Lindberg. Eff it. He'll surely have a copy of my blood work by this stage now, having been thought to all the relevant recipients via pulse device.
Cannot win for losing. I stop moping and thumb my doc for the ignition, thinking the engine on.
Shifting to reverse, I smoothly back out and then shift to drive, navigating the roads that take me directly back to the school, and leave the clinic like a speck of dust in my rearview mirror.
The ball of the sun bleeds across the day, spilling the blood of remaining daylight to shroud the encroachment of night. Lingering tangerine rays spear the dirty windshield glass of my car, and I half-slap down the visor to keep the worst of it from blinding me as I use the small concrete incline, turning into the school parking lot, easily locating my parking slot.
Parking, I think the motor off but continue to sit inside the car, listening to the ticking of the engine as it cools, a somehow ominous sound like a faucet that never stops dripping. The ping, ping, ping of the heat-dissipating echoes in the quiet space, drilling inside my brain.
Come on, Camille—move your ass.
Shit. Pulsing the door open, I shove it wide, stepping out as the click of my heel makes sharp contact with the old-style concrete parking area.
I straighten to a stand.
An eery quiet surrounds me. Like the world has died and I'm the only one left.
A squirrel bursts from the branches of a tree, hopping to a branch three meters above him. Leaves rain down, startling me badly.
My hand goes to my chest, heartbeats stacking. Why am I so spooked? Further, why do I feel perfectly fine? Aren't the hybrid women supposed to feel like hell?
I do a mental checklist of how my body feels and come up with nothing out of the ordinary. Still having regular menses. Still having a regular headache before the fun monthlies. No odd cravings, no lethargy.
Basically, as my mom liked to say back in the day: fine as a fiddle.
Shaking off the disquiet that has formed at the edges of my mind like an oncoming storm, I smooth my pencil skirt over my thighs and mess with my blouse, shivering a little against the cold.
Twisting at the waist, I sight my short-waisted blazer in screaming cherry that I laid over the passenger seat. Hate committing to a coat if I don't absolutely have to. That particular one is cute but fitted. I'm just not in the mood, I decide.
Pressing my thumb on the pulse doc located beside the door handle of the driver's side, I think the vehicle secure and begin to walk toward the school, my feet dragging along with my mental reluctance.
I must tell Dale Lindberg of my new supe hybrid status. It's required by law. My understanding is the information dump follows a chain-of-command protocol. He is directly above me. Then the school superintendent, then state, then federal.
Inside of twenty-four hours, the entire USA will know that I'm viable. For both human and supe. The thought brings a sense of violation. I've been accustomed to living in relative anonymity. Now—boom! Everyone gets to know I'm “breedable.” I guess the moniker would not be so insulting if I did turn out to be one of the rare women who could still produce. At least that is valued—respected even.
Nice justification, Camille.
With the current system in place, all doubt has been removed. Hybrid females are viable to breed with “their” supe species and, of course, all human men.
Bleh.
Opening the entrance door to the school, I hesitate for a moment of self-fortification before proceeding down the hall, my footsteps resounding like hollow heartbeats as I make my way to Lindberg's office.
Why couldn't this dubious honor be bestowed on all the women who so badly want children yet find they're part of the huge, unfortunate pool of infertility swamping the world? Nope. It has to be me. A woman who had devoted her life to helping other people's children, having subconsciously divorced notions of husband, children, and the white picket fence.
No longer. Now I am thinking about it all. Every minute of the last hour.
“Come in, Ms. Becker.”
My hand dampens on the knob as a chill slides down my spine.
I frown. How had I announced my presence? With a little shrug, I ignore my clamoring instincts to return here tomorrow when school's in session. Don't ignore the directive to meet with the person above me, confessional-style, and tell him/her that I'm Ms. Fertile. Ignore that wiggling gut feeling telling me to get the fuck out of here the moment I stepped out of the car tonight into a blanket of unnatural silence.
Now, the day has been swallowed by the dark mouth of night.
