Super

by Karen Diem

  The man holding the light snickered. “What do we have here? Is little chicken running from coop?” A Russian accent tripped through the sounds in his query. An assault rifle swayed from one hand, while the flashlight in his other hand lowered as he laughed. She could make out a crew cut and dark clothes, but the flashlight’s beam prevented her from seeing more.

  Another man, similarly dressed, nudged the Russian. In an American accent, he ordered, “Shine the light.” The light blazed into Zita’s face again. She raised a hand to cover her eyes in protest. “Skin’s too dark. Where’s the second one? All the rooms on this floor have two occupants.”

  Zita shrugged and brushed off dust. “It’s just me in here. My roommate got hauled off to the other building yesterday,” she lied. She hoped they missed the dust cascading down from the gap. Silently, she prayed Wyn remembered not to move.

  The light flicked up to the ceiling, where the hole yawned. “She was under that hole when I come in. Perhaps other one is in ceiling, and this one lies.” The Russian pointed the beam back at Zita.

  The American nodded, and said, “Easy enough to find out. We don’t need this girl. Whoever is hiding, come out now, or the girl with the ugly hair dies. You have ten seconds. I have a schedule.”

  The Russian chuckled. “Ah, is good, the others will be more pliant if little one is made example.”

  “Aww, come on. I can’t help it if they took my roommate away! Don’t shoot me!” Zita tried. She palmed the knife she’d set down earlier, and prayed Wyn would stay hidden. Come on, trust the harmless little woman and move on. If I throw the knife, it may distract them enough to miss us in the darkness. This close is bad for accuracy, anyway.

  “Five seconds left,” the American announced in a bored tone. The Russian raised his weapon.

  “Stop! I’ll come down. Don’t shoot! Just give me a second,” Wyn’s voice drifted down. Scrabbling sounds came from above, and the circle of light moved to the ceiling. The tile fell. First the lower half of Wyn’s body appeared, and then the top half. Something gave as she attempted to get down, and she landed on the bed hard. She coughed and sat up.

  The Russian cackled.

  The other man groaned. “Shine it on the new one,” he ordered.

  The light focused on Wyn, panning up and down her body as she slid off the bed and tried to remove the dust. The Russian made a suggestion: “Do we have room for extra? That one should be worthwhile one way or another.” Zita could have smacked him.

  The flashlight panned over Wyn again. “Yeah, grab her when we’ve finished looking for the targets. I’ll keep going with Johan, you watch her,” the American concurred. He touched the slick radio at his side. “Command, we’re bringing an extra for bonus bucks. We got the space, right?”

  “Yes, granted,” crackled over the radio. The Russian laughed. The other man walked away.

  Beside her, Wyn shivered in the beam of light. Zita scowled.

  The American called out down the hall, “Two females, no blonds.” He walked further down. A loud thud sounded next door. After a pause, the American’s voice called out again. “Two males, white.” Her mind corrected them automatically. Andy is mixed, and Remus is that lovely caramel all over… unless his towel was hiding...

  The radio crackled. “Primary target acquired. Secondary target secured and out. Tertiary target Saint George located. Make examples as necessary. Begin withdrawal.” They wanted a blond woman and Jerome?

  A burst of gunfire sounded from down the hall, followed by a scream. Someone shouted—it sounded like the American—“Stay in your rooms!”

  The Russian gestured brusquely. “Pretty girl, you come with me. If you cause trouble, I shoot your friend. If you are sweet with me, it will be better for you.” He strode forward grabbing for Wyn, who was shaking her head and backing away.

  Panic rising in her face, Wyn clutched at her temples and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Helpless, Zita watched him advance on her friend, her fury increasing with each step he took. A rushing sound filled her ears. I can’t let them take her! Once he passes me, I’ll surprise him with the knife, and Wyn can hide in Andy and Remus’ room. If I survive, I’ll climb out the window. She moved into a better position, muscles tightening.

  Her voice silken steel, save for a quiver at the end, Wyn said, “Zita, don’t.”

  A loud sound, like a jet screaming off, sounded from next door. Andy and Remus!

