Super

by Karen Diem

  Mentally, she complained. What war are they preparing for? I will go loca if I stay caged here. Most of the security guards I’ve snuck by before were observe-and-reports, not shoot-to-kills. Night will be my best chance, and it seems I have time to plan it. On the bright side, if that’s a private bathroom, I can take that shower I’ve been having lurid fantasies about. Zita interrupted her roommate with, “So are you married now or what?”

  Wyn shook her head. “No, haven’t found the right one. I am certain, however, that the universe will send him when the time is right. I might cast a few spells to hurry it, though.” She twinkled at Zita, who had turned away from the window at the mention of spells. With a chuckle, she tossed a ringlet over her shoulder, her hair a rich chestnut struck through with golden hues and the perfection normally reserved for retouched pictures. “Oh, so you are listening! Here I thought you were tuning me out.”

  Caught, Zita gave her a sheepish grin. “Maybe I missed a little. Talking about clothing, makeup, girly sh--crap, and guys is boring.” She paced beside her bed, unwinding the tangled blankets.

  Wyn’s eyebrows rose, but her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. “I can see why the traditionally feminine arts might be an issue, but you find men boring?” Catlike, she lounged on her bed, curling her legs up.

  Folding her blankets into neat squares and setting them on her trunk, Zita turned back, and picked up the damp towel. “Not the worthwhile ones, but why dissect their every move? If someone’s interested, he or she should say so to the person they like. It’ll happen or it won’t. Whatever. If a fine man wanders by, I might point him out so my friends can enjoy the eye candy, but that’s about it for discussion.”

  Wyn stared at her nails for a moment before looking up with a smile. “Fair enough.”

  Did I insult her? I didn’t mean to. Why is talking so much harder without sparring or climbing at the same time? Zita tried again. “You’re not boring or anything, but I’m just not into fashion and social analysis-type stuff. If you want to tell me about your life instead, I can listen better.”

  Her old friend chuckled. “Right. The short version is I’m Wiccan. I’m not certain if my parents think that or dancing is worse, but I enjoy both. As far as the rest of my bucket list, I have a tiny house, I work as a liaison librarian at a state university, and a pair of cats graces my residence. They must be livid with me for such an extended absence, even if they like the neighbor I’ve got caring for them! I’ve revised my monetary expectations. Eidetic memory’s not as lucrative as one would think. What about you? As I recall, you had a huge list of things to do. Did you ever do the skydiving, BASE jumping, and so on? I check the Olympics lineup for you every time.”

  Her fingers smoothing the coarse terry fabric of the towel, Zita shrugged. “As far as my list, I’ve been busy. The Olympics haven’t happened yet. Floor gymnastics are unlikely with my figure, so I’ve been working on aerial acrobatics so I can be ready when it happens. One trainer had me thinking I might switch to judo instead of the aerial, but I love to fly too much.” He had also tagged her as a dilettante; part of her annoyance was that she could not deny the sting of truth in his words. His refusal to teach her until she gave up the aerial acrobatics was overkill. She continued talking, pushing away her disappointment. “That takes time, plus I play capoeira, rock climb, spar, and do any extreme sport possible. Skydiving is awesome when I can afford it! Oh, I work when I have to. People do seem to want to get paid,” she admitted. Running a hand over her head, she winced when she touched the shaved spot. After prowling a few steps to the door while holding the towel, she returned to the window and peeked outside again.

  “Your figure is fine in the right clothing. These jumpsuits make us all look terrible,” Wyn lied, probably trying to be nice. Although her jumpsuit was identical, it looked designer on her. Following the direction of Zita’s gaze, she wafted to the window and commented, “Looking at the machine guns? The men on our floors are bulkier than the ones on the grounds, but they’re not so bad if you talk to them,” Wyn said. She observed the strolling men without real interest, and then her gaze flicked back toward the pillow hiding the book.

