by Cast, P. C.
“Yeah, it’s buried so no one knows the retired biology teacher and coach is filthy rich,” Tate added.
“Yep, yep, yep. I realized years ago, when they discovered oil on my land, that folks act stupid when they find out you have money. So I decided way back when that folks just don’t need to find out.”
“I’ll tell her, G-pa. When the time is right,” Tate said.
“You know when’s the right time to tell the truth?” G-pa asked.
“When?”
“Always, boy.”
“I hear ya, G-pa.” Tate sighed heavily. “Want to know the whole truth?”
“’Course.”
“What I want more than anything is to figure out exactly what caused those tornadoes and how to stop it from happening again. Did you find out anything for me?” Tate neatly changed the subject to a stranger, though more comfortable one.
“I did! Well, first I found out that I hadn’t completely forgotten the biology I taught too many years ago for me to admit. Guess the old dog still has it.” G-pa chuckled.
“G-pa, of course you still know your stuff. You taught for, like, six decades.”
“Well, not quite, but it sure felt like it. There’s nothin’ like high school kids to keep you feelin’ young while they’re really makin’ ya old. I have a theory that teenagers are really energy vampires, but we’ll discuss that another time.” G-pa paused. “Where the hell was I?”
“You said you found something—something about what was done to us?” Tate prompted.
“Yes and no. Those equations you read to me—they’re really somethin’. Lucky I still know my way around the Texas A&M MSL.”
“MSL?”
“Medical Science Library, boy,” G-pa muttered. “Get with the program. It’s also lucky I know my way around the Dewey Decimal System and can research by looking through actual books and journals instead of the goddamned internetathon.”
“G-pa, you know it’s really not called that, right?”
“Don’t make one lick of difference what it’s called, especially when the damn thing doesn’t work for shit.”
“It’s bad down there in Galveston, too?” Tate said.
“The weather is crazy as a bedbug, especially the wind. Keeps knocking out cell towers and what the hell ever makes the internetathon work. And I’ve never seen the waves in the Gulf look like they do now. Do you know they’re drawing surfers? Actual professional surfers! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Nope, G-pa, I haven’t.” When his g-pa didn’t continue, Tate nudged, “Um, you were talking about not using the Internet and finding stuff out anyway?”
“Yep, yep, that’s the truth. Good thing I’m used to picking shit with the chickens. I can research without it.”
“What did you find?”
“Doctor Stewart might be evil, but he’s undeniably brilliant,” G-pa said.
“Yeah, that’s what Foster keeps saying.”
“Well, the girl’s right. Tate, you might need to sit down for this.”
“G-pa, I’m in an old-timey phone booth. The best I can do is lean against the side of it.”
“Then lean, boy, and listen up. I believe you and Foster and the rest of those kids were altered on a genetic level. I can’t figure out the whole thing—wish I’d finished my damn doctorate. I might know more. But, from what I can piece together, during the gastrulation phase of in vitro fertilization Stewart inserted organic material directly into your cells and then he used gamma rays to irradiate that material and your cells.”
“Gastrulation, that’s the early phase of an embryo, when it’s still a blastula. When a bunch of important stuff happens, right?” Tate focused on accessing the science file in his brain, rather than panicking about what had been done to him.
“Yes, boy. Very important, as in setting a foundation for who or what the embryo becomes. My working hypothesis is that your DNA has been joined with organic material and altered.”
“I’m trying not to freak out here, G-pa.”
“Does it help if I compare you to Peter Parker?”
“Don’t kid around. This isn’t science fiction. This is science fact—fact that happened to Foster and me and probably six other kids,” Tate said.
“I’m not kidding around, Tate. Listen, I think the only place we can find clues about what was done to you is in science fiction. At one time flying machines and submarines and anything resembling the internetathon were the stuff of sci-fi. Sometimes reality takes a while to catch up with fiction.” G-pa’s voice gentled, “Hey, you did name your place the Fortress of Sauvietude. Seems to make sense that you’re actually a superhero.”
“G-pa, I’m eighteen. I’m nothing but scared and alone.”
“Boy, don’t you ever say that! Don’t even think it. You have me. You’ll always have me. Foster’s there for you, too. She’s in this with you, as are six other young people. You can be scared, but you’ll never be alone. I give you my word on that,” G-pa finished firmly.
“You’re right. Sorry, G-pa.”
“Not one damn thing to be sorry about. I’m proud of you, son. Real proud of how you’re handling this.”
Tate had to fight back tears. “Thanks, G-pa. I—I wish you were here with us!”
“Yep, yep, yep—me too. But I need to be here for the time being. I gotta keep researching. If I can figure out exactly what he did to each of you, it might help you learn to control your powers. Or at least you can figure out the extent of your powers. For instance, I believe the organic material he irradiated and joined with your and Foster’s DNA is basically O-two.”
“Oxygen!”
“Yep. Good ol’ air. And the organic material he joined to the next two is hydrogen with oxygen.”
“Water!”
“Exactly.”
“So, what Foster and I thought might be the truth, really is the truth! The next two kids will be bonded to the element water!” Tate felt a rush of excitement.
