Splintered Energy (The Colors Book 1)

by Arlene Webb

  A careful pat on the beautiful-red caused the metal to splinter, cracking into the dead-white, and he understood another constant. Death was powerless. STOP, Jaylynn’s arm, the ugly little thing, the orange-clad one, everything broke with ease. Demon was very strong in this bewildering existence.

  Air snorted from his nose, he uncrossed his arms and let the night currents flow round him. Charged with power, his energy escalated into an explosion of movement under the impotent image. He danced in place, a riotous delight of strength.

  He wished he held Jaylynn. Even a mean cruel demon from hell could learn to be careful with the fragile ones afraid to die—if they didn’t yell at Invincible forever.

  * * *

  The man put his beer in the cup holder, eased his foot off the gas, and squinted in the streetlight. A barefoot guy with long red hair pranced under the stop sign. He appeared sunburnt all over his shirtless chest and face. Athletic looking, but scrawny. Faggot ballerina. This was a politically red state. So what if the freak matched? Shoulda stayed in a goddamn blue state.

  He lowered the wailing country music, slammed on his brakes, and yelled through the open window, “Go back to San Fran, ya fag.”

  His laugh died on his lips. The red man strode faster than he’d ever seen anyone move in his life, and the passenger door opened. Jesus. Almost ripped off the hinges? The freak jumped in while he scrambled to yank his rifle from behind the seat. If the door to his truck had been broken, this was one dead son of a bitch.

  “Demon don’t know fag. Teach San Fran.”

  Up close, the guy’s skin looked unnatural. Not Indian, not burned, and in no way normal. The man lit-up and radiated energy. Warm, almost hot blasts of air sparkled blood red around him. Wearing cracked sunglasses at night to hide being high on somethin’ other than alcohol? What type of queer glowed like that? He struggled to aim at the weirdo less than two feet away.

  “Get the hell outta my truck, before I blow your ugly red head off.”

  The stranger barked a harsh laugh and yanked the gun from his hand. The freak tossed the rifle to the floor, started tapping with the music, vibrating the dash as he looked around the truck.

  I let a fag disarm me! “Are you crazy? I’ll snap your goddamn neck.” He had a couple inches, sixty pounds over the bizarre man, and it’d been awhile since rage pounded so hard he shook. A white, God-fearing male with inalienable rights. Not to have freaks in his truck remained one of them.

  The road was deserted, and who’d blame him? Hell, the guards in the pen at Florence would slap him on the back. If the guy didn’t get out in one minute, he’d eat pavement.

  The weirdo sniffed, like a dog scenting territory. A red hand snaked for the ashtray, and the man grabbed the Marlboro’s glowing end. The fag calling himself Demon snarled and threw the cigarette over his shoulder.

  Freakin’ Jesus. He didn’t care if he cracked open his knuckles, it’d be damn satisfying to break this punce’s face before pumping his head full of shotgun pellets—only the splatter of crimson was sure to be HIV tainted. He needed space.

  In the desert. Just over that ridge.

  Long hair whipped around the freak’s head as he stared at the sputtering flame devouring the food wrappers on the back seat. “Fire. Demon like.”

  A blow of his fist knocked his truck into park. He lunged over the seat and smashed the burning wrappers. “Are you crazy? Vocabulary of a two-year-old? Outta my truck, before I kill you. I’ll rip your demon head off.”

  Electricity gripped his neck to thrust him backward, and the dashboard slammed into his skull. The damn gun. Get the damn gun. He pushed himself off the console. The smack on his jaw knocked him sideways into the driver’s window, and his head cracked glass.

  A dull ache told him his jaw was fractured. It’d hurt like hell after the alcohol wore off and—Jesus, goddamn teeth loose? He rubbed the back of his head, blood on his hand, and his panic spun out of control. What sat in his truck? An honest-to-God demon? “What the fuck do you want?”

  With an arrogant snap of fingers, the fiend gestured forward.

  Tears spilled, and he almost bawled for the first time since childhood. He had to be concussed, and his rifle lay in front of an impossibly strong freak.

  He threw the truck into gear. The banging of the passenger door echoed the rage and hurt throbbing through him while he drove into Payson. As the small fire burned itself out on the leather seat, demon-freak scowled with childish disappointment. The psycho’s attention spun back to the radio. Instead of drumming with the beat as before, he growled and rubbed his temple. “Hurts head. Make stop. Faster.”

