Grounded

by G. P. Ching

  This is so much better. This isn’t just a tug of war between us. This juice is my flavor. The perfect current and amperage to make every cell in my body leap up and do jumping jacks. The longer we kiss, the hotter I feel, like the power within me is limitless. It makes my head spin.

  Snap! My body starts feeding his. I am a cup, overflowing with power. He completes the circuit and the tingle of exchange sweeps through me, from my fingers, which have tangled in his hair, to my toes that curl within my silver shoes. I am lost to it. Totally and utterly owned by our connection.

  Until a strange metallic sound disturbs us.

  We pull apart, breathless, invigorated, and turn toward the sound. The metal poles in the wall are bent over like popsicles left in the sun, and my sculpture of Korwin has melted into a pool of glass.

  A series of claps turns into a roar of applause from above. The staticky sound of Maxwell’s voice breaks over the speakers, “…imagine the implications.” I don’t think he’s talking to us. I gather my feet under me and allow Korwin to help me up. We stare at the mirrored glass.

  “Did I drain you?” I ask Korwin. My hand glows blue as I raise it to his cheek.

  “No,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t know why. I get that we can share energy but you were on empty. I shouldn’t feel like I just stepped out of the healer.”

  The door opens and Maxwell bursts into the room, beaming. “I think you two melted the wiring in here. The speakers cut out. Did you see the lights flicker? You juiced her from the walls, Korwin, without a direct connection!”

  We exchange confused glances.

  Maxwell’s eyes dart around the room with Christmas-morning wonder. “Look, Korwin. Look at the way the poles are bent toward you two. There’s an electromagnetic quality. That’s probably what fried the speakers. That one—” he points at the last rod, “—that was tungsten carbide, the toughest natural metal known to man. You guys plied it like putty.”

  I shrug. I don’t understand the science behind what happened between Korwin and me, only that I want it to happen again. Our eyes meet and I know he wants more, too. He inches his hand closer to mine.

  “Oh no,” Maxwell says, placing himself between the two of us. “I don’t think you two are getting the seriousness of this situation. You’ve got to calm your hormones or you’re going to burn the place down.”

  Korwin shakes his head. “Dad, no. I want… I want Lydia to be my girlfriend.” He whispers it to me, for his father to hear.

  “Me too. I want that too,” I say. The words make my pulse race. Courting him feels right. Destined somehow.

  “Son.” Maxwell places his hands on his hips. “Look around you. You two almost melted an insulated room. If you are going to be in the same vicinity, we need to have a talk about safety, and I don’t mean condoms.”

  Korwin’s eyes lock on his father’s. “Dad,” he hisses.

  “What are condoms?” I ask.

  Maxwell looks at me incredulously and shakes his head. “Oh, hell no!”

  “What?” I ask.

  “She grew up on the Amish preservation, Dad,” Korwin says, tilting his head to the side.

  What am I missing?

  “Come on, both of you. The council is going to want to discuss this, and then the three of us need to have a talk.”

  20

  I don’t fully understand. I’m beginning to think I never will.

  It’s the next morning before Maxwell has time to talk. His meeting with the council took most of the night. But after a few hours of fitful sleep, I sit in a conference room with Korwin as his father draws us a picture on the whiteboard.

  My body is like a machine, as is Korwin’s. I burn glucose from the food I eat and make energy called adenosine triphosphate, or ATP. But everyone else’s body does that too. Korwin and I are unique in our ability to transform ATP into electricity. Our cells can also work in reverse and make ATP from electricity. That’s what he calls “getting juiced.” Like every machine, if I use up my fuel, my ATP, I’ll eventually stop working. In Korwin’s case, when CGEF pulled electricity from his body, using him like a battery, it gave him scurvy. His body didn’t have enough ATP left to repair its cells. The sores on his arms were caused by his body eating itself to fuel other cells. If I hadn’t saved him, he would have eventually starved to death.

  “But here’s the interesting thing,” Maxwell says. “When your body touches Korwin’s body, your cells flip their polarization. You, Lydia, might build a negative charge, which attracts Korwin’s positive charge.”

