VOLT: YA Fantasy

by Dawn Brazil

  Joe glances at me. “It’ll be tight. Get in.” I shove my body into the constricted space, which can only hold two people standing inches apart. Joe pulls himself in after me. Once we’re properly stuffed, Joe yanks the door closed but stops before it locks us inside. Darkness descends on us in our cramped space. The crunch of broken glass being trampled makes my abdomen do a somersault.

  Joe brings his hand to my mouth and motions for me not to talk. I don’t want Joe to suffer the punishment the reaper will inflict—death or dismissal from VOLT.

  Why the Houston did he come looking for me anyway?

  Joe pushes forward and moves the handle until the door to the locker is slightly ajar. He moves his head out of our space and into the open area where the reaper is. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "What are you doing?"

  "I wanna see where it is. I won't let anything happen to you. Promise." It’s not me I’m concerned about.

  His glance is brief.

  When he pulls the locker door closed, he shakes his head. “Can’t see it.” I nod once. Since our current quarters are so snug, Joe’s hands are posted at my hips as he settles back in. I swallow hard. Light filters through the slits in the front of the locker—not enough to light the space we are in, but enough for me to get a glance at Joe’s eyes. His eyes are a soft brown, the softest I’ve ever seen. I avert my attention to my dirty nails. I can’t take what those eyes are doing to my insides right now. I blink back my horrible thoughts. What the Houston is going on with me?

  “You’re actually kinda beautiful,” he whispers. “But I did bump my head kinda hard.” I glance up to roll my eyes.

  We fall into a silence that is only shattered by our ragged breaths. All is quiet around us for a while, except for the occasional jeer or moan from the reaper as she searches for our hiding spot—and the constant, uncharacteristic thump of my treacherous heart.

  A loud scream shatters the silence. I grip Joe’s arms. My stomach flips at my reaction. I shove my arms back to my sides. What the Houston is wrong with me?

  The reaper’s angry footfalls move away from where we hide. We stand in silence, looking in opposite directions. Still, Joe doesn’t move us for at least another ten minutes.

  We steal out of our hiding spot. On tiptoes, we slither around the building, careful of each foot placement.

  "It doesn’t appear to be around. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still in the building.” Joe escorts us through alleyways back to our hotel. His eyes travel to my feet and he scowls. “Can you walk?"

  Blood seeps through my left pajama leg and pools in my footie. I don’t feel any pain. It must have happened when he tossed me through the already-falling-apart window.

  I nod. He reaches back as if he wants me to take his hand. I shake my head. Our eyes meet, and for a second I think he’s going to force his hand into mine. He doesn’t. He shrugs and starts moving.

  I inhale a deep breath and keep my eyes locked on his bobbing head. He maneuvers us around broken crates, a large trash bin, and the other items haphazardly thrown into the alley. I don’t want to see any further than the few inches in front of me that separate us. The alley seems to have grown since we were out here a few minutes ago. With our slow approach, it seems we’re walking the expanse of a football field.

  A loud crackling noise sounds behind me. I jump to attention and spin in the direction of the clatter. Joe seizes me by the hips so quickly my feet leave the ground. He spins me around until I’m in front of him, away from the noise we heard. He whirls around to face the danger himself, crouching into a defensive position. I don’t want Joe to go through this for me.

  He shouldn’t be risking his life for me.

  “No, Joe.” I pull on his arm to get him to look at me. “No. It’s not worth it.”

  Joe snatches the hand I use to shove him and pulls me onto his shoulder, lifting me with one hand. Then he’s sprinting through the alley. He’s running across a street, dodging a black truck as he moves. I lift my head and see her. She growls, exposing her sharp, yellowed teeth. I roll my head back and cover my eyes.

  Parts of me wish Joe would allow her to tear me apart. There’s too many Florida parts of me.

  Joe doesn’t slow down until we reach a side entrance to the hotel. A man in a colorful suit discards a box in the dumpster beside the building and is closing the hatch as we approach. Joe reaches out and snatches it open for us to go through. He rushes past the guy without a word and hauls himself through the staircase entrance. His feet don’t stop until we reach the third level staircase.

