Impervious

by Heather Letto

  She smelled it first―the odor of seared flesh. Her gaze locked on his body. He remained wide-eyed as if in shock. His arms jerked once or twice, and his legs followed suit, giving Fran a moment of hope. Yet, as she neared, she saw the absence of breath— no rise or fall of his chest. And a soft coil of smoke as it rose from Derrick’s body.

  He had been cooked… from the inside out.

  She gagged, threw her hand over her mouth and nose, and shuffled backwards, aware his body still teemed with a lethal dose of electricity.

  Folsom reached out to him.

  “Stop!” she screeched, but her warning was too late. The wave moved through Derrick’s body and lashed out at Folsom like a viper. While glued to Derrick, Folsom shook with unseen power, unable to release the hold. His legs thrashed, his back arched, and his head flopped.

  Stop! Just stop! Fran’s lips didn’t move as she screamed at the Beast.

  A wave of excitement lifted from the surrounding structures. Cheers and whistles rang out from the four corners. Behemoth swept in. With the grace of a hawk, he grabbed a zombie with his vice-like claws. The zombie squirmed and moaned, and an explosion of holographic zombie body parts littered the desert-like sky.

  A female droid voice hummed through the speakers. “Xyphon, twenty points. Behemoth, twenty points.”

  Fran looked around the courts. Already piles of fallen Rebels and random pixilated zombie-parts, littered the holographic landscape. The winged avatar circle overhead and dove into the ring. She knew, at this very moment, Nissa sat in her simulated gaming chair, whooping and hollering every time a zombie went down. Did she even know the Rebels were real? And what about Ted? Was he at home cheering on his bride with the same crazy enthusiasm as the live crowd? At least she and Nissa were on the same side of the fight this time.

  In one swoop, Behemoth took out two zombies. Just Nissa’s way of showing off. The audience roared. Some cheered while others booed and hissed. Then, a display of flashing lights drew attention to the main stage where Pete still stood, a world away from where Fran fought for her life in the courts. With much fanfare, a well-dressed guard ushered Pete away. Fran called out his name but knew he couldn’t hear. Was he already poisoned? Would he fall into the spasm of death as soon as he left her sight?

  The stage transformed into a palatial throne room with walls of gold and gem-encrusted adornments. A silky white robe and an endless flowing train filled the throne room as the Queen pixilated to life. Thick, black tresses cascaded over her robe. The ends wiggled and hissed. A hundred pairs of gleaming eyes peeked out from the depths. Razor-sharp facial features and blood-red lips shimmered into view.

  One word took shape in Fran’s mind: Wicked. Queen Xyphon moved with dignity and power as she climbed onto her elevated throne. From her pedestal, she became all-seeing, all-knowing. Her loud voice trumpeted through the speakers.

  “Not one Rebel shall go unaccounted tonight. The blood will run deep, and the city will be cleansed of the rats that wander in a cloak of darkness. Zombies, you have been commissioned to do my work. I now bestow upon you the gift of speed.”

  A nearby lumbering zombie broke into a full run. Fran’s heart raced. She had sprinted through the Agora plenty of times with ease. And tonight, with an overload of hot adrenaline, she was bound to break her old speed records. But would that be enough for human versus avatar?

  Fran raced cross-court and moved behind the opaque, rocky outline engulfing The Lunch Hut. The zombie stopped running. Seriously? You can’t see me? She must have been losing her mind because for a millionth of a second, it all seemed comical.

  Behemoth soared overhead and the zombie had no place to hide. A moment later, zombie parts littered the arena. Down to eleven. From her hiding place, Fran scanned the court and counted the heaps of her fallen Rebels. Her heart broke as she counted past ten, eleven, and twelve. She closed her eyes, unable to process the loss. The sounds of screams and groans accosted her ears. The high voltage waves bit at her skin like prickly barbs. The odor of burning flesh ignited her old memory of advanced HAZMAT and the swirling ashes of humanity. Imagining air tainted with the charred DNA of her comrades, Fran choked on her own breath. She needed an immediate place of peace. Maybe she should just show her face and let the zombie finish her off.

