by Russ Linton
I’m not sure how much longer. An hour? Two? I try not to look at the time on my iPod. Watched pots and stuff. Heat. Heat would be good. Slowly, my brain starts to degrade into a grey matter slushee. Those were good. Ice. Sugar. Ice. Mom would buy those for me. I’d freeze my brain. Like now. Maybe I should let him find me here all curled up and blue. They can thaw me out when the world is safe.
Then her face comes to me. Curious. Waiting.
I dig out my iPod. There’s enough battery life left for a picture or two. He can believe that. Finding the right angle to get a shot of my face with the robot in the background is tricky. Harder still is the pose, especially with these shakes. Smile? Thumbs up? I balance the camera on the control panel and settle for an arms crossed gangsta pose with the shell of a battle robot over my shoulder.
Okay, only one option left. Hopefully I’ll get at least a taste of freedom. I want to see how far I can get before Dad shows up. With his record, maybe he won’t show at all.
Chapter 8
I press the button.
A full body restraint balloons out of hidden compartments. I’m stuffed in a body-sized blood pressure cuff, the little pump in the hands of a sadistic nurse. A bright flash travels down the launch tube, then darkness, and finally a wash of pure blue.
I feel a dam breaking inside and my blood shifts course and runs upstream. Darkness creeps in, and the deafening roar I’ve only now noticed fades. Flames lick the window of the capsule. Fire gives way to black. Crushed in the restraint, a ghostly white ring fills my sight then shrinks.
I’m not looking at the launch tube lights anymore. Instead, I see the thin reflection of overhead fluorescent lights tracing a chrome surface. It’s the metal hoop at the top of a clothes rack. Puffy winter jackets dangle from hangers, and I’m encased in a nylon and polyester cocoon. Tinny sounding Muzak plays over hidden speakers. I pull my feet up so my mom won’t see them.
“Ready or not, here I come!” she calls.
Being small has advantages, if you want to be a hide-and-seek ace. Hangers rattle on a nearby rack. I hold my breath. She’s close, so very close. There’s no way she’ll find me.
I can’t let that happen.
Bursting out of the rack, I shout, “Surprise!”
Mom whirls with a playful look of shock on her face. Her soft hair whips her cheeks before settling back above her shoulders. She grabs me, pulls me close and says, “You’re it!” Then a look of confusion crosses her face. “Hey, I don’t think that’s how we play this game!”
Pressing close to her chest, I listen for her pulse and try to feel the warmth. I inhale, taking in every scent I can. I search for her own personal perfume. Fresh pancakes and grass stains and bliss. For some reason, it isn’t there. Who cares, right? This is just a dream after all. I start to cry. I’m a little kid right now, though so I guess that’s all right.
“What’s wrong?” She tries to push away but I won’t let go.
“I missed you.”
She kisses the top of my head. “Honey, you weren’t gone that long. We would’ve found you.”
I can’t respond through the sniffling. Wait, we? There’s nobody else here.
“You don’t have to play anymore if it frightens you,” she says as she strokes my hair.
I step back and wipe my nose. She looks worried but happy to have me here, not worried and fearful, like when I last saw her. I swat her arm and take off through the racks shouting, “You’re it!”
Her stunned expression explodes into a spontaneous smile. But the expression doesn’t quite fit. Sure, it’s playful, but in a raw, unbridled way. Then, her eyes flash into glinting pools that reflect my face perfectly. My heart races and I duck into more winter cocoons, diving through vertical layers of fabric. Her laughter echoes in the strangely empty store.
We dash between aisles, slide behind cash registers, and at one point she steals a hat and shawl from a mannequin and stands completely still. I try to creep toward her and she begins to count.
The infectious, playful energy evaporates. The numbers drone in a lifeless procession. I back away, watching her immobile form, and then rush headlong into another rack of clothes.
I fill in the gap burrowed through the clothes. Her counting doesn’t stop. Wild-eyed excitement once again pulls at the corners of my mouth and I struggle to keep still. Muscles twitch until every last fiber is tight and shaking with strain, but the crazy smile won’t leave my face, couldn’t, even if I had to hide here for a hundred years. Hangers rattle and as I try to reel in my excitement, I realize not only is the clothes rack shaking but the floor too.