  Sweat drips from his neck and cascades down his back. He grunts as he sets me on my feet. I could have told him a few steps ago no one had followed us. He moved faster with me on his shoulder than I could have walking on my own, though.

  I open my mouth to say thank you, but the piercing gaze that crosses his face halts the words. “Up.” He thrusts his hands out to urge me up the remaining steps.

  As soon as I plant my foot on the first step, excruciating pain fires through me. Joe releases a deep breath. He scoots around me. “Get on,” he motions to his back. He doesn’t stop until he pushes the stairwell hatch open at the seventh floor.

  "Are you okay?" he asks, propping me back to a standing position once we are in the hallway.

  "Yes, I think so. That was a reaper after us… right?"

  "No. That was a reaper after you," he says. "What’s wrong with you? You didn’t even have any Zygos to buy anything. Are you trying to get killed?" A bubble of laughter reaches the tip of my tongue. I gulp it down. My relationship with death is on the peculiar side. He won’t understand. I barely get it myself. I suck in my bottom lip and offer no explanation.

  He stomps ahead of me toward our room. He doesn’t turn to speak, and doesn’t look to ensure I’m still following. Every part of me says turn and run in the opposite direction. Joe and Ferris don’t deserve me.

  Selfishness makes me stay.

  Joe holds the hatch open for me. I step inside, surprised at his hospitality.

  "Oh, Sam, you gave me such a fright," Ferris says, barreling toward me.

  What the Florida is wrong with him now?

  His feet make fast work of the space between us. I catch sight of his concern-filled eyes and shake my head for him to stop. The way he moves makes it apparent he has other things in mind—like touching me. He runs right into me, throwing me off balance. He collapses his scrawny arms around my waist and squeezes. I cringe and shove him away.

  "I'm fine, Ferris. Calm down, for Florida’s sake, and stop touching me."

  "My apologies, good lady. When we awoke and did not see you, we were so frightened a reaper may get you that we could scarcely think coherently."

  “Fuck. Ferris, stop talking like that.” Joe runs a hand through his dark hair. "He was scared," he says, pointing to Ferris. "I, on the other hand, realized how much of an imbecile you really are. I had to find you because I didn't need my mom haggling me if you got kicked out of VOLT, or killed."

  “Believe me Joe, you don’t ever have to do it again.”

  I hobble over to the large orange loveseat facing the window, plopping down onto it, and pull my leg up. My onesie is split open, and a nasty gash stretches the length of my calf. Joe and Ferris cross the room to peer at my wound as well. Joe reaches in and tears my pajama bottoms open, exposing the entire cut.

  Ferris stumbles away with a guttural noise. His thin face pales and his eyes cross. He collapses into a heap on the soft shag carpet.

  It’s callous to laugh in someone’s face when they are in distress, but him being passed out might give us the exception. Joe and I exchange looks of scarcely suppressed amusement.

  Chapter 19

  "Ferris," I yell. "It’s only a superficial cut, nothing serious." Slowly, he elevates himself to a sitting position. His small eyes cross for several seconds as he adjusts himself. I pull my leg around—away from his view.

  Joe walks over to him, offers a hand, and helps him
to his feet. Ferris gaffes as he peers in my direction. He staggers backward a few steps. Joe rights him and spins him to face the other sofa. They make it without Ferris toppling over, and he collapses onto it.

  "Damn, dude, take a deep breath." Ferris inhales sharp breaths that sound like the whoosh of a ball into a net. His whole body trembles. He exhales and his face is candy-apple red. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm placid." He sits forward and places his head between his hands.

  "Sit tight. Let me check on Sam."

  "Such gallantry," I say with a smirk.

  "Yeah, what would the two of you do without me?"

  He peers at the cut but doesn’t move to touch me. His eyes find mine. He arches his right brow and draws his hand closer, then stops.

  He wants to touch me. He has to touch me if he’s going to help. San Diego.

