by L. B. Carter
Honestly, it looked the same as the rest of the forest they’d been stomping pointlessly through—pines, balding birches, the brightly-colored clinging leaves of maples fluttering. Henley tried to pinpoint what might be out of place.
She peeled his hand off. “Gross. You haven’t washed these, remember? If I get some horrible virus from the T, I’m infecting you back.” The jibe was casual, but her pitch crept up, and she took a few deep breaths, stopping quickly when she began to hyperventilate.
He didn’t respond, which wasn’t unusual. What did send Henley’s panic flaring was that with her breathing quiet again, she heard a far-off hiss. A snake away in the trees? More worrisome, Buster had broken into a jog again—toward the source. Multiple times in one day, he’d proven himself capable of physical exertion. He needed a medal.
Crashing through the organic litter on the soil bed, it took Henley several minutes’ chase before she could truly distinguish the hiss. It wasn’t one belonging to a snake, as that would be limited by the animal’s lung capacity and thus more inconsistent than this one, and likely her movement toward it would incite the predator to switch tactics. This was an unending noise that increased in volume the closer they got like the whine of the tiny old radiator in the far corner of Henley’s lab.
She had always thought that ironic in a laboratory boasting the most advanced technology—that in the treacherous northeast winter, the students had to hope their project required welding or a furnace in order to keep warm.
She needed to ask Jen why the winters hadn’t stopped being so extreme, given the planet’s heightened global temperatures. Henley’s science knowledge was limited in terms of atmospheric and climatic feedback mechanisms.
“Jen!”
Buster’s frantic shout added a burst to Henley’s speed though her system was functioning on low oxygen levels with her incompetent panting. She should also get a medal. They could give one to each other.
Clearing the trees, Henley burst onto the side of an empty road, the bright white of the coated tarmac blinding her. Henley raised her arm to shield her eyes, blinking quickly to try to adjust her pupils to the exposure. Where did the Bus go?
“Henley.”
She turned at his voice and blindly stumbled until she ran into something solid. It was too solid to be Buster. Her arm lowered warily, feeling it up, then prying her lids open in small degrees. Pressing into her stomach was the wing-mirror of their stolen car.
The front was crumpled like a rejected blueprint against the trunk of a tree, the radiator hissing angrily at its fate, a plume of smoke with noxious fumes billowing up from under the hood.
And to her right, Buster was leaned over the broken window of the driver door where a figure with long platinum hair was slumped, unmoving.
◆◆◆
“Jen!” Henley also shouted as though the girl was simply ignoring Buster’s first call out of petulance. Henley darted next to Buster, pushing up against his side, trying to see Jen’s face.
The airbag had gone off, at least, the deflated white fabric hiding Jen’s lap and legs. White powder coated much of the old dash. Jen’s head was dropped forward, and a few drops of red dotted the airbag beneath the curtain of hair.
Henley slid her arms in the broken window next to his, uncaring when her forearm caught on more glass pricks—she would already have to see to her stomach wounds, and hers were likely pittances next to whatever injuries Jen had sustained in the crash. She gently slid her hands into the soft hair to cradle and lift Jen’s head.
“Don’t.”
“The head is the heaviest part of the body. If she sustained any neck torsion during impact, we need to stabilize her spine.”
“Yeah, but moving her might misalign something broken.”
Henley resisted her need to see and instead moved to his other side, grasping the door handle.
“It’s jammed,” he informed her unnecessarily as she jerked, using all her body weight while the door remained resolutely in place.
“Is she even breathing?” Henley demanded, wildly.
“Yes.” He hunched further, his shoulders moving under his clothes with his ministrations, whatever they were.
Henley’s good hand went to her hair and began twisting as she paced back and forth behind Buster. She couldn’t see what he was doing around his bulk. He really was a massive guy for never eating much nor going to the gym—that she knew of. Henley could not really refute that one without having been present to confirm. “What are you doing? We need to get her out of there.”
