Willpower

by Anna Durand

  David bent his head down beside hers. "You're safe."

  Too exhausted to speak, she pressed her face against his chest, curling her fingers around the neck of his T-shirt.

  No more shouting. No footsteps. No engine noises. The commandos were out of earshot, maybe even gone altogether, having given up the search. She harbored no illusions that they'd give up permanently. They would be back. Soon. With a lot more men.

  David ducked his head out into the arroyo. Empty. Carrying Grace, he knew he could never outrun the guards. Carrying her while clutching the guard's helmet and trying not to trip in a hole or smack into a big rock was even harder. A crack in the arroyo wall, four feet deep and three feet wide, had offered refuge. Their concealment was aided by a large cactus growing at the apex of the arroyo wall, which shaded the fissure. Although the commandos had scanned the arroyo visually, the crack was not obvious, especially in the dark. The cactus cast a long shadow on the arroyo wall so that, in a quick glance, the crack looked like a part of the shadows, not a fracture in the wall.

  He knew this landscape the way he knew his own mind. Months of exploring the vicinity of the facility, psychically, had given him an intimate knowledge of every slope and gully, every rock outcropping and copse of Joshua trees. He knew the locations of three abandoned homes, nothing more than shacks now, and the path of every arroyo within fifty square miles. His travels had acquainted him with the creatures that inhabited the desert, both human and animal. No one knew this area better.

  Except, perhaps, the architects who had built the facility.

  Grace clutched his shirt tighter and moaned.

  The bastards had hurt her. He didn't know how, couldn't see a wound or a mark, but he knew they had done this to her. Pain had possessed her body like a parasite, eating away at her strength, and he had no idea what to do for her, if anything could alleviate the pain. She seemed unable to speak.

  She needed a doctor. He couldn't trust anyone in Reston. He wasn't sure she'd make it to the next town, over a hundred miles away, even if he conjured a car and drove two-hundred miles an hour the whole way. Her face had paled. A bead of blood formed on her lip where she'd bitten it. Scratches drew red lines across her cheek.

  Dammit, help her. Don't just stand here.

  The arroyo snaked eastward about two hundred feet, then forked northeast and southwest. At the fork, the walls sloped at a more oblique angle and animals had worn a path up the slope at that spot. He could at least get them out of the arroyo there. After that, he knew exactly where to take them. The route ran through his mind, a series of lines on a mental map, leading toward the one safe place he knew.

  He lunged out of the fissure.

  Grace huddled in his arms, her body limp, as he traversed the arroyo and found the trail up the slope. Once he'd climbed out of the arroyo, he paused to check her pulse. It beat strong and steady against his finger. Her breathing was slow and shallow. She seemed to be sleeping, rather than unconscious. He relaxed a little. Rest would do her good.

  While the sun dipped ever closer to the mountains, David strode across the desert toward a house he couldn't be sure still stood. He hadn't seen the place in six months.

  His arms quivered. Sweat trickled down his brow. Even in a manifestation, he could exhaust himself, and he was no good to Grace if couldn't walk. Besides, he might grow so tired he'd snap back to the facility, back to a locked room miles from her. He would not abandon her.

  Not after what she'd sacrificed to get him here.

  He halted in an area populated by rocks. He dropped the helmet. Kicking aside some of the rocks, he cleared a spot and lowered Grace onto the sand. She didn't stir. God, she looked weak. Vulnerable. If they found her like this, she couldn't defend herself. Tesler might haul him back to the facility at any moment by administering drugs or an electric shock to break the connection. He must see her through whatever injury or illness had seized her, because she would never survive alone, not like this.

  She opened her eyes partway. Red veins webbed the whites of her eyes. She sniffled as her gaze settled on his face. He wanted to hold her, but feared he'd cause her more pain. So instead, he smoothed the hair away from her face.

  She spoke, her voice rough. "It's over."

  She's dying. He bent over her, his gut wrenching into knots. "What happened?"

  "Migraine. It's going away, though."

  The tension flooded out of him in a long sigh. She had meant the migraine was over. He shook his head and almost laughed. She wasn't dying. Though the migraine had weakened her, she would recover. In fact, she looked much better already. Her cheeks showed a slight pinkness, rather than the frightening pallor he'd seen when he found her in the arroyo.

  "I'm okay," she said.

  Sitting down beside her, he managed a weak smile as he stroked her hair. "I was afraid they'd hurt you."

  He slid his hand down to her cheek — the one without scratches on it.

  She scrunched her face into a confused expression. "How are you here? I thought you were too weak to manifest."

  "I was," he said, taking her hand in his. "You gave me some of your energy. That's probably what caused your migraine."

  "What?"

  "You wanted me here, and you made it happen." He squeezed her hand gently. "Now be quiet and rest. We still have a ways to go."

  Grace shivered. The chill of night had settled over the desert.

  In one motion, he scooped her into his arms and rose. As he started down the path outlined in his mind, she looped her arms around his neck. Whatever happened, they would deal with it together.

  Whether she liked it or not.

