by J. Kowallis
“What?!”
Faron’s deep-set voice didn’t wait a moment. “They went back to the house.”
“They?”
A hesitant swallow went down Faron’s throat, bobbing his large Adam’s apple. “Roydon, Benitez, and the chica.”
Caspar clenched down on the cigar still being held between his teeth and swore. “What?! Do they all know each other? Did they plan to rip me off? Who the hell are these people?!”
“Tico’s dead too.”
Of course he was. With everything else happening, of course the garbage man was dead. Caspar swung the door fully open and it smashed into the wall, chipping away at the plaster and paint. “That’s it. I don’t care what they do to ‘em. I want those cheats to pay for what they took!”
“They?”
Caspar tapped the screen of the small communicator. His own personal connection to the real boss. Even though his own fear of the boss and the whole organization made him shake, he didn’t care. A deal with the devil was worth it.
“Did you follow ‘em?” Caspar glared at Faron. “See where they went?”
“Si. About a mile out of town in the small fishbowl pit. Piles of crap tents and tarp homes. Families too.”
Caspar stuck his lip out in a feigned sympathy. “Oh, those poor mierdas.”
Just as he said it, a voice with a clear American accent replied from the communicator. “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about me, Caspar, would you?” The voice was deep and velvety. It made Caspar’s throat close off, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what had happened to the words in his mouth.
“No. No, sir! You see, uh . . . we had a big . . . discovery today.”
“What? That you can think and walk at the same time?”
Caspar took a deep drag on the cigar to calm his nerves, then pulled the cigar out of his mouth. Teeth marks were ground into the end. “No, sir.”
“I didn’t think so,” the man’s voice dragged with irritation.
He cleared his throat. “We had a fighter in the ring today. I think your people might be especially interested in him.”
“And you’re offering him to us, why? Why does the great Caspar Ronaldo suddenly want to do business with The Public?”
Faron shook his head and his eyes went cold. Caspar ignored him and drew in another spicy breath from the burned out cigar. “Because he cheated me. I know if I give you this man, I can guarantee my ring will be safe from you. I promise to hand him over if you stay away forever.”
The voice chuckled on the other end. “And why would I do that?”
“You think strong men and fast runners are spectacular? What about a mierda that splits himself in two?”
The voice didn’t answer. A heavy but calm breathing on the other end seemed to be the only reply. Faron moved his lips, trying to communicate with Caspar. He won’t take it.
Caspar waved him off and held his breath, waiting for the voice to agree. He had to agree. If The Public was in a competition with itself to capture the perfect human, Roydon was a mythical first prize to them.
On the other end, the voice took a deep breath. “One year. We leave your armpit of a city alone for a year if you hand us the man.”
“I said forever.”
“And I could have your body torn into three pieces. Eight months.”
Caspar sucked on the cigar one last time and dropped it into the diner-style glass ashtray on the table next to him. “Eight months,” he whispered. “He’s living with a Nomad band in a fishbowl a mile outside of Los Ángeles.” Remembering Benitez and his filthy daughter, he added, “And there’s an old man and rail-thin girl there with him. I wouldn’t mind if they got their brains blown out in the process.”
“It seems you’re having problems out there, Caspar. Any more and we might have to clean up.”
Caspar felt his stomach twist. Faron’s face looked green. Clean up meant they took every man and woman into The Public. Those not of use to them were killed—the lucky ones. It was those who were like Roydon that had the worst of it.
“No problems, hermano.”
“Good,” the velvety voice rolled. “And Caspar? I’m not your brother.”
The voice cut off, leaving the room in a pitch of silence. All Caspar heard after the cut off was the breathing of himself and Faron; both men avoiding looking at one another. Caspar looked down at the circular communicator in his hand and turned it over. The polished metal case glinted in the low light. He swung around and threw the device against the wall. It blasted against the plaster and knocked a chunk of the wall to the floor. The device’s hard construction didn’t receive a single scratch. Not even when it snapped against the floor a couple times and spun in a circle, sliding.