Henley took her antsy legs over to the front of the car, inspecting what she could see of the engine from under the folded hood. The hissing continued, reminding her of the times she listened to rain or waterfall recordings through her headphones while working to drown out the goofing off of her peers on Friday afternoons when their attention flagged. Weekends were her favorite time to get work done as most traipsed off to the indoor pool or cafeteria or crowded in someone’s dorm room with drinks and video games altered to be nearly impossible to beat by the computer fanatics—the Bus’s lab-mates.
Henley experienced a Eureka moment except this one came with a slash of dread. She dodged around Buster to the back door and dropped down to look under the car, wincing when her wounds met the pavement. “I can’t tell if the gas line has been punctured.” She wedged a little further underneath, hoping her sight would acclimate to the darkness better. “I—”
Buster gave Henley an almighty kick to the ribs.
She yelped in pain and rolled away instinctively, further under the chassis. “Hey! What the—”
“Shh.”
Henley’s temper shot up, matching the heat radiating off the car’s undercarriage.
“Stay hidden,” Buster whispered, his ‘s’ sliding neatly off the destroyed vehicle’s whistle.
There was grunting, and Henley twisted her head around to watch the Bus’s big boots clomp around the car. Why wasn’t he hiding? Jen’s pair of jeans-clad legs appeared in view, dropping with a clap of soles to the ground from the car window above Henley’s hiding spot. They began to drag around the front of the car, Buster’s feet preceding them as he pulled her limp body backward with him. She thought he said not to move her. Where was he taki—?
“Hey!”
Henley froze in her shuffle toward the light. Though male, that voice wasn’t Buster’s. It was missing his distinctive deep gruffness, not rumbling through her chest like his did.
“Stop!”
◆◆◆
Henley slithered into the dark, away from the voice. She wiggled, shuffling her prone form sideways, away from the road, toward the grass at the other edge of the car and the woods beyond, in the direction he’d carted Jen.
Crashing sounded in the woods behind her. Buster was running without her? No; the volume was increasing, heading toward their car.
“Oi! Don’t move.”
The crinkling and smashing of forest debris was replaced with heavy breathing.
A second male? She squeezed her eyes shut. Two on two, with Jen excluded, and they were surrounded. Jen had almost gotten away. They’d almost gotten away. The second newcomer had come through the woods on the other side of the car, trapping Henley between. He had chased them through their shortcut or long-cut, whichever Buster had intended. Henley felt momentarily righteous for trying to be stealthy.
“We’re friends, you dumbass!” the second voice called.
Buster was anything except dumb. The insult would just roll off his hard exterior anyway.
Something hot dripped onto Henley’s shoulder blade and she swallowed a cry.
A moment later, a pair of shoes beneath jeans appeared next to her head. They were closing in. She halted her breath though the hiss was probably loud enough to mask that noise.
“Buster, stop!”
Henley had no idea if Buster followed the order, but she certainly froze at the identity of a third person. Her breath recommenced with a rush. The nois
ome aroma of gasoline filled her nostrils. The car was leaking as she’d ruefully anticipated.
“You’re going to hurt her more. We can talk. Just stop.” Henley assumed Buster finally did because Sirena added, “Thank you.”
One of the guys chuckled. “You begging people to talk is pretty ironic, Rena.”
Even without the statement proving that they were familiar with Sirena, Henley felt a little kinship at his use of the word ironic.
Then again, there was a probability Sirena knew them from BSTU, and she was being threatened into drawing out her fellow escapees. Henley halted her scuffle toward the road, distressed and indecisive, frustrated tears clogging the back of her throat. She was going to get rub-marks on top of her stab wounds if she didn’t make up her mind, but there was no clear correct answer.
“Are they with BSTU?”
Henley kept her gaze on the unknown feet that took a step back, affording her a broader view of jeans-clad shins. The guy was tall though, granted, her angle was skewed. Buster would be a skyscraper from her point of view.
