by Simon Curtis
From my new position, I can see that we’re right in front of the old nursing home parking lot, right by the tracks.
The horn blasts into my ears. The train is here.
The girl takes a firm stance before my paralyzed body, between it and the two black SUVs that have stopped a few yards away.
They leave the headlights on as the doors open and the men climb out.
Guns fire all at once. But not normal guns. The shafts are significantly wider, and though I know practically nothing about firearms, I can see that these guns do not shoot bullets, but something much bigger. The sound of the fired shots isn’t like a normal gun either. It’s quieter. A buzz, almost, like an electric sound effect from a cartoon.
With a flick of the girl’s wrist, a convex veil of translucent, electric-blue light springs forth between us and our pursuers. As each of the massive silvery bullets connects with the blue wall, the light fizzles and crackles and the bullets fall to the ground.
I can feel the train hurtling behind us, shaking everything as it roars past.
As the men reload, the girl turns to look back at me, and I see her eyes blazing with a bright blue light. The same color of the electric-blue shield she is wielding. In that brief moment, through the light, I also see regret, sorrow, and a pain welled up so deep within her that I know someday it will consume her. Something under her hairline flares with the blue light as well, but I can’t fully make it out before she turns around and withdraws a tiny glass orb from one of the pockets on her cargo pants.
With a flash the veil before us dissolves, and she hurls the glass orb at one of the vehicles. It crashes into the windshield and cracks open. The orb is filled with a sticky, clear goo that clings to the window, letting off a soft purple glow.
Before I can process what is happening, she raises her hands and the veil of electric light appears once more, except this time as a dome around the men and their giant vehicles. Without warning, a massive explosion erupts from within the blue dome. A raging hellfire that barely rattles the ground below and makes no other sound or vibration besides. It is completely trapped inside the dome—a nightmarish snow globe filled with a churning fire.
The fire goes out almost as quickly as it erupted. The dome flicks out of existence, and the girl bends down to me. I can see that her eyes no longer glow as she almost effortlessly picks me up from the ground, slings me over her shoulder, and runs toward the train.
I feel my body leave the girl’s shoulder and my back land on hard metal. Before I can make out what is happening, the girl is beside me, leaning up against a rusty wall behind her, face drenched in moonlight, hair whipping in the wind. I can see it clearly now: a patch of skin on her forehead, right at her hairline, that emits a faint blue color. A bioluminescent birthmark.
My eyes attempt to scan my new surroundings, but they won’t move in their sockets, and my head won’t lift. All I see is black metal and an open side panel where she sits.
For several moments she stares out into the night and takes in the landscape flying by, lost in thought.
I can’t even blink as I watch the mysterious girl who’s taken me from my home and saved me from the men. Had she saved me? I saw what she did to the whole group of them. Who was really in danger back there?
As the adrenaline fades, the headache comes surging back. My head feels like it truly may burst. The voices flood into me, threaten to overwhelm me entirely.
I try to clear my mind and watch as Pacific, Missouri, flies past me in the night. I say my silent good-byes to my home and to my parents, but both had been neither, ultimately. This was not my home, and those were not my parents. I don’t know who I am, or even what I am, and there is nothing left to hold me in this tiny town any longer.
I watch the trees and hills dance before me in the night as we zoom past and bid a silent farewell to everything and everyone I’ve ever known.
Everything is about to change.
• • •
She pulled her long black hair into a ponytail as she paced back and forth across the small hotel room. Motel, rather. She hated being stagnant, hated feeling useless, but right now they had no choice but to sit in this tiny, dumpy room in the middle of the country and wait. It was starting to get hot out—not the soothing dry heat like back in Vegas or LA, but the sticky, wet heat of the South and the Midwest. The cicadas droned on endlessly outside, but only the air conditioner and the old TV stuck on the news made any noise in the room. She hated it. All of it.
“Please relax for a minute. You’re stressing me out.”
She ignored him.
He seemed to be taking this odd limbo they’d found themselves in quite a bit better than she was. How could he, though? They needed to find her, and the other six as well. They desperately needed to find the other Gates in order to get to them, but after what had happened a few nights ago, they no longer had anyone to operate a Gate even if they did locate another one. They hadn’t even figured out how to get them through the Gates alive yet.
Maybe I should go to him? Maybe I should tell them the truth about what they are—
No. The thought was shot down in her head almost immediately. That was simply not, and never would be, an option. If there was any hope for the Underground, for her mission, then that couldn’t be an option. She couldn’t go. They’d never take her back if they found out. They wouldn’t believe her, and she would be ostracized. Then there truly would be no hope for her, or for any of them.
He got up from the bed, blocked her way midpace, and put his hands on her shoulders.
“We’re not going to get anything done with you losing your mind like this. You have to relax.”
Her eyes snapped back to him, back to the room around her.
“I’m sorry. I just hate this. I don’t know what to do. I always know what to do,” she said softly as she sat on the bed.
