She remains unfazed, looking at him, through him.
“Ooh,” he mocks. “You gonna do that eye thing?”
“What eye thing?” she retorts, reprimanding him with her intonation of his fabricated testimony.
He sits back, grinning smugly, letting the air leave his puffed out chest. “How’s the shoulder?” he digs, alluding to his handy work.
She darts her glance away from him, instinctively as the bus speeds up, shifting to and fro on the bumpy, winding turf. The eyes of the driver in the rearview mirror communicate with those of the guards. He reaches toward the dash, pushing a button that releases harnesses from above the three men. Five-point seatbelts, those found in the speediest of race cars, drop from the ceiling. They assume the position, until the harnesses have locked and secured them. Looking out the window behind Randall, Gina searches for guardrails, of which she unfortunately finds none.
“What?” Randall reads the concern in her eyes, his body now rigid and alarmed.
Momentarily, forgetting her hands are shackled, she jerks her arms up in an attempt to grab hold of the bar above her attached to the ceiling. Met with the force of the irons, her wrists instantly ache. She bears down against her seat, her body tensed, her hands digging into the bench. “Hold on,” she warns.
“Hold on?” he quips, pulling against his cuffs, stifling any attempt to hold onto anything. “To what!”
The right front tire of the bus veers across the berm and onto the grass, quickly followed by the back tire, continuing until it runs out of ground surface. The engine screams with unmet acceleration, the tire spinning with nothing to latch onto. The momentum of the bus pulls the right side down, finding the contact it so desperately seeks, unfortunately rocky and unlevel. The steel frame creaks and falters, finally giving way to gravity. Randall screams as his side is the first to make contact with the hard ground below, shattering windows behind him gouge into the flesh of his head and neck. Upside down now, Gina feels the force of the shackles nearly pulling her limb from limb. The bus continues to topple end over end, slamming Gina back against the windows as her side makes contact with the soil below, catapulting Randall’s body into the air in her direction, still held fast to the ring in the floorboard of the bus. He screams over and over again, as the bus grates with indentations, windows pop and break, the sound of their shackles clanking and screeching between slack and taut. Gina’s mouth grimaces tightly, her body firm and adaptive, her eyes pressed together, waiting for calm.
With one last tumble, the bus rocks slightly, finally coming to a stop on its right side. Randall feels a surge of water surround him as he is pinned on his back. Gina hovers over him, nearly airborne, her hands and feet remain shackled to the opposite side of the bus, her body stooped and crouching to accommodate the irons.
Randall screams and blubbers, the water engulfing him.
Gina opens her eyes, unsure of her own consciousness at this point, every joint and muscle in her body throbbing from the beating of the bus and the shackles. She looks down at Randall who flails about slightly, limited by his cuffs. His body and head fully submerged. Her ears pull her attention from him as the sound of something mechanical calls her in the direction of the driver and the guards. Their harnesses release, dropping each of them to the right side of the bus, as gravity would have it. Unwounded and light on their feet, they stand, clearing what remains of the glass from the front windshield before exiting the bus and making their way around to the back. No words are spoken as Gina hears their footsteps slush up and down. Her vision pulled to the water below as she notices scant red drops splashing into it.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she whispers with each drop, feeling her heartbeat begin to pick up its pace. Just breathe, she talks to herself, Tony’s words from their intimate night ringing in her ears.
The pain from the cuffs pulling against her wrists, accommodating her entire body weight shoots through her, tingling intensely as if she were pressed against pins and needles. The sensation calls out her bodily supply of adrenaline. As direct as a shot to the heart, her transformation arrives. Mind and body fight internally, one attempting to maintain control, the other simply waiting to relish its release. Her back muscles engage, with one sporadic flex, her wrists and arms are free from their chains, the explosiveness causing the links to shatter. She now hangs from the side of the bus, her body taut and dangling by the ankle cuffs still securely intact to the steel ring in the floor. Her mind maintaining by a slim margin, she holds herself up on one arm while grabbing with the other at the steel ring binding Randall’s shackles, his body giving out on his fight against the water.
