Encender (The Enertia Trials Book 2)

by J. Kowallis

  I take a deep breath and lay back on the ground. My head flops to the side, staring at him. The scene around me spins and I watch shadows of people swarm around me in the center the makeshift ring. Not a soul touches me. Scant pesos are swapped back and forth. Some observers ecstatic and others raging.

  A large hand wrestles me to my feet and holds my wrist tight. In his other hand is a wad of cash.

  “Let’s get home. ¡Venga, mujer!” he yells into my echoing ear. It’s hard to understand him with the ringing, but even if I hadn’t caught his words, the look on his face would have told me everything.

  Of course, he’d seen me. Estevan always watches carefully, studying my moves, taking notes on the fingerprint-smeared tech-pad he keeps in his back pocket. He’s the only one who knows me and what I can do. He’s seen me do it thousands of times and I could never fool him, even if I tried. I promised him I wouldn’t ever use my power; not in the ring. Last time was five years ago. Here I am again, breaking my word.

  So much fury. I can hear it in his voice. He pulls me toward the small truck he drives and my feet stumble across the ground.

  Estevan’s voice is harsh, but I can’t understand a word he’s said. Even getting into the battered pickup is a blur.

  “¿Que?” I ask.

  The truck spins off the city’s dirt road and his palm beats against the steering wheel.

  “¿Cómo se te ocurre?” he yells louder, and I finally understand him. “Do you realize what you could have done?”

  “I would have lost if I hadn’t, Papá,” I yell back, not realizing the elevated volume in my voice.

  “Better a loser than a corpse.” The deep varied scars etched into his face expand and contract each time he talks. His dark brown eyes burn the road in front of him. “You didn’t trust yourself. You gave up and you broke the rules.”

  “Your rules. Not mine,” I mumble through my blood encrusted split lip.

  “Ransley . . .”

  I lean my head back, and blood slowly pours down the back of my throat. I lazily watch the road, the truck speeding through the Argentinean San Martin de los Andes landscape. September is here and spring is oddly just beginning. Were it not for the change in temperatures, we’d be in the dead of winter still. Sometimes I think it may as well be winter. Ice still frosts the trees every night even though the snow is almost melted.

  “They aren’t my rules. They’re rules to keep you safe.”

  “Safe?” I mutter. “I almost lost. Maybe died. That move was the safest thing I did.”

  “That’s bull, Ransley, and you know it. No one dies in small town fights. You cheated. You exposed yourself.”

  I know the risks of using my power in public. Not only the risks to me, but to Estevan too. I used it anyway. Though I don’t want to admit it, I know he’s right. I’d been stupid and cocky. I’d gotten scared. I should never have put myself into that position to begin with. Even then, with as much as I know, I should have used my skills to get myself out of it.

  That’s always easy to say until I’m in the situation again and I can’t see any other way out. It didn’t seem fair that I couldn’t use what was rightfully mine.

  “Well, we won,” I state, pretending that’s the end of the argument. “How much did we make?”

  “Two hundred thirty pesos. Should buy us enough food and firewood for the month,” he replied. “But if we want to buy gas for the truck, we don’t have enough.”

  I shake my head and look out the window. Ninety-two pesos for a gallon of gas. We need twenty gallons to fill the tank. There’s no way I can win eighteen hundred forty pesos in one fight. Even in more prosperous months the most I ever win is five hundred. Eighteen hundred forty. That’s at least three more wins. I’ve done it before, but I hate thinking about it right after a fight.

  “We’ll make it,” I say aloud. It’s more of an assurance to myself than to Estevan. He stays silent. Either he’s still furious with me, or he’s worried. Whether it’s one or the other, it doesn’t matter. We’ll simply have to find alternate means of traveling. Walking, if we have to. I cross myself in prayer. Dios, I’ll wear myself out.

  “You did good today, Perdida.”

  “Gracias, Papá.”

  The rest of the drive we say nothing. I try not to move with my bruised ribs and sprained ankle, neither of which I’d noticed during the fight. When I’m moving in the ring, with the sounds, the rush, everything . . . fire burns so hot within me, I don’t feel the intensity of my injuries until after. The pumping adrenaline in my system helps me to push through to the end.