“You sure it’s worth it, boss?”
“I don’t care.” Caspar walked over to the wet bar against the opposite wall and poured himself a glass. He took a gulp of the spicy burn and swallowed it. “I want Roydon to pay.”
―ROYDON―
My eyes pry open and I look at the tent canvas. It smells like crisp air, burning smoke, and mud in here. The campfires have died out and the glowing coals are the only light radiating from the pits outside. My body kills. It’s like death trying to turn over on the hard ground. After years of arena fighting, you’d think I’d be used to this.
Slowly, I strain to push myself up. Rigid muscles in my back and arms seize my bones, stretching like tire rubber. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep feeling like this. I’m sore, frigid, and still starving. After sharing the loaf of bread I had with Ransley, my stomach is beginning to cannibalize itself.
I look next to me. Squint’s shaggy tucked-up wirey brown fur body lays sleeping next to me, wrapped in a separate blanket. Up in the cot, it’s empty. She’s gone. There’s not much in here she could have taken and run with. Still, the fact that she’s gone sends me into alert mode so I quietly kick the blanket off me.
The canvas rustles when I knock it back and step out. I notice someone else at the edge of camp. The figure picks up a handful of snow and presses it to the back of their neck. Only one person could tolerate . . . no, need . . . to feel snow against her body in these temperatures.
Ransley sits down near the edge of the bank and continues to hold the frozen chunk of hard snow to her skin. Melted runoff soaks her shirt and she picks up another handful. I watch her for a few minutes. The top of her shirt gets darker in color the wetter it gets. Her body is hardened with muscle, and each time she moves, the tendons flex and pull.
Years of fighting will do that to you.
The uneven terrain is hard to balance on, and I feel each muscle fiber wanting to rip in my legs with each step closer to her.
Her head turns at the sound of my steps and she gives me an apologetic smile. Her tousled short hair shines with sweat.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”
“No. I couldn’t sleep. Between the cold, the ground, and the number you did on me, my body’s not feeling so hot.” I lower myself down next to her and she picks up another handful of snow. I notice how fast it melts in her hand and realize she’s burning up.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m feeling ‘hot’ enough for both of us.” She shows a tired smile and pulls the snow down her toned arm. It actually sizzles.
“Are you all right?”
“Actually,” she scoffs, “I’m cooling down. Better than I was a couple hours ago anyway. At least I don’t feel like I’m living in the intestines of a volcano anymore. It’s more like a pleasant hundred and twenty degree temperature.”
Her calmness about the situation makes me smile. “You’re right, that does sound pleasant.”
Ransley laughs softly and glances behind to make sure she hasn’t woken anyone. There’s not a movement throughout the camp except for the smoke billowing up from the wood I placed in the pit. She turns her head again and I notice, for the first time, a harsh jagged scar running from the top of her ear, which sits a hair lower than th
e other, to the corner of her mouth. The way the moonlight hits her face even makes her crooked nose look even more off center.
After all the fights I’ve been in I’ve never noticed the wounds on other fighters. They all look the same. This is the first time I’ve ever seen wounds that look so . . . out of place. I know it’s sexist, but the only reason her wounds make her look any different . . . is her gender. I’ve always expected women to be softer, and although Ransley’s face is attractive . . . damn attractive, it’s rough.
“I’m surprised you’re hurting so much,” she says. “Aren’t you strong enough to take hits from a girl?”
I groan and smile while rubbing my hands up and down my arms. “I guess not. Of course, I’ve never fought a woman who could boil the acid in my stomach either.”
Ransley frowns. “I’m sorry about that. And for distrusting you.”
“Nah . . . I don’t blame you. For either.”
“Estevan’s always told me it's a sign of weakness. If I can’t trust my natural strength and the things he taught me, then I’m not a good fighter. I’m surprised he didn’t ream me.”
“Well,” I dig the toe of my boot into the ground, “if it helps, look at it this way: If you hadn’t done what you did, I may have killed you.”