The driver and the guards are at the back of the bus now, banging and pulling on the back door, apparently jammed as they are unsuccessful in their attempt.
Gina pulls against the steel ring; it gives only slightly. Engaging her entire core, her body is nearly parallel to the floor as she grabs the ring with both hands. A guttural yell escapes her lungs, the ring breaks loose. Grabbing at Randall’s prison uniform, she pulls him from the water, using the steel ring holding her feet securely to the other side of the bus as leverage. The water, not quite knee deep is forgiving as she leans Randall against the side of the bus, his torso and head now free of the suffocating liquid. She beats his back against the wall of the bus, causing him to stir to consciousness and expel water from his lungs. He looks at her dazed and puzzled.
“Don’t look at me,” she warns, abruptly. Her ears tracking the footsteps of the driver and the guards sloshing through the water, headed back to the front of the bus.
Randall scans her quickly, his breathing returning, fast and furious. Her eyes are sparkling that same shade of emerald green he witnessed the night at his apartment. She avoids looking at him, focusing on steadying his body.
“Close your eyes, dammit!” She slams him against the wall of the bus. The physical urge to wrap her hands around his neck and lock eyes with him begins to outweigh her mental reasoning.
He squeezes his eyes shut, the jar to his back causing him to find and engage his feet beneath him, propping himself up.
Just breathe, she rehearses again, letting go of him as he takes control of his body weight. Her lungs burn with the deep inhalation, the additional oxygen catapulting through her system filling her muscles with fuel. The power exerted by her legs causes the cuffs to blow apart from her ankles. Quickly reassembling her balance, she flips through the air, landing perfectly on her feet in the water below, her arms autonomically assuming a defensive position as she rounds up. Her head shifts to her left in the direction of the driver and the burly guards. They make quick work of the steel fencing separating them from the back of the bus with a propane torch, the orange flame crackling and hissing as it releases the metal. Her thoughts are interrupted by a distant, approaching sound. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! A chopper, helicopter.
Stealthily, she makes her way to the emergency door at the back of the bus. Turning her back to it, she plants a mule kick to its center, over the lock. The door swings open, clanking, metal against metal. Lurching out of the white box on wheels, cool water splashes up around her. A quick glance up the ravine reveals the black Sedan parked on the berm.
The driver and the guards stop cutting through the steel fencing, swiftly exiting the front windshield in pursuit of Gina. Knee deep in the water, her body prepared to fight, every muscle, every fiber taut as a bow, simply waiting to spring. Fight or flight, the words echo through her head, still cognizant at this point, not fully delivered unto Vigilare-mode. The driver and the guards have guns—long rifles—semi-automatic AR-15s with all the bells and whistles. Her feet stay firmly planted, her option chosen by instinct. The chopper charges louder, temporarily clouding her hearing, closing the gap on its distance from the ravine.
The two guards round the corner of the back of the bus, their weapons engaged and in position. Gina pivots, facing them, fully prepared to meet their challenge.
“Now!” a voice yells from be
hind her, on the bank.
The guards simultaneously pull their triggers, one gun aimed at Gina’s left leg, the other at her right shoulder. Her keen, sparkling emerald green eyes catch sight of the bullets as they leave the chambers. She throws herself into a back bend, the bullet meant for her right shoulder whizzes by above her. Within a fraction of a second, her body counter-reacts, straddling the bullet targeted for her left leg as it hisses underneath her.
Randall watches everything in utter awe from the inside of the bus. His hands and feet still shackled, ingenuity certainly not his strong suit. He remains up against the wall, his body beginning to shiver from the cold water.
Midair, Gina’s upper back, between her shoulder blades burns as spikes penetrate her skin, burrowing into her flesh. Her entire body jolts from the current running through the tines. She grits her teeth as she comes down into the water, knowing the shock is about to multiply by ten at her contact with the optimal conductor. The pain knocking her swiftly off her feet, she falls to her knees in the water, her body convulsing. Her emerald green stare now choppy and short-circuited, her mind shuffles in and out of cognition between Gina and Vigilare. The surge of oxygen and power running through her, currently without any use, only seems to fuel the shock waves. She is completely powerless.
