Camila grabbed the T-shirt from Travis, offered him a pathetic smile, and shuffled to the bathroom. Once inside she locked the door and slumped against the wall. She felt sucker-punched. First her mother went missing, then she got slammed by Lizzy, and now she had to pay for her extra T-shirt. She'd have to work nine hours with a fist of worry clenched around her stomach. She sat on the toilet and stared at the floor. A few dead flies lay on the peeling linoleum tile. Camila felt like one of those fly carcasses: broken, lifeless, and looking for hope that would never come.
Wednesday 3:43 p.m.
Travis leaned on his elbows and waggled his eyebrows up and down at Camila. “Season three of X-Files is by far the best. Mulder really hits his stride, man. And Scully’s bangs quit being so,” he tugged at his hair, “poufy.”
Camila giggled. “Definitely less pouf, but season four has that awesome episode with the genetic inbred farm mutants.” Oh God, did she hear herself? Back in high school this conversation would’ve been social suicide.
“True, true,” Travis said, shaking out a handful of chocolate chips from the container and tossing them into his mouth. “That was a dope episode.”
She tried to continue, but she was too worried. Pulling out her cracked cellphone, she stared at the screen. No calls. Mama had been missing for over five hours. She should leave work and look, but then she'd lose her job. Besides, Mama had taken off tons of times and always returned home. But what if she was out shopping? Maybe she should call Ms. K again to see—
“Customer!” Fer yelled, hopping off her stool.
“What d'you want?” she asked the pre-teen girl eying the menu.
“A slushy,” the girl lisped, tapping a finger to her braces in thought. “Blue Raspberry.”
Camila reached for a Styrofoam cup. “I’ll get it.”
“I got this one,” Fer said. Help a homie out and take out the trash, will ya?”
“Sure.” At least that she couldn’t mess up.
The sun baked her hair as she strode out onto the blacktop out front. The trash barrel smelled like a dead animal in the hot sun. Camila breathed through her mouth as she pulled off the dome lid. Five goopy bowls spilled out onto the pavement. A splash of something red splattered her shoe. Two teenage skater boys, sitting on the picnic table with boards in their laps, snickered at her misfortune. She shot them a dirty look, picked up the bowls and shoved them into the black bag. Then she hoisted the trash over her shoulder and shuffled to the back.
A man stepped out of the shadow.
Camila jumped back.
The guy from the dumpster. His arms and legs were a mess of dirt and scratches. He was shirtless and the skin on his sculpted body was raw and red. His expression? Terrified.
“Oh my God, what happened?” she asked, dropping her trash bag. His jaw was tight, his eyes hollow. She stepped back, her hands starting to tremble. “Are you hurt?”
Finally his voice broke from his throat, a cracked whisper. “I didn’t know where else to go. Someone attached me.” He looked down at his trembling hands. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.” He swiveled to go.
“Wait!” She held her hands out as if that could stop him. What was she doing? She shouldn’t be talking to a strange, shirtless guy. But, he looked absolutely terrified. How many times had she faced her terrors alone?
She had to think quick or he'd bolt again. She slipped both hands around her body and lifted the baggy work shirt off her head. Clad only in a thin white tank top, she held her T-shirt out to him.
“Here,” she said. His eyes were so deep, so brown, she could fall into them. “Take it.”
He took a step toward her. She looked into his face, the strong chin covered with a few days’ worth of stubble, the way his sorrowful eyes watched her like she was a falling star and he was making a wish. She could smell his earthen scent beneath the dirt. Heat ran up her arm as his hand closed around the T-shirt.
He lifted his eyes to hers, a question forming on his face.
“You can’t walk around shirtless,” she said. Well, he probably could with pecs and abs like that. “Do you need medical attention? Should I call someone?”
He shook his head vigorously. “Don’t call anyone.”
“Then what happened?”
He pulled on her shirt. The flex of his chest drew her eyes, his washboard abs, the ripple in his thick arms as he pulled the pink shirt on, tugged it over all that muscle.
