Evolution

by Hope Anika

  Both held weapons aimed at her head.

  She would have to take them both, or she would get shot. Or Eva would get shot.

  Someone would get shot.

  Endorphins flooded her veins; the hand around Mr. Sparky shook. The roar of her blood was almost deafening. Behind her, Eva stood motionless.

  Waiting.

  “Out of the way,” the man closest to them growled. “Or I’ll go through you.”

  Wanda didn’t move.

  “You think you’ll stop us?” The man took a step closer. “You’re nothing to us. Meaningless.”

  Wanda let go of Eva, surged forward and slammed her fist into the man’s throat. It was a good hit, straight, strong, and he fell back. She darted toward the other man, fast, but her reach was short, and before she could get to him a gunshot sounded—boom!—and fire burned along her hip and she stumbled, surprised by the pain.

  He’d shot her—but she kept going, and before he could step away, she’d shoved Mr. Sparky into his thick neck and pulled the trigger. One hundred thousand volts shot into his carotid artery, and he dropped like a brick, his entire body seizing.

  A hand wound around her ankle and yanked, and she slammed to the floor. The man she’d punched hauled her closer, his fingers crushing her bones, his strength unstoppable. Wanda kicked him in the face with her free foot, and he grunted and grabbed that foot, too. She stopped fighting and instead rolled toward him, until she was close enough to slap the Taser against his chest and pull the trigger.

  The device vibrated violently in her hand; her own teeth chattered. She held on until the Taser was spent, and the man released his grip. A river of drool washed down his chin. Her hip pulsed with pain, and when she tried to scramble away, the floor was slippery with blood.

  Then cool, surprisingly strong hands gripped her shoulders. Eva.

  “I’ve got you,” the girl said, her voice steady. Calm. “We have to go. Can you walk?”

  Wanda would’ve crawled if necessary. She shoved herself to her feet and ignored the searing pain that shot from her hip, down her leg and up her spine. Blood seeped through her pants. In her hand, Mr. Sparky was hot.

  “The balcony,” she rasped. She shoved the Taser into her pocket and tried to swipe her bag off the floor, but as soon as she bent down, pain nearly sheered her in two. A cry broke from her throat, and Eva reached down and grabbed the bag, steadying her.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They burst out of the room onto the small balcony. The heat was like an unexpected slap, heavy and thick, and below them the city streets were busy with traffic and people. Eva leaned over the finely wrought black iron railing that framed the small space.

  “It’s just one floor to the next balcony,” she said and looked at Wanda. “Can you jump?”

  Blood slid down her leg. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A shout sounded from somewhere close.

  “Go,” Wanda told her.

  Eva climbed over the railing, as nimble and graceful as a monkey. She lowered herself until she was holding the bottom of the narrow rails, her legs dangling toward the balcony below them. Even hanging, it was a jump of nearly six feet, and she would have to swing inward and land inside the railing.

  Or fall to her death on the street below.

  “Be care—” Wanda began, but the girl was gone, dropping easily down onto the balcony.

  “Throw me the bags,” Eva said, and Wanda tossed down her bag and Eva’s pack.

  “Now you,” the girl said.

  Wanda’s hip throbbed; blood was pooling at her feet. Another shout; pounding feet closing in.

  No choice.

  And while Wanda didn’t consider herself particularly brave, she did want to live. So she climbed awkwardly over the railing, gripping the cold iron for dear life, and carefully lowered herself down. She swung her legs inward, tensed, and dropped. The concrete met her feet and punched through her; she would have fallen if Eva hadn’t been there to catch her.

  Tiny, delicate, twelve-year-old Eva, who was far stronger than Wanda would have ever expected.

  Still, she wasn’t complaining. She moved forward and checked the glass door that led into the room and found it locked. Eva solved that by picking up one of the stone planters on the balcony and throwing it though the door.

  But when the girl went to storm into the room, Wanda caught her jersey and pulled her back.

