Dying Breath

by Kory M. Shrum

  Like Rachel did.

  I stop walking. I lift the bottom of my T-shirt up to wipe my dripping face and then my wet palms. Like Rachel did.

  Past tense.

  Because she’s dead, and I was the one who killed her.

  My heart compresses, becoming a heavy stone in my chest. A throbbing pain radiates from its center down each of my limbs. Somehow I keep standing.

  “I am sorry.” Gabriel opens his wings wide, monstrous and black. They block out the sun. It’s ten degrees cooler instantly.

  “What? You should be sorry! Why didn’t you shade me before?”

  He isn’t apologizing for holding out. We both know he’s apologizing for Rachel and what I had to do to protect Maisie and the others.

  But I’m sorry doesn’t undo the whole best-friend-went-dark-side thing.

  I replay her last attack again and again. Her body slamming against the shield as she tried to wring the life out of Maisie. The horrible way my purple light wavered, shimmering under her assault. I thought it was going to give. I thought she was going to break through and tear Maisie apart right in front of me.

  I would have never forgiven myself.

  The moment Ally’s face pinched, and her breath went shallow, Rachel sealed her fate. Before Ally’s eyes bulged, and she choked, there was hope of reconciliation between us.

  “You could not have done anything differently.”

  “Man, I’m stupid.” I try to will my legs to start moving again. “Everyone tried to warn me about Rachel and I wouldn’t listen. A fucking moron.”

  “You loved her.”

  “That doesn’t make me smarter.”

  The smell of rain washes over me. Gabriel’s smell. “Love is above reproach.”

  “Stop. You’re making this awkward.”

  He frowns at me while I replay those last moments in my head again. Rachel’s betrayal and Ally’s death. The images loop over and over. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for getting Ally killed. Again.

  “She will survive.”

  “Thanks to Maisie.” It was Maisie who saved Ally, blowing her magic wake up breath into her nose. I hadn’t done a damn thing.

  And I’m not doing much now either except hoping Maisie doesn’t wake Caldwell before I can catch up to them.

  Gabriel keeps his wing arched over my head as we walk. He doesn’t watch the approaching horizon as I do. His eyes are trained on his feet.

  My throat tightens the more I think about Ally, Rachel, and Maisie. The more I think about them, the more stupid and useless I feel.

  Man, I’m going to cry like a loser out here? Is there anything more pathetic than walking through the desert with your imaginary friend and crying?

  “Tell me a story,” I beg. I will not rub my runny nose. I sniffle “Anything.”

  Gabriel turns his face up to the blazing sun for a moment and seems to consider my request. “She was once a partis.”

  “Who?”

  “You call her the sun. At times your kind uses the word star. This particular star was once a partis.”

  I stop walking. The toes of my sneakers slip beneath the hot sand in my sudden stop. “Excuse me?”

  “You must make the same choice. You can be the fourth star, or you can be this planet’s shield.”

  A mule has kicked me in the chest. “The sun was a human?”

  He tilts his head. “No. I believe you reserve the term human only for Homo sapiens.”

  My voice wheezes as I continue to struggle to draw in enough air. “Some conscious being evolved on a planet like Earth. I mean, she had to have brains and verbal skills if you gave her superpowers and made her choose the future of her whole freaking race. She couldn’t make a choice without a brain, right? I mean, she could, but it’s a pretty bad idea.”

  I wasn’t sure this conversation was much of an improvement over hey your best friend turned out to be a psycho who killed your girlfriend. I don’t exactly want to be reminded of the universal bullshit that’s going to tear apart my world soon. But maybe this is a good chance to get some answers.

  I exhale. “A civilization evolves, becomes conscious and then they get a choice as to whether to preserve what they’ve built or blow it up and start over. Three people have chosen to blow it up?”

  “Yes,” he says. His wing twitches, raining black feathers down on my head.

  “And how many have chosen to shield everyone instead of blowing everyone up?”

  “None.”

  I groan. “Damn. Do we fuck it up every time?”

  Imagine, after billions and billions of years, chance after chance, and we’re total asshats. Bummer.