  “Little chicken, you will stand aside and not interfere,” ordered the Russian. He stalked Wyn, who had backed herself into a corner.

  Her thoughts tumbled over themselves, indignation fueling her as she poised to spring on the man. Chicken? I’ll show him a chingado chicken! The past few years have been sparring without hurting people, but my teachers played rough and dirty before that.

  The world darkened, even as it exploded into colors, fluorescent violet and plum shadows where none had been before. Cloth covered her, turning the world black. The whispering rub of the cloth and sounds of breathing were loud. Instinct whispered, and she stilled. Fury warred with concern.

  The man’s voice boomed overhead, as if he had switched on a loudspeaker. “What? Where did the little one go?” Something poked her, and light outlined an opening.

  Zita screeched and exploded out of the pile of her clothing, right at the confused gunman. Feathers flew, and the flashlight soared across the room to clatter on the wall as the Russian threw up his arms to protect his face. Furious, she flapped her wings and pecked at his face and any exposed skin she could reach. A sweep of his arms almost hit her, and she perched on the edge of the bed between the man and Wyn, a low warning cluck escaping her throat.

  Wait. What did I just do? ¡Carajo! Ruffling her feathers, Zita turned her head to better survey the man with one eye, then the other, as she sorted out impressions. Colors she had never seen before kept distracting her, and the room seemed so much darker. She stretched one wing, then the other, and shifted on her perch. At the realization she was clucking again, she stopped. Other people get to shoot lasers and I’m a chicken? Mamá said we’d reap what we sow; I must have been in a planting frenzy.

  The Russian retrieved the flashlight, and the beam soon centered on her.

  Zita snapped at him, wings flapping, but stayed out of reach.

  The man in combat gear roared with laughter. “A chicken! The others will believe I have been drinking! Now, girl, you come with me, and we will leave poultry here.”

  “Goddess! Zita! Are you okay?” Wyn said from behind her.

  His laughter stopped when he came in reach and she pecked him hard enough to draw blood. He swore in a language she didn’t speak, tones dripping with vileness.

  Zita shook her head to rid herself of an odd buzz in her ears.

  “Perhaps I will break her feathered neck, and then we will go. Stupid bird. Do you think I cannot catch hens?” He secured his gun on his shoulder, set down the flashlight, and flexed his hands.

  Zita gave him an intimidating look out of her beady little eyes. It worked about as well as it would have in human form.

  That is, not at all.

  To her horror, he seized her, and held her legs tightly in one hand, with the other arm pinning her wings. “This joke ends now,” the Russian growled, fumbling for her neck, a process slowed by her vicious bites.

  Wyn shrieked. “No!”

  ¡Oh, ni madre! No way! Zita threw her whole body into bucking and squirming, like the greased pig she had seen as a child at a fair. She and the Russian were both flabbergasted when the mental comparison became reality. His grip slackened in surprise, and then he screamed as the weight of seventy pounds of distressed piglet landed on a foot. Zita scrambled to all four feet, instinct telling her how to move, and retreated until she felt Wyn behind her. Colors had lessened, but her overall vision improved, and scents were so rich that she could have taken hours to sort them all out. The floor still smelled like feet and cheese curls. However, she needed to do something about
the hopping, swearing man with the gun. Instinct suggested a solution.

  With a loud squeal, more through accident than design, Zita lowered her heavy head and charged.

  He fell with a shriek and a cacophony of cursing. As he rose to his feet, he fired a shot that embedded itself in the ceiling as he fought to bring her into his sights.

  Zita dodged, and clattered for the door, grunting. Yes, chase me. Forget about Wyn! If I’m lucky, I can get up enough speed to knock him down and break his gun arm. As she careened out the door, she gave a triumphant squeal.

  In the dim hall, a flashlight lay abandoned near a dark shape on the floor, and her nose identified carrion. Multiple sources of carrion. The boys! Squashing her fears, Zita ventured near enough to the body to recognize it as a stranger in dark garb, his chest and head a bloody ruin. The scent of carrion further down told her another body lay in the hall closer to the elevators. Despite her gorge roiling, she swallowed and turned back to her room. Her hooves rattled on the hallway floor. Wyn needs me.