  “Wait,” she grated, her teeth clenched against the pain radiating from her wound like metal spikes being driven through her flesh. She stepped around Eva before the girl could argue and cautiously stepped into the room. It was empty.

  “Should we stay here?” Eva asked hesitantly, following.

  “No.” Wylie would never find them—if he was even looking—and the room was a trap with no escape route unless they wanted to climb down several more stories. “Come.”

  She pulled open the door and carefully peered out into the hallway, which looked much the same as the one on the floor they’d occupied. It was deserted, and at the end of the hall was a large metal door marked Exit.

  Stairs.

  Her hip screamed in protest, but Wanda had no desire to get trapped in an elevator. The stairs would take longer—and hurt a hell of a lot more—but they would be safer.

  “This way.”

  They hurried down the hall, Eva carrying the bags, Wanda painfully aware of the trail of bright red blood she was leaving. It was quiet, almost too quiet, but they made it down the hall and into the stairwell without running into anyone.

  “Down,” she said, and gripping the metal hand railing with white knuckles, she hopped and dragged herself down nearly three flights, while Eva silently followed. As they rounded the corner of the fourth floor, a door above them suddenly burst open, and a suited man leaned over the railing and spotted them. Another shout and then a stampede of footsteps, like a herd of cattle storming toward them.

  Wanda’s heart beat double time and she pulled open the door that led into yet another unremarkable hallway, and they fled down the corridor. She was limping badly, tears were leaking from her eyes, and she was getting lightheaded. Blood loss. And nauseated.

  But they couldn’t stop.

  She wished she had the gun Ash had offered. But no. She’d had to decline. The Taser, she’d assumed, would be all the defense she would ever need. But it was a close-range weapon—something Ash had pointed out and Wanda had brushed off—stupid! stupid!—and she was in no condition for anymore hand-to-hand combat.

  Which meant they were screwed. Totally screwed. They were going to get caught. Eva was going to get taken. And then—

  “Wanda!” Wylie’s voice knifed through her spinning thoughts, and she stumbled sideways and hit the wall. “Eva!”

  Relief washed through her like a drug; stars danced across her vision. She gripped the wall; her palms slid as she tried to hold herself upright.

  “Wanda’s been shot,” Eva said, and for the first time a wild edge rode her voice. “She’s bleeding, Wylie.”

  Wylie swore viciously, and Wanda flinched. Her knees were weak; her belly was churning. Sliding down the wall.

  She was going to be sick.

  Hard, strong hands suddenly gripped her waist, and a cry of pain tore from her. She jerked away, and Wylie swore again, and then suddenly a loud boom sounded. A yell—Hey!—and then he was pushing her back down against the wall, until she was sitting, her blood seeping into the fine, tight weave of the Berber carpet.

  Eva knelt beside her; a rush of cool air. Wanda blinked and looked up to see two men in black running down the hall, and Wylie...Wylie was walking toward them.

  “No,” she said and struggled to stand. “No.”

  But Eva grabbed her arm and held her down.

  “No,” she said again, angry.

  The first man lifted his gun, but Wylie didn’t stop.

  He couldn’t—

  Wylie grabbed the barrel in a blur of s
peed and turned it toward the man who held it. Then he fired twice. The man jerked; two large, gaping holes yawned in his chest. The second gunman fired, but Wylie caught the first man between them, a human shield that bucked and writhed beneath the sudden onslaught of bullets.

  And then, abruptly, silence. The gun clicked empty.

  Wylie grinned, a savage slash. He tossed the man he held aside as if he weighed nothing, and he strode toward the second man, who was reaching into his coat—

  Another weapon—

  But Wylie tore the smaller black gun from the man’s grip and slammed it into the man’s face, a violent blow that immediately ruptured the man’s nose. The guy stumbled back, but Wylie caught his tie, wrapped it in his fist, and pulled him in for another hit.

  “Did you fucking shoot her?” He smashed the gun into the man’s face again. “Did you?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he yanked the man toward him with the tie and again slammed the weapon into the man’s broken nose. Blood sprayed into the air.