  Except for today. How had I let myself get there? He shouldn’t have been able to grab me. I didn’t even pay attention. Trapped between his pungent body odor and the cold ground beneath me. I’d let my guard down. I’d been too confident—that’s exactly what I’d done.

  The truck bumps and swerves over gashes in the road. With each movement I grab at my ribs and wince. No matter how much support I try to give my body, it doesn’t help. These roads haven’t been touched up for as long as I’ve known. Once, they were smooth and beautiful with stopping points to view the scenery. Raids have destroyed everything. Though I don’t remember the war, Estevan says it was like Hell rose up and crashed down over every living thing—rotting and disintegrating it all.

  Families don’t really exist anymore either. That’s why Estevan and I stay with each other. We’re all we have. He may have been able to fight for himself at one point, but not anymore. They say he was the best—a giant on the dusty violent streets of Los Ángeles—or at least what remains of it. Now, it’s my turn. I keep telling Estevan I’m ready for the big ring, the Argolla, but he won’t take me. After today, he may never.

  The truck pulls up the mountainside and through the trees. Branches and rocks grab at the truck while it squeezes through. The road has washed away now and exposed river rock and roots form the “street.” I grit my teeth, struggling to keep my ribs from bouncing around. When the truck finally stops underneath our stone walkway above, I pull the handle on the door and slowly get out. My muscles are already rigid. Pain shoots up and down my rib cage with each step I take. Bending my body in any degree is a joke. Walking up the flight of stone steps to get to the door makes every bone in my body groan.

  I limp inside the grand ruin of a home we live in. It used to be for vacationers during the tourist season. That was thirty years ago. Maybe more. The conveniences don’t work of course, but a little girl with no memory used to pretend she lived in this castle with her protective giant to watch over her. I pretended I had everything in the world. Servants, delicacies, music, swords. Perhaps that was all because of the stories Estevan told me before bed. Tales of Spanish princesses and exotic middle-eastern warriors. What seemed like a storybook was the bare creation of his mind. He was good at it, and I loved it.

  Once inside the large double doors, I kick off my shoes and drag my feet across the cracked and broken marble floor. Only the west wing of the house is livable since the east wing is blown in two. We’re lucky. Many people in town are crammed into two bedroom semi-standing apartments with fifteen individuals per unit. If you don’t die of starvation, the diseases overpower you.

  I straggle to the bathroom where I sit at the edge of the tub and flick a spider away. The large water bucket from this morning is still next to the sink. Half of it is still full of questionable looking water, but even so, I try to pick it up. My arms instantly give out and I try to muffle my own cry by biting down on my lip and burying my head in the crook of my arm. The reflection of my face grabs my attention in the mirror and I stop. A swollen puckering lip—complete with crusted blood to match the trail of dried blood running down from a cut along my forehead, and a bruised cheekbone. My ears are inflamed with a sickly bluish green from last week’s fight. They’ll turn purple again by tonight. I’m surprised I can open both of my eyes with the punches I took.

  I guess I’ve looked worse.

  I gingerly touch my rib cag
e and lift up my tank. These cuts and bruises won’t be quick to heal. Usually I try to avoid letting fighters land their fists in my ribs, but this bastardo was nearly impossible to stop.

  Using the edge of the tub to balance me like a third hand, and with a lot of struggle, I manage to grab the large bucket and pour it into the tub basin.

  The icy water splashes into the greened copper tub and pools at the bottom. It’s deep enough to cover my ankle. I reach slowly down and pull off the thinning socks on my feet. A hiss escapes my lips when I see the dark black bruise forming. It runs from the bottom of my knee all the way down the right side of my foot. My left big toe is numb. Either that’s part of the injury or I must have bruised a nerve at some point.

  For what seems like hours, I rest my feet in the frigid water, allowing the swelling to go down. Each time I breathe, my ribs feel worse. At least my hearing is coming back.

  I think.

