Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  Walter laid the chip in his palm. “You’re more like your dad than you know.”

  “I hope that means my dad’s cool.”

  “He’s cool, that’s for sure, and he can also breathe fire. Imagine if you had that ability.”

  “That would be amazing.” Matt pushed the wafer between two molars, a tight fit. “I could use a weapon like that.”

  “Speaking of weapons …” Walter shed his coat and shoulder belt and extended the belt with the Glock dangling in the holster. “I assume you know how to use one.”

  Matt stood and reached for it tentatively. “Well, yeah. It’s part of our training.”

  “It has armor-piercing rounds, so …” Walter grinned. “Be careful.”

  As he strapped it on under his jacket, Matt glanced up. “Do you have a weapon?”

  “Another one just like it in my backpack, but I’m not worried about anyone climbing all the way up here.” Walter reached into his pack, withdrew a set of headphones with a built-in microphone, and slid it over his head. “Can you hear me?” he whispered into the mike.

  As the scratchy voice vibrated in his tooth, Matt rubbed his tongue across it. “Yeah. Can you adjust this thing? It feels like an electrical buzz.”

  “Sorry. No can do.” Walter pulled a radio box from his backpack and set it on the ground. Stooping next to it, he extended a telescoping antenna and flipped on a power switch. As the radio emitted a low hum, he stripped a Velcro-attached remote control unit from the box and began pushing buttons.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Signaling Yereq. Letting him know we’ll be ready in two minutes.” Walter rose and, staying low, attached the rope to a hefty tree trunk before feeding the line to the edge of the cliff. “This isn’t by the book, but I assume you’re no rookie at rappelling. We won’t have a backup anchor.”

  “Not a problem.” Matt took the rope and slid it through a figure-eight hook and attached it to his harness. “I’m set.”

  “Do you have your ascenders for coming back?”

  Matt touched the clips hanging from his belt. “Check.”

  “Pocketknife?”

  “Check again. Right pants pocket.”

  “It’s sharp as a razor, so be careful.”

  “I can handle it. Anything else?”

  “Just this.” Walter shoved a hand into his pants pocket and withdrew something in his fist. As he slowly uncurled his fingers, a shining gem came into view, about the size of a Ping-Pong ball, oblong instead of round. In spite of the lack of light, it glittered, as if shining with a light of its own.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s called a candlestone.” Walter held it closer to Matt’s eyes. “Do you feel anything?”

  “No.” Matt crossed his eyes to see it clearly. “What’s it supposed to feel like?”

  “That depends. Do you feel any pain at all? Weakness?”

  Matt shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

  “Perfect.” Walter stuffed the gem back into his pocket and used a carabiner to attach heavy-duty wire cutters to Matt’s harness. “Now I know what your second dragon trait is.”

  “Really? Something about me not getting cold easily?”

  “Nope.” Walter slid a memory drive into Matt’s shirt pocket. “Bring back the files, and I’ll tell you.”

  * * *

  Lauren dove for the volleyball and smacked it with her fist inches above the gym floor. As she slid across the varnished wood, the ball flew higher than the net, reaching the top of its arc at the perfect spot. Brandy had already leaped and cocked her lanky body into position. With a whip of her arm, she spiked the ball, making it slap the opposing team’s floor.

  Lauren pumped a fist. Yes! Victory! Before she could scramble to her feet, Micaela grabbed her wrist and jerked her upright. While the rest of the team mobbed Brandy, Micaela hugged Lauren and whispered, “Let her have her celebration. Everyone knows who made that dig.”

  Nodding, Lauren pulled back. “Thanks.”

  After the opposing teams exchanged handshakes, Lauren walked up to Brandy and extended her hand. “Great spike. You really put that one away.”

  While the other girls chanted the team’s victory cheer, Brandy locked thumbs with Lauren. “That dig was impossible … and perfect. You’re the best libero we’ve ever had.”

  Lauren blinked. A sincere compliment? She smiled and nodded. “Thanks.”