The man at the controls of the significantly beefed up taser comes into her view—Dr. Bernard Shaw of the white coats, ETNA Division. Reminiscent of her hospital stay, her head turns weakly in the direction of the two guards, hazily identifying them as the two orderlies. She musters up any strength she has left, lurches forward in their direction, stretching her body out for all it’s worth. One of the guards meets her attempt with a large utility boot to her chest, knocking her onto her back, fully submerged under water. Her limbs flail about, the current entirely circular now. Her auburn hair scattered and drenched, winding itself in the rocks and moss of the creek bed. The sound of the chopper, a muffled lullaby sings her into a dream. A young boy appears before her, a cascade of light surrounding him, the sound of his laughter quenching that of the helicopter. His arms outstretched, she smiles and meets him, wrapping the boy in her arms. Dr. Shaw holds the trigger down on his apparatus until the last air bubble escaping her lungs surfaces. Randall watches her lifeless body, disbelieving, waiting for her to pop up out of the water. She does not.
Chapter 22
RANDALL’S ATTENTION IS quickly drawn in another direction. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! The chopper is overhead, circling, preparing to land. Dr. Shaw is not surprised by the arrival of the helicopter, as if he expects it. He braces himself against the wind it stirs up, maintaining his station.
The large black hawk touches down, its main rotor disengaging, allowing the propellers to slow, eventually stopping altogether. The door slides back, and the look on Dr. Shaw’s face quickly changes from one of comfort and expectancy to bewilderment.
The individuals leaping out of the chopper, landing swiftly on agile feet are not his fellow members of ETNA Division. The first coming into contact with the ground below is Emily Truly. Her jet black hair laid back against her scalp in a tight ponytail, she wears black military fatigues, most certainly mission bound. The guards spin in her direction, wielding their long rifles, awaiting Dr. Shaw’s command. Aubrey Raines trails behind Emily, her feet barely making contact with the turf below, her body seemingly untethered by gravity. Much in the same fashion as Emily, her blonde hair is slicked back tight to her head, held together by one long, lavish braid, her black fatigues perfectly fitted to her form.
Randall’s eyes all but pop out of his head taking her in. She exudes a ray of sparkling emerald light from her glazed-over dark greens, the cast exorbitant and powerful, like a blanket over the whole ravine. Dr. Shaw attempts to order his guards to fire, but his speech does not come. He is frozen in the luminescent glow. The driver and the guards feel it, too, their efforts at any action met with resistance. The light has yet to reach Gina, lying limp in the bottom of the cold, watery ravine, as if the absence of her heartbeat nullifies the connection.
“Emily,” Aubrey reprimands, focusing all her energy on emitting the light, her eyes quickly tiring.
“Fine,” Emily answers, less than enthused. Her hands at her side, she stares straight ahead in Gina’s direction with intense resolve. Her eyes, violet, do not emit any kind of light. She zones out, wiggling her fingers and her toes, engaging their telekinetic energy. Momentarily, Gina reciprocates, still buried under water and unconscious, her body somehow connected, her fingers and toes dexterous.
“Today, Emily,” Aubrey warns impatiently, her eyes beginning to fatigue.
Emily inhales deeply, the pressure within her chest prompting a generous squeeze to her heart, causing its pace to surge. Gina’s eyes flash open, flooding with the shock of the cold water against them as her heart is pummeled with its first thunderous lub dub, quickly keeping pace with Emily’s. Her chest rises, her lungs engorged with air. Aubrey’s connection complete, her luminescent stare finally feeling the push of Gina’s, so powerful Aubrey is catapulted back into the side of the chopper, her eyelids coming to rest in painful relief. The emerald green ray shoots through Dr. Shaw and the guards, releasing them of their frozen positions. The momentum sends them to the ground.
Randall watches from inside the bus in fear and amazement as Gina swiftly rises from the water. The motion so fast, plays in his mind in single-frame snapshots. Her body bowed backward and airborne, sacrificial in its presentation, rises at least a full body length up off the earth’s surface. Drops of water disperse from her frame. With a whipping motion, her torso contracts, bowing inward as she lands upright, solidly on sure feet, poised and in full Vigilare-mode.