“As far as I can tell.”
“G-pa! I wonder if the crazy waves going on down there by you have anything to do with the next two kids being bonded to water?”
“Well, before the football game there certainly was an increase in tornado activity—and that increase has remained the only consistent thing about this damn weather, so I’m thinkin’ you could be right, son.” The old man paused and added, “And if you’re right, it’s going to be damn awful when we get to the kids bonded to fire.”
“Which is why we need all the information we can get ASAP,” Tate said. “Foster and I think we’ve figured out a code Stewart used for the state where each kid was born.”
“Good! Keep at that. It’ll be easier if we can narrow it down by even a little where the kids might be,” said G-pa. “I’m goin’ back to the MSL every day and doin’ more research. And every day I’m deciphering Stewart’s formulas a little—but honestly, Tate, when I say a little that’s exactly what I mean. It’s like trying to learn a language without a Rosetta Stone.” He paused before adding, “Are you certain you don’t want me to take this to one of the genetics professors? They’re a lot better at this than I am.”
“No, G-pa! You promised to keep this to yourself!”
“Hey, don’t get your feathers ruffled. I always keep my word, and if you say no outside help, then that’s that. I was just double checkin’.”
“Cora told Foster we had to stay off the grid. G-pa, Cora even had fake identity papers made for me and Foster. She changed our last names and everything. Foster totally trusted Cora, and Cora was married to Stewart, so she knew the guy better than anyone, and if she was this scared I have to agree with her. We’re in danger and we need to lay low.”
“Okay, boy. I get it. Lockin’ my mouth and throwin’ away the key.” G-pa cleared his throat before continuing, “Got somethin’ else to tell you. It’s good and bad news.”
“How about the good first?”
“I’m pretty certain no one outside Stewart and his fo
ur goons are going to be lookin’ for you,” G-pa said.
“That is good, but why would you say that?” Tate said.
“That brings me to the bad. Son, you’ve been declared dead.”
Tate didn’t say anything for several breaths. It was tough for him to think past the sudden humming in his ears. Finally, after clearing his throat much as his g-pa had just done, he managed to say, “How? I’m alive.”
“The official story I got from the cop who notified me is that your remains were identified through your dental records.”
“But that’s impossible. I’m standing right here.”
“Yep, yep, yep—which is why I asked a lot of questions. What I found out is that your dental records from Dr. Theobald’s small-town dental office were all computerized. And because it’s a little mom-and-pop office they don’t have much security. Even to an old dog like me it seems that it’d be damn easy for one of those computer geeks to hack into your records and make some changes. And it stands to reason that a mad scientist would have access to a computer geek.”
“So I’m seriously legally dead?” Tate couldn’t seem to wrap his brain around the idea.
“Legally, officially, and seriously. They even shipped what they called your remains to the cemetery here where I put your mama and daddy to rest. I pretend buried you beside them.”
Tate had to clear his throat again, but still his voice broke. “Thanks, G-pa. That musta been awful for you.”
“Nah, it wasn’t bad. Thanks to you findin’ a pay phone I knew you were just fine. It was a lot different burying my little girl and your daddy.”
Neither man said anything for a little while. They just listened to the very alive sound of each other’s breath. Finally Tate made himself speak. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you, G-pa. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that by yourself.”
“A parent should never bury a child. It’s not the way nature intended. I wish you’d been here, too, son, but it would’ve put you in danger, and I don’t believe I’d survive really burying you, too.”
“I promise you won’t have to, G-pa. And you won’t be alone, either. I’ll keep calling, just like I have been, and when we get this mess figured out we’ll be together,” Tate continued, lifting his voice because he hated the sadness that had crept into his g-pa’s tone. “Hey, you’d really like it up here. It’s super green and there’re lots of plants and stuff—biology is practically everywhere you look.”
“How’re you outfitted for dogs? You know I don’t go anywhere without my Bugs-a-Million.”
Tate grinned. Bugs-a-Million was G-pa’s enormous, shaggy Irish wolfhound who was attached to him at the hip. “Strawberry Fields is about twenty-five acres. Perfect for Bugsy. Hey, G-pa, what number is this one?” G-pa always had an Irish wolfhound, and he always named her Bugs-a-Million, after his favorite bookstore that had been letting him bring the giant canines into their store for more years than Tate had been alive.
“This is Bugs-a-Million number five, and I do believe she’s the smartest one yet. Just weighed her yesterday and she’s comin’ in at a slim one hundred thirty-five.”
“G-pa, that’s not a dog. That’s a person.” Tate laughed.
“Nope. Dogs are always better than people.”
“I’m not gonna argue that, G-pa. Hey, I gotta go. If I’m gone too long Foster will worry.”
“Boy, you gotta tell her the truth,” G-pa said.
“I hear you, G-pa. I will. I’ll call you again as soon as I can. Love you.”
“Love you, too, son. Stay safe. Promise?”
“Absolutely.”
