by Karen Diem
“Bad day for hospitals,” Zita remarked. The others nodded, but the screen riveted their attention. Image after image focused on the devastated hospital, the frenetic activity of the rescue and investigation squads, and the celebrity who flew through so many of the shots. Despite or due to his size, the few images of Andy’s bird form were blurred and incomplete.
“Well, it looks like the cameras missed most of us,” Wyn offered.
Glumly, Andy pointed out, “Except for me. And your hair, Wyn.”
Zita snorted. “You were a gigantic golden eagle with glowing eyes, like the stylized thunderbirds you see on motorcycles. Nobody will recognize you. They seem more distracted by the flying tool, even if she doesn’t seem that interesting to me. It’s lucky for us, though.” She was grateful that at least the inevitable change had been to a normal eagle rather than a giant one.
Andy and Wyn gave her identical looks; people always had that expression before they spoke to her as if to a child.
He said, “Caroline’s a hot blond flying around half-naked and taking out terrorists by herself, not an oversized bird that vandalized two buildings and flew away.” His attention returned to the screen as Zita managed to return to human and began dressing again.
Wyn pinched the bridge of her nose. “Plus, she’s the rich celebrity daughter of a politician in D.C.”
Zita gaped at her friends before glowering at her decrepit treadmill. “Seriously? She’s boring: no skills, no personality, some flight.”
“You’re talking about a bulletproof blond, fighting on the side of justice with super-strength. She’s Supergirl—no, Powergirl. In lingerie,” Andy interrupted, his eyes glued to the newscast.
“Who?” Zita asked.
Wyn reminded them both, her own gaze on the television. “Rich celebrity with a senator daddy.”
Scowling, she followed their gazes. Swaddled in a policeman’s coat, Caroline held court in a circle of reporters. Other than a fetching smudge on one cheekbone, she had the tousled appearance of a just-awakened television ingénue wearing her boyfriend’s shirt. The blond flashed perfect white teeth at the cameras, downplayed her role with demure downcast eyes, and clasped hands. Zita sniffed; the other woman may claim the credit belonged elsewhere, but the gratuitous lifting of a car to allow an emergency vehicle through proved otherwise. Publicity hound. “First, if she respected the government as she claims, she would not be flirting with the reporters when she is supposed to be quarantined. Second, fine, she’s strong and flies, whatever. You shouldn’t be a jet-sized footnote, especially in D.C.! Third, and most important, what about everyone else? We escaped, but what about the other four hundred people in those buildings? Saying some died, and survivors are being treated elsewhere is an asshole way to alarm their families. I know Jerome, Jerome’s girlfriend, and Aideen got out, but what about the others? Did you see anyone else?”
Both of the others shook their heads.
Wyn touched a delicate hand to her forehead. “No, it was too far away for details. The hospital roof had all these awful lumps all over it and one was on a hospital gown. We thought you dead until you answered me. Once you thought about being canine, I deduced the dog was you, and told Andy while he was tying on his kilt.”
Andy looked intensely uncomfortable. “Things are fuzzy from when I was... I was flying. If we had known you were alive, I would have tried to be closer.”
Waving her hand, Zita dismissed their apologies. “No problem. It’s almost time to harass Miguel and find out if we need to skip town to avoid Uncle Sam! Leave that news station on in case they report something more useful than how Caroline’s farts smell like roses.”
The others exchanged a look. Andy opened his mouth, but closed it when the Wyn put a hand on his arm and spoke first.
“What’s our cover story for how we escaped? The truth won’t do if we want to stay free,” Wyn said.
Andy made a face and agreed.
They exchanged glances. Zita ran her hand over her half-dry hair, back and forth, as she thought. Andy rubbed the sides of his borrowed shorts while Wyn toyed with a strand of hair that had fallen free to tease the side of her face.
Zita offered, “The closer we stick to the truth, the less likely we are to mess it up or contradict evidence.” She curled her toes into the springy floor mat.
Closing his eyes, Andy began. “The men came to your room and threatened Wyn… Remus ran off from my room when this man threatened us with a gun. Something happened in the hallway and they died. We ran to the roof because…” He opened his eyes and contorted his face.