  How’d I get in a B grade horror movie? “Make stop? Your fuckin’ head hurts? You should feel what you did to mine.”

  A red finger tapped the radio—instant silence. “Faster,” demon man growled.

  No doubt, they’d find a battered corpse under a cactus. Me, gnawed by coyotes. The stoplight facing him turned red. Would he be eviscerated if he stopped? He pulled behind a station wagon with a couple of teenage boys.

  The demon broke into a feral grin and bounced out the broken door.

  * * *

  “Hey man, what’re ya doing?” Kevin clutched the wheel and gaped at the red-haired, red-skinned, shirtless man pushing Tim over to sit next to him. The truck behind them did a frantic U-turn before speeding away, its open passenger door banging.

  Kevin wished he hadn’t just smoked a reefer.

  A nervous Tim giggled. “Hey dude.” He glanced at Kevin. “Is he red? Or am I hallucinating?”

  “Hello.” Kevin should strangle Tim. What garbage was in that pot? “I’m Kevin and this is Tim. What’s your name? Er…most people ask first, for a ride I mean.”

  “Don’t know name. Jaylynn said, Demon.” The stranger wearing shades spoke in a growly voice that flowed with authority. He gestured at the green light. “Go.”

  Kevin began driving. “Okay, um…where you headed? You know your door’s open?”

  The stranger grasped the door handle, and Tim wasn’t the only one hallucinating. It looked like the man smashed the door back into its frame. The strange dude began drumming on the dashboard.

  “Like the tunes?” Kevin asked.

  The man lit with sparkles of vermillion joy and nodded.

  “Yeah, it’s old but good,” Tim said. “What’s with the truck you were in?”

  “Truck music hurt head.”

  “What? Don’t like redneck? You’d think being red and all.” Kevin laughed, pounding the steering wheel. “Why are you all red? You in a movie or something?”

  “Don’t know. Drive faster.”

  The vibrant man crackled with energy. The muscles in his arms flowed with coiled strength like a…did red panthers exist? Wild. Kevin pulled his stare away to concentrate on driving. Jesus—weed laced with what? Mushrooms could send crimson dots dancing through your vision. My every breath feels, yeah, like electric. The air in the car now smelled, tasted as he imagined a radical current would. Intoxicating, powerful, and it pulsated—Kevin was sure—from the red dude, not the stuff in the ashtray.

  “Your name’s Demon?” Tim seemed unable to stop giggling. “What kinda name’s that? Some sort of evil cult here from hell to kill? You foreign or somethin’? You mean to say Da Mon, right? I’d hate to share a ride with a satanic dude.”

  To Kevin’s fascination, a sigh like a huge weight had been lifted, escaped the man. His grin sharp, he seemed pleased with Tim’s switch of his name. “Damon? No kill. Thank you.”

  “We’re going to Phoenix. Where you headin’?” Tim asked.

  “Home.”

  Tim snickered. “Seriously, where do you live, Mars?”

  No answer. The man began to hum, low and eerily beautiful. Had to be the weed. Kevin grinned. “Okay, Damon, you’re the man. Phoenix, here we come.” The twisted mountain road took them south, leaving Payson, rednecks, and reality in the dust.

  Ten minutes later, Kevin and Tim sang while Damon drum
med a perfect beat. Kevin decided to see if the dude, who refused to answer why he looked like he did, wanted to groove before they reached the city. Wheel in one hand, he took the joint from the ashtray. When Tim flicked his black lighter, the man’s smile widened. “Damon like fire.”

  “That’s sweet. A pyro. You’ll like this stuff even better.” Kevin took a drag and started to hand the joint over.

  The agitated guy sniffed, and then the air detonated with hot anger around him. Brow furrowed, Damon vibrated with violence. Crap! Postal over a freakin’ joint? The smoke came out of Kevin’s mouth in a coughed gasp.

  “Too much bad air,” Damon barked. “Make go away.”

  “Sorry? Doesn’t smell right to you?” Kevin swallowed hard. Damon had been acting so cool, glowing with exhilarating energy. Kevin was positive anyone that into it would appreciate the addition of smoke to the music, but Damon…Demon changed. Instantly.