“You might have killed me?” She lifts an eyebrow.
“Or you, me.” I correct myself with a smirk. “I think your father was more relieved you weren’t dead. Not so much worried about you using your abilities. Which,” I add, “are natural, after all.”
Her smirk crinkles the scar on her face and she nods.
“You’re lucky you have a dad who cares so much.”
Ransley nods. “He’s not my father.”
“I wondered about that. So, who is he?”
Ransley takes a deep breath. Thick clouds escape from the exhalation like steam rolling over her lips. “Papá found me when I was about six or seven. We’re not sure how old I was, exactly, but . . . he took me in. He calls me, Perdida.”
“Lost one.”
She nods. “I remember him picking me up, putting me in the truck, and then I remember him driving. I don’t,” she frowns and pulls her hand away from her neck, shaking off the dripping water, “I don’t remember anything before. I know it’s weird, but I don’t know about my real parents, or anything. They were all back there in the apartment fire, but all I had was this set of linen bottoms and a top and this weird metal ID bracelet . . .”
“. . . with your name on it,” I cut in. It’s like she’s telling my own story, and I feel a little shaken.
“You too?”
I nod. “Although, no one found me. I must have been about the same age. It was like waking up from a blank dream. There was miles of desert and an abandoned town in the distance. I was up toward North America, I think. Texas or Arizona territory? I don’t remember anymore. I had the same bracelet, though, right around this wrist. In fact, I still have it in my tent back there. Like you, I’ve held onto it for all these years. Anyway, I lived on my own for,” I take in a breath and blow it out, thinking, “ten years? By that point I was already street fighting and I met Petey. From then on, others joined up with us, and I kept fighting so I could take care of them.”
Ransley sits back and relaxes, her fingers still dripping with ice-cold water. “I had mine in my bag. Of course, it’s gone now.” She dips her head and reaches for another handful of snow. “Could I see it?”
“My bracelet?”
Ransley nods.
“Sure.” I nod and painfully shuffle back to the tent. Underneath the cot, I pull out my canvas army duffle and dig inside for the cardboard box. Hidden inside it is a set of child’s linen clothing wrapped around a small, polished, black bracelet. My heart beats against my ribs, trying to escape.
I can’t believe this is happening. All these years I’ve wanted to learn more about myself, but accepted the fact I never would. The only downside is Ransley may know less than even I do.
After shoving the clothing back into it’s place within the box, I move a little quicker to return to Ransley.
“Look familiar?” I dangle it in front of her.
Her hands slowly reach up to take the bracelet and while I sit back down with a restrained groan, she puts her hand to her mouth.
“It’s exactly the same.” Ransley shakes her head. “Does everyone here know what you can do?”
“No. Just Petey. But that’s because he was there the first time I did it.”
“After ten years?” She stares at me in disbelief—her thin eyebrows sharply point in, with a mix of, I think, jealousy in her eyes.
“Yeah. He and I were, uh, starving one night and so we broke into this house. We didn’t know it, but a group of Nomads were holed up there. And we found this stock-pile of the most,” I shake my head remembering the processed foods—the snack cakes, chips, cans of chili, “amazing food. Well, we ate our hearts out and fell asleep. Half-way through the night, the Nomads who lived there came back.”
Ransley shakes her head, her fingernails between her teeth.
“But I didn’t wake up. Petey was fighting one off, and screaming at me. The guy broke Petey’s leg real bad. He said to me, the next thing he knew, another person that looked like me appeared next to him and went nuts. This other ‘me’ fought them, but this one Nomad came at me with a knife. He had me,” I motion with my hands, using Ransley to demonstrate on. I lean forward and press my forearm into her throat, “on the ground, his forearm pressed like this, Petey said. His knife cut right across my collarbone here.”