“Because we heard assault rifles,” Zita added.
Distracted for a moment, Wyn looked at the shorter woman. “How can you recognize guns like that? What have you been doing besides butchering your hair?” She curled the strand of hair around her finger and bit her lip. “While we were on the roof… the helicopter with Caroline flew overhead, and the avian creature picked us up and sped off. That’ll cover anyone who saw us on the roof or my hair.”
“What? Lots of people can identify basic gun types.” Zita shrugged. “Not bad, and as close to the truth as we want to get.”
Her face thoughtful, Wyn inclined her head. She tapped the remote against her leg. “It flew off and set us back down near here. Since this was the closest place, Zita used her hidden key. Guns are guns. There are big ones, bigger ones, and tanks. All guns can make you dead; it’s just an issue of splatter after a certain point.”
Zita nodded. “That’ll have to do. Say it was a park. This area has bunches. Hopefully nobody will ask where I keep my key.”
Andy’s tone was wary. “Why?”
“My spare key is buried in a pot on my balcony. Miguel would flip if he thought I was climbing to my balcony, even if I have done it before. And Wyn? Size matters, but your skill and the ammo you use in it are more important.”
The other woman giggled. “Oh, that’s true for guns too? Valuable information.”
“So not here,” Andy grumped.
Zita snickered. Her stomach growled. “Right, I’ll go scrounge up a meal before we do anything else.”
By mutual consent, they ate the stir-fry she served on mismatched plates with minimal conversation and the smaller television set to news.
Chapter 7
Her stomach full for the first time in weeks, Zita set her fork down by the sole piece of broccoli remaining from her third serving. Wyn nibbled at her first plate. Andy was pushing around the ruins of his second helping, with a small pile of bent forks and broken plates beside him and a conflicted face. If they didn’t have to run, local thrift shop owners would make money replacing her tableware. She began washing up.
Zita planned aloud. “Now, we need to be ready to run after Mamá gets the latest. Miguel will be all up in everyone’s faces trying to find out what’s going on, and he’ll tell her. He will report us as alive, but escaped. Everyone hit the toilets. The closet in the exercise room has empty gym bags you can use. Andy, pick out a couple of Quentin’s things to wear. Wyn, you can try my clothes but not much will fit you. My bedroom’s the first door on the right if you want to attempt it anyway. While my panic bag has basic gear, if we want my tent or anything else, we’ll need to grab it. It’s only a one-person tent, though, so we might be better off raiding my blankets. Take only what you can carry.”
“Why?” Wyn asked.
“I only have a motorcycle. The buses run nearby, and the metro’s a quick hike, a mile or two away. We can get lost in public transit while we figure out where to go. Hopefully, I can avoid turning into anything for the duration. It’s that or wait for Andy to get turned on by birdseed and carry us off.” Zita winked at him and grinned.
“Hey! That’s unfair! Probably,” he protested. He set his dish with exaggerated care on the counter. After poking at a clump of rice with her fork, Wyn emulated his action.
Zita glanced at the clock. “We could’ve walked here by now from the park. I can’t put off calling my mothe
r any longer. Are you ready to run for it if we need to?” The other two nodded.
Andy spoke. “Wait, your mom? I thought you were calling Miguel?”
Zita walked over and muted the television. “No. Harassing a sibling directly is for fun; involving your mother means things are serious. Plus, nobody knows when it’s time to cut and run like Mamá.”
Turning her back on them, she hit the shortcut on her phone. Andy gave an anxious laugh behind her; he had sisters after all. Given Wyn’s parents, she was lucky to exist; siblings would have been too much to ask. Wyn’s parents probably had accidental sex while blinded with pepper spray during one of their endless pickets.
“No soliciting,” were the accented words that greeted her.
She grinned. Some things never change. In Spanish, she said, “Mamá, it’s Zita. I’m safe for the moment.” For the illusion of privacy, she padded to the exercise room.