  Sizzle. Crackle. Grace opened her eyes. The migraine had ended. She was tired, weak, hungry, and thirsty, but no longer in pain. She lay on her side, on the floor, where David had set her down … how long ago? The memory seemed more like a half-remembered dream.

  The wood felt rough and cold against her skin. A draft swirled over her and she shivered. Something thunked. A door closing, she thought, unable to muster the energy to lift her head and look. The draft ceased. Across the room, a fire burned inside an old fireplace. Two logs crackled. Flames licked upward from the logs.

  A figure passed in front of her. She pushed up into a sitting position, supporting her body with her arms.

  David kneeled by the fire. He held twigs and broken boards under one arm and, piece by piece, tossed them into the fire. She watched him stoke the blaze with a five-foot metal fence post. He had carried her here and started a fire. He was taking care of her. No one had done that for her in a long time.

  He turned toward her and sat down, patting the floor beside him. "It's warmer over here."

  She scuttled toward the fireplace. Sitting several feet from him, legs crossed under her, she studied the fire. Orange and yellow flames darted up from within the pile of wood, flickering and dancing.

  David scooted closer to her and clasped her hand in both of his. She turned sideways to rest her head on his shoulder. He felt so solid, so real, that she had forgotten what he was — an illusion. Sure, he existed, in a building out there in the desert, but he was not really with her, not really touching her hand, not really giving her a look of earnest concern.

  His face was haggard, his lips pale. As he exhaled, he let his shoulders sag. She shifted her attention to his hand, cupped over hers. It looked real. Everything looked the opposite of how it was these days. Her life looked normal. People looked like people, even the ones she now knew were not people, but instead humanoid mirages.

  She nudged David's hand with one finger. His flesh gave under the pressure, until her fingertip bumped the bone. His skin felt warm and pliable, the bone firm, the muscles taut when flexed and soft when relaxed. Beneath her finger, she detected the coarseness of hair, the texture of skin, and upon pressing, the surge of blood flowing through veins. David's explanations did no
thing to subdue her confusion or the surreality of the situation.

  She scraped her fingernail lightly across his hand. "Can you feel this?"

  "I feel everything." He reached up with his free hand to lift her chin, bringing their gazes into alignment. "You ought to know that after last night."

  She felt like curling up in his arms again, feeling his warmth surround and infuse her.

  His gaze was intent. She looked away, focusing on the fireplace, at the embers glowing beneath the half-consumed wood.

  "When you left me in the car," she said, "there was wind and pressure. It made my ears pop. What was that?"

  Releasing her hand, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Breaking the connection too abruptly can cause a sudden expulsion of energy. It's often experienced as a localized shift in air pressure. Inside a confined space, it's more noticeable. We call it backfire."

  "Right." She'd pretend that made sense, because if he offered more details her head might implode. "You said I gave you energy."

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  He shrugged and tried to laugh, but coughed instead. "I don't know how you do it. I can't do it, and neither can anyone else I've met."

  The firelight no longer lit his face. Now, it seemed to draw the energy out of his body as fuel for its flames.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "I will be. The shot of energy you gave me is almost gone, though."

  "Maybe I could give you more."

  "No." His expression hardened to match the tone of his voice. "It's too dangerous."

  She said nothing. Her gut told her the same thing, but she didn't like seeing him weak and virtually defenseless.

  "You should go," she said.

  "I don't like leaving you alone."

  "I'm used to it."

  "They'll find you. One against a dozen, maybe more." He brushed his thumb across her cheek. "Not good odds."

  "Odds can be beaten."

  He didn't scowl, though she expected he would. Instead, he turned his head to study the fire, his expression not blank, but simply inscrutable as he said, "You're inside the perimeter now. If you try to leave, they'll find you. If you stay in this house too long, they'll find you. You might reach the facility, and I might be able to help you get inside it, but — " He looked at her, and this time he did scowl. "What do you hope to accomplish there?"

  She lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Not sure. I'm trusting my instincts here, and they tell me the answers I need are inside that facility."

  "We've already established I can't stop you." He stared down at the floor, tapping one fingernail on the scuffed wood. "I know the grounds around the facility. Sean knows the interior better than anyone except the engineers and architects who built it. He's hiding inside the facility now, but I can find him and get his help in sneaking you inside."

  "Thank you."

  Reaching into his back pocket, he brought out a yellowed and wrinkled piece of paper that was folded in quarters. As he unfolded the sheet, he held it out to her. "I found a pen in your purse and an ancient sheet of paper wadded up in the corner there." He pointed over his shoulder. "So I drew you a map."

  She took the paper and ran a fingertip over the black ink lines drawn on it. One zigzagging line ducked between and around shapes and words he'd scrawled across the page. Landmarks, she realized, and explanatory phrases to guide her.

  "It isn't the most direct route," he told her, "because the direct route is too exposed. This way will take a little longer, but it should get you there with the least risk of being spotted."

  She noticed he didn't say zero risk, just less risk. Complete safety no longer existed for her.

  "Your gun is in your purse," he said. "I picked it up back in the arroyo."

  "Thanks."

  Bending sideways and leaning backward, he retrieved an object from the shadows behind him. When he sat straight again, he offered her the object. It was a full-face helmet like the ones the commandos wore.