  I allowed him to touch me in the abandoned warehouse. That was different, though. We were in a life-or-death situation and I wasn’t thinking properly. I peer at my leg. We can’t be far from finding Ryan. VOLT can’t be that big. I’ll be zapped out of here or something, and my leg will be okay without any fuss over it. Yeah, it’s barely even—

  “Sam,” Joe shouts, cutting my thoughts short. “I’ve gotta clean that. We can do this the easy way—you let me touch you—or you don’t have a choice and I hold you down. You’re a twig. It won’t be hard at all.” He arches his brows.

  I hang my head but don’t say anything. He could let me bleed out. It doesn’t even hurt.

  "Get towels and water, Ferris. And needle, thread, and alcohol or peroxide if you can find some, too. Try the lobby. Oh—and ask if they have bandages—and bring as many as you can."

  Ferris sits frozen on the sofa, peering over at Joe. “Why can’t we take her to a hospital and let them do that?” The level of Ferris' whiny voice is enough to make me want to put him in a headlock.

  “Because there’s a pack of reapers outside, ready to tear her apart.” Ferris' face goes crimson again. "You need to go now, or her leg could get infected. Do you wanna be responsible for that?"

  Ferris glances at me. His eyes are as sad as the ugly cat that scurries around our house, waiting to tear me apart. Luckily, it’s brief. He stands and rushes to the bureau by the entryway. From there he snatches the ice bucket and hurries to the head. A few seconds later, he returns with water and towels. He races from the room to gather the remaining items.

  Joe catches my eyes again as he bends toward my wound. “Florida. Go ahead.” He lifts my leg. I wince as he plucks the slivers of glass from my wound with silver tweezers I hadn’t seen before.

  Once the glass is removed, he cleans the affected area with the warm water and towels Ferris brought. His hands move fast, but are so tender I steal glances at him every couple seconds, wondering where this side of his personality has hidden itself. I prefer the acrimonious know-it-all over this person in front of me. Alaskahole and all, I can deal with. This kindness is unwarranted.

  Ferris rushes back in, carrying an armful of medical supplies. He hurries to us and drops his load. Peroxide and alcohol, needles and thread in varying colors, bandages in different sizes and lengths, and white surgical tape all fall beside me. As soon as he has emptied the container in his hands, he stumbles away from us. Joe laughs as Ferris' face is a new shade of red. In spite of the pain starting to inch through my calf, I laugh as well.

  “Once my mother cut her hand slicing vegetables,” Ferris says—now clear across the room. “She shouted for me to grab something to stop the blood. The way the blood oozed from her hand made me nauseous. I didn’t move fast enough for my father. My punishment—life in the shed out back, and bread and water for a week.” My stomach clenches at his words.

  “Sounds like a real d—"

  “Joe.” I shake my head. He shrugs and keeps on working. Ferris falls back to the couch.

  Joe takes a needle and pulls a piece of brown thread through the eye. I grab a pillow and place it over my mouth to drown out my anticipatory shrieks of pain. Joe throws his head back and laughs. The needle nearly tumbles to the floor, but he recovers it before it does.

  Joe bends and pulls my leg to him. We hold a stare for a second. I roll my eyes and pull the pillow to my lips. As the needle pierces my skin, a sharp pain lances through me. My leg jerks back, and Joe is the recipient of a swift kick to the stomach. “Oh shit,” he grumbles, holding his abdominal area.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t… I—I wasn’t trying to do that. I—"

  “Stop talking,” Joe says. I press my lips together so nothing escapes; especially not the laughter that bubbles inside me. He pulls my leg back and holds it down, tighter than before. The needle still dangles from where he inserted it.

  With a pointed stare, Joe places his hand on the needle again. I collapse against the sofa and close my eyes. He is exceptionally careful as he sets the stitches and bandages. Still, the ache is awful. A few minutes later, a light tap on my shoulder draws me up. I toss the saliva-drenched pillow to the side.

  He steps back to inspect what he’s done. "It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do," he says. "Walk on it." Without warning, he grabs my hand and pulls me to a standing position.

  “San Diego, that hurts like Houston.” I grit my teeth against the pain. I wobble for a second, but he holds my hands so I won’t fall. San Diego. Stop touching me.

  "Let me go. I can do it," I say.