“I…I just got scared.”
“Oh… Okay.” He wasn’t ready to talk. She knew what that felt like.
“What’s your name?”
She dropped her eyes and smiled. “Camila.”
“Thank you, Camila.”
“I don't know your name.”
He looked up at her. “It's…John.”
Voices from inside.
Camila stiffened. “They’re coming.” She turned around, then spun back to John. “Where are you sleeping tonight?” She shook her head. “Never mind, just meet me back here at nine. Okay?”
The nod of agreement came immediately, relief flooding his eyes. Seeing the fear leave his face sent warm tingles across her chest.
She smiled, lifted her hand in parting, and then turned and walked back into the shop.
John
Wednesday 4:17 p.m.
John watched Camila walk back into the ice cream shop. Then he stared at the doorway for ten minutes hoping she’d reappear. A police siren down the street shook him out of his daze. He had to hide out until after sundown. Then he’d see her again. And food, hopefully. God, he was starving. He pushed the hunger aside (as much as he could) and slipped back down the alley and out of town.
Going to her was the right thing to do. He’d felt torn up, shaken to the core. The dead man's face, frozen in terror, floated after him wherever he went. Every so often his fingers would stray down to his stomach and probe the wound, or lack thereof. His world had flipped upside-down and there was no one to turn to. No one but the girl at the ice cream shop. Camila. Her name was Camila. As he tore through the brush, he pictured her again: her petite frame, the way the white tank top had contrasted so nicely with her brown skin, the way it clung to her curves.
What if she turns you in? He silenced that nagging voice as he thought of her face.
John found himself at the edge of the trees where a train track cut through. In the distance he could see the abandoned train cars. Rusty browns, maroons, navy blues, with the spray-painted tag marks running along the sides. He’d gotten here so quickly. It wasn’t … normal.
“I’m not normal,” he muttered to himself. He rubbed a hand over his abdomen again, feeling the smooth pink skin under the T-shirt Camila had given him. John looked around the train yard and felt goosebumps race up his arms. He had powers. There was no denying it any longer. He might need them to survive.
He stepped over to the track and eyed the stretch of railroad ties. John placed his feet on a wooden slat. He flexed his filthy toes, his eyes looking north. The worn gray boards and rusty rails tracked off to the right about a quarter mile up. He had a good couple miles before any civilization. He flexed his calves, inhaled, and took off.
He raced along the tracks, pumping his arms, feeling his legs coil, kick out and pump back. He felt like a machine. The grass on either side of him blurred to a green-brown smear. Trees clipped by so fast he couldn’t count them. The wind dashed tears from his eyes, rippled his clothes, his hair. When he finally stopped and saw just how far he’d run in less than a minute, he let a smile slink up his face.
Pretty damn fast.
He trotted back to the abandoned train cars, feeling great for the first time in days. There was no doubt that he was faster than an average human. That sure would help. What else could he do?
John walked over to the cars, looking for something to test out his next theory. He stepped next to one of the mammoth train car boxes, recalling the way the shovel had dented against his head. John picked a spot on the train car’
s side, just left of rivets the size of silver dollars. Then he folded his hand into a fist, reached back, and threw a punch.
Dong! Pain radiated from his hand up his arm, but the sight of the train car rocking back and forth, shuddering, made him forget his throbbing knuckles. The car slammed to rest on the tracks.
He'd rocked a twenty ton train car and put a massive dent in the side.
Good God.
His hand. Puffy and red, his knuckles looked mangled, but as he watched, the redness subsided, as did the pain. Soon he could flex it without wincing. Feeling his bones stitch themselves back together was not something he'd get used to any time soon, but, damn, that could come in handy.
He smiled, feeling just crazy enough to try anything at this point. He squared up to the rectangular metal box. It had to weigh at least twenty tons. He slipped his hands under the metal lip at the bottom. He looked down at the massive wheels that rested on the track in front of him. The sheer size of the object him chuckle.
John took a deep breath and pulled.
