoughts wandered into the past, unconsciously her hand went down her dress to her groin, where she pressed in on herself, feeling the sticky dampness of her first menstruation, bringing her back to the here and now.
She knew the menstruation for what it was, but the event was a surprise nonetheless. Something had to be done about it. She was no idiot. She had to clean herself.
Just before she prepared to leave the roof, she took one last look around and paused.
Was she protected now?
Or was it possible that she had made this happen?
Chapter 2
Day 1
Vitacura, Región Metropolitana, Santiago, Chile
All is well at the popular upscale La Mar-Cebichería Peruana restaurant. The clinking of tableware against plates, the chatter and laughter, and the shuffle of waiters and waitresses delivering cuisine are part of another busy day for the staff. Aromas of mouthwatering foods waft pleasantly through the air. The soft strains of an acoustic guitar romancing Spanish love vocals color the background.
It is business as usual until an almost imperceptible rumbling starts just below the daily din; as if a large truck were bearing down upon the restaurant. A moment later, like a freight train passing only yards away, the floor of the café vibrates tables and chairs; rattling glasses, dishes, silverware, and even bottles behind the bar. Suddenly, the entire building jerks sideways, eliciting exclamations from surprised patrons.
“Whoa!” yells Zed as Rafa’s Pisco Sour wobbles on the dining table top.
Hanging lights above swing back and forth. A tray of coffee cups crashes to the floor, prompting a startled scream from a woman. The building vibrates for another thirty seconds and then finally tapers to nothing.
A pregnant hush descends as everyone collectively holds their breaths, waiting for more. Then, when it’s evident that the temblor has passed, the room fills with amused reactions.
“Second one this week,” Rafa says with an uneasy smile. He swipes his cold drink from the table top and gulps a mouthful. “But who’s counting?”
Sitting across from Rafa, Zed opens his slim laptop and powers it on. “Someone must be,” he says and hunches over it; tic tacking away at the keyboard. Around them, the excited small talk in the restaurant is punctuated by a woman’s shrill laughter.
“There,” Zed exclaims then pauses to read the digital display. “Listen to this. This new temblor is the first earthquake in the last twenty-four hours. And...” He pauses again to read. “There have been 11 in the last 7 days, 61 in the last 30 days, and 554 in the last 365 five days.”
Rafa makes a low whistle. “554,” he repeats. “Ring of Fire Chile borders. Earthquakes come with the territory.”
Zed looks up from his laptop. “Ring of Fire? That a Johnny Cash song?” A half smile curls the corner of his mouth with his jest.
“Area in the Pacific Ocean where a lot of earthquakes and volcanoes occur, Zed,” Rafa says with didactic patience, disregarding the intended humor.
Disappointed over his joke being ignored, Zed is back to his laptop.
“There’s more. The world’s largest earthquake, with a magnitude of 9.5, occurred on May 22, 1960 near Valdivia in southern Chile.” He pauses to read then adds, “An 8.0 or greater is considered a ‘Great Earthquake’ and can totally destroy communities near the epicenter.”
“So, judging by quantity, Chile is the earthquake capital of the world?” Rafa asks.
“Let me see.” Zed types on his keyboard, reads the display, types again, studies his screen and then says, “Nope, but listen to this: On September 16, 2015, central Chile was struck by a powerful 8.4 Richter scale earthquake, followed by major aftershocks on the scale of 7.6, 7.2 and 6.7. And 72 hours after the earthquake, a total of 340 aftershocks were recorded.”
He looks up from his laptop. “340 aftershocks in 72 hours. Now THAT is a lot of rattling around.” He laughs, leans back in his chair, assumes nonchalance (what Rafa describes as “Zed relaxed”) and takes a sip of his Gê, the most expensive wine blend of hand-picked Carmenere, Syrah, and small amounts of French varieties from the organic Emiliana Vineyards (according to Zed).
“Nothing like a great wine to go with the weekly earthquake,” Zed pronounces, raising his wine glass to toast it. He looks around at the modern building and salutes, “Here’s to seismic design, may the buildings sway and never break.”