“Mom?”
I part the wall of clothes and she’s there, standing on the display pedestal, the mannequin’s shawl defying gravity and fluttering in the air like stalks of submerged kelp. Her head is tossed back, and she basks in the circular glow of a strange light that devours the color from her skin.
“Mom?” This creepy distortion of a childhood memory is hard to process, and I know I’m older but my thoughts are trapped in this bottled moment. “Maybe you should hide. I’ll find you.”
Her head rolls forward, mouth drawn open. Her lips barely move. “Maybe you shouldn’t find me. Maybe you can’t.”
“No! I can. I will. I love you, Mom.”
“You do?” Life returns to her silver eyes and I don’t understand the surprise at those simple words.
“Of course I do.”
The cloak of light around her disperses. In the expanding blast, the walls of the department store disintegrate. A flat stretch of beach lies beyond, facing a tranquil sea. Ocean water hangs mid-crest, frozen in the rhythmic lapping of waves on the empty beach. A green expanse of jungle rises on one side, surrounding a grotto beneath a waterfall on the other.
Puffy coats have been replaced by lush ferns. I force through the foliage and head for the grotto shouting, “Mom!”
I’ll find a bridge, a clearing, a tent, and a small stream. A hill with a sail cloth-framed treehouse. She’ll be there, too. I know. In my rush, I snag a root and tumble into the ferns. But I don’t hit solid ground. I fall. The light fades into a soupy green mess. An eruption of sound fills the air. Cracking, snapping, and hollow, damp explosions. All the while green leaves streak by until, with a thunderous smash, it stops.
*
“Mom!” No answer comes, but I think I’ve left the dream.
Towering trees, broad leaves and a green canopy rise outside the tiny viewport of the escape pod. No more endless white. Only the brightest points of light piercing the foliage. I’ve gone from Hoth to Endor on the freaking Wonkatania.
The canopy won’t slide open. Somewhere near my chest there’s a release lever, but I can’t quite reach it cause Nurse Ratched forgot to completely release the cuff. Elbows jabbing, hands wriggling, I frantically search for the lever, eager to get out. The cigar-shaped pod rocks to one side. With a twist, I shift to correct the roll. Too little, too late.
Outside, the view swirls between sunlight, green leaves, and a coffee brown. The pod with me in it is rolling down a steep embankment. For all I know, I’m careening toward a cliff, or plunging into a deep cavern. Here lies Spencer, survived a psycho robot, killed by a rescue pod.
Wherever I’m headed, the blender’s plug gets pulled, violently. My head smashes into the little window followed by a hollow “thud”. I’m sent spinning like a top. Gradually, the motion winds to a halt. Before I can breathe a sigh of relief, two sharp explosions fill the cramped space. Ears ringing, I squint as the canopy flies into the trees. Air and light rush in and the cuff deflates with a hiss. I dive out, a drowning man lunging for a rescue line. The pod tilts, and I tumble halfway out onto bare earth.
If I had to pick, I’d go shipwreck. Out-of-control bullet ride is total bullshit.
Doubled over the lip of the pod, my numb head presses into the dirt while my stomach thrashes. I can taste blood. Barely audible above my screaming ear drums, a woman calls out, “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“Mom?”
The sound of dry leaves cascading downhill gets louder. My forehead lies flat on the cool earth and stubbornly, my head refuses to turn when I try to get a better look. My eyeballs feel disconnected and keep spinning, no matter how hard I focus. I see running shoes and black, ankle-length stretchy pants approaching. Maybe an Augment?
Wiry arms encircle my chest and start to pull. My moon boots catch at an awkward angle along the frame. As much as I’d love to, I can’t get my limbs to cooperate. She lifts and shifts and twists, struggling with my dead weight until the boot comes free and we tumble backwards. Smooth, damp, cool skin envelops my face for an instant and despite the mental numbness, my thawing hormones recognize the source.
Real, honest to God, non-digitized breasts. Goodbye, iPod diva.