“Nobody ever always knows what to do.” He sat beside her and held her hand. “If we’re here for a few days, then clearly it’s for a reason. This only gives us more time to think.”
She held his hand in silence for moment, and her eyes drifted back out into the plane of her own thought.
“We need to send a Flare.”
“You know we can’t do that,” he said, taken aback.
“We don’t have a choice.”
She was serious.
“They’re not safe anymore. Sheriffs will be on us in seconds if they’re anywhere within fifty miles of here. You know that.”
“It’s a risk we have to be willing to take.”
“We can’t get reckless. Not now.” His eyes were locked with hers once more. “We’ve come too far. That could jeopardize everything. You know that.”
Her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched tight.
“Pack everything up, get the computer ready to go, and we’ll find a place. Somewhere out in public, where we aren’t backed into a corner. We’ll send it out tonight, after midnight, and be ready to run if anything goes wrong. We have to find more of them.” She stood and began to round up her things. It didn’t take long for her to get ready to run.
She was always ready to run.
“Otherwise they’re all going to die.”
THE PUNCHING BAG
Help me.
Her panicked eyes scanned the hallway behind her attackers, but there was no one there. She was alone. She was always alone. Their fists pummeled into her as slurs rang in her ears, their breath hot and wet on her face. They punched again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
She winced as tears spilled from her eyes. She knew each drop was futile. They wanted to see her cry, wanted the satisfaction. She didn’t want to give it to them, but she couldn’t help it. She just wanted it to end. She wanted everything to end, really. At least by now she’d learned how to make herself go numb enough to stop from crying out loud.
This happened every week. She never knew when it was coming, but sure enough, it
always did.
“Girls!” A voice echoed in the hallway behind them. “Jesus. Girls, get off of her!” The click of cheap heels coming toward them should’ve called off the onslaught, but the attackers kept going.
The woman pulled the two on the side off by their ponytails and fell back into the lockers as the one in the middle continued her assault.
“Stop this now, goddammit!” the woman yelled as she tried to get back to her feet.
As the woman attempting to rescue her stumbled, the main attacker stopped, leaned in to her victim’s ear, and whispered, “We’re going to kill you.”
The attacker jumped to her feet, grabbed her two accomplices, and ran down the hall.
The woman adjusted her brown tweed skirt as she finally found sure footing once again and hopelessly yelled down the hall for the girls to return. Then the woman cursed her freshly broken heel.
Dazed, she waited a brief moment for the woman to ask her if she was all right, to help her up. It never happened.
It was okay, though. She was used to it. She’d get up on her own.
She’d done it so many times before.
“We need to get you to the office to file a report with campus police,” the woman said as she brought her finger to the side of her own mouth, checking for blood.
No. That will just make it worse tomorrow.
She pulled herself up to her feet and slung the straps of her fallen backpack back over her shoulders.
The woman finally looked at her. “Are you okay?”
No. Go away. Please. You’ll get me killed.
She searched the floor. It had to be around here somewhere.
“Talk to me. Are you all right?”
She leaned down and grabbed her sketchbook, her prized possession. Her only possession.
“Sweetie, we need to file a report.”
No.
She ran.
“Young lady, where are you going? Get back here!”
She heard the woman curse her broken heel again and knew she wouldn’t be followed.
The orange double doors burst open and she fled down the steps at the front of the school. Her bag shook and rattled on her back, and she clutched the sketchbook tightly to her chest. She was running so hard she didn’t even look to see if the girls were out there, waiting for her. She just ran.
The bus stop came into view. One of the long, jointed city buses was already there, doors open and people climbing in. The doors began closing as she approached.
Please. Please!
She made it just in time.
• • •
Finally, she made it up the stairs and put her key in the door. Slate-gray paint crackled all around the entryway, and a fine layer of black dust covered everything. Someone told her once that it was brake dust. That it’s everywhere in this part of town, so close to the freeway. She pulled off an envelope that had been taped to the door and stepped into the tiny apartment. Slowly, she released a breath.
She walked past the flimsy kitchen table and saw her grandma there in the living room, wheelchair parked in front of the TV, sucking down oxygen through her plastic mask. The girl knew her grandma could hear her. Of the myriad ailments the older woman had, hearing loss was not one of them. But she didn’t even look up.
The girl adjusted her backpack and opened the envelope.
An eviction notice.
Her stomach dropped as she fumbled with the piece of paper and walked toward the living room. “Grandma?”
There was no reaction.
“Grandma, this is an eviction notice.”
Still nothing.
“Okay, I’m going to leave this here for you. Just, please, we have to take care of this.”
The TV cut to a commercial.
“Let me know what I can do to help.”
Her grandmother turned and locked eyes with her.
Nothing.
Sometimes she still caught a glimpse of something in there, but it was mostly disgust and, on the very rare occasion, hatred. She set the notice down on the coffee table and went to her room.
She slid the backpack she’d been toting off her shoulders and let it slump to the floor, then fell back onto her bed.