  I bet they were willing to talk to you, Zita thought wryly.

  Wyn smiled.

  Her attention diverted by the window, Zita corrected her. “They’re assault rifles, well, assault rifles alternating with shotguns, looks like. Machine guns are more elongated. They’ve batons and handguns too. If we’re in quarantine, why is Homeland Security here and not the CDC? Plain black suits are lurking around too. And why are they carrying heavy weaponry outside? The guards on our floor just have saps.”

  With a shrug, Wyn twisted her curls up into a bun. “The guns all look gargantuan to me. As to why it’s not the Center for Disease Control, government squabbling is likely at fault. Quarantine management has varied by location. New York lets quarantined people ‘shelter in place’ and Los Angeles has a camp. Dr. Singh and his people only ask questions and take blood; they don’t answer questions. One of the more loquacious guards suggested security was stricter because we’re closer to major infrastructure. Rooms on the other side of the hall look out over the main parking lot and you can see the media vans and picketers there.” Grabbing a pair of pens, she anchored the coil of hair on her head, and then sat.

  “What are they protesting? The disregard for our civil rights that has us penned up in here, I hope?” Zita asked.

  Her friend made a face. “Please! As if they’re that unified!” she said. Wyn counted groups on elegant fingertips. “The protesters are a few civil rights folks, crazies who think the coma is punishment for our sins, families who want more access, anti-government sorts, and one bum who has a sign offering to sleep for a week if they give him free food. A few looky-loos are loitering, but they have been getting fewer every day. Local news stations have their interns camped out in vans, I think, in case newsworthy events happens.” She shrugged, and picked at a thread hanging from her pillowcase.

  Deflated, Zita nodded. “Figures. What’s the other building inside the fence?” She paced back to the window and looked at the other building. It was almost identical in height, but the windows had blinds or shades in addition to the ubiquitous translucent paper. For the lack of another place to put it, she spread the towel over the air conditioner to dry. Once it was even, she paced to the doorway and then back to the window again. She felt like a jaguar in a cage she had seen once, back and forth and back and forth.

  “That’s where they put all the metamorphosed, with wings or what have you. A couple girls from this floor ended up over there. This one woman, turns out she was a prostitute, figured out she can make men give her all their cash, and another one turned into a mermaid when she showered. I hear tell a teenage boy went there from the third floor, but I don’t know what he did,” Wyn answered.

  Sympathy for the people trapped in the building warred with the hope security would be laxer in this one. “Bizarre. Is there any way to find out if my things were in the loot stolen? And I need to use a phone still. Mamá and my brothers will be going crazy!” she asked, running a hand through her locks.

  Hazel eyes met brown, and Wyn pursed her lips. She answered, “Stolen? The guards gossiped about a security breach, but I heard nothing about thefts. You need to sign up days in advance for the phone if you want anything other than the obscene early hours of the morning. I’ve got a half hour tomorrow; you can have fifteen minutes.” Her eyes flicked toward the hidden book again. She tapped her fingers on the table arching over her bed. “I’ll keep an ear out for thefts, but so far our requests haven’t netted us anything, other than one or two folks who got required medicines. The consensus is that this is temporary, and we have to wait. People tell me things. I’ll hear something soon, Zita.” She gave a small smile.

  Zita returned it. “Thanks! I need to let my family know I’m alive.” She glanced at the bathroom door. “Trixie mentioned no modern electronics; is hot water a problem?”


  Her friend shook her head. “Oh, listen to me running on, you must be dying to bathe. I’ll distract any guests until you’re presentable. The water’s fine.” Scooping up her book and settling into lotus position, Wyn flicked her fingers, dismissing her. “Summon me if you need anything. Clean towels are under the sink. Lock both doors when you go in. The bathroom is shared with another room, but the room’s empty, so it should be all ours.”