  She pushed back tears as her mind went to the open air, to her mother and the love that had always rained down from her heart. She thought of her father and the short time they spent together. Fran pictured the vivid night sky and the light of the moon. She thought about Ted, how they had romped through the hallways trying to outrun the RIT’s when they were kids.

  She reflected back to her learning years and the project in Englehardt’s class that garnered her an ‘A’ for the entire semester…collision rate of plasma energy. Her mind halted on that thought. She remembered Englehardt’s stern warning to the class after she had presented her findings.

  “Just remember, kids. That much impact would also have the ability to produce a synergistic blackout. Not something to be taken lightly.”

  Could it work? Could she force the hand of the Queen and destroy her entire army in one fell swoop? Fran felt certain she could draw them together if she had the right bait. Then she realized… she was the perfect bait.

  She knew the lay of this land, had traversed the Agora under the radar more times than she could count on both hands. But could she do it in blinding darkness? A blackout would give her twelve seconds before an alternate power source rebooted. Could she get out in twelve seconds or less?

  Fran peeked out from behind The Lunch Hut.

  The Queen commanded.

  The zombies ravaged.

  Her comrades raced to and fro.

  She hid herself within the light and edged around the perimeter of the Agora, making sure to stay within the illumination of the rocky walls. When she reached the stage, she crept up the stairway, and slithered to the center. Then, like a ridiculous avatar, Fran lifted to her full height and stood, hands-on-hips, staring at the animated Queen.

  Queen Xyphon barked from her throne. “Who is this Rebel in my midst?”

  Fran did not reply as she inched her way to the edge of the stage.

  “Dare you sully my royal palace with your Rebel presence?” The evil voice rose in anger.

  The cheers faded. Zombies stood at ease, and a hush fell over the courts. Behemoth landed in a corner and remained still. Even her remaining Rebel comrades stopped moving.

  Fran assessed every nook, every cranny, every stationary object, and every hallway leading away from the courts. She knew exactly where to go. And she had the Queen’s full attention.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  The Queen bellowed from her throne, “Zombies, ravage this Rebel!”

  That was her cue. Fran jumped from her elevated position on stage. Her eyes blurred as the nine remaining zombies raced cross court. She turned in a slow circle and watched as they approached the perimeter.

  She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes for a half a second, opened, and exhaled. The intense sensation engulfing her body made it hard to breathe. The zombies came close enough for her to make out their gruesome details—mangled faces and decaying flesh. Hair rose up from where it lay on her head. The prickliness morphed into a burn and then a stabbing, knife-like pain spread through her chest. A tear traveled down her cheek. The landscape blurred.

  She closed her eyes, held her breath, placed her hands over her head, and curled up into a ball. Then with a moment-and-a-half between her and the nine holographs, a breath before they collided with one another and burst into a self-destructive power bomb, she hit the floor and rolled like a bowling ball away from the stage.

  One somersault, two, three, and four. A crackle pierced the air as the surge of electricity consumed its own self, like a cannibalistic rat snake. The Agora lit up as if the sun had found its way inside the metal dome before it plunged into blinding, suffocating darkness.

  At that moment, Fran began to coun
t.

  And run.

  Chatter rose from the surrounding viewers.

  One second.

  She sprinted past the resting fountain, the smell of the rusty minerals surrounding her.

  Two seconds.

  She zigzagged past the stationary tables, their crumbly sandwich residue giving away an otherwise hidden location.

  Three seconds.

  Drawing a straight line in her head, she followed it like a beacon in the darkness.

  Four seconds.

  The heat from the moving stairway up ahead reached for her.

  Five seconds.

  She launched and stumbled as she climbed the frozen stairs two-at-a-time.

  Six seconds.

  Seven seconds.

  Gripping the rubber railing, she pulled her weight to propel herself upward.

  Eight seconds.

  Reaching the landing, she felt the hard epoxy flooring.