The mystery girl struggles to her feet and drags me away from the crash site. Gently, she lays me on my side and kneels. A highlighted strand of dark brown hair has escaped her ponytail, dangling down her cheek. Her eyes glow with green flecks in the woodland light. Her lips are parted as if she’s mid-sentence. No makeup, just sweat and a smudge of dirt, all forming a stunning image.
I feel violently ill. Stabilizing my spinning head and lurching stomach becomes a priority.
I roll over and clamber to my knees, palms flat on the ground. Standing would be a good start. Impressive, even. Heck, it would impress the hell out of me if I can manage to get vertical with the earth moving this much. I stagger to my feet while she keeps her hands poised to stop the impending face plant.
Figuring out some ingenious way of explaining how I crash landed in the woods that a) makes me sound badass, and b) convinces her I’m not an alien invader (unless she’s into that) isn’t working out at the moment. I could say something cool: “Me? I’ve seen worse.” Or go the funny guy route: “I meant to do that.”
Opening my mouth is a big mistake.
I really hope she didn’t like those shoes.
Chapter 9
If she’s upset about the shoes, it’s confined to a quick wrinkle of her nose. This is followed by her grabbing my face in a businesslike manner and checking first my eyes and then the knot on my forehead, which I had no idea was there until her finger found it. All the while, I attempt to casually wipe flecks of vomit from my mouth.
I’m staring, trying to see past the weird blob blocking my view of those eyes. After a while, I figure out she’s running her finger back and forth in front of my face. Obviously, playing it cool went out the hatch on the escape pod.
“We’ve got to move, fast,” she says as she drapes my arm over her shoulder and starts dragging me up the ravine.
Several questions fight through the fog. Where’s here? What’s the rush? Why does her voice sound like she’s talking to me at the bottom of a pool? None of these stray thoughts get past my lockjaw vomit defense. Then I realize I don’t have my backpack. After a terrible round of charades which consists of my free arm limply flopping in the general direction of the pod, she catches on. She heads over and peeks inside.
Eventually, she comes up with my backpack. Even the blurred vision and head trauma won’t cover up the flashes of tight yoga pants and bending. I could’ve died, and all I can think about is this cute girl and her cute ass. Sounds reasonable. Throwing my backpack over her shoulder, she hustles to my side and starts dragging again.
At the top of the ravine lies a trail of complete destruction. A series of deep furrows mar the earth where the pod skipped across the forest floor. Several thick tree trunks jut from the ground in bouquets of splintered fibers, with their upper halves strewn across the clearing. The precarious lip of the ravine where the pod came to rest looks like some fairytale giant ground his heel in the loose dirt. A trail of crushed plants and scattered leaves leads to the bottom, where the pod rests against a massive and now scarred tree trunk. I’m suddenly grateful I passed out for a bit on that ride.
Her grip shifts to my shoulders, pushing down and guiding until I’m sitting on the ground.
“Rest for a second,” she says.
I can’t argue and as I start to lean back, her hands catch me. “Don’t lie down, just rest.” She starts dabbing at the side of my head with her shirt. “I was so not prepared for this.”
My stomach is settling, but I have to keep the reply short. “You think I was?” Is that what an Augment would say? There’s a snort, or a huff… hard to tell through the constant humming in my ears. When the heck does that go away? I try turning my head to see if she’s smiling and pain stabs at my neck.
“Your father warned me about you.”
She knows Dad. Obvious, yeah. But she has to say it for the fact to sink in, and for me to even remember how I got here.
“Where is he? Where’s my dad?”
I have to turn my entire upper body to keep the neck pain at bay. She blocks the movement, straightens my shoulders and puts pressure on my forehead.
“Ow!”
“Stop squirming, I need to get the bleeding to stop.”
Stopping bleeding. Right. Sounds like a plan, but she hasn’t answered my question so I repeat, “Seriously, where’s—”
“You’re not where you should have been,” she interjects.
“What?”
“The trajectory was off.” She dabs the wound lightly as she speaks, slowly increasing the pressure and incidentally the pain. “There’s a clearing north of here where you should’ve landed. Would’ve been a rough ride, but not this bad.”