15
TATE
“Foster? I’m back from the store! Hey, I stopped at that Bella Organic winery place on the way back and got a major haul of those little flying saucer–looking squash things you like so much. If you cook them in that coconut oil and salt concoction that makes them so good, I’ll light the grill and slap on that plank of salmon I found at the grocery, and I’ll bet I can find some ripe tomatoes and peppers in the garden, too.” Tate paused as he put away the last of the perishables in the fridge to peer back through the kitchen and down the hallway. “Foster!” he shouted.
Is she in the Batcave? Even then she usually comes running when I get home from the store. Not for me, of course, but for food. Foster does love her luncheon, which is what she calls every single meal. At first Tate thought that was weird. Now he thought it was cute, and he was starting to call breakfast “first luncheon.”
When there was still no sound from Foster, worry began to niggle at Tate’s mind. Ignoring the stuff that wouldn’t go bad if it was left out, he started toward the hallway, but a movement outside the breakfast nook window caught his attention. Tate stopped to move aside the lacy half curtain and his breath hitched as he caught sight of Foster.
She was in the back pasture—the one behind the house that adjoined the little creek they’d discovered running through the rear of the property. Foster was standing in front of what looked like a wall of willows. Her arms were raised as if she was a conductor. The trees were her symphony. And they were playing beautiful air music for her.
Tate hurried out the back door, crossed the porch, and skipped all the stairs. He sprinted to the back pasture gate, which he climbed quietly and easily. Then he slowed so that he didn’t startle Foster, under the pretense of not wanting her hands to blast him with another air cannon. But the truth was closer to his heart. Tate liked watching her, especially when she was air weaving.
That’s what Foster had started calling what she was doing with air. They both realized that they could see air currents. It was crazy, but there were highways of different currents of air all around and in the sky above. When he and Foster concentrated and called to their element, they became visible. Sorta.
Tate drew a deep breath and with that breath he began to think about air … wind … breezes …
And it happened! Suddenly he could see more than Foster moving her hands like a graceful maestro while the long, veil-like branches followed her, mimicked her. He could see the shimmering thermals of currents that flowed up, down, and around the trees, Foster, the waving grasses—the entire world.
Tate breathed deeply again. “Air.” He said the word softly, reverently, like a small, secret prayer and a slight ribbon of glistening current shifted direction and sweetly came to him, bringing with it Foster’s voice.
She was singing! Well, no. More accurately Foster was humming and air was moving the wall of willow branches in time to her song. What he could catch of the melody was familiar, and Tate was trying to place the song when Foster started trilling,
“Tweetly-tweetly-dee, tweetly-dee-dee!
Tweetly-tweetly-dee, tweetly-dee-dee!”
Tate’s eyes widened and he held his breath as he listened. Her voice was sweet and strong and filled with a lightness he’d never heard in her words before. Man, Foster can sing!
She played around with the melody that Tate was still trying to place as air followed her direction. And then Foster started singing. Softly, at first.
“He rocks in the treetops all day long
Hoppin and a-boppin’ and singing his song
All the little birdies on Jaybird Street
Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet!”
Holy crap! Foster’s singing a Jackson 5 song!
As she got more and more into the song Foster began to dance, making sliding steps left and right in time to the words. Magically, magnificently, the boughs of the willows whispered the chorus with her.
“Rockin’ robin, rock rock
Rockin’ robin
Blow rockin’ robin
’Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”
Foster’s strong, beautiful voice grew more and more confident as she danced and sang with wind and willows.
Tate thought she was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. He said a silent thank-you to his g-ma (God rest her) for being a Motown fan—and to his
g-pa for forcing him to take dorky swing dance lessons when all he’d wanted to do was play football. But G-pa had told him as a young boy that in order to properly woo a woman—seriously his G-pa used words like woo—he had to learn to dance. And as the old man had said, Really dance—not that air-humping crap that passes as dance moves today.
So, Tate wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, took a deep breath—and then, trying to channel the suaveness for which G-pa claimed to be famous, Tate started walking to Foster while he harmonized with her on the next verse.
“Every little swallow, every chick-a-dee
Every little bird in the tall oak tree…”
Foster’s breath hitched and her song sputtered as she whirled around to face him, her face blazing red, but Tate just grinned and held out one hand to her. “Come on! Dance with me!”
She stared at his hand as the air seemed to hold its breath.
“Unless you’re worried about what other people—like me—think of you,” he said with a sly smile.
“Not for one second!” She took his hand and sang loud and strong.
“… The wise old owl, the big black crow
Flappin’ their wings singing go bird go!”
Tate picked up the beat easily. Of course he knew the old song, but it was more than that. As he spun Foster around, the air filled with her song and it seemed the leaves of the surrounding trees caught, held, and then began playing the melody with them.
Foster’s green eyes widened and he held her close, leading her in a swing so perfect he could almost see his G-pa’s nod of approval.
“Can you hear that?” she whispered.
“Yeah! Keep singing!” Tate twirled her around as he sang the chorus again with her.
“Rockin’ robin, rock rock!
Rockin’ robin
Blow rockin’ robin
’Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”
The air around them was filled with music. It was like someone had plugged nature into one of those electric keyboards that could make a zillion different musical sounds—only it wasn’t electric—it wasn’t man-made at all—it was their element, air, playing around them.