  Nine seconds.

  She raced until she careened into the glass doors of the Le Petite Spa and used the hard, cold windows as a guide to move her to the hallway.

  Ten seconds.

  Eleven seconds.

  The lights flickered.

  She burst through the corridor, her throat and heart glued together with fear as she headed for the elevator.

  Twelve seconds.

  The crowd roared as the de-pixilated Agora came back to life. She imagined the cries came from the shock and repulsion as the crowd witnessed the littering of bodies across the epoxy flooring.

  The doors of the elevator hummed closed. She jabbed the “S” button with her thumb. Her breath came in ragged sobs and agonizing wheezes. She clasped her chest, resting her head against the wall of the elevator.

  By the time the elevator arrived at the Surface floor―Fran’s breathing had almost normalized. Her throat and chest still burned from the thick EMP. The muscles in her arms and legs intermittently spasmed and twitched as they reeled from the intense magnetic overload. But she was alive.

  Just as Mr. Englehardt had warned, the power collision did produce the synergistic blackout, and the cloak of darkness had acted as her personal tunnel to escape the Agora. Darkness was a friend to every Rebel and she hoped they’d all used their twelve seconds as she had. Just find a place to hide, she thought. I’ll be back for you.

  The doors slid open, and Fran poked her head into the quiet vestibule. Were they scouring the hallways looking for her? Did they even know, Sarah Monde, had been in the Rebel crowd, or was she just one of thirty-one faceless Rebels? She still needed to get through the doors of the Ranch, but then after two lefts and a right she’d find her cover.

  Fran looked down at her wrist.

  My bangle!

  It was gone.

  How would she re-enter the Ranch? If she knocked on the door, Freddie or another guard would answer. Considering the deactivator plus showed her inside and at work, how would she explain? Fran had no doubts Freddie had watched the game on his reader. He’d figure it out. After all, she did kind-of have a history.

  She would just have to wait it out. Sooner or later, someone would exit. Someone would leave for the day, and she would breeze through the door as they exited.

  She crept through the hallway and sat on the bench outside of the facility―the one used by relatives of the post-primers as they waited for clearance. The one that stayed hidden behind a big phony ficus to block the distasteful view. She had no reason to fear, right? As far as the Council knew, her status showed Accountable, right?

  The beady eyes of Marcus glaring into the venting haunted her imagination.

  Just breathe.

  She focused on her breath and closed her eyes.

  Bad idea.

  The gruesome faces of the Zombies filled her mind’s eye, and the essence of charred bodies filled her nostrils. Her eyes popped open. She stared at the floor, working to block out what had transpired over the last few hours, nowhere near ready to process it all. Maybe she never would be. She hadn’t gotten through to Ted. And what about Pete? She hadn’t rescued Pete.

  A sob lodged in her tight chest. So many Rebels had lost their lives. Fran felt her soul falling. The Beast. Failure. Hopelessness.

  She remembered Marcus’ cold stare as she watched from the venting. He had known. He’d used her like a pawn in his sick game. Maybe she should have never come back. Maybe she should just turn herself in and take the hit of a forfeiture.

  Her mother’s face came to mind, and a tear pinched the corner of her eye. Fran remembered the shriek that had erupted from her mother when their eyes had reconnected for the first time. The surprise and elation. The joy.

  She’s going to lose one son. Don’t make her lose a daughter as well.

  For her mother’s sake, she had to go back. But not because she deserved to be free. She heard a thumping and Fran turned her head. John, one of the two remaining wards of Team-Fran, stood on the far side of the glass wall waving to her.

  She laughed.

  She cried.

  As she stood to move toward the door, a buzzing filled her ears. She turned around just as an RIT zipped past. It stopped mid-air and circled around her head. She lifted her face. A flash of red. The RIT zoomed off. She continued toward the door, where John still waved, and smiled at her old friend. So you do get up and walk around after all. Let’s see what else you can do.