  I pivot with my right leg, increasing the pain in my left. I stand completely still for a moment. I take a deep breath, lift my left leg, and step forward slowly. I lift my right leg and take one step. I stop for a second. Fire and brimstone hasn’t rained down on me, so I’m still alive. I continue around the entire room. Currents of pain shoot through my leg with each movement, but I have to walk. I shove the aching behind all the other pain waiting to consume me when this experience is over. I bite the inside of my lip to keep my tears internal.

  “I didn’t want to say anything at first, but usually after a few days, give or take a week, most lost things in VOLT are found at the edge of the city. An area called The End,” Ferris says.

  “What?” Joe slams the medical items into his black bag. “You want to take her to The End.” He turns his back to us and runs his hands through his hair. He mumbles under his breath. “This… bullshit… really… why…?”

  “Um, you know we can still hear you, right?” I smile, hoping for a light grin in return. Instead, his jaw is clenched and his eyes are poison darts. “You don’t have to stay. You either, Ferris. Tell me how to get to The End, and I’ll be okay.”

  Joe whirls around and laughs. “Thank you, Samzilla. But I don’t have a choice anymore; I have to stay.”

  “Of course you have a choice. You don’t have to stay. Nobody's keeping you here.”

  Joe turns and looks at me for a long moment. His stare touches forbidden areas. I withdraw my eyes first. “You have no idea how much you need me.” No one speaks or moves for an eternity. Even my defunct brain has no response to his words.

  "We have to leave the hotel before midnight. Reapers aren’t smart. They won’t stick around long waiting for us, and if we take the back ways, we might be able to avoid them altogether," Joe announces.

  “The situation isn’t ideal. Especially since we’ll be forced to walk all the way there. It’s well over three hundred miles,” Ferris states.

  My legs give out and I plummet to the floor. I twist around to find Ferris. I’m hoping for a laugh or to hear he's joking. Anything other than walking on a bad leg for three hundred miles.

  I get neither.

  “There’s plenty of cars around here. Why can’t we get us one? I can drive,” I offer.

  "Actually, it’s against the law in VOLT for two-legged Duds to—" Ferris starts.

  "Two-legged," I say. "Are there any other type?"

  "Well, actually there—"

  "Don't worry about it… I can imagine." I shake my head. I grab the back of the sofa and use it to propel my
self to a standing position.

  I’m willing to do anything to get to The End. Even if anything means walking and crawling on an afflicted leg. I’m willing to make that sacrifice.

  People have given up much more for me.

  Chapter 20

  "Hey, Chief Stumbling Officer, sit and take a breath," Joe says in my direction. We left the hotel and have been walking for over three hours. Night has fallen around us, and people are scarce on the streets.

  "I don't mind squatting," Ferris says, sitting on a bench beside a sign for a convenience store that reads, "All critters welcome."

  "We shouldn't be stopping," I whimper to a deaf audience. "We haven't even made it out of downtown yet." Truth is, I shouldn’t complain about stopping. I’m out of breath, and my leg feels like someone smashed it with a hammer—twenty-five times. I continue, despite Joe and Ferris still sitting. But my shuffle on the cement isn’t as quick as it once was.

  Suddenly, I’m lifted from the ground. Instinctively my eyes close, and I inhale a lung full of lavender air. My eyes spring open, and I’m ready to give Joe a mouth full of heated words. As soon as I look at him, however, he stares down at me. He smiles the sweetest smile and whispers, "Don't worry. We'll get you where you need to go. I promised, remember? Let's get you there in one piece, huh?"

  I nod, because my tongue’s hog-tied to my heart and doing all manner of pitter-patters. Joe sits me beside him on the bench. I can't take my eyes off him. His every movement mesmerizes me. It isn't until Ferris snickers that I withdraw my eyes.

  “What the Houston are you laughing like a hyena for?"

  "Nothing in particular." His thin cheeks are still stretched ridiculously across his face. "It’s wonderful, us in our salad days." He turns his head, looking reflectively to the East as the twin suns' setting casts brilliant shades of purple and fuchsia across the twilight sky.