  The Russian snarled. His shape hobbled to the doorway, clutching Wyn with one hand, sweeping the assault rifle ahead with the other. Her plan dissolved; she could not trample him if he held her friend.

  Wyn’s reply was comprehensible. “I won’t let you hurt her! And you can’t have me either! Let go! I’m not for sale!” she yelled, and slapped him with her free hand. Girly slap, open-handed. If we survive, I need to teach her the right ways and places to punch someone.

  The man stiffened, his breath rattled, and he fell.

  Wyn stood unmoving in the door, staring at him.

  Then again, maybe she should stick with what works for her. Nonplussed, Zita trotted over, picking a delicate path around the dead Russian, and nudged her friend’s knee with her snout. If I had hands, I could grab his gun and flashlight, and we’d have a much better chance. She blinked, and found herself on her hands and knees at Wyn’s feet. The floor was chill and fetid, but at least the carrion scent receded. As Zita stood, she assessed herself. She hugged Wyn. “I’m me!” she said with jubilation.

  “Zita?” Andy asked, coming to his door. In the light of the flashlight, his face looked pale and sweaty, and the arms of his jumpsuit dripped. He blinked. “Do I want to know why you’re naked?”

  Oh, right. “Are you and Remus okay? Long story, nothing important,” Zita said hastily. No one needed to know that she had transformed into a—“CLUCK!” she fussed, flapping her wings. No, no, no! We need to get the flashlight at least and reach the roof before anyone sees!

  His eyes rounded. “Oh. I guess that makes sense then. Remus ran. Fast.”

  Wyn bit her lip. “I got it, Zita,” she murmured, fetching the flashlight. The emerging dawn gave the hall just enough light to see her averting her gaze from the downed Russian.

  Feathers ruffled, Zita shook her head. Thanks, Wyn, she thought. The words came out a cluck.

  “You’re welcome. Why do we need to get to the roof?” Wyn asked. The brunette massaged her forehead. “Goddess, why is everyone so deafening!”

  Andy crammed his hands in his pockets. “Roof? I don’t know, you’re the only one who mentioned the roof?” His eyes fell on the Russian, and he looked away, attention stopping at the man with the crushed head. He looked away again. “Sec!” he said, dashing into his room.

  Chickens must have superb hearing because it sounds like he’s vomiting right next to me. Most of the loud voices are coming from below, but whispering is audible on this floor too. As for loud… Normally, I’d say it was too crazy ass to be true, but I’m a fucking chicken right now. It might explain a few things. She fought the urge to lose her own stomach contents. Zita waddled into her room and pecked at her pile of clothing. As she tilted her head sideways, she chose her words carefully. Wyn, I need clothes or Andy will fall off the roof trying to look elsewhere. Could you carry some for me?

  “Poor Andy, he’s disconsolate about that man’s death. He didn’t mean to shove that hard, mercenary or not,” Wyn said, following her in and picking up the pile. She paused. “I’ll get you one of those hospital gowns they gave us for nighties too, so you can throw it on faster if need be. I’ll carry a spare one too.” After she dug out a gown from her own trunk, she set it atop the other items, smoothing it with exaggerated care.

  Now trailing behind her friend, Zita clucked. Awesome idea. By the way, you’re reading minds. Telekinetic or whatever. Andy accidentally killed someone? We need to get out of here so you’re not sold, he’s not murdered, and I’m not on Colonel Sander’s menu. Everything was bigger and darker as a chicken; she stayed close to Wyn to keep from losing her in the chaotic gloom.

  Wyn’s lips firmed into a line as she stopped and looked at the hen tailing her. “Telekinetics is moving things psychically. Telepathy is reading minds. I can’t do either. The best I can do is cast a few spells to encourage serendipity. You know, encourage the good karma outcomes.”

  Wings fluttering, Zita hopped after her friend. As she tilted her head up and surveyed Wyn out of one eye, she fluffed her feathers. How are we talking if you’re not reading my mind? I’m a chingado chicken! All I can do is fucking cluck! Her head turned to allow her to glare from her other eye. A disgusted squawk escaped her.