  Zita fished out her toiletries and headed into the bathroom, eager to wash. Unzipping the top half of her jumpsuit, she pulled open the door and rushed… straight into a man. Spanish vulgarities exploded in the air as they both threw out their hands to catch themselves. She felt her hands sliding over the warm, wet flesh of a toned chest even as unfamiliar hands grabbed her arms and her... Her face warmed as she twisted away. Staggering from the impact, she caught on the small sink, and gaped at the strange man. His towel stayed on, but he backed up into the shower stall. The odor of soap and warm male filled the room.

  Ay, Mamá, that is one papi chulo. He had the long, lean lines of a serious runner, with just enough muscle and hair on his chest to wake up her libido. The hair arrowed down a smooth stomach toward what the towel hid. She was suddenly aware of how much time had passed since she’d last touched a naked male chest. The man tightened the towel around his waist, and eyed her. He had sexy elongated fingers, with a small shadow of hair on the back of his hands. His legs had the sort of definition that required serious dedication.

  Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She cleared her throat, and brought her eyes up to his face. Black hair, brown eyes, and enough stubble to keep his caramel-kissed face from being too pretty to be masculine had just registered when Wyn burst in. Zita swore and dodged her roommate, ending up pressed against the sink. The black and metal industrial shelves under the sink bit into the backs of her legs. The almost-naked man looked bemused.

  “Zita! What’s going on?” Wyn called out, and then took in the scene. “Oh, good gravy,” she murmured, bringing a hand to her mouth and giggling.

  “Ah, ladies, I appreciate the welcome, but… I prefer to meet people outside my bathroom,” he said in a pleasant tenor, and then added, “fully dressed.” His hand tightened on his towel, but he smiled at Wyn. A lucky drop of water fell from the ends of his short black hair and traced a path down his shoulders toward the damp towel.

  Realizing with a jolt that she had been staring, Zita turned her head away, and glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her brown eyes glared through the foliage of the blue and white dreadlocks (with black roots where the hair had grown) that obscured most of her heart-shaped face, except for the shaved area with the jagged, healing cut above one temple. She closed her mouth, which had been gaping open. The grungy jumpsuit looked terrible against her brown skin, but at least it went well with the dust smeared across her face from the obstacle course. The laxity of the fabric also made her look twenty pounds heavier. Her jumpsuit was open to the waist and wet where his hands had touched, so everyone was getting an eyeful of her abundant assets straining the thin government-issued bra, and how delighted they were to see the man. Someone shoot me now. She folded her arms over her chest.

  “Sorry, the bathroom is shared, and we didn’t know you were here. You must be new. Come on by when you’re decent and we’ll say our apologies.” Wyn soothed. She grabbed Zita’s things from the floor, waved, and dragged the Latina back into their room.

  As the door was closing, Zita found her voice again, and called out, “Sorry!” She put her back to the bathroom door and shut her eyes. I’m sorry the towel didn’t drop completely so I could have seen the whole package. Out loud, she stated, “Well, that was awkward.”

  Wyn snickered. “You are so bad!” she said, “Now zip up and put those things away before you poke someone’s eye out. I guess your shower needs to wait.”

  ***

  The next night, Zita jogged in place in the common room, ignoring the television and the mass of people. A pair of men had rounded up a checkers set and played in one corner. Mamá was wrong. My hobbies won’t kill me. Boredom from this quarantine will, Zita thought. Wyn and two other members of the gene therapy group from her youth stood near, gossiping and exchanging exaggerated life stories. After the expected round of surprise at reuniting, in unspoken accord they avoided revisiting their miserable shared past, probably due to all the others who had not survived.

  Jerome, the sole male in the group, tossed out a story about one of his more interesting private detective cases. After a convoluted process, including rental of a goat, he had discovered that a suspected cheating husband rented hotel rooms periodically to watch television marathons without family interrupting. Despite being over six feet tall and at least 250 well-muscled pounds, Jerome was swift on his feet and even faster with a joke. The corners of his brown eyes crinkled when he laughed, which was often.