  The snarling stranger tapped the passenger window. Shatterproof glass shattered and hit the pavement. He leaned over a terrified Tim, ripped the joint from Kevin, and flung it into the night.

  “What’s your problem?” Tim slammed against Kevin.

  Kevin hit the brakes. For the first time in years he—he wanted his mom to tell him what to do.

  * * *

  What was their problem? Damon hadn’t smashed ugly faces, only the window. He’d ignored the wrong scents when he first got in the car, but that much bad smell was intolerable.

  He didn’t care when the large one in the red-neck-truck—which didn’t make sense because it was an ugly-green truck—had been afraid. He didn’t understand many of the words it yelled.

  Damon wanted to rip its head off, like the fragile thing wanted to do to Damon. He’d left the head on. It hadn’t been easy. These smaller ones had sweetness in their voices. They didn’t annoy too much, but now his head ached. It was difficult to block billions of noises, when irritation pounded along with the chaos of sound.

  Damon-Demon is a mean cruel freak. Everyone he tried to communicate with feared him. Tim shook, his airflow beating too hard and terrified, he’d leak water soon. Fluid welled in Damon’s eyes, too. He’d broken Jaylynn’s arm. Not easy, controlling invincible. “Damon won’t touch Tim. Why afraid? Teach.”

  “You didn’t have to break the window. Kevin’s mom will kill him.”

  A dead window mattered? Tim’s words didn’t have any tone suggesting they weren’t true. He scowled. “Damon knows kill. Where Mom? Teach. Now.”

  “You want to tell my mom you smashed her car?” Kevin yelled. “Are you crazy?”

  Overwhelming frustration throbbed within his aching head. Not only did Kevin not go faster, he pulled over and slowed to a halt. Damon could see the glow from whatever Phoenix was. Maybe if he went fast, he’d find his home.

  Damon couldn’t take much more of this. Something needed to break, something always broke, and he wanted to flee this confusing world. What actually happened when a head came off? Damon banged his forehead on the dashboard—metal dented—his pulsating head stayed on.

  “This is really weird. We have to do something,” Kevin whispered to Tim.

  “Want us to get you some help?” Tim’s trembling fingers patted Damon on the knee. “What’s wrong?”

  Many things were wrong, but a new emotion shook Damon. Tim’s voice texture rang frightened and concerned, and he’d touched Damon. The first time someone had chosen to do so.

  He lifted his head and wiped his leaking eyes. “Help Damon?” The glasses wanted to fall off. If his eyes showed, would his name be Demon again?

  “We could bring you to a hospital,” Kevin said. “They must have a mental or psych unit in Phoenix.”

  “Psych unit fix head noise?”

  “Sure, that’s what they’re for.”

  “Mom kill Kevin?”

  “Yeah, but I can make up some fuckin’ story.”

  “Take to Mom, then psych unit. No fuckin’. Damon don’t like. Go faster.”

  Kevin’s ugly mouth fell open. “Take you to my mom? You’re really whacked! I can’t go faster. I just got my license. We’ve been smoking. I can’t risk the police on top of the broken window. She really would kill me.”

  Damon wanted to understand. He wanted his home. Soon, he’d do what Demon wanted. He lunged out the broken window, leapt over the Mom-car and dropped by the door to Kevin. He adjusted for frailty, but the door handle crushed in his hand. He clenched his jaw, lifted Kevin out and placed him on the ground.

  Damon gestured. Tim wasn’t stupid. He scrambled out of the Mom-car, and tried to hide behind Kevin. They stared at Damon hopping into the control seat. “Teach.”

  Good water ran down Kevin’s cheeks. “Go on. Take the car, just leave us alone, all right?”

  “Teach Mom-car.” Damon grunted. How many times did he ask? He struggled not to smash the frightened Kevin who finally opened his mouth.

  “It’s an automatic. Push on the brake, take it out of park, go into drive.”

  “Brake?”

  “With your foot.” Kevin pointed at Damon’s left leg. “From park to drive, and push your other foot on the gas pedal.”

  Damon tapped the brake pedal down. For no good reason, the knob on the gearshift crumbled when he shifted all the way to OD. “Thank you.” He forced the door closed. Warily, carefully, going to kill something if it broke, he pressed the other pedal. The Mom-car shot out, tires squealed, and gravel flew.