  “You piece of shit.” He hit the man again “This is what happens to assholes who hunt little girls.” Another blow and crack, something broke in the man’s face. “Assholes who shoot innocent women.” Another hit; several teeth landed on the carpet. “You tell them this is what happens. You hear me?”

  Yet one more ruthless blow; the man sagged in Wylie’s hold, his face swelling hideously, morphing into an unrecognizable, bloated mass. Blood streamed from his nose, his mouth, a gaping cut above his left eye. Even his ear.

  Wylie hit him again.

  “He is done, mon ami,” a voice said flatly. Henri walked over to stand beside Wylie and stared down at the man dispassionately.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  For a long moment, Wylie didn’t move. Wanda’s heart beat so hard it hurt; ice slid through her veins. Blood pooled beneath her.

  Wylie looked down at the man he held, who was no longer conscious. Stared at him, studied his embattled face. Then he dropped him to the floor. The gun followed.

  When he turned to walk toward them, Wanda saw his face was spattered with blood.

  Beside her, Eva was silent.

  “Let’s go,” he said as he halted over them.

  Wanda could only stare at him as he leaned down and wrapped his hands around her upper arms. He gently lifted her up. She winced; blood rushed through her limbs and burned. Her knees gave way, and he swung her into his arms, high against his chest.

  Her brains shifted. She gripped his shirt in effort to steady herself. “There are more,” she said, her fingers curling into the pale blue cotton, digging into the hard flesh beneath. “In the stairwell.”

  “I’ve got this,” he muttered.

  A harsh, broken sound escaped her, and he looked down at her, lines bracketing his mouth, his cobalt eyes nearly black.

  “You left us,” she whispered.

  “You should have been safe,” he snarled.

  To her horror, a sob burst from her. “There is no safe.”

  He swore viciously, and she flinched.

  “Are you okay, Wanda?” Eva’s voice wavered, and Wanda looked over Wylie’s shoulder to meet the girl’s gaze.

  “Okay,” she said, nodding. “Yes, okay. No worries.”

  “This way,” Henri said.

  They moved through one of the doors lining the hall into another short hallway. Then another set of stairs, but these were wooden and steep, too narrow for public access, and going down them jarred Wanda’s wound. She swallowed against the nausea and tried desperately to not be sick. More white lights danced beneath her lids; pain squeezed her like a relentless steel vise.

  They escaped the stairwell into cool, muted darkness, and it took a moment to realize they were in a parking garage. Henri led them to a small, nondescript gray SUV with darkened windows and large, heavily treaded tires.

  “Take the left exit; you will come out onto Washington Avenue,” he said, pulling open the door to the back seat. “It is one way, leading to Huntington. Go right on Huntington. Three blocks down there is an on ramp to the interstate.”

  “There a first aid kit in here?” Wylie asked roughly.

  “In the back. There is also water, food, a spare tire, blankets and jumper cables.”

  “Thank you.” Wylie gave a curt nod. “How did they get in?”

  “The kitchen entrance.” Henri’s voice was cold. “It will be taken care of.”

  “Good.” Wylie set Wanda down carefully in the backseat, and she slid away from him, hissing; blood smeared across the leather seat. He leaned toward her as if to help, but she pulled away.

  “I’m fine,” she told him, pressing a hand against her hip, where the blood still leaked sluggishly from her wound.

  He stared at her; his eyes glittered.

  “You must go,” Henri said urgently. His hand clasped Wylie’s shoulder for a moment and squeezed. “Once you are out of town, you can stop and take care of her.”

  “I’m fine,” Wanda repeated. She felt muted again. Wrapped in cotton wool; a thick, fuzzy wall between her and the world.

  One she welcomed.

  Because she was bleeding—shot—and it hurt. How could something so small hurt so badly? And Wylie had left them. Left them. And then he’d shot someone. Dead. And then he’d beaten a man nearly to death. So much blood. And then—

  Darkness.