His arms tensed and legs flexed. The veins on his neck pulsed with the strain. For a split second he thought, See, I knew it’d never work. Then the metal he was gripping lifted up. The car creaked and shifted.
He looked down and saw the back wheels on his side hovering two feet off the ground. Suddenly the weight was lifted from his hands as the train car toppled and fell. John threw his arms up over his eyes, jumping back into the dirt.
BOOM! The train car smashed into the earth, shaking the ground. Birds sprung up from the trees, cawing.
When the dust cleared, John stared in awe. On its side, the train car, rusty wheels and gears facing him, looked like a slaughtered animal. It didn't seem real. Yet, he'd seen it with his own eyes.
John took off, sprinting through the forest. He’d made one hell of a racket and needed to put some distance between himself and the train yard if anyone came investigating. Running, he couldn’t help but smile.
Super powers. Ha. Now if only he could find that silo and figure out why he was here.
Harson
Wednesday 7:32 p.m.
When the microwave dinged, Harson shot a glance at it from across the room. With his recliner thrown back to full tilt, even the thought of a warm microwave dinner didn't stir him from his chair. The dinner needed to cool for a few minutes anyway. He laid his head against cushion and closed his eyes.
It had been the right decision, swapping his sixty-inch LCD TV for the recliner in the divorce. Susan had wanted both. He pictured her down-turned mouth and the ugly green sweater she'd worn the last time he'd seen her at the lawyer's office. Just thinking about Susan raised his blood pressure, something the doctor told him to avoid. Well, how could he keep his blood pressure down when his wife left him and took their dog?
He missed that damn dog.
The microwave beeped again, reminding him his Hungry Man dinner was ready. He pushed down the recliner's lever and the footrest dropped with a metal groan. His hips ached as he stood. His doctor had told him to get more exercise since his job was so sedentary, but who had the energy? Chasing down teenage delinquents all day made you plum tuckered. Sure, he did it from his Ford Focus, but dealing with their lip, their waving middle fingers, sucked all the energy right out of him. Two years until retirement. Two more years of cruising the parking lot and handing out parking tickets to high school brats while they silently wished him plagues of ball cancer. Retirement couldn't come fast enough.
He slid the black plastic tray out of the microwave, the pads of his fingers burning. The Salisbury steak did not look one bit like the picture on the carton, all goopy and brown. He shrugged and peeled back the plastic covering. Steam curled up from the meat and potatoes. He turned back to his recliner. That's when he noticed the sliding glass door was open.
He stopped, staring at the open door. How in the name of baby Jesus did the back door get open? Had he opened it when he got home, a subconscious habit left over from the days when the dog yelped and danced until you let her out? He paused, his hand on the wooden door handle. He peered into his backyard, the one that had made Susan clutch his arm and gasp when they'd first seen it. The half-acre lawn (a pain in the ass to mow) led down to the state park. Giant pines, sycamores, and maples swayed gently in the evening breeze. Twilight fell in the west and the sky was a rosy pink. Susan loved this time of day, loved to sit on the back porch with a lo-cal beer and watch the stars come out. If she were here—
A noise from inside jolted him. He swiveled, his heart pounding. He scanned the house from where he stood, looking for signs of an intruder. The kids at school weren't big fans, but they wouldn't have the brass cojones to break into his house, would they? He thought of the Louisville slugger under his bed. He might be sixty-one, but he could swing for the fences if he had to, goddamn it.
He hustled to the back bedroom, his heart still thudding. Every dark crevasse could hide an attacker. He passed the bathroom and nearly screamed when he saw movement until he realized it was just his reflection slipping past the door.
It's nothing, he told himself. But then, why did his hands tremble so much on the bedroom doorknob?
He pushed open the door. It creaked on its hinges, making the hairs on his arms stand up. From the doorway, he peered in. No sign of forced entry. He hustled to the bed and bent down, his old knees creaking. With one arm he swept under the bed, feeling dust bunnies, shoeboxes and finally, the bat. He circled his hand around the smooth wooden handle.
Then it grabbed him.