  The stupid car refused to move at an acceptable speed, yet the night air soothed, music helped teach, and Damon counted every beautiful light he passed. He tapped the driver window. The shattered fragments sparkled as glass fell—another mess left in his path.

  Wherever Mom lurked, he had to find her. He didn’t feel right, leaving Kevin and Tim to die. Filtered through the chaos of sound, he could still hear as they waited to “hitch” a ride, worried they couldn’t tell anyone about the demon-red-man.

  It seemed all these fragile creatures needed protection, but were so afraid of him, he wanted to be the one killing them, instead of this Mom angry about a dead window.

  Maybe the psych unit could teach him how to control the commotion assaulting his ears, and he could track Mom easier. For now, he’d stop thinking. Close out the racket within a tolerable radius before his head blew up.

  A bottle rested in the cup holder. Careful, gentle—the stupid holder broke, and the water bottle crushed. No opening? Not like he had forever to figure this out. He bit. Plastic tasted wrong. He sniffed—good water. He choked the water free from the vessel and into his mouth. Was that how he should escape? Leak out with his head off? He’d be taken, like he took the water. The answer was velocity.

  Why couldn’t he make the car cooperate?

  A pretty light faced him, and he pressed the brake pedal. The crumble that resulted felt as familiar as the rush of rage. When the light turned ugly-green, he coaxed the wheels to turn as fast as they would. He maneuvered around vehicles, aware the Mom-car would no longer stop.

  He spun under the I-10 EAST image, not even close to the momentum he wanted, but he didn’t know what else to do. Some instinct bothered him. It seemed important to head this direction. The further he got, the stronger the feeling grew.

  Occasional pretty lights made him happy, but he’d come to understand everything beautiful had a flaw. Flashing, loud sirens always tried to follow.

  To his joy, as he finally closed in on the next cluster of over a million lights, he discovered the knob that raised the music level before it crumbled. Then, to his screaming frustration, the Mom-car slowed without him telling it to, and he rolled to a stop. Even with the gas pedal smashed through the metal, it refused to move, and he abandoned the dead vehicle.

  He ran, feeling some measure of release from the swirling irritation. He loped around or jumped over obstacles. Many ugly shelters were everywhere. An open pretty car pulled out from an area contaminated with color. It contained only one creature. Harmonic music spilled
from the vehicle.

  Damon needed answers, and the alien place, maybe named TUCSON 12 KM, hid something. Fragile or not, this creature would talk.

  * * *

  The driver slammed on his brakes. “Whoa. Be careful. I almost hit you.” The man had long, bright red hair, and his skin color suggested he’d escaped from a circus for Crayola.

  Without a shirt, wearing shades at 2 AM, the aggressive redhead strode closer. “Damon needs help. Take to psych unit.”

  “I don’t think so, buddy. I have to get home.”

  With an effortless leap, the man sailed over the hood of the open convertible and poured into the passenger seat. “Damon won’t kill. Damon will break arm, if don’t move to psych unit.”

  Images of his pregnant wife flashed through the driver’s mind. He flinched at the man sprawled beside him. Red skin looked like it flowed over pure muscle. No help in sight, except the teen stocking shelves with his back to the parking lot. “Okay, man. Chill. Psych unit?”

  “Kevin said they help.”

  For the first time in his life, he wished he had a weapon. He threw the car in gear and headed out onto the four-lane. He couldn’t help gaping at the stranger. The man stared at the iPod. His tabs vibrated the dash in tune with Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons.

  “Music good. Thank you. Damon wants Mom. Psych unit teach?”

  “Ahh, sure. The hospital handles mom issues. Good luck with that. Damon, I’ve never seen an Amer-um, Indian with skin, I mean…why are you so red?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t know what Damon is.”

  He swallowed hard. “Weird. You know, this morning’s news said they’d found some girl with orange skin unconscious in a bar in South Tucson. The reporter guessed a new drug on the streets. Or she ate a boatload of carrots.”

  “Don’t know drugs or carrots. Orange like Damon?”

  “I’m not sure, but this girl…woman’s at the Medical Center. We’re almost there.” The police station would be downtown too, but what the hell. This red guy looked like a warrior in need of clothes and civilizing. He required a mental health consult, not macho men in blue. The deserted streets encouraged him to floor it. Hospital, police, whichever came first, he wanted his strange passenger gone. Five minutes of entranced humming to classical music, and they pulled into the emergency entrance.