This is where the rubber meets the road as the old saying goes.
Pushing back my shoulders, I chastise myself for being silly while primal bells ring and open the door to a boss I've never liked for a sure session of condescending discourse.
Wonderful.
Opening the door wide, I have a greeting on my tongue, but the salutation freezes with the sight I take in. It's not just Lindberg but three other men. Or, what I assume might be men, right now—they appear like half-animals.
Words my sensei has told me—distract and defend, brutally—then run. My next thought is that Lindberg somehow already knows what I am, and this welcoming committee isn't one I want.
I don't turn to run. I've had too much training to telegraph that. Hand still on the knob, I walk two steps backward and slam the door. Pivoting abruptly, I sprint in the opposite direction, hitting the entrance door and tossing the heels I wear, racing barefooted toward my car.
A blur shoots past me in my periphery and lands in front of my car, crouching as it does, arms wide. Half-hawk, half-man, it spreads impossibly large wings, blocking my ability to get inside.
Escape. I clench my teeth.
The creature is nearly seven feet tall. I adjust for this extreme height. Moving fast, I close in, and it folds its wings around me in an obvious attempt to constrain, but not before I hit what passes as the thing's Adam's apple dead center.
Its beak-like face comically juts forward, a harsh hacking sound shooting out of the mouth, reflexively springing its wings wide.
With a twisting kick, I plant my heel in what passes for a crotch with everything I've got.
A depleted squawk sounds, and it slumps to the side like a felled tree.
“Asshole,” I mutter. My voice trembles in fear and unspent adrenaline as I turn, jabbing my thumb to unlock my vehicle with a thought, and the locks hop to attention inside the doorframe.
Jerking the handle, I rip the door wide and jump into my car, slamming the door behind me.
Jamming my thumb into the pulse doc for the ignition, I hear the engine rev and slap the shifter into reverse just as the rest of the menagerie bursts out from the entrance doors I just came through.
The altercation with bird psycho took seconds that felt like hours.
Fuck.
I've never had an evolved sense of using my mirrors for reversal, and panic doesn't make that void in my skill set better.
The car shrieks in warning as I plow into a small birch tree. Then I hammer the shifter into drive. Insurance isn't going to cover that, I think as Lindberg takes a leap from the sidewalk, changing into something before he plasters himself on the windshield with a wet thwack.
We stare at each other through the filthy glass, my lights spearing the rest of the group as they approach the car. Oblong eyes widen, and a forked tongue slips out of a face that is partially changed into some kind of gigantic snake.
A heartbeat passes as I take in my boss. Figures. I bark out a laugh and stomp the accelerator. Lindberg, or whatever-the-fuck he is, flies up and over the roof. I don't pay any attention to the thump that sounds from behind. God help me. I keep my foot depressed and head for the exit, nearly hydroplaning off the small incline I'd used a scant ten minutes before.
It's different when you crawl up a small concrete hill than when one does a flying jump and jerk over the downward slope doing forty kilometers. The car performs a drunken lurch
over the small but steep ramp, slamming down with a teeth jarring snap.
The shocks give a painful squeal of agonized protest. Shit.
Birdman comes flying by and grabs a windshield wiper.
I pulse them on, inadvertently hitting the soap/water function and soaking him—along with his feathers, and he tumbles away, my wiper clutched in his taloned hands.
Oh my God.
Accelerating, I hit sixty kilometers in a thirty zone, hoping to God there's nobody walking around who’d think it's a great idea to do a zombie march in front of my car.
In the rearview mirror, I see movement, and then something lands on the hatchback.
Jamming my thumb on the pulse doc, I think lock.
A fist plows through the back window, and I scream—deep, immediate, and primal.
Shock tries to take me. I grit my teeth and command myself not to freak out. As I tear the wheel to the right, the thing's hand can't maintain its hold, and it spins through the air, landing hard and rolling on the road behind me.
A shaky laugh slips from my lips, and I suddenly have the need to pass out. I bite the inside of my lip. Get your shit together, Becker. Right. Now.