“No, we’re not with BSTU,” the first one said in soothing tones.
“I’m not asking you.” It was a rare experience when Buster’s poor interpersonal skills were justified.
“No, they’re not with BSTU,” Sirena repeated.
“Who are they? Why are they chasing us?” Buster was almost in Henley’s brain.
That was useful as hers was starting to fade in and out a bit. Was she bleeding more than she thought? It was reasonable that she would feel the pain more as her adrenaline faded. Hypothetically, the shock of the drama might also be catching up to her senses.
“They’re not chasing us. Well, only by consequence. They were chasing me.”
“But they’re not from BSTU.” His voice was flat.
“No.”
“Who else would be chasing you?” He demanded when she paused.
“Look, they’re not BSTU, so they’re not a threat. They don’t even want you, so they’re super not a threat to you. Can we focus on getting Jen help first, and we can talk later?”
There was a heavy pause. Henley listened to the car wail airily, and to her inhales and a soft drip, drip, drip. The gas line.
Henley finally threw out her other hypotheses, deducing it was the odor that was making her feel weak and faint. She could no longer wait for Buster to decide whether to stay or flee. She had no choice but to trust Sirena even though she was semi-human and had grown up in a lab—even if they weren’t BSTU; Sirena’s intuition was undoubtedly impaired.
She rolled, choosing to avoid sliding further on her tender skin through the thin, borrowed sweatshirt, popping up right next to Buster, facing the first theoretical non-enemy in jeans next to Sirena, then twisting sideways to catch the second guy, standing on the edge of the woods, in her periphery as well.
The Bus didn’t so much as flinch. He was quite aware of most things going on even if he appeared narrow-minded.
Both guys jolted back, on the other hand, and Sirena gave a startled inhale.
“Who are you?” exclaimed the guy whose shoes Henley had inspected.
Henley was increasingly convinced they weren’t after her.
She decided to address the more important thing, dropping out of their line of sight again to administer to Jen. Henley’s swimming head would have sent her to the ground in any case if she remained standing.
Jen was sprawled on her back at Buster’s feet, which seemed much more substantial than the other guy’s—a second, heavy and unmoving barrier between Jen and the guys, keeping the hurt girl pinned, bracketed by Buster and the wreck. The Bus was perhaps more sturdy than the car, which was obviously malleable against a tree. He did seem like an ancient massive conifer, rooted to his spot. He was prickly as well.
“She okay?” the more serious guy asked from the tree-line, pulling Henley from her reflections on a Buster analogy.
Jen’s chest was rising and falling, her eyes shut. Blood tracks trailed down her lips and chin. Her limbs all appeared straight and correctly angled.
“Broken nose?” the guy asked, having come up the bank to check when Henley didn’t answer. “Airbags pack a punch.”
“Stay back,” Buster snarled. He wasn’t as easily brought round.
The tree metaphor really was quite fitting, Henley applauded herself.
“Hey, man, relax. I’m medically trained. I can check for serious injuries.”
“Let him,” Sirena pleaded. “These guys know what they’re doing.”
Henley looked up, barely able to see Buster’s glasses glance down at her crouched at Jen’s head. “I never took much biology. Jen would be my go-to.” Henley shrugged, leaving it up to him as the world continued to wobble, the gasoline smell snared in her nose.
They were in a difficult and dangerous position. Sirena’s guys hadn’t done anything yet, and her crew were handicapped with one of their group incapacitated and another in the guys’ hands. However, that didn’t mean the two wouldn’t attack the crew once they had all of them within range.
“Either way, we need to move away from the vehicle. The gas line has been ruptured,” Henley informed them with urgency.
“Shit,” the guy said, eyeing the car like it was actually a hissing snake. “Let me check her before you move her.”
“Little late for that.” The younger guy pointed out the obvious.
“Move her further,” the tall guy said with pursed lips. They were a little like Henley and Buster with their banter.