Harson screamed. Something gripped his arm like a vice and yanked. He lurched forward, his shoulder striking the bed frame, rocking it. He scrambled, digging his free hand into the frame, holding on for dear life. What in all holy hell—?
His attacker tugged him hard, his head slamming into the frame. Harson screamed, stars dancing across his vision. His arm would tear off. What had him? Jesus help me, he prayed.
“I have money! In the safe, I have money! I'll give you whatever you want.”
No answer. Slowly, whatever it was began to reel him in.
“Let go and I'll give you anything!” he screamed, kicking his legs. What was that smell? Like decaying meat. He pulled up with his free arm, but it had him.
Harson screamed as it yanked him under the bed.
Camila
Wednesday 8:07 p.m.
Camila was wiping down picnic tables on the pavement slab when her cellphone buzzed. She dropped her rag and clawed at her jeans, scrambling to retrieve the phone. She'd been waiting for a call from Mama all day. Her hands trembled as she stared at the cracked screen. A picture of Fer making an obscene gesture popped up. She’d only gone home an hour ago. Talk about attachment disorder.
“Yes?” she drawled, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.
“Dude, see if you can get out early. There's a boat party on Hunter’s Lake.”
“Can't,” she said, eying Travis's silhouette as he moved inside the ice cream shop. He probably wouldn't mind that she was on the phone. She picked up the rag, turned from the front window, and pretended to wipe. “Can you run by my trailer? I need to know if Mama's home.”
“I went by there ten minutes ago. Nada.” Fer breathed into the phone. “Sorry, chica.”
Camila shrugged. “It's alright. Hey, I gotta go. I'll call you when I get off.”
“You better, wiener. But, for real though, ask Trav if he can close up. This party will be dope.”
“Sure.” Camila hung up and stared at the phone. The hollow feeling had not left her stomach all day. It was after eight o'clock and Mama was still not home. What kind of trouble was she getting into? Shoplifting? Jail? Camila pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to think. She could call the cops, but didn’t want to get Mama into trouble. Slowly her hand reached into her pocket and pulled out the little square of paper. Unfolding it, she touched the three names with the pads of her fingers, lingering on Ben. Ben, written and crossed out, in a matter of s
econds. She pulled out her phone and found his number before she thought about it too long.
It rang once, twice. Her breath pulsed against the phone, thick and heavy. Thank God for a slow after-dinner crowd. She looked inside the shop again, the order window glowing brightly in contrast to the gathering dark. Travis must've been in the back because she couldn't see him. Camila leaned her hip against a picnic table and waited. Cars began flicking on their headlights, yellow beams slicing through the purple twilight.
“Hello?” Ben said. “Hello?”
Camila stood up, swallowing hard. “Don't hang up.”
“Who is this?” he asked, his voice growing wary.
“It's your cousin. Don't hang up.”
There was a long pause. “Why shouldn't I?”
Camila paced on the blacktop. She stopped before she got to the street, turned and walked back toward the tables. “Because… Because we're family.”
“Yeah, right.” She could hear the phone pull away.
“My mom ran off,” she said, pressing the phone hard into her cheek. “We…I need help.” She leaned against the splintered tabletop, her head spinning. “I can't do this alone.”
“Well, maybe it's better for you that she's gone.” His voice was so unfeeling.
“God, what did my mom do that makes you hate her?” Camila white-knuckled the phone, a desire to chuck it tightening in her chest.
His voice came closer. She pictured him pressing the phone back to his ear. “You really don't know?”
“My mom…she won't tell me.” Camila glanced up at the order window. Travis peered out, looking for her. She slid the phone around and waved her dishrag at him. She didn't have much time.
A long pause. Ben's voice came back in a whisper. “Fine,” he said impatiently. “But my mom can't know I told you or she'll flip a gasket.” Camila wondered at his age. Seventeen? Fourteen? Was he tall or short? Did he look like her? “What did she tell you about why they came to America?”
20 Shades of Shifters_A Paranormal Romance Collection Page 153