The pain causes tears to spring, but crisp thoughts return along with blood rushing to my head where it was departing a moment before.
Won't be able to see with tears.
Well, aren't I just practical as fuck? So I keep my eyes wide so they won't fall. After a couple of aimless miles, I find myself on Louise Avenue and think that food has never sounded better.
With a shaky laugh, I realize that surviving a Mutable attack didn't put much of a damper on my hunger. Exhaustion swamps me. It's late, but I'm not going home. I'm not dumb, there's no doubt those were Mutables. In fact, Lindberg is one; hiding right there in plain sight. Apparently, he'd just been lying in wait for an easy female to prance along unknowingly.
Hiding among children, I think uneasily and shudder.
The blue sign of Culver's is softly shining, and all I can think of is how great it will be to get one of everything. Starting with a Concrete Mixer.
I pull into a parking space. The smell of stale sweat and adrenaline permeates my car as a flood of sudden, hot tears sear a pathway down my face. I cover my mouth. Oh my God, they almost got me. Who else will be after me?
My life isn't mine anymore. Flicking my eyes to the pulse clock, I note that it reads 9:21 p.m. At least I got in just before closing.
Giving an uneasy laugh that's more sob than humor, I turn and look behind me at the fist-sized hole in my rear window. Then my eyes latch on to the amputated stub where my windshield wiper used to be. Now there's a jagged shorn stump of plastic.
My hands curl into fists. Sudden anger chases my tears, and I blink my jumble of emotions away.
Spent, I decide I'll grab my dojo bag and go inside the Culver's restroom. A change of clothes and some cold water on my face might be perfect. Then a burger basket with greasy fries and a mixer.
Maybe things will look better after food.
I look down at my shredded stockings and shoeless feet.
Maybe not.
Chapter 10
I drag my ass into Culver's, looking first right then left. Not a patron in sight.
With a beleaguered sigh, I trudge into the ladies’ restroom, a mixed blessing as I get a gander at my terrible image in the bathroom mirror.
Wow, I'm rough. My normally coiffed, dark auburn hair is half-hanging on one side, giving me an unattractive, lopsided look.
Great.
Taking out what remains of my hairband, I carefully scoop the mess to the crown of my head then re-secure it in a high ponytail. Once done, I wrap it into a bun, and digging around with my right hand inside my dojo bag, I find a plain wooden hair stick. One that isn't adorned by a faceted glass bead at its end. Those just get broken off inside the bag from all the jostling.
Stabbing my fat bun through the middle with a subtle twist as I go, I release it and begin washing my hands, pumping soap. When they're good and clean, I strip off the wrecked outfit, hauling out leggings, t-shirt, new panties, and a bra. Carefully setting those on top of my bag while I toss my soiled stuff back inside, I do a thorough paper towel scrub down of my lady parts and pits. Then grab more towels and repeat with my tears and sweat-stained face.
I don't feel so gross. But, on the other hand, what do I do after this? Where do I go? Grasping the sink basin, I fight a surge of fear and adrenaline. I can't think about what I escaped from—what might come to be. I have to survive the now.
Shaking my uncertainty off, I glance at the inside of my wrist to see the glowing numbers of the embedded timekeeper clicking away as I watch. I chose the hour and minutes feature. That some people want to have the seconds countdown feature—weird. A little too intent on the passing of one's life for my taste. I rebuild myself, telling myself that after some food, I can think a little better.
The vaguely red illumination of numerals reads ten minutes ʼtil ten.
Better hustle or there won't be anyone to take my order. They roll up the sidewalks in Sioux Falls early.
Grabbing the dual handles on my bag, I take a final, masochist-motivated glance at my reflection and push through the door.
A roar of noise greets me, and I recognize food doesn't end up being in the cards today. Because there's some dude charging down the aisle. He's so big, his hip glances a table's corner as he sprints toward me. The thing screeches to a stop near the rows of booths, halting in the center of the diner.