  As she walked toward the sideline with Micaela, her back tingled, as it always did when her emotions surged. Like an electrical impulse, the sensation traveled up her spine until it reached her ears with a whispered, “Freak!”

  Lauren wheeled around. Brandy averted her eyes and began talking to a reporter while her sycophants hovered close. Still, Brandy kept glancing Lauren’s way every few seconds.

  The tingling continued, sending the buzzing conversation into her ears.

  “So, Brandy, now that you’ve led your team to the regional championship, tell us how it feels to be going to state.”

  Brandy’s blonde ponytail bobbed as she spoke in her annoying singsong, the cadence she reserved for people who couldn’t see through to her malice. “It’s really cool, you know, like, it’s a dream come true. Even though I’m the one who gets her spikes replayed on TV, we’re all a team. You know, all for one and one for all …”

  As Lauren turned again toward the side, she hummed a tune, her usual way to drown out the noise. This weird ability to hear things no one else could had gotten out of control, and the last thing she wanted to do was to listen in on Brandy’s idol-wannabe chatter.

  “What’s bugging you?” Micaela asked. “Irritated by Miss Superstar?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  Micaela set a fist on her hip. “Don’t let her get to you. She makes the girls in the blonde jokes look like geniuses.”

  Lauren noted Micaela’s hair, as dark as chocolate and trimmed short for the tournament. Since their hair color matched, Micaela’s love of telling jokes about dumb blondes never strained their friendship. “Brandy’s a pain sometimes, but …” Lauren shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Spill it. What else is wrong?”

  “Well …” Lauren touched her ear. “The sounds I told you about. They’re back.”

  “Oh. That. I asked Mr. Early about it, and he said—”

  Lauren clenched her fists. “You did what?”

  “I asked Mr. Early. I thought you wanted to know what might be causing it, and since he’s a physics teacher, maybe—”

  “He’s a physics teacher who has a blog for a mouth. No wonder Brandy called me a freak.”

  “She did?” Micaela glanced back at Brandy. “And you think Mr. Early told her about your rabbit ears?”

  “How else would you explain it?”

  Micaela patted Lauren’s arm. “Lauren, I love you like a sister, but there’re lots of other reasons Brandy thinks you’re a freak.”

  Lauren’s cheeks flushed hot. “Like what?”

  “Besides the way you dress, walk, and talk?” Micaela lowered her voice to a whisper. “How about when it’s dark? You sometimes—” She made a shushing sound. “Coach is coming. We’ll talk later.”

  While Coach Schmitt delivered her postgame talk, Lauren looked down at her sweaty uniform. Her sleeveless jersey, royal blue with white trim, differed from her teammates’ white with blue trim, but only because she played the libero position. Although her black shorts were the same as everyone else’s, she had pulled her socks all the way up to her kneepads, hoping to cover as much skin as possible. The darkness issue was getting worse. Just yesterday Brandy posted something on her Internet social wall about her glow-in-the-dark volleyball teammate. If she noticed something that strange, why couldn’t Lauren see it herself?

  “That was a great dig, Hunt.”

  Shaking herself out of her trance, Lauren smiled at Coach. Tall and lean, sporting short red hair, and probably wishi
ng she was back in her teens instead of her forties, she looked like the stereotypical volleyball retiree.

  “Thanks. It was a wild stab. I guess I got lucky.”

  While the other players dispersed, Micaela hovered nearby. Coach Schmitt took a step closer to Lauren, her brow wrinkled. “Don’t look, but there is a strange man standing near the gym’s main exit. Before the game, he asked a lot of questions about you, and I think he’s waiting to talk to you.”

  Lauren kept her stare on Coach’s face. “What does he look like?”

  “Have you ever seen zombie movies?”

  “A couple.”

  “He’s their mutant prince. Just look for a pale man dressed in black pants and long-sleeved shirt. He’s so thin, he looks like a coat hanger draped in black.”

  “A mutant in black. I think I got the picture.”

  Micaela tugged on Lauren’s shirt. “Do you want me to get him off your trail?”