  It’s not like there’s a lot to listen to. In the room down the hall, I think I can hear Estevan dropping logs on the floor, getting ready to start a fire in the grand fireplace at the center of the home.

  The water around my ankles begins to turn my toes a light shade of purple from the cold. The swelling has reduced, so I dip a finger in. A warm tingle of energy radiates from my fingertips and the water drastically rises in temperature. When it feels to be about ninety degrees, I pull my hand back and let my feet rest longer. The warm water has an effect on my entire body and I start to get tired. Using a rag, I wash the blood and grime off my arms and hands, dabbing carefully at the split knuckles.

  Maldecir, that hurts.

  I pull my feet out, drain the water, and draw myself into my room. Inside is a dirty king-sized mattress along with a second pair of clothes. A loose-fitting, red, cotton top and thin faded-gray sweat pants. The elastic is wearing out around the waist and I have to keep them on my lean hips with a piece of rope.

  When I get into the main room, Estevan is hunched over, the butt of his gun jabbing into his belly, while he blows on the sparking kindling to get the fire to take hold of the wood. I walk up behind him silently and sweep my hand over the fire, playing with the sparks jumping into the air over the wood. Sparkling, cracking, and then the kindling bursts into flame. I step back and sit down next to him.

  “See, that . . .” he glares at me, “is the only way you should use your gift.”

  I smile sheepishly at him. “You’re still angry?”

  He falls off his crouch and props himself up with his hands. The weight hanging on his shoulders is visible. I know he stresses over me all the time. It’s not as if I’m trying to make this harder for him. Although, I don’t help ease his stress either, that’s for sure.

  The long mustache falling down around his mouth makes him look like he’s scowling. It’s off-putting to some. Combined with the divots, scars, and pockmarks on his surly face, he could easily be mistaken for a Nomad. A criminal. But I know him. I always know when he smiles. There’s only a hint of it there for a moment, and then it disappears.

  He reaches for my hand and I slide up next to him. Estevan holds my hand tightly in his and I lay my head on his shoulder. “No. I’m not angry,” his thick voice rumbles. It always reminds me of smoke filtering through rocks. I’m not sure why. It’s rough, but soothing. “Ransley, if anything had happened to you . . .”

  “It didn’t.”

  “But it could have.”

  I close my eyes and push away the pain in my body.

  “You don’t trust yourself, Perdida.”

  The fire crackles and echoes in the large home. “Maybe I trust myself too much.”

  “No. Conceit and confidence are not the same,” he says, raising a finger to me. “You were arrogante. You let your guard down, and then you relied on cheating to save your life.”

  “It’s a street fight. I can use whatever means I have to kick ass. No rules, remember?”

  He shook my hand hard. “No. Maybe if everyone you fought was like you. If others begin to notice your power, no one will fight you. We won’t have the money to live. Or worse, they’ll kill you. With The Public being so close, they’ll turn you over at the snap of a finger. Do you understand?”

  I watch the flames dance around in the fireplace, aware of his words. I’ve seen people sacrifice friends and family to The Public to save their own skins. Simple people whose strongest talents are the ability to read and write are taken off to be studied, altered, or killed. No one knows. If anyone wanted to receive leniency from The Public . . . all it would take, would be handing me over.

  Estevan’s words sink to my gut and I know he’s right. I know he is.

  “We’ll practice. You heal for two days and then we practice more. Practice, practice, practice. You rely on your strength only. Not your gift. You will learn to feel comfortable in that ring, in any circumstance.” He curses in Spanish. “Ransley, I’ve taught you since you were a niña. You know what to do.”

  “I know. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “You always say that.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  “Good,” his voice rumbles. “Get some sleep. Your body needs to recuperate. I’m going to get some flour and water to fill your bruised stomach.”

  He kisses my forehead and moves, bracing his knees to stand. When he leaves the house with his gun, everything goes silent. The only sound to keep me company is the crackle of the fire. Slowly, I push myself up and drag my body into my bedroom. The mattress is sunken in the middle, but it’s more comfortable than the hard floor, even with the odd smell. With no heat in the house except for the popping fire down the hallway, it’s frosty.