  *****

  “The Order of Rectification and Rebirth.

  Reverend RJ Kline, Founder

  Sermons Monday through Friday at 10:00 AM and 6:00 PM.

  Sunday Service at 9:00 AM.

  Leagues of the Order convene Saturdays at 8:00 PM.

  Turn north from Highway 89 onto County Road K. Follow the signs.

  All Are Welcome.

  Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account: Hebrews 4:13.”

  “Nondescript,” Ruslan said a chilled tone. “Other than the verse at the end, there is little in the way of ideology.”

  Which was true, in spite of the bright gold cross that blazed beside the subdued black text on the Order’s less-than-inspiring website.

  But then, perhaps that was the point.

  “Clandestine,” Ash pointed out.

  “Or merely artless.”

  She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. He was still mad—regardless of whether or not he would admit it.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” she pointed out mildly. “I can drop you somewhere dark and moody where you can brood. I’m sure we can find a dive bar on the way. Or maybe a pool hall.”

  That pale gaze turned to her, glittered.

  “A bowling alley?” she asked, blinking.

  He looked away, back at the stretch of highway. Heat waves danced in the distance; the desert surrounded them, sand and dust speared by sharp, jagged rocks the color of rust. Scrub brush and the occasional cactus spouted from the earth in stubborn testament to the sheer willfulness of life. The sun beat down mercilessly overhead, the sky pale, milky blue.

  The car was cool from the AC, silent but for the sound of the tires against the pavement. What little Ash had been able to uncover about the Reverend RJ Kline—presumably the same Reginald J. Kline who’d been Anson Grant’s one-time research partner—stared back at her from her laptop screen. It wasn’t much, and she’d found it only by feeding “reverend” and “Half Moon Bay” into the search engine.

  “Adam said he could protect Eva from the Makers, but not from the Reverend,” she said thoughtfully. “That means the men in black probably aren’t GenTek.”

  “We do not know that.”

  “And if that’s true, it was probably Kline watching Grant, not GenTek. And most likely Kline’s people who broke into Grant’s place and painted the symbols.”

  “You’re making presumptuous conclusions without a factual basis again,” Ruslan said, his tone so cold she was surprised th
e windows didn’t frost.

  “I’m following my gut,” she retorted. “Don’t you have a gut?”

  “It does not control me.”

  “Like your anger doesn’t control you?”

  He looked at her again, his eyes so pale they seemed translucent.

  “I didn’t mean to take anything from you,” she told him seriously.

  “You did not.”

  “Then why are you angry with me?”

  She waited for him to deny it—again—but instead he looked back at the road and said, “I did not expect to find answers.”

  And he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Does it scare you that you might?”

  “Nothing scares me.”

  A shiver whispered across her skin; so empty and flat and final. “That’s too bad.”

  She felt his gaze, but didn’t turn to meet it.

  “Why?” he asked, his voice oddly rough, as if the word had been torn from him.

  “Because fear means you have something to lose,” she said simply.

  He was silent, and for a moment, Ash felt a pang. She didn’t want to hurt him...but that was assuming he could be hurt.

  That he felt anything at all.

  “Adam said they were not the beginning,” he said. “That there were too many to count.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Everywhere.”

  His lashes flickered, but he said nothing.

  “You believe you could be one of them,” she said quietly. “Don’t you?”

  Another flicker. “Unlike you, I do not make presumptuous conclusions without a factual basis.”

  Oooooo. Burn!

  Silence. Outside, the desert flowed past, stark and unflinching and deadly to those unprepared for its searing embrace. A semi rolled by, making the Impala sway.

  “Well, in spite of your snark and overly-emotional nature, I’m going to help you out,” she said, silently cursing herself. Trying to comfort him again. So dumb. A man she still did not trust. “The answers exist. We just have to keep looking.”

  She felt his gaze, but didn’t look at him. It seemed...unwise. As if she already stood at the edge and looking into those glinting, silver-gray eyes would be the final, irretrievable step over.