The world outside the window above her bed blurred and wobbled as tears tried to come again. She bit her lip and stifled them, shoving them back down into the empty pit where she’d learned to hide away everything over the years. Anger, sadness, fear, pain, and even joy all lived together down there, locked away deep inside.
She was alone. She was always alone.
It was times like these when she would’ve given anything in the world, anything at all, just to have a mother.
• • •
The next morning she woke to a buzz in the back of her head, like the beginning of a headache, one that had been building for days. She rubbed her temples and her bleary eyes and got up to face another day. There wasn’t really ever a choice in the matter.
She got dressed, gathered her things for school, and quietly went to the door, checking for her grandmother. The bathroom door was closed. She’d be in there for at least an hour. It always took her a long time these days.
She closed the door, went to the little desk by her dresser, and carefully slid her hand behind the mirror.
There it was.
She didn’t even need to pull it out. She just needed to feel it, to know that it wasn’t a dream, and that it really was happening.
Last month she’d received her admissions letter to Columbia, and everything had changed. She had an escape. Another chance at life, a real life, and it was only a few months away. As long as she could touch this envelope, feel the thick folds of paper hidden away behind her mirror, then she knew she could survive another day. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel.
She threw on her backpack, grabbed a banana from the kitchen, and headed out the door.
On the bus, she opened up her sketchbook and flipped through a few pages. This is where she kept her superheroes. She’d drawn ever since she could remember, and over the years had grown quite good at it. This was her escape. As long as she could create people with the power to shape their own destinies, then maybe one day she could do the same.
Her favorite was named V. Her hair was buzzed and her arms were covered in tattoos. No matter how many others she drew, she always came back to V. To draw V fighting new villains, overcoming some new obstacle, or just her, standing there, embodying everything she wished she could be. She was so badass.
Her newest sketch was nearly finished. V was ripping the ninth and final head off of a snapping, multi-headed Hydra. The beast’s noxious poison dripped down her tatted arm as she squeezed the last bit of life out of it. It was vicious, and had fucked with V for the very last time. V always knew how to take care of things.
• • •
The bell rang for lunch and everyone piled into the hallway to get to the cafeteria. She went to the bathroom, washed her hands, and stopped to look at the scars inside her wrists. She rarely looked at them now, but sometimes, every so often, the thought of finding a razor and opening them up again crept into her head. The adrenaline had a way of clouding everything else out, and sometimes that was exactly what she needed.
That’d make for a happy birthday tomorrow, wouldn’t it?
She pulled her sleeve back down and splashed cold water on her face.
Columbia. Just think about Columbia.
But the headache was still there, and it felt like it was getting worse.
She walked back out into the deserted hallway and headed away from the cafeteria, toward her locker at the other end of the building. She typically preferred to spend her lunches sketching in the courtyard instead of trying to vie for a seat at a table where she didn’t feel wanted. She didn’t mind, though. It made her feel productive.
She clicked the combination into the lock, her fingers on autopilot. The creak of a door echoed down the empty hall as she retrieved her sketchbook. She s
lammed the door shut and turned back the way she’d come. Then she saw them. The girls.
Her blood ran cold and her heart began to pound. Her locker was at the rear of a dead-end hallway, and the only way out was past the girls. The girls who told her yesterday that they wanted to kill her. Who she was sure would kill her if given the chance.
She stood, paralyzed in fear, as the girl in the middle smiled and began to saunter toward her.
She ran.
She tried to charge past them, but one grabbed her hair, one clotheslined her neck, and the third grasped her arm and twisted it behind her back. They dragged her into a bathroom as the middle girl clamped her hand over her mouth. Once inside, they slammed her up against the mirror so hard she thought it might shatter behind her head. It didn’t.
“You almost got us in trouble yesterday, you little bitch.”
The middle girl spit in her face as the other two held her back. Then they ripped the sketchbook from her grasp.
“Aw, look, her little drawings. She thinks she’s so fucking special. Well, you know what I think?” The middle girl got in her face, so close she could see the small flecks of color in her irises and smell her cheap cotton-candy-scented perfume. “I think they’re shit.”
Her breath was hot and her eyes boiled as she spoke through a clenched jaw. “And I think you’re shit. You’re a little piece of fucking shit, and I’m tired of seeing your shitty face around here.”
The girl opened the sketchbook and began ripping out the drawings, page by page. “You know what happens to pieces of shit like you? They get flushed and go away forever.” The girl opened the door to a stall and began tossing the pages into the toilet.
The tears came to the surface again, but she pushed them down. Hopefully the numbness would take over soon.
“Oh, is the little piece of shit gonna cry now?” The girl threw the entire book in and pulled down her pants.
No. Please no. I could still get them out.
She accidentally let one of the tears slide down her cheek as the girl began to relieve herself over years’ and years’ worth of drawings. They were her hopes and dreams and the only thing she ever had to call her own.