  Hands on her hips, Wyn rounded on her, and then paused. “Ah. I’m superb at reading body language?” She folded the clothing into a neat pile, a certain sign of stress in the woman who usually draped her things around the room and claimed it as art.

  Zita tried to laugh. It ended up as a cackle. Of a chicken?

  Andy opened the connecting door as Wyn rubbed her forehead again. “That does explain a bit.”

  Told you so. Score one for team Latina! Zita crowed. She blinked, returning to herself.

  Andy squeaked and closed himself in the bathroom. His muffled demand came through the door. “Naked bad! Clothing good!”

  Grabbing the hospital gown, Zita threw it on, tying it as tight as she could. “I’m decent, prude,” she called to the bathroom.

  Andy emerged.

  Zita continued, “If more of the armed men don’t come after us, the government will move us to the other building, so I’m escaping. You should come too. Here’s the plan. We go to the roof, scope out the situation and hide. If we can get out through the stairs, we go that way. If we can’t do that, then we get to a neighboring building with no gun dudes, and we sneak out of that one. I’m not staying here to live the revenge section of a fight film or to end up a research subject.”

  Her friends looked at each other and nodded.

  Chapter 5

  The gunfire came again, rapid assault rifle chatter with the belching exclamation of shotguns as the three escapees hid on the roof. They huddled by the fan vents until the sounds paused. Zita wrapped the chain from the door around one hand and pried the vents open with her knife. Gone. Let’s hope it’s safe and ready for us despite the bombardment below.

  Wyn gestured from the north side, where she peeked down the building edges. “This side has news vans, cops, and four vans of ill intent,” she called out.

  “Same, without the news vans, and one less villain van,” Andy answered from the east. While pale beneath the olive of his skin, his color had improved when he stepped outside. He had done that as a teen too—every now and again, his time living on the open spaces of the reservation showed.

  Zita hurried to one of the other sides to evaluate the situation there. Bursts of light and noise revealed men firing another brief salvo before they ducked down again. Dawn showed three of the plain white vans she had seen from her room, encircled by a rushed cordon of marked cop cars and unmarked American cars. Suits and uniforms crouched or lay behind doors and vehicles, blocking the streets but not the sidewalks in an incomplete wall. The building next door, the one housing the people who had changed, had a huge hole in the side of it, with smoke whirling out in the wind. A few motionless forms lay below. One had blue-feathered wings that shivered in the warm June breeze. Zita’s stomach
clenched. A helicopter was on the other building’s roof, blades idly twirling while men with guns ran around. She scanned again, preparing to run to the remaining side, when she spotted it. Affixed to one corner of their building, a black cord, almost invisible in the dawn, stretched to the roof of lower building. ¡Gracias a Dios!

  Zita scuttled over to it, gesturing the others over while she examined the setup. A 5/16” cable anchored solidly to the cement; Trixie knew zip lines. She ran her fingers over the line and checked the give again with a strong tug. While she would have connected it a few feet over by a yellow paint splatter, the line would work. Wyn and Andy would need to pull their feet up before the ledge on the other side, and Zita would have to improvise something, as they had no gloves or pulley.

  “Trixie knows what?” Wyn asked. She clutched the sad pile of their meager belongings so tightly that her knuckles were colorless.

  Zita pointed to the rope. “Zip line from this building to that. She used the part you hang onto to go across. We’ll use the chain from the door, though that will only work once. Decision time. Will you hide on the roof that will be burning hot by noon, go out on the zip line, or try to sneak out below? If you choose hiding or sneaking, tell me your ninja training stories someday. I vote to use the line, because it avoids the gunfire, and really, free zip line! Andy, you’re extra strong and all now, so you should carry Wyn across if we go the cool way. In case you were curious, zip line is spelled z-i-p-awesome.”

  Gunfire reported again from below. “No pressure,” Zita added, “just hurry faster.”

  Andy’s head shook in sharp negation. “No. I’ll try the zip line, but I’m not carrying her. Look what I did to the door!” he answered, pursing his lips and jerking his head towards the door. They all gazed at the mangled door now wedged and duct-taped into the stairwell opening, great chunks gone from the doorframe where the hinges had been.