  The last member of the group, Aideen, began recounting one of her experiences, only tangentially related to Jerome’s story. Based on the barbs she threw at him, Jerome had done something with computers that had resulted in big money before his private detective career. Perhaps the sturdy, black-haired policewoman resented the difference in their salaries, or was used to being aggressive to be heard. The men in her family were all cops; Zita pitied her if they were all like Miguel. Then again, Aideen had little patience for any voice other than her own, and her smiles never quite reached her blue eyes. Wyn, in particular, could not seem to offer an opinion without interruption. She’s lucky Wyn is kinder than I am. Girl has my sympathy with all that boredom and frustration she’s oozing, but there’s no reason to pick on...

  “Zita, would you please settle down? You’re giving me a headache!” Wyn complained. Brown ringlets swayed as she rubbed her forehead.

  Zita glanced at her frowning friend. “Sorry. Do you want to go lie down? I was going to work out after my phone call, so you’ll get peace and quiet,” she answered. Just a few more minutes, and then hopefully big brother FBI Special Agent Miguel can give me some good news.

  “Again?” Wyn questioned.

  Aideen jumped in with her opinion, probably crabby that they had abandoned the pretense of listening to her. “Most weight-loss plans require exercise. Civilians lack the dedication to equal the police or armed forces.” She smirked and flicked her black bob of hair. “I’m sure you try though.”

  Jerome chuckled. “Didn’t I see you walking up and down the stairs on your hands earlier, Zita? Wasn’t that enough of a workout? I admit, I miss the gym, but you were at it for a while. You ran through the obstacle course too, right?” Teeth flashed again in a smile brilliant against his dark face.

  “I work out hours a day, every day.” Zita cut herself off there, trying the whole patience thing.

  The cop continued to smirk. “The weight will come off someday, Zita, with an exercise regimen and a diet. I’d give you tips, but I can’t share the police training regimen with civilians, you know.”

  Screw patient. Condescend this, bitch. Eyes narrowed, Zita looked at Aideen for a moment, studying the other woman and replaying how she moved. Despite her large frame and strong, rectangular build, the cop had little excess weight, so she did do regular exercise. With her build, she would bulk up if she lifted, but Zita saw few signs of that. “You run a couple miles and do a few lighter weights or push-ups a couple times a week. You got baton and melee training at the academy, but you haven’t kept it up. Unless you went to a strange academy, there’s no reason you couldn’t say what you learned. On the other hand, I’ve been training for the Olympics. With no equipment to use here, I’m improvising. Keeping my weight up so I don’t lose muscle, not down, is a problem; we can’t all have your boyish figure.” She checked the clock. Almost time to see if my brother has any news.

  Face turning red, Aideen stared at her, reprisals lurking in her eyes. After a moment of theatrical nostril flaring, she said, “You keep telling yourself that. I don’t expect a civilian to understand. The Olympics are a
pipe dream for you, but perhaps you can win a local competition eventually.”

  Zita turned her head to look at the other woman full on. Someone just volunteered to entertain me. Aideen might even choose a new target, and leave off hurting Wyn’s feelings. Chirping brightly, she asked, “If you think I’m that out of shape, you want to spar?” She bounced on her heels.

  A surprised snigger escaped the taller woman. “You’re kidding, right? I’d crush you.”

  “Regular sparring is out then, given your weight class,” Zita replied, her tone mild. “How about arm wrestling? You and me, right now?”

  Wyn smothered a laugh with her hand. “Zita…”

  Aideen sniggered again. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been asking for it.”

  Metal howled against linoleum. “Here’s a spot you can use!” someone shouted, pulling sofas and one startled reader out of the way. A murmur began in the bored crowd. Although they kept their faces straight, the guards by the elevator shifted to see.

  Zita snickered and lay down on the floor. She offered her hand and a grin. “Not too late to pull out.”