Her mother squealed. “Mija!” she said, “I am so pleased! We just got back from lighting the candles to pray for you! Were you hurt? Where are you?” Sound muffled as her mother put something over the mouthpiece and spoke in English. Although audible, the phone garbled her husband’s pleased-sounding reply.
“For now, I’m home, but I’m not going back into another government camp. Would you please talk to Miguel and get the latest news so I know how far and how fast to run?”
“Of course,” her mother replied. “Your go bag is ready, yes? And you have an escape route planned?”
Zita exhaled and leaned against a wall. “Yes, but I’ll have to take a less optimal route since I have a couple friends with me. Remember Dorcas and Andy from the hospital?”
“My name is Wyn now!” came the cry from the other room. So much for privacy. Wyn doesn’t speak Spanish, so she must’ve recognized her old name. If Zita’s guess was right, her bookshelves were enduring intense scrutiny while Wyn snooped. Andy was probably staring out the sliding glass door again.
“Of course, I will always remember the children! Such a sweet girl to have such crazy parents! Andy, I never knew such a skinny little boy could hold so much vomit. I thought I would never be done with the cleaning that day. I will pray for them as well.” Fondness gentled her mother’s tones.
“Dorrie goes by Wyn now, umm, Wyn Diamond, but yes, that’s them. They escaped with me. We got really lucky; none of us are hurt, but I need to put together go bags for them.” She was certain her mother could smell a lie, but the physical distance was hopefully enough to hide any omissions. Idly, she tidied up her videos and set the remote back into its usual position. The line was silent a moment. Zita reminded herself holding her breath was a tell, and she needed her mother’s support.
“Praise God! We were both so worried! I will use a text to tell you when to answer the phone or if you must run. Miguel will listen to me. It will be easier for him if we do not speak of your friends to him right away. He chases another of those nasty serial killers, and now this, so he will be unhappy, my poor boy.” After a slight pause, her mother intimated, “I don’t suppose you and Andy…”
Seriously? Now? Doesn’t she ever give up? One of my brothers had better distract her with grandchildren soon, since I’m pretty certain I can’t have any. Zita exhaled. “Ay, no. Way to put me off my food, not that I had much left. Quentin emptied out everything I have, almost.”
“Him, I will speak to as well. Now, you prepare for the running. I will see what your brothers can tell their poor old mother, who may not live to see her children married or hold her grandbabies.” Somehow, Mamá managed both imperious and pathetic. Zita’s stepfather laughed in the background, and she imagined her mother swatting at him.
“I love you, Mamá. Thanks, and I’ll watch my texts.” A hard knot settled in her stomach at the thought of living on the run, and what that would mean.
“Yes, I will. I love you too. You will be in my prayers. Try not to die.” With her customary farewell, her mother hung up.
Setting the phone down, Zita stood for a moment. With an abrupt turn, she strode over, and removed the jaunty pirate hat from the martial arts dummy. Her hands flew out in a comforting pattern and hit the dummy enough hits to bring up her heart rate and center her thoughts. After retrieving her stash of emergency cash from the small secret compartment in the plant shelf, she went to assist the others with their bags.
***
Zita tried to nap, but conceded defeat when her phone rang several times with her brothers' ringtones. She had taped a pair of maps up on the patio doors and was arguing with Andy about the direction to go when her phone beeped with a text an hour later. Her bag and his slumped near the door. Wyn poked at the duffle Zita had packed for her, her frown clearing at the sound. “Please tell me that says we can go home and go on with our normal lives. I have cats to support, and they have a pricey salmon habit!”
The too-familiar sensation overtook her while Wyn was speaking, and Zita barely had time to pull dainty black paws out of her clothing before it began again. She gasped for air, her mouth opening and closing as her tail flailed against the heap of clothing, propelling her onto the carpet. As she flopped onto her scaled side, her heart and mind raced in her aquatic form.
“Goddess! Zita, I’m so sorry! Andy, get a bucket of water!” Wyn wailed.