  “Did they have French fries before? Chocolate? Pugs?”

  Gabriel’s big green eyes fall on me again.

  “Well, clearly we’re already doing better,” I tell him. “How can I possibly destroy a world with pugs?”

  He blinks. “When the time comes, I will show you the world. Your world as it truly is, and you must choose.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a lot to put on one person?”

  “There were twelve,” he reminds me with a stern look of admonition.

  Right. Twelve original partis. This time anyway, since Gabriel keeps insisting this is Take Four: A Perfect World.

  Too bad we killed each other off. I’d love it if someone else could handle this whole save the world crap. Now there are only four of us, counting Caldwell.

  I sigh. “I knew trying to get you to have a normal convo was stupid. Listen, I don’t know if anyone ever explained this to you, but sometimes people like to talk to be distracted from the horrible bullshit they are dealing with. You talk about food, or sexy butts, your favorite television show. Sometimes it’s about the food you love to eat while you’re staring at the sexy butts in your favorite television show.”

  His frown deepens.

  “My point is every time I try to talk to you, it’s not an invitation to drown me in somber discussions about death and responsibility and horrible impending choices, okay?”

  “You do not want to talk about your decision,” Gabriel repeats, only he says it with an air of astonishment and disgust.

  I sigh. “Exactly.”

  “I do not watch television or eat food.”

  I shrug. “That leaves butts.”

  “I do not often consider glutei maximi—”

  “How about we play the quiet game then? Hmm? It’s hard enough walking in the heat without trying to walk in the heat and use my air for talking.”

  “We are here.” He folds his wings in, and the sun hits me hot and heavy. I could fall dead on the spot.

  But he’s right. Here’s the station.

  Only he’s wrong about it being a station. A metal overhang canopies the pumps, but they’re outdated. They don’t even have credit card readers. The numbers used to calculate gallons and cost aren’t digital. They’re black and white tiles which would rotate toward a total sum.

  To the left of the pumps, across a slab of concrete, is a garage. Three stalls with dusty glass windows sit closed. A doorway stands empty, revealing dark shapes within.

  “There’s someone inside,” Gabriel says.

  “Friend or foe?” The hair on my neck rises. Or it would rise if it wasn’t plastered to my skin with sweat.

  Gabriel doesn’t answer, so I erect my shield.

  “Is there a car in there?” I ask. I’m also wondering about a phone, but that won’t be much help. I need a car if I hope to catch up to Maisie and Georgia.

  A man appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a blue grease rag. I’d know that gesture anywhere. The action conjures a sharp memory of Eric Sullivan in navy coveralls, rubbing his hands before opening his arms to catch me. The smell of orange soap and grease-caked fingernails blooms in my mind.

  “Hey there,” the guy calls. He steps out into the light and grins at me. Once the light hits his sandy hair and scruffy face, I’m able to refocus on the present and push thoughts of
my father, the man who would become Caldwell, out of my mind.

  This mechanic is middle-aged. Forty, maybe forty-five. One of his bottom teeth is gone, revealing a black socket as his lips move. “What’re you doing way out here?”

  No weapon. No guns or noticeable threat. I drop the shield and step forward, hoping he’ll think the purple shimmer was a trick of the light.

  He looks over my shoulder as if searching for a car.

  “I’m Donnie.”

  “Hi, Donnie. My car, uh—” freaking exploded “—broke down. I was hoping I could use your phone? Or you could give me a lift to the nearest town?”

  He turns his left ear toward me. “Speak up, sweetheart. I can’t hear worth a damn.”

  I repeat myself, projecting my voice in a way I haven’t since the junior high Princess and the Pea production. I was the pea and my part largely consisted of lying sandwiched between two mattresses while wearing a pea suit. Oh, and the wailing. Whenever Annabelle Jerkins—thankfully the tiniest girl in our class—flopped down on top of me, I was supposed to howl in pretend pain.

  Thankfully, Donnie hears me on the second go-round and nods. “Jimmy’s got the tow. I can call him, and he’ll be here in twenty. Come on in out of the heat. I’ve got some Orange Crush.”