Rafa counters with, “Here’s to being an earthquake insurance salesman in Chile, gotta be a full-time job.”
Zed’s friendly brown eyes, under his Padres baseball hat, crinkle at the corners as he breaks into a relaxed smile. Dressed in a short sleeve button shirt, baggy shorts and worn leather flip flops, he is the picture of leisure. Wearing his relaxed demeanor like a successful millionaire, he is impoverished wealth. Born in southern California but raised for most of his young life in the backcountry of Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, he is unaffected, experienced cool, and grounded by living close to the earth. The orphaned child of two Caucasian parents, he was a white youth living amongst ebony skinned villagers.
Across from him, the older Rafa “Bull” Mundoz is relaxed to a lesser degree. Dressed in worn jeans, scuffed motorcycle boots, black “T” under his jean “colors” vest, dark shades and close-cropped dark hair, he comes off as the longtime biker that he is. Standing 6’3” with a wide chest, wide arms and powerful legs, thick hands, larger than average head, and muscles of a well-conditioned pro athlete, he and the comic book character “The Hulk” have much in common. And he can be just as intimidating.
“How long do you think she’ll be?” Zed asks referring to his Aunt Twizzle, who is in Foundation funding meetings with Breakthrough Starshot people. She is the matriarch of the family, overseeing all important decisions of the Family Foundation and business that were all started long ago by her deceased parents and uncle. Only family and close friends call her by her childhood name of Twizzle; to the rest of the world she is simply Ms. Brown.
“Minutes. Hours. Days. Who knows? Thank God she doesn’t expect me to sit through that stuff with her.” Some would call Rafa ‘Twizzle’s trophy husband,’ handsome, fit and with a physical presence that cannot be ignored. Employed by her as head of Foundation security, he gradually became an appendage to her, always at her side or looming behind her, adding an aura of physical power to her personal presence.
“Hey, you’re the man of the house, king of the castle now that you two have been married for, what, three months now? You get to make the rules,” Zed teases.
“You are a funny man, Zed. You wake up in the morning and think to yourself, ‘Who am I going to bug today?’ Is that how it starts?”
Zed laughs. And then leans in towards the Bull. “Rafa, you are one of my favorite people to have fun with. You make a long day short.”
Complimented, a slow smile spreads across Rafa’s face. “So you been out to the Laser Array yet?”
“Haven’t had that pleasure. Twizzle implied a tour of the fetus torture facility first.”
Rafa stiffens. His eyes narrow, he remove
s his sunglasses, gains a measure of control and then leans forward. In moments of displeasure, his bulk seems to double as he draws closer to the one displeasing him.
“Zed, even in jest, that’s not funny. Don’t ever refer to it like that again.”
Zed, fit and athletic and rarely affected by Rafa’s ominous posturing, stifles a smile. “Sorry. Too profane, I guess. Won’t happen again.” His thoughts on the fertility clinic are well known. No point belaboring the issue.
Rafa leans back in his chair and studies Zed. If the world was divided into those who have killed and those who have not, Zed would fall, unchallenged, into the former. Beneath that tan 22-year-old Zed-façade lies a young man who has racked up experiences best not experienced; terrible events–life and death matters–and somehow he comes away able to joke and make light of the deadly serious aspects of life.
Rafa knows of the terrible ordeals Zed was put through by being raised in the Congo, and envy is not what he feels for the younger man. Having to defend his small African village against the worst of humanity forced Zed to extremes again and again. In avatar mode, Zed was blooded at an early age, killing and being killed during the army revolt that saw bands of soldiers pillaging and raping and murdering a victimized African populace. Zed, Sonnet, and his uncle, Forbes, would regularly move their consciousness into avatars in the Congo.
Bearing plates of food, their attractive waitress appears at their small table.
“Empanadas?” she asks in melodic Spanish.
Zed raises his hand. After she lays the warm plate in front of him and the other in front of Rafa, she asks if their glasses need refreshing. Rafa answers in Spanish for both of them, thanking her and letting her know they’re fine. He leans over his dish of Peruvian style cooked seafood and takes in the rising steam that is filled with the odor of spiced fish.
Girl with all the Pain Page 2