  “Like a circuit,” Korwin interrupts. “We pass energy back and forth like a battery.” He glances at me. “We figured that much out.”

  “Yes, yes, but that’s not all. Your cells are like magnets, constantly flipping their polarity when you’re…connected. Um, kissing and so forth.” Maxwell clears his throat and flashes a tight smile. “When you share energy, the push and pull of your cells is similar to the particles in an atom. They continually charge each other. You two become the world’s strongest atomic generator.”

  “That’s impossible. If we’re adding energy, it has to come from somewhere. If it’s not from our cells, where is it coming from?”

  “That’s the fascinating part. Somehow, without your knowledge, you two are drawing from the energy around you—directly from the atoms. You didn’t need a direct connection in that room. The power within you found the nearest energy source and took it.”

  Korwin wrings his hands. I know how he feels. A dark worm is writhing in my stomach, a question I am afraid to ask. Korwin is braver.

  “What does this mean for us?”

  Maxwell sighs. “It means you best be careful when you touch. Holding hands is probably okay, but a kiss could start a fire. A deep kiss could incinerate the people around you. Having sex could produce the same energy as a nuclear blast.”

  I stop breathing. The room suddenly seems too small and hot, like there isn’t enough air. I glance toward Korwin. His skin has taken on a greenish hue and his eyes are wide.

  “That can’t be right,” he says, but the words come out one by one, like they’re struggling for the surface.

  Maxwell removes his glasses and cleans them on the corner of his lab coat. “It’s an untested theory, to be sure,” he mumbles.

  The thought that touching Korwin could be dangerous, even deadly, rocks me to my core. I stand, knocking the chair back from the table. “Please excuse me. I need some air.” The words are hushed and breathless. I run for the door.

  “Lydia!” Korwin calls.

  “Let her go,” Maxwell mumbles.

  The door swings shut behind me.

  I navigate the maze of corridors like the lab rat that I am. Some I remember. Some I don’t. What I want is to find Jeremiah. I don’t deserve his friendship, not after the way I treated him, flaunting my feelings for Korwin. But I need it. I need to talk to someone, to sort this out.

  I wander for the better part of thirty minutes, bumping into Jameson near the gardens. “Have you seen Jeremiah?”

  “I have not,” he says, dusting the portrait in the hall.

  “Can you show me where he’s staying?”

  Jameson sighs deeply, as if I’m inconveniencing him, but leads the way. I question Korwin’s theory about the butler liking his job. At the moment, Jameson seems quite put out.

  “Here you are,” he says, pointing at a door to our left.

  He’s gone before I can say thank you.

  I knock twice. “Jeremiah? I need to talk to you.”

  No answer.

  I turn the doorknob and slowly let myself into the room. He’s not there. Odder still, the place is a mess, ransacked. Clothes are strewn everywhere and the bed isn’t made. The suit from last night lays strewn across the floor. Jeremiah is usually disciplined and tidy. Am I the cause of this?

  I wait for another ten minutes before giving up and returning to my room. My limbs weigh me down. All I want is to throw myself on my bed and hav
e a good cry. I want to sleep for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the week.

  But when I reach the bed, a piece of paper on my comforter chases away any hope of sleep. It’s a letter from Jeremiah.

  * * *

  Lydia,

  * * *

  I’m going to finish what we started. I found a way out of here, and I’m leaving. I’ll make sure your dad is okay. Then I’m going home. I know who I am, and I don’t belong here. When you remember who you are, I hope you will join me. I’ll leave the door open for you.

  * * *

  Love,

  Jeremiah

  * * *

  I reread the letter. My legs feel weak and I plop down on the comforter, rolling onto my back. Jeremiah is gone. Or maybe not? Maybe I can catch him.

  The note slips from my fingertips. I bound off the bed and burst from the room, moving through the maze of hallways, checking every door, every room. Considering the security in this place, Jeremiah didn’t leave through the front door. Maxwell mentioned tunnels out of the mansion. What if Jeremiah found one?