“Okay, okay, but where the hell did I land?” I mutter through gritted teeth.
She’s looking everywhere but my direction as she answers, “Wardensville Wildlife Management Area. Outside of Winchester, Virginia. There’s a forest service road about a kilometer from here. That’s where my Bronc is.”
“Nice to know.” And we’re up for the second pitch. “Where’s my dad?”
“I’m sorry, we’ve got to start moving.” She faces me and hauls me to my feet. I hang limply in front of her. I feel like Pinocchio, without the strings. Definitely sans cricket, as my eyes fasten to her breasts. Really, I’ve got to stop doing that, so uncool. She doesn’t seem to notice when she steps away, half-crouched, her arms extended, waiting again for me to eat dirt.
“Here.” She yanks the parka zipper, sliding it off my shoulders. As the weight falls, so do I.
And I really don’t mind. The air is crisp and cool on damp skin. Crisp and cool—not stale and freezer-worthy. I’m living in a dream right now. Laying down in the dry leaves with the parka for a pillow sounds perfect. “You could join me,” I babble.
“What? No, no! Come on.” She’s pulling me to my feet again. “Someone has to have seen this. You could’ve been followed. We have to leave.”
“What’s the worst that could happen? Another robot shows up and I kick its ass? I need a nap. It’s been a long day, um… who are you?”
“Emily. My name’s Emily. I’m a friend of your father’s.”
“Right, you said that, but where is he?”
“My car isn’t far from here. We’ve got to get you to a doctor and make sure you’re all right. We have to get somewhere safe.”
Strike three.
I hate safe. I’m done with safe. Put me on the Tilt-a-Whirl again without my seatbelt. Sounds good in my head, but the words don’t leave my mouth. At least I don’t think they do. Things start fuzzing over again, as she hefts me off the ground and starts the equivalent of a three-legged race with Stephen Hawking as a partner.
“That was so inappropriate.”
I guess I am talking out loud.
“Yes,” she manages between breaths.
The frantic energy that’s been buzzing around since I first saw the bunker doors melt open has completely abandoned me. My body hurts and burns behind a dull curtain of fatigue that I don’t want to lift. I’m starting to slip to the ground again.
“Spencer… let’s… move.” She’s getting tired hauling my useless ass around, so if she
’s an Augment, strength isn’t on her power list. She’s persistent, though, and soon I’m leaning heavily on her shoulder.
“Spencer, I can’t carry you out of here,” she pants, even as she flops my lifeless body through the woods. So maybe no super-strength, but the workout clothes aren’t a joke. She lapses into an athletic trance and begins puffing to a cardio beat, synchronized with my dangling head.
A part of my brain feels bad and wants to help. It’s also connected to that same part that’s wired into my hormones and replaying the highlight reel of her retrieving my backpack. Yeah, it would have been nice to impress this girl by being a complete badass and shaking this off, but no—crippling reentry-vehicle ride for the win.
She’s forging through the woodland brush. In between breaths, she starts cheerleading, “You can do it Spence, you can do it. One more step. Let’s just make it to the Bronc. We’ll stop by Hamburger Hut on the way to see that doctor.”
That’s it. That’s her power. Some kind of mental manipulation or maybe a psychology degree. With the word “hamburger”, my feet come back online.
Chapter 10
I don’t even blink as I dribble ketchup on the blood pressure cuff.
“Hey kid, do you have to eat that right now?”
“Yes,” I say, wet, sloppy, and through a wad of half-chewed cheeseburger.
Emily’s doctor friend’s first name is Martin, last name, ‘A’ something. I can tell he’s one of those guys that wears scrubs all the time. He’s even got a surgical mask around his neck and he’s not doing any surgery. He probably showers with it.
Besides, who keeps a blood pressure cuff in their study at home? Of course, the study is pretty well-equipped. The big, polished wooden desk I’ve parked my ass on is free of fingerprints and smudges, so I doubt he’s putting the all-in-one, twenty-four-inch monitor/computer through its paces. Neat rows of books fill a tall, built-in bookcase under the vaulted ceiling—the kind of books that look old, might even be old, but nobody has ever so much as creased their spines.