I tug down on the neckline of my shirt and show her the large raised scar. It’s harder to see now that it’s covered with other fight wounds, so I have to point it out for her. “He asked me if I’d ever been a work of art before. Then instead of continuing, he raised the knife like he was going to skewer me. That’s when I woke up. My projection disappeared, and I had this gash, bleeding down my front. I kicked at him when he was distracted and staring at the ground, wondering what the hell happened. He fell on the knife. Petey and I took off and from then on . . . I started projecting unintentionally every night. That’s when I started practicing. What about you?”
“Nothing . . . nothing that dramatic, I’m afraid.” She runs her thin fingers through her hair and looks out of the bowl. “When Estevan found me, I was scared. Scared enough that I started the truck’s engine on fire, I suppose. He told me about it later. I was setting things on fire all the time. Every time I got scared, angry, even embarrassed . . . something went up in flames.”
I remember how easy it seemed for her to stick her hand in that fire. The strength of the burn in my body when she touched me. The thought of it makes me a little warmer in this cold night.
“Have you ever started fire out of thin air?”
“You mean in the air?”
“Not really. I guess what I’m asking is can you start fire or manipulate it without touching it?” I press.
Ransley shrugs and waves her hands in the air like a wizard. I can’t help but smile. “Not yet.”
“You should try. I used to think I could only project if my body was asleep or unconscious because that was the only time it ever happened. But . . . .”
I will my body to cooperate. I feel my mind stretching. Every nerve tingles, and as easy as blinking my eyes, my second form appears on the other side of her. My duplicate and I both smile at each other and then at her. “Now I can do it anytime I want. It’s like seeing the world maybe like fly would. I’m able to focus on so many other sounds, so many other sites—even see behind myself in a way because my mind is controlling both of us.”
“It’s a tricky situation,” my duplicate says. “It’s like we’re twins, but not really at all.”
Ransley’s eyes spread open wide and her head flicks back and forth between both of us. She starts laughing and has to put her hand to her mouth. “Wow, that’s too creepy. I love it though.”
“Thank you,” I reply calmly.
Then on the other side of her, I answer with, “It doesn’t scare you?”
Ransley laughs again. “No.”
It’s odd—talking with her is so comfortable. I can’t even place why that is. Even her laugh is familiar, and her voice is so femininely dark and warm—spiced up by her thin Argentinean accent.
Over the tips of the mountains, the sun is rising. Glowing gold light streaks through the haze of the morning clouds like a dim filter. I pull my focus back in and my second form disappears.
“Ransley? I’ve been thinking.” I swallow hard, not sure what I expect to hear from her. “Our stories are so similar. Too similar. Do you think we knew each other before we lost our memories? I feel like I already know you. Does that sound weird?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not at all. I’ve been wondering the same thing. Like, where our parents are. Where did we come from? Do we have brothers and sisters? Are we siblings? If not, then why are we like this? Because, whatever these things are, these . . . powers we have . . . these people we’re becoming . . . it’s not normal.”
I take a deep breath and let it rush out of me. She’s asking all the same questions I’ve ever asked myself. I wish I had the answers—not just for myself, but for her. I feel a draw to her that confuses and excites me at the same time.
Ransley holds her hand out, cutting off my thoughts and I look over to her. “Do you hear that?”
I look around and not only hear, but feel a soft vibration in the air. I pull myself to my feet, ignoring the tearing pain in my muscles.
“Shit!” I yell to each tent while running across the camp. Squints jumps to his feet and follows me around, barking at the top of his lungs.
“Transports! Public transports! EVERYONE WAKE UP!” I bellow. I feel it resonate in my chest, I’m yelling so loud.
From the corner of my eye, two of the lean-tos fall over and Dina and her daughter scramble out from under one of them. Fear etches into their faces and they struggle to gather what they can in their arms. I stop in my tracks, commotion swirling around me like an alerted beehive. Over the top of the bowl, hovering in the sky are three Public transports. No bigger than vintage tanks, but their sleek, oval-shaped, metal bodies hovering a couple feet over the ground. Glass black as oil serves as their windshields and I can’t see how many guards are inside. It’s like looking into a black hole.