  I listen for footsteps behind me, but Jameson is nowhere to be found and Korwin and his father are still in the conference room. I search the compound but don’t find Jeremiah. What I do find is one room with the door conspicuously left open. Every other door in every other hall is neatly shut.

  What did he say in his note? I’ll leave the door open for you.

  Inside, the room is empty. Four white walls. There isn’t any other way out aside from the propped door. I question my intuition. Maybe the door has nothing to do with Jeremiah. But then I ask myself why there’s a room here with no purpose. I walk to the far wall, sliding my hand across the paint. It seems solid. About to give up, I hang my head and notice scuff marks on the floor. Hardly worth a second glance except that it means someone has been here—and people don’t come into an empty room for nothing.

  And then I find it, a ridge under my fingers. It could be an imperfection in the drywall or a chip of paint, but it isn’t. Jeremiah has always been a problem-solver. This is the way out; I can feel it. The wall slides open to expose a circular threshold and the sewer beyond. Jeremiah isn’t there, but he couldn’t have gone far. I step forward. The space in the circle presses against my leg, and I remember Maxwell explaining about the membrane and the bio-key. If I leave, I can’t come back. I retreat into the white room and the wall slides closed in front of my nose.

  I consider telling Maxwell. Maybe his resources could bring Jeremiah back? But on the way to the conference room, I flip the idea over in my brain. Maxwell says I’m not a prisoner, but he won’t let me leave. I’ve never gotten a straight answer about why he didn’t try to save Korwin from CGEF. The truth is, I don’t know anything about Maxwell Stuart except that he scamps electricity and for the last couple of days he’s tested me like a rat. Can I even prove the news transmissions he’s shown me are real?

  I’m shocked to come to the conclusion that Jeremiah is right. Of course, I must make every effort to see my father. My dad always told me my mother and brother died in a car accident in the English world. I’m sure my father wouldn’t lie, but I need to know if there’s something he might remember about me, some early clue that I was different. I long to find him and ask him about my mother and my birth.

  And there’s something else.

  I’ve become too wrapped up in the English world. This thing with Korwin is unnatural. Nuclear bomb. If it’s true, I can’t ever be with him. No marriage, no babies, no future. How could we have anything together when any physical manifestation of our affection could mean utter destruction? No. It’s better if I go. The temptation, the longing, will fade in time once we are far enough apart. I have to find my father and then return to Hemlock Hollow. As much as it hurts, Jeremiah is right. I don’t belong here.

  With a sense of purpose, I return to my room. A gigantic purse with straps like a backpack hangs on the wall of the closet. I suspect it’s meant to be fashionable, but for me it will be functional. I choose three outfits, a cap, sunglasses, and a comfortable pair of shoes, shoving them into the bag. Then I slip my feet into a pair of rubber rain boots. I slip a shiny black coat over my jeans and T-shirt and tie my hair up on the top of my head. Thinking fast, I pack some small towels from the bathroom, water, and nutrition bars from the mini-fridge.

  Stealthily, I return to the small chamber but my caution is unnecessary. I’m alone. Running my fingers along the periphery of the far wall, they catch in the upper right-hand corner again, in the place I noticed before. The passageway opens and I step through. Sure enough, as soon as I’m through, the wall snaps closed behind me and I’m plunged into darkness.

  What am I doing? A gaping hole is torn through my chest. I pat my T-shirt, surprised to find I haven’t been stabbed or shot. The pain is as acute. Oh good Lord, what have I done? I’m too far from Korwin! I try to turn around, to reenter the house, but bounce off a field of energy that’s formed behind me. There’s no going back. Still, I can’t bring myself to leave. Can Korwin feel this too? Pacing, distraught, it seems forever before the discomfort fades. Eventually, though, I regain my earlier resolve.

  Positioning my bag on my shoulder, I find my footing on the ledge on the side of the channel. I spend a little energy to light up my hand, enough to guide me forward. It will have to do until I reach the main sewer and its intermittent light from the street grids. I don’t know where I’m going, but I pray for God to guide me in the right direction.