  “Sure. Maybe you can find out what he wants.”

  “Just be careful,” Coach said. “When I hear the state tournament details and know how many chaperones we’ll need, I’ll call your parents.”

  “That’d be great.” Lauren pondered Coach’s words. Even though the adoption went through a while ago, parents still sounded misplaced. Memories of her birth parents remained implanted in her mind’s most sacred refuge, though, since she was so young when they died, the memories were likely generated from cherished photos that proved their love. If not for a tragic car crash, they would still be together. Her super-secure car seat had apparently kept her alive, indirectly contributing to making her an orphan.

  Coach touched Lauren’s arm and let her hand linger. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. Please tell her she’s in my prayers.”

  “Thanks.” Lauren looked down at the team’s wolf logo painted on the gym floor. “I’ll do that.”

  Coach lifted Lauren’s chin with a finger. “Hey! Don’t be so glum. We won, and we’re going to state.”

  “I know. It’s just all the stuff with my mother.”

  “Well, try to buck up for her.” Coach gestured with her eyes. “I saw her come in during the first game. You might want to try to find her. I don’t see the zombie prince anymore.”

  Lauren scanned the gym. While her other teammates filed toward the locker room, Micaela trotted across the gym floor and blended in with the crowd. Apparently most fans had stayed around waiting for players and friends, or maybe they wanted to hear the announcement of the door prize winners. It seemed that giving away coupons for free ice cream helped fill the stands, at least with a couple of hundred spectators. Many students stood about either chatting or zoning out while listening to their digital music players, some with old-fashioned, wired earbuds and others with infrared connections.

  Finally, a line of people parted, giving way to a wheelchair. Mom rolled toward her, working the controls with a thin hand while using the other to straighten her brunette wig. Although it looked fairly realistic, she never seemed quite comfortable with it. When the chemo stole her hair, it signaled a downward spiral that also robbed her mobility. Dad, wearing a white shirt and red tie, followed a few steps behind. His thick glasses with a built-in computer micro-screen made him look like the stereotypical geek. His face displayed his usual concern. He had always been a timid and kind sort who took good care of Mom.

  “Talk to you soon.” Coach compressed Lauren’s arm and hurried to the locker room.

  Putting on a smile, Lauren hustled toward her mother. “Mom! You came!” She stopped in front of the chair and looked at her mother’s gaunt face. In the gym’s bright lights, she seemed paler than usual. “I thought you were too sick.”

  “I was.” She reached for Dad. He hurried to catch up and took her hand. “Your father picked me up right after work. He thought it might be my last chance to see you play.”

  “This year,” Dad chimed in. “In case your team lost.” He scratched the back of his balding head, just as he always did when he was nervous, which was pretty much all the time. “If she’s feeling good enough, we’ll come to state.”

  Lauren patted her mother’s hand. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I did!” Smiling, she punched the air weakly. “I saw that dig. You were wonderful!”

  “Thanks.” Tears welled in Lauren’s eyes. It felt so good to hear her get pumped up about something. “I’m glad you came.”

  Dad jingled the keys in his pocket. “Need a ride home?”

  Lauren shook her head. “Micaela’s counting on me riding with her. We’re practicing for A Christmas Carol, and we need to recite.”

  “I remember,” Dad said. “The all-female version.”

  Lauren grinned. “Esmeralda Scrooge and Barbara Cratchit need their practice.”

  “Well, stay away from ghosts.” He peered over the wheelchair. “Ready to go?”

  “In a minute.” Mom gestured with a curled finger. “Come closer.”

  Lauren slid up to the wheelchair and leaned over. “What is it?”

  Mom kissed her cheek. “I just needed to do that. With my prognosis, you never know when you’re going to get another chance.”

  Tears now spilling over, Lauren returned the kiss. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t stay out too late. There’s something I want to talk to you about tonight, and you know how tired I get.”

  “Sure, Mom. What is it?”