I feel my eyes go round. Holy shit. I thought I'd be safe here. What a load of crap. Forget food.
Pivoting, I make to go through the door I entered from and practically trip with my abrupt halt.
Mutables fill the junction between the sidewalk and entrance to Culver's. They're crammed inside a small vestibule, glass doors behind and forward of their position.
Not a good development.
Fresh adrenaline pours through me, and I spin, running in the opposite direction. But not before noting that the Mutable positioned somewhat in front of the others has flared his nostrils as I turned, narrowing his cat-like eyes at me through the glass door that separates us.
My heart thuds as I race toward the opposite door. I must smell. Huh, thought I got rid of that little problem.
The door crashes open behind me, and the cashier squeaks, but I can hardly hear past the roaring inside my ears. My peripheral vision tracks one of them kicking the girl in the head as I fly past.
Ohshitohshitoh... shit.
Ignoring the barreling guy that is about to intercept the group behind me, I keep going, smacking my palms into the glass panels of the door and flying through without turning back.
Only inept B-horror movie bitches turn back to see.
The dream is getting the fuck out of here with four wheels planted firmly beneath my butt.
These are not the same Mutables from the school. There must be squads of these assclown zoo fuckers running around.
Jogging around the building feels like twenty hours instead of twenty seconds. Did they hack the pulse mainframe to find out my situation? Because there's no way that group just happened by.
My attention shifts to my car as I skid to a stop. I mean to hop in and roar off, I really do. But then I see him, the guy who'd intercepted the Mutables. What is he doing? Breaths saw in and out of my heaving chest as fresh adrenaline flows while I take in this newest disaster.
You can read it, watch it on TV—hear about it. But no one has ever shown it to me: Violence can be beautiful.
Here he is, breathtaking in the meting of battle. Because there is no mistaking this for anything other than a war taking place inside of a burger joint.
Squinting, I see he's beating one of the Mutables with what looks like a club.
A little gasp shoots out of me when I realize his graceful use of the “club” is actually a limb. He's clearly torn one of their arms off and is using the ball-joint of the shoulder to bludge
on the nearest one.
As I see the motion play out, he aims the rounded, bulbous, bony joint and slams it underneath the jaw of the other, smashing its face from the bottom up.
Then it's just him and the cat Mutable.
I remain rooted to the spot, realizing that watching the train wreck isn't a wise decision. I should be moving far and away from the ending to this crazy story. But I can't stop watching. Like taking in a movie playing out in slow motion, my eyes follow every nuance.
Finally, the joint breaks, popping off the abused stump of the severed arm.
Not to be deterred, the guy (who had been human when he banged his hip into the table) is definitely other now.
I'd seen this type of shifter on the news when the leader, Conrick (I think he'd been called) came out of the shifter closet and announced that besides Lycan and vampire supernaturals, there were First Species and prehistorics as well.
We all knew about the Mutables already, of course. They didn't seem to care that everyone knew about them and the threat of their kind against humankind.
So here he was, a First Species in the flesh, beating the Mutables to a pulp with one of their own body parts.
No one can argue the guy's practicality.
As I watch, he slaps monkey-with-cymbals-style large hands on the sides of the last standing Mutable, biceps straining, fingers curling around the curvature of the skull he holds.
Then—the head bursts.
I jump back.
The head doesn't kinda blow apart. It explodes in bloody, melon-like chunks of bone shards, puzzle piece bits of brain that are wrapped in threaded red gore.
I cover my eyes with a forearm as though the gunk is going to reach me all the way in the parking lot.
A heatwave begins from my feet and rushes toward my head that has me turning and gagging. I guess I've reached critical viewing mass.
A hysterical bubble of laughter slips out. Oh boy. Not even looking back at the entrance again, I begin to head for my car, slowing as my eyes take in the four wheels—shredded. Not neatly, either. A rapid, crude, and effective job has made the rubber into long tendrils of slaughtered rubber that fall away from the wheel like Medusa hair.
First Species Page 8