  They still make orange soda? The prospect is both exciting and promising. I can’t recall being this thirsty. Ever. Something about trudging through the desert makes even plain old water seem like a godsend.

  I drink half the orange soda in three swallows.

  It hits me Jimmy won’t have a car to tow because there’s nothing left of the Mustang I took from the military base. What is Jimmy going to do? Drag back the blackened pieces?

  “What’re you doing out here?” Donnie asks after he hangs up on Jimmy.

  I fumble for a lie. “I’m lost. I was heading for Tempe.” I name the only city in Arizona I can think of.

  “You’ve got about three hours to go,” he says, wiping at his face with the cloth.

  Inside the garage, it’s twenty degrees cooler. Part of it is the three large industrial fans blowing overhead. They are loud as hell, and now I understand why Donnie is deaf. I would have to yell over their thunderous roar for anyone to hear me. But getting out of the sun, if only for a minute, is fantastic. The iced soda bottle cooling my hands is icing on the cake.

  “After I get Lauraine’s engine going, I’ll be happy to look at your car.”

  I gulp down another mouthful of orange soda. It burns my nose, and I love it. “Uh, thanks. That’d be great.”

  What the hell, Gabriel? What do I say?

  Take his car. Gabriel flutters his wings in the direction of a beat up white truck. It’s got huge tires and a utility box in the bed. I’ve seen those before. Big silver boxes full of tools and gadgets, whatever a person might need. Eric Sullivan had a box on the back of his truck like that.

  It will be easier to take the vehicle now with only one man to wrestle rather than when the second arrives. I’ve learned in my short time as a badass, the more people involved, the more quickly shit gets messy.

  But this guy gave me an orange soda and sat me in front of the fan. It seems awful to beat him up and take his car.

  About twelve of the twenty minutes have passed. The radio overhead blasts classical rock, Highway to Hell this time. I can barely hear it over the fan. With Donnie’s electric socket wrench whirling and his head buried under the hood of the beige Taurus, I don’t think he can hear the song at all.

  I suck down the last of the orange soda and stare at the empty glass bottle in my hand.

  I sigh. “Damn it.”

  I cross the garage to the Taurus and tap Donnie’s shoulder. He comes up for air, pulling himself out of the car’s mouth.

  He gives me another one of those wide, trusting smiles. “What is it, honey?”

  I regret this already. “I’m sorry.”

  “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”

  “You’ve been so nice. I’m sorry about this,” I shout.

  His face screws up in confusion and stays that way as I bring the orange soda bottle down on the side of his head. The moment the glass connects with his cranium it breaks. Shards fly, scaring me into thinking I hit him too hard.

  It doesn’t help his eyes roll up in his head, and his knees give. Donnie goes down hard, hitting his head for a second time on the concrete.

  “Ouch, damn.” I groan. “Gee-zus, Gabriel. Why did you stand there? You should have caught him!”

  I bend down and touch his throat under the jaw, searching for a pulse. His heart hammers away under my fingertips. I roll him over and inspect the big gash on his head. The skin is split wide open.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I ask, frowning at the glass glittering on the concrete.

  “He will live,” Gabriel assures me. “Now we must go. His friend is close.”

  I bend over and search Donnie’s coveralls for keys. I find them in the right front pocket, resting beside a pack of Spirit cigarettes. I fish them out and run out to the white truck. I hop in, turn the engine and speed away without looking back.

  When I finally do look back, only the shrinking garage and wide open desert are there.

  “Whew! That was close.” I thrust out my lower lip at Gabriel. “Poor Donnie!”

  That’s the problem with having firebombing power. It doesn’t leave much room for subtlety. If I don’t want to melt someone’s flesh off their bone, I must resort to other means.

  A small black box on Donnie’s dash buzzes.

  “All Cochise County officers, we have a double 187 at the old Cochise saloon. All available units, Code 2. Proceed with caution.”

  It’s a scanner. A police scanner. I don’t know what 187 or 2 or any of that means.