  "Take this," he said, thrusting the helmet at her. "Traveling at night is difficult, and the facility's security force isn't the only danger out there. If you step on a rattlesnake or run into coyotes … " He grasped her right hand and folded her fingers around the helmet's bottom rim. "The helmets have built-in night vision capability."

  She accepted the helmet. He gestured for her to put it on, and she did. Darkness swallowed her.

  "In daylight, the visor acts as sunglasses," David said, his voice coming through clearly, if a bit softer. "This button turns on the night vision."

  He guided her finger to a switch on the bottom rim. She flicked it.

  The world transformed into shades of green. The fire was blinding on the night vision screen in front of her eyes, and she swiveled her head to look into the darker recesses of the room. She made out the individual boards that formed the walls, the outlines of the window frames, and even a Joshua tree that stood maybe twenty feet beyond the window.

  Shutting off the night vision, she removed the helmet. "Thank you."

  "Stop thanking me," he muttered. Then he pressed his lips to hers in a brief, tender kiss. "Just be careful."

  And he was gone.

  A breeze whistled through the old house. The floorboards creaked. The windows rattled. Inside the fireplace, flames whipped back and forth, dwindling until only the embers remained.

  The storm ended in a flurry of dust. Flames burst up from the embers in the fireplace.

  David had broken the connection more carefully this time, or else the room was big enough to dampen the backfire.

  She was alone. Again.

  "Move and I'll split your head open. Don't care if you are female."

  The maw of a shotgun gaped at her, nearly kissing her nose. A man loomed above her, shadows masking his features. A faint grumbling issued from behind him, and a bright light from outside silhouetted him from behind. The front door hung wide open.

  Still groggy from sleep, since she had woken up seconds earlier, Grace struggled to make sense of the images. Gun. Man. Light. She had fallen asleep in front of the fire, that she remembered.

  The man gesticulated with the gun. "You're trespassing. Just 'cause I don't live here, don't mean you can break in. "

  "I thought the house was abandoned."

  "Yeah. But I still own it."

  Grace yawned. She couldn't help it. Her brain needed oxygen. The landlord, however, took her action the wrong way.

  He jammed the gun into her forehead. "I said don't move."

  "It was a yawn, not an act of war." To hell with this. She slapped the gun away, pushing onto her knees. "My car broke down. I was lost, so I started walking and came to this place. Since it looked abandoned, I decided to sleep here. Sorry I offended you."

  She hopped onto her feet.

  He swung the gun toward her. The barrel bumped her chest. "How'd you find me?"

  "I told you, I got lost."

  "Carlos sent you, didn't he?"

  "I don't know any Carlos. I got lost."

  "Sure." He shuffled backward. "The stuff better be here. If it's not, your pretty little face is gonna wallpaper this room."

  Drugs. The word popped into her mind as the man kneeled, keeping the shotgun sighted on her head, and pried one board loose from the floor, then another. He dragged an olive-green canvas bag out of the hole and plopped it on the floor. She waited for an opening to run, but he kept the gun pointed at her. Though his aim varied by a few inches, he wouldn't need a straight line at her head for the shot to kill her. If the blast hit her shoulder or her chest, she'd probably die all the same.

  The commando helmet lay near her feet. Her gun was inside her purse, which also lay nearby. To grab either, she'd need to duck way too close to the shotgun's muzzle.

  The man unzipped the olive-green bag.
She glimpsed white bricks wrapped in plastic. Duct tape secured each package. Cocaine. Maybe heroine. She'd seen enough cop shows to recognize the stuff.

  How did this creep get inside the facility's perimeter?

  There were no fences. Anyone could walk across the perimeter, ignoring the warning signs. The sensors would detect the intrusion, however, and commandos would be dispatched.

  Everything inside her went cold. The commandos had shown up quickly when she breached the perimeter.

  Out the window, through the grime encrusting the glass, she saw a vehicle with its headlights blazing. The grumbling she'd heard was the engine idling. Her heartbeat quickened.

  "Lucky for you," the man said, zipping the bag and dropping it into the hole, "it's still here."

  "I told you, I just got lost."

  "What were you doing out here in hell's back forty? You know this whole blasted desert is owned by some nasty corporate types."

  "I — " She couldn't think of a good lie. She couldn't think of a bad one either.

  With his foot, he maneuvered the floorboards back into place. They snapped into position.

  She felt the earth liquefying beneath her, in a metaphorical sense, at least so far. If she moved too quickly, she'd plunge into the mire. If she waited too long, it would swallow her. Neither option appealed to her.

  "It's silly," she said. "I was looking for UFOs. Took a wrong turn and got lost."

  "That's the worst-smelling load of bat guano I ever heard. Carlos, you scumbag!"

  The gun trembled in his hand. His trigger finger wobbled.

  She dove sideways just as he jerked the trigger. The shot detonated with deafening force. Wood splintered and sprayed across the room. Bricks around the fireplace crumbled.

  The man bellowed a wordless cry of rage and anguish.

  Grace snatched up the helmet and her purse, scrambling for the door.