  Fran pointed to the door handle and mimed to John the motion for opening the door. John laughed. He didn’t get it. Fran tried it again.

  The hair on her arms began to rise, and a prickly sensation crawled upon her skin.

  Huh?

  It took longer than it should have for her to piece it all together. The RIT in a Surface floor hallway? And the electromagnescence of a Graphie? Had she forgotten their ways? Was her brain completely fried?

  She looked back to John with renewed terror. The smile vanished from his face as he noticed the change. He looked down at his feet and began to shuffle away.

  No!

  Fran pounded on the glass. She shouted his name. She mimed the motion to open the door. Please, John, please.

  Twelve seconds. She had twelve precious seconds to convince him, and she’d already wasted two. She bent down low so he could see her face as he gazed at his paper slippers. She caught his eye. She smiled and waved.

  He smiled and waved.

  She stood up.

  He smiled and waved.

  She mimed opening the door.

  He opened the door.

  She dove through the opening.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  A Graphie materialized on the far side of the glass wall. Fran stared as the rippling holograph flashed red from his sockets before slowly de-pixilating to nothingness. She woofed out a breath and put her hands to her mouth as nausea rolled through her belly.

  “Hi.” John still smiled and waved.

  “John, when you get outside, I’m going to give you a big kiss.”

  John puckered up.

  “Oh. What the heck.” Fran moved forward and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips.

  John giggled. “I’ve got a girlfriend,” he mumbled as he shuffled away.

  Fran took a last, disbelieving, look over her shoulder and then sprinted down the hallway. She skidded to the left when she reached the first turn. Her head reeled and her heart beat much too fast. And too hard. Her eyes began to blur and she missed second left. Colliding with a wall, she slid to a stop and spun back around to the last hallway.

  One more right, she reminded herself and soon saw the final turn up ahead. The swishing sound of paper booties filled her ears as she neared the supply closet. Was someone behind her? Was she hearing her own footsteps? While holding her breath, she lunged at the door, and with trembling hands entered the code twice before she got it right.

  After the door closed, she leaned her head against the wall and slid down its slick surface. She coiled into a ball on the floor. She might be there an hour or a day; she had no w
ay of knowing. Overloaded senses shut down. Her world went black.

  .~.

  She awoke with a start, ready to fight. Her heart raced as she looked around at her surroundings. Cleaning supplies and folded smocks rested on the shelves. The memory of her fight returned.

  She rose, put an ear to the door, and listened… to the muffled laughter of the Superiors as they dropped off a package. Adrenaline and relief spilled through her veins. A shaky smile crossed her face as she kept her ear to the door. The vestibule doors hummed open. She counted to three and poked her head from the door.

  All clear.

  Fran tiptoed across the hall and the moist, warm, healing balm touched her skin. She breathed in the sweet air as the blades rotated in a blurry circle, offering her the breath of life. The motor ceased, and silence filled the vestibule.

  She ran.

  Jumped.

  Gripped and pulled.

  Bellied under the fan.

  The light from beyond beckoned, and she crawled toward freedom, every tortured moment, her heart wrenched and turned in her chest.

  Pete. Sweet, brave, goofball Pete. He’d believed in her. He’d loved her. He’d given her a gift that no one else ever had, yet she’d discarded it like a cheap toy. On a sob, she remembered the day he’d breathed life into her tired soul and the way he had whispered her name.

  Not Wolf.

  Not Fran.

  But Sarah, her real name.

  She hardly felt like a princess, yet mercy poured into the venting as if welcoming royalty. She thought about Ted. Would she see him again one day in the distant future, or would he be swallowed up as well? Although she’d managed to disarm her personal Beast, a monster still existed down there. A mere twelve floors below, this Beast still gave children nightmares and stole hope from the aging. Until the truth could be told, that paralyzing fear of death would continue to prey on them all and, for some, consume them wholly.

  At last the light shone overhead and she lifted her eyes toward the blue skies. She took one last look behind her.

  “You will be crushed,” she whispered to the darkness and then crawled to freedom.