  21

  For an hour, I travel east, until the sounds of traffic and footsteps above fade to silence. When all is quiet for several minutes, I tentatively climb one of the shafts and peek through the grate. All clear. I crank the cover and crawl out, relieved to emerge on a corner of sidewalk between two buildings with foreclosure signs and dirty windows. They look abandoned.

  Closing the cover, I scramble to the dumpster in the alley and toss my bag behind it. Then I remove my boots and jacket and the remnants of the sewer that cling to them. I throw the soiled clothing away and tighten my ponytail.

  “Don’t move,” comes a gruff voice from behind me.

  I smell him before I see him, a strong chemical smell, stronger than alcohol. Slowly, I turn toward the voice. The man is tanned to the shade of leather, with a prickly beard and patchy gray hair that looks like he cut it himself with a knife. His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. His clothing is either gray-colored or dirty, I can’t tell which, and a red handkerchief is tied around his left bicep. He takes a step toward me. I flatten my back against the dumpster to keep my distance.

  “You’re in Red Dog territory, girlie,” he says, tapping the red cloth tied on his arm. “You best crawl back into that hole and move along.”

  “I—I just need to find Oakdale Rehabilitation Center,” I stutter.

  He cocks his head to the side and slides his lips back from his yellow teeth. “Huh. See, I find it hard to believe a person takes the sewer to the deadzone in order to visit a sick relative in the heart of Crater City. You’re plenty far from Oakdale Rehab and no one comes here unless they’re a vagrant or a scamper. Judging by the label on those jeans, you ain’t no vagrant.”

  “I’m lost.”

  “I’ll give you five seconds to get back into that sewer or—”

  “Or what?” I say defiantly. I can’t go back. It’s too late for that. The tickle wakes and stretches at the back of my brain, it snakes its way to my shoulders. No! What happened with Helen and the Greens when we escaped CGEF was Korwin’s doing. I’ve made my peace with it, but Korwin has more control. He knew he wouldn’t kill anyone. If Maxwell is to be believed, I could kill this man, fry him like an ant under glass. I can’t risk it. Violence is wrong. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

  A flash of steel passes by my face and then a knife is at my throat. “Your five seconds are up.” His face juts forward until his wrinkled lips are less than an inch from me. The blade presses into my neck. “I’m sure someone in the pack c
ould use a new bitch.”

  And then his calloused hands have my wrists. He binds them with a cord that cuts into my flesh and pushes me forward by the neck. I tremble at the feel of the knife pressed into my back. The tickle cascades down my arms of its own accord and lingers near my fingers.

  He leads me to a warehouse across the street. The door opens before we get there, and a man in patchwork clothes limps toward me, laughing. He looks just as sinister as the man who has my neck, with the same red cloth tied around his arm.

  “Where’d you find this one, Hambone?”

  “Walked right into our territory,” my captor says with a laugh.

  Patchwork chuckles darkly. “Finders keepers.” They usher me deep into the building. It smells of urine and something else—the chemical smell again. Hambone walks me to the middle of the concrete expanse. By the time my eyes adjust to the dim light, I’m surrounded. There are filthy men everywhere. Twitchy, shifty-eyed men who close in around me. They seem to smell my fear, laughing and taunting me.

  “Please, I beg you, I need to get to Crater City,” I say. “I didn’t mean to come into your territory. I’m lost.”

  “Riiight,” Hambone says. He pushes my hair off my shoulder.

  A man I can’t fully see presses against my back. Patchwork limps toward me, his smile a window into the trouble on his mind. He’s got a red leather dog collar in his hands and he’s looking at my neck.

  I need help, but no one is going to come to my rescue. No one even knows where I am. For the first time in my life, I am absolutely alone. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I mumble.

  Laughing erupts all around me.

  “Haven’t you heard, darling? Love hurts,” Patchwork says, jingling the collar.

  A hand grabs my hip, pressing my back into a man’s body. I can’t stop shaking. My breath freezes in my throat. Rank breath warms my ear. Not the same man. Another at my side. There must be six of them. All I can see is their leather skin and yellow teeth.