  “Georgia?” I ask Gabriel.

  He levels his green eyes on mine, turning only his head to gaze at me. His body’s lounging in the passenger seat as if we’re two buddies on a pleasant afternoon drive.

  “She murdered them.”

  Of course, she did. Georgia’s death toll surpassed mine ages ago, and mine’s far from low.

  Gabriel faces forward, his eyes on what lies ahead. “She means to survive by any means necessary.”

  I sigh. “Don’t we all.”

  Chapter 5

  Maisie

  It’s getting too hot in the car. For an instant, I start to worry about Winnie Pug. An article I read about leaving dogs in hot cars flashes in my head. Minutes. That’s all it takes, and they’re dead. We’re not even talking a hundred degrees. My gut knots.

  Winnie Pug isn’t here.

  He’s back at the military base with Gloria and Gideon.

  I’d give up a whole pack of peanut butter cups in exchange for a pug kiss right now. I love kissing his smooshed face. I don’t even mind the dog breath.

  My heart kicks a second time.

  I’m never going to see Winnie Pug again. Or Gloria. Or even Gideon.

  Gideon. His dark eyes behind glasses and his one-sided smirk. Okay, yes, he’s six or seven years older than me. But he’s got thick lashes as long as my little finger.

  And horrible taste in women. I don’t know what he saw in Rachel.

  It got him killed.

  Dad’s body slumps against me again. I elbow him away.

  Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Think about something nice.

  Gideon’s dark eyes and warm scent come to mind. When I bent over him, ready to blow air into his nose and bring him back to life, I almost kissed him.

  Okay, I’ve got some stupid school girl crush on him. It’ll go away once my hormones sort themselves out. Then I’ll find someone who goes to Whole Foods and buys me Lemon Cookie ice cream at ten o’clock at night because I’m sad. Like a hot accountant or nurturing veterinarian, not a wealthy international super spy likely to drop me for the first Bond girl he sees.

  I want someone normal. Someone who dreams of a calm, boring life like I do.

  Maybe I�
�ll meet this awesome guy in college—though who the hell is going to admit me without proper transcripts, I don’t know. I could do a couple years in a high school first. Make friends whose worst drama is some cheating boyfriend. If my grades are good enough for two years, I can probably get in somewhere. I’ll work if I have to. Maybe somewhere cool like a coffee shop. Even better if they host goth bands on weekends. And my friends and I will get dressed up and go out for drinks and somehow pass all our tests on Monday morning. When I graduate, I’ll get an apartment in a big city. New York. Or maybe even go back to Chicago.

  I snort, choking on a laugh.

  Who am I kidding?

  I’m never going to college or getting over Gideon. I’m going to die a horrible flaming death like every other partis. No amount of wishing and dreaming is going to change my fate.

  I shove the dead body off me and slip out the truck’s cab. My ankle hurts the second I put pressure on it. I’d forgotten all about my twisted ankle. It was Rachel’s fault. I hurt it trying not to get murdered.

  I lift my pants leg and examine it. It’s totally swollen. This heat is probably making it worse, but I can’t do anything about it right now. It’ll have to wait. For now, I’ll keep the weight off it.

  I push Dad over so he’s lying flat on the seat, hidden from view.

  I take a big gasp of fresh air.

  I can smell him. He must’ve gotten his dead body stink all over me. I gag.

  I step farther away from the truck and the smell dissolves. Now all I smell is dry, hot desert.

  Good. Maybe it’s the truck that reeks to high heaven. I look down at my clothes. My shirt’s wet with sweat and blood has soaked my right leg.

  I look like I fell out of a horror movie.

  First stop: the bathroom. If I run into anybody before I have the chance to shower, I better have a good story.

  I shade my eyes and peer at the hotel. It looks dead. No maids are coming out of rooms or pushing towel carts. No music from the door marked office. I turn in all directions and don’t see a single soul on the street either. If tumbleweeds rolled across the street right now, it’d look natural.

  Creepy ghost town, that’s what this is.

  “Hey.”