  I’m tired, but the cold will not dissipate. My mind filters out into the living room and focuses on the fireplace. Holding onto its energy with my power, I pull it inward, letting it radiate my body. The last thing I recall is the twinkling of the stars outside the window, winking at me from above.

  ―ESTEVAN―

  Damn market vendors. Haggling for food was the last thing he wanted to do tonight.

  Frozen mists of air escaped Estevan’s mouth with each frustrated breath, curling around into odd shapes before dying off. Bare trees and dead bushes framed the road and the mountainside around him, and the only company to escort him was silence. He never thought about it before, but he missed the sounds of the animals at night. Few were seen since the war, unless one happened to stumble over another decaying animal corpse. In that regard, it was usually a bird of prey or a wolf. Skinny and sickly looking. Cockroaches were the only abundant living species anymore. All those jokes and theories about their superior ability to survive nuclear war were right. Cockroaches certainly survived the apocalypse. They survived in hoards. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the chemical and nuclear runoff made the devils reproduce ten times faster.

  The walk down the road to the nearest trading center took him five miles from the house. He didn’t mind the actual hike. If anything, he enjoyed it. It gave his thoughts a chance to break free. It was the dealing he hated.

  Not that he never had time to himself. The older Ransley got, he found he had time in excess with nothing to fill it with. Raising a twenty-something daughter was easier than being at the disposal of a seven-year old needing story time, discipline, protection, and heading off tantrums. Now, the endless worry normally took up his time.

  Never in his life had he wanted to be a father. Not until it was forced on him. The weight sometimes felt like it was too much. Even at his age, a ripe sixty-three, he didn’t feel like a father. His lack of paternal sentiment wasn’t that Ransley didn’t necessarily feel like a daughter, or do anything to make him regret taking her in. She’d been a model child her entire life. Even when going through her difficult stages, she’d been relatively easy to persuade and teach.

  It was him. Protecting her was overwhelming. The darkness he felt each time she entered the ring would kill him one day. With every injury she suffered, his stomach jerked itsel
f into tighter knots. Although all parents would feel that way, no respectful parent would allow their child to do what he set her up for.

  He took a deep breath and blew it out.

  At the same time, he didn’t know what he would do without her. After raising her—no, training her since age seven (maybe she’d been eight, he couldn’t be sure), she’d surprisingly become a permanent placement in his heart.

  The thought of that day crept back to him and his eyebrows furrowed.

  Estevan coughed and jammed his hands in his pockets. The rocks and dry earth crunched beneath his feet with each heavy step. He kicked a loose rock and it jumped and bounced along the road in front of him. Every once in a while, he looked over his shoulder out of habit. He’d done it for years, even though he couldn’t put a finger on when it started. But he knew why he did it. If you didn’t watch your back, or watch the backs of your hermanos, anyone else could blow out your brains.

  Up ahead, the light of the trading trailers shown. He quickened his steps. He hoped they wouldn’t raise the price of flour. Not today. His stomach grumbled and groaned, aching for something to fill it. How many days had it been since they had a full meal? It must have been at least two months. Flour cakes for breakfast, flour cakes for dinner, and as much clean water as they could get their hands on.

  Once between the mobile buildings, he knocked on the first door and it opened up.

  “Si, Señor?” a woman asked. Her piercing blue eyes shone out from underneath the cloth she had wrapped around her stringy black hair. The oversized blue dress she wore hung on her thin body. The years had not been kind to her features. Deep pockets of skin hung beneath her eyes, and her cheeks sunk into her face. A waft of body odor accompanied her, and she scowled at him.

  “I need to buy some flour, por favor.”

  “Come in. Come in.”

  He followed her into the trailer and she shut the door behind him. The broken-down trailer smelled of rot and must. Clothing hung from lines running along the walls and a patchwork sheet acted like a divider between the back half and the front. Garbage piled around him. Pots and pans never used, car parts, cloth and fabric, stuffed animals, and even broken china. Like many people since the war, this woman had become a hoarder. Anything she could get her hands on, she held onto. He worried about the flour. If this much clutter filled the trailer, the likelihood of roaches and mice made him sick.