The guards and the driver shuffle frantically in the direction opposite her along the rough terrain on their bellies, grabbing for their weapons. Dr. Shaw in crab position, his hands and feet in contact with the turf, faces her. He grabs for the little box controlling the current delivered through the tines still gouged into her back. His hands fumbling with the device, searching for the surge button. With the push of the red dial, the jolt is delivered, causing Vigilare to arch her back in pain. The contraction of her muscles simultaneously forcing the barbed tines from her flesh. She catches the shiny metal, blood-tinged spikes in midair with her eyes. They hover, juggling as the volts continue to their ends, hungry to make contact with something, someone. Bearing down with her stare, the silver soon turns emerald green as the spikes change direction on her cue. With flawless precision and speed, the tines bury deep into the chest of Dr. Shaw. His finger held fast against the surge button, delivering to him a duplicate current. His body flops to and fro, resembling that of a fish out of water, until his finger falls limp releasing the dial.
Aubrey, fully recuperated, engages her eyes on the rifles the two guards have in their grasp as they settle onto their feet. Clutching at the guns, their bodies begin following the magnetic pull, their feet dragging in the soil. Looking to one another, they nod, letting go. The rifles spring in Aubrey’s direction. She diverts her eyes to the left, the weapons following until they come to a stop, a safe distance from the guards. Releasing her gaze, the guns drop, clanking against the rocky surface.
With the same momentum, stride and poise, Emily and Vigilare run at the two guards, who easily stand a foot taller and doubly outweigh each of them. They meet the burly men with simultaneous flying double chest kicks, using the leverage of their robust bodies to push off into roundhouse position as they land swiftly on their feet. The two women fight in tandem, their moves and deflections perfectly timed, as if controlled by one mind. It is a supreme dance of anatomy and kinesiology, flawless in its execution. The only difference is power, unquestionably in Vigilare’s favor. Their bodies taut and flexible, engage and retreat at swift intervals. Not even the men’s size is an obstacle, as their agility is metaphysical. The guards and the driver, outnumbering them, outweighing them, out-bruting them, even engaging knives they pulled from the crevic
es of their uniforms now lay lifeless at the bottom of the ravine.
Emily and Vigilare remain crouched, adrenaline still surging through their intricate systems. Eyeing one another, Vigilare instinctively feels threatened, as she should. Emily lurches at her, and the two tumble through the air, grappling end-over-end, each attempting to assume the dominant position. Emily swings and Vigilare dodges. Vigilare engages and Emily retreats, only to recoup with a countermove. Extended to the ends of their limbs, both arms and legs, pivoting and leaping through the air, scuffling along the rough terrain, the women combat and refrain with power and finesse. Neither is capable of fully submitting the other. Every action superbly executed, every reaction timely and absolute, their conditioning and control equally matched. The sounds of their clothing, sharp and crisp with each follow-through, mimicked and aspired to in many a karate dojo by students wearing perfectly designed gi to promote such resonance.
“That’s enough,” a female voice rings through their action, accompanied by a blast from a shotgun.
They stop momentarily, both of them on their feet in defensive stances, eyes locked on each other. Their chests heaving up and down, replenishing their oxygen, hearts pounding ferociously, seemingly ready to burst from their ribcages.
“Load up,” a male voice orders.
Emily is the first to break eye contact, letting her guard down. She turns swiftly away. Vigilare rests her clenched fists at her sides, her gaze shifting in the direction of the voices. There, in front of the chopper, Dr. Patricia Ryan stands beside William Truly, who holds a shotgun in one hand aimed at the sky.
“Aubrey,” Dr. Ryan beckons.
Aubrey obliges, meeting Vigilare’s fading luminescent emerald green gaze with her own, fully voiding it. The action causes Vigilare to wince, pressing her eyes together. Opening them, the glow is gone and Gina remains. ‘She’s in this up to her eyeballs, Gina. I can feel it,’ Tony’s voice flashes through her mind in reference to Dr. Ryan.
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