Seriously? Air, I need air so badly. I need to be human again with perfectly lovely lungs and arms to strangle my friend with! This time, she did not fight the change when it happened, and she found herself crouching on the floor as Andy raced back in with a large bucket. He made a sound curiously like an eep and marched back to the bathroom. Zita gave Wyn a dirty look as she tossed her clothing back on and scooped up the phone again. Reading the text message, Zita shook her head. “Miguel’s worked out a deal. Quentin will replace my groceries, too. That alone qualifies as a minor miracle.”
“Call him!” Wyn and Andy demanded.
Her face open and innocent, Zita baited them. “I’ll have to take inventory and make a grocery list before I call Quentin.” At the dirty looks the others gave her, she snickered. Suckers.
Wyn took a step toward her.
Zita held up a hand to forestall any actions. “Sí, sí, have patience, I’m going.” Flipping her cell phone open, she dialed.
Andy blinked. “They still make flip phones?” he asked.
Zita raised her eyebrows at him as she brought the phone to her ear.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said to her unspoken comment, as he wandered over to the patio doors and pretended not to listen. Wyn made no such pretense and leaned closer.
Miguel answered on the third ring. “Garcia—Zita, is that you? How are you? Where are you? Tell me what happened!” he demanded. A buzz of conversation came behind him. Not home, then, she thought.
With a quick switch to Spanish, she breezily brushed aside his questions. “That’s my name, last I checked. So how are things? Weather’s been interesting lately, don’t you think? If it stays this humid, mosquitoes won’t need puddles to breed. Speaking of procreation, have you found a serious girlfriend yet?” She stuck out her tongue at Wyn. She could at least act like she’s not listening, like Andy. Since she doesn’t speak Spanish, let’s see if I can do a two-for-one annoyance special.
“Where are you? Are you injured?” he tried again, dropping into Spanish as well.
Zita gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, you wouldn’t be this uptight if you were getting it regular, so I’m guessing not. That’s a shame, as Mamá isn’t getting any younger. She’d love grandbabies. As the responsible one in the family, I think you should find a boring Catholic girl and pump out nieces and nephews. Well, not pumping out, that might be counterproductive, but you get the idea. If not, Quentin can give you tips or instructional videos.” With interest, she noted he could growl and grind his teeth at the same time. She grinned.
Miguel complained, “Oh God, not you too! Can’t you ever be serious? Quit fooling around and answer!”
“I’m fine, thanks. So are the others.”<
br />
I don’t speak Spanish, came a slow, careful thought from Wyn, but you and Andy do. The meaning comes through. If that is your typical mode of interaction, I can see why your mother has to mediate.
“Who is with you? Are they a danger? Do you need the police? Where are you?”
She made another face at her friend, and plopped down, swinging both legs over the chair arm. Zita let her head fall backwards to look up at the ceiling. Of course, you can. How could I forget about the mental eavesdropping thing? Do you think I should paint my ceiling or leave it the boring white color? “Lighten up, Miguel. I told you I’m fine. They’re not a threat. If they’d been a hazard, Mamá would have had you send a SWAT team. So, what’s the deal with the quarantine? We’re not going back to see whether they can bore or starve us to death before more gun-toting apes shoot us.” Seams ripped as her form shifted again. Looking down, she cradled the cell phone in large, elongated hands, and wiggled black toes. Her chair creaked under her and she hopped to her feet, her clothing falling in tatters around her. Seriously? A gorilla? This has to get under control soon.
Andy shook his head and turned his back on her again.
Ignorant of her change, Miguel’s voice rattled out of the phone. Moving it awkwardly to accommodate her new hand dimensions, Zita held it closer to make out his words. “- didn’t tell me you had company! How many are there? Why did your group go haring off?”
Her form shimmered again, and the phone fell into the pile of fabric as Zita shrunk. She drummed a foot on the floor in frustration and swore mentally.
Aww, you make a really adorable little potty-mouthed brown bunny, Wyn sent. Can I boop your cute little snoot?
Shut up. Leave my nose alone or I’ll bite you. Her nose twitched and wiggled. Zita hopped over to the phone where Miguel was still issuing commands disguised as questions. My plants smell delicious. Wyn, can you help with him?