  “It’s about why we moved to Flagstaff. I know it was hard for you to leave your friends in Nashville, but there was a good reason I never told you. It’s a long story that involves an old friend of mine from England. He’s dead now, and I want to make sure I tell you before I join him in Heaven.”

  “Okay, but you’re going to be all right. I know you are.”

  She patted Lauren’s hand. “Keep telling me that. I need to hear it.”

  Lauren looked at the tender touch. It felt odd, almost like a final good-bye gesture. Mom seemed sure that she was going to die soon, much sooner than the doctors thought.

  “I love you,” Mom said as she reached for the controls. “Remember that.”

  “I’ll remember. And I love you, too.” She backed away a step. “I’ll see you when I get home.”

  As Mom wheeled around, a new voice broke in. “Ms. Hunt, may I have a few minutes of your time?”

  Lauren turned. The reporter who had interviewed Brandy now stood at her side, a digital recorder in hand.

  “Uh … Sure. I have a minute.”

  He pushed the recorder close. “Your team captain suggested that I ask you a question.”

  “Brandy suggested it?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s the question?”

  Flipping a page in a small spiral notebook, the reporter began reading. “Now that you’re going to state, are you ready to show everyone what you’re made of?”

  Lauren looked at the page. “Were those her exact words?”

  “Well, yeah. I assume she meant, you know, grit, determination, hustle. Everyone noticed that great dig. You’re probably the second-best player on the team now, so you’re really stepping up …”

  Lauren tuned out the reporter and scanned the gym again. Brandy stood at the locker tunnel access with three other teammates, all four sucking down extra large sodas. When they saw her looking, they burst out laughing and sauntered into the tunnel.

  Fresh tingles rode up Lauren’s back, and buzzing whispers followed, including Brandy’s voice. “Oh, she knew exactly what I meant. She’s a freak, but she’s not stupid.”

  As a new wave of heat surged through Lauren’s body, more conversations traveled up her spine, too jumbled to decipher. It seemed that everyone in the gym stood next to her and shouted into her ears.

  “Ms. Hunt?” The reporter tapped her shoulder. “Ms. Hunt, would you like to make a statement?”

  His voice melded with the others. Lauren’s skin crawled with stinging pulses, each pinprick feeling like the receptio
n of another distant sound.

  The PA announcer boomed. “The winners of tonight’s ice cream promotion are ticket holders forty-nine, twenty-seven, and nineteen. Come to the concession stand—”

  Loud static interrupted. All across the gym, people covered their ears. The reporter slung his digital recorder to the floor and shook his hand, grimacing. A string of profanity in the reporter’s voice pierced her mind, though his lips stayed closed.

  The lights darkened. Gasps shot through the gym. As the bulbs above flickered dimly, the gasps turned to moans.

  Keeping her head low, Lauren eased toward her gym bag. These lamps always took a long time to come back on. Since she was able to see well in the dark, this would be a perfect opportunity to sneak past the zombies’ mutant prince. Whoever he was, he probably thought she would spend some time in the locker room before leaving.

  After snatching up her bag, she unzipped it, dug out her phone, and threw the bag strap over her shoulder. Texting as she walked, she glanced between her thumbs and the floor in front of her. Although some people funneling toward the exit bumped into each other, she had no problem weaving past them.

  “Weird stuff going on,” she typed. “Seen the mutant?”

  After a few seconds, a beep sounded—Micaela’s answer. “Lost track of him. C U at my car. Usual space.”

  “Got it.” Lauren closed her phone and slid it into her bag.

  Once outside, she stopped and scanned the walkway to the parking lot. At least fifty people filed toward their cars, many putting on jackets. Lauren glanced at her jersey and bare arms. The air had definitely chilled, maybe close to freezing.

  She reached back and stripped off her ponytail holder, letting her hair drop to her shoulders. That helped. At least her neck would stay warm. She could get her sweats from the bag later if she had to.

  To the right of the line of people, a solitary figure stood in the grass courtyard next to the school’s marquee. Outdoor flood lamps mounted at the corners of the building cast shafts of light, but the glow stopped just before striking the motionless form.