Buster hadn’t moved, eyes fixed, watching Henley. Finally, he took one big step to the side without looking away. “If you do anything—”
“We won’t,” the more distal guy said as the tall one swooped in to inspect Jen.
The one crouching next to Henley had cropped dark hair, and his green eyes assessed Henley’s companion with an intensity that reminded her of Buster or, perhaps, herself when working on a particularly antagonistic piece of tech.
“Not broken,” he reported then glanced up at the other guy. “Kinda looks like when Rena—”
“Yeah, yeah.” The other guy scowled. He had similar colored hair though his was longer and messy. His eyes were blue like the Atlantic that morning. He reached up to touch his small up-turned nose self-consciously while Sirena blushed next to him. He shot her a scowl that dissolved into a grin.
They were comfortable together. Sirena hadn’t been lying.
“From where do you know each other?” Henley asked the guy running his hands over Jen’s unconscious body. He did it so professionally and seriously, Henley didn’t bristle in the slightest.
“Rena? We lived in the same tiny-ass podunk town for a little while.”
“Until Jen kidnapped me back,” Sirena added, darkly.
The guy next to Henley, who had been pulling up Jen’s eye lids and staring into each pupil, sat back on his haunches and threw over his shoulder, “We were kidnapping you when she interrupted, you’ll remember. You were leaving that place one way or another. And I seem to recall it wasn’t full of fond memories for you either.”
Sirena looked away, lips pinched together.
“Are you done?” Buster interrupted, startling Henley.
She had been too focused on analyzing the trio who’d discovered them tending to Jen.
“Yeah. She’ll be okay, I think. Bruising most likely. We should get her somewhere more comfortable though.” The squatting guy glanced up at Buster, waiting for approval.
“Back to the motel?” Henley suggested.
He swung his green eyes on her. “I’m not sure—”
“We can’t go back,” Buster told her.
The guy pushed to a stand, facing Buster with Jen between them. “While I agree—the mess someone left behind will be suspicious at this point—”
“Hey!” the guy next to Sirena defended.
“—I am curious if your reasoning is the same. You seem a little shady there, man. Out of all of us.”
Henley also stood. “We can each explain who we are and our stories once we get Jen situated. Where should we go if not back to the hotel?”
“We have to be at a certain location in—” Buster checked his watch. “—sixteen hours. We need to drive.”
“Well, we’re not getting far in this,” Henley gestured at the car that would never make it back to its owners now. Crime number twelve if she’d counted correctly: destruction of personal property. Well, she’d already accomplished that with the phone—
“How did you find us?” Henley stepped up to the tall guy, getting right in his face so she could watch for pupil dilation. “Tell the truth, and tell it fast.”
His brows had gone even higher as he looked down his chest at her. “Or what?” He smiled and winked. “Feisty.”
“She can punch,” Buster warned on Henley’s behalf like an announcer riling up a crowd about an unbeatable wrestler.
Twelve misdeeds practically made her a hardened criminal. She squinted, waiting to see if he’d be wise.
“Ah.” The guy nodded. “Then I see why you bonded with this one, eh, Rena.”
“Answer the question,” Henley ground out through her teeth, her nerves and synapses all firing in fear and anxiety.
“Her punches are strong,” Buster warned, almost mastering camaraderie.
Green eyes settled on hers. “Easy. The necklace.”
“What?” The reaction came from Sirena. The answer had been too unexpected for Henley to formulate a response.
The guy looked up over Henley’s head and across the car roof. “Your necklace. It has an emergency tracker. It was only activated a few hours ago. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have had to be in that bitch-ass town at all. No offense, Rena.”
“Can anyone—Will anyone else track it?” Henley changed her interjection to be more direct. They could make fun of her all they wanted for her endless inquiry—later. It was imperative they get an answer now.
The guy shrugged. “Just Father.” He sounded unconcerned.