Super

by Karen Diem

  Wyn looked distracted. “What does that even mean? You’re barely mobile,” she said.

  With a sigh, Zita marshaled her thoughts. “It means escaping took precedence over me whining.” Filled with the need to do something, she dragged herself from her chair. She retrieved a water bottle from a cupboard and filled it at the kitchen sink. Her hands had a small tremor, and her stomach executed a sick loop again. Cold water splashed her as the bottle overflowed and recalled her to the present.

  Stress seeped from Andy as he walked over to the patio doors, near the tropical plants in the jungle animal pots. He looked out. “It’s very colorful. ” Reminds me of Arizona. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it since that restaurant near the res. In his reflection, his lips didn’t move.

  Zita decided that was a compliment. The colors were cozy, cheerful, and not boring. “Yes, I painted it myself when I was recovering from a minor injury,” she answered. It’s sweet, right? Andy, are you telepathetic like Wyn? This head talk stuff sounds like one of those playground phones.

  Turning from the door, he blinked at her and looked away again. His voice echoed as his thoughts mirrored his words. “No, at least, I don’t think so. Maybe it’s you? Why are you standing up?” Andy went to shove his hands into his pockets, but his man skirt-kilt thing offered nowhere to put his hands. He rubbed the sides of his legs for a minute then fell still.

  “Because I’m not sitting.” Zita made a face at him.

  Wyn’s mind voice held a tinge of self-derision. Telepathic, not telepathetic. I was trying to tune out your neighbors by focusing on you without reading you. It worked, but I tied us all together. Give me a few to rectify it. I am trying.

  “How did we get here? Zita, sit down,” Andy said. We’ll deal.

  Oh, like a mental party line. Super. I’m so not responsible for anything you overhear that way. Zita shrugged and sipped at her water. Although the cold helped, her abraded throat protested even the gentle slide of liquid. “You’re asking the wrong girl. Wyn might know.” Dirt tracked in small footprints from the kitchen to the balcony; she scowled, annoyed cleaning it would have to wait.

  Wyn stared at her own bare feet. Her voice was soft as she offered, “He might be asking the right girl. It’s not my doing. Andy hasn’t been here before, and he had other things on his mind.” She bit her lip and her eyes slid to him.

  In the corner of her eye, Zita glimpsed Andy turning red.

  Her friend continued, “I caught a flare of the colors here in your mind right before we appeared here. The colors are, ah, distinctive.” In Zita’s mind, Wyn’s voice was rueful. I am trying to stay out; it’s harder when you become emotional. “Andy’s right, you should rest.”

  Me? I did it? Zita pondered that for a moment before setting the whole issue of how they got there aside for later. Perhaps she could use it to escape the hospital. Fatigue nagged at her. I’ll handle that later. We have to plan.

  What’s a party line? Is that like one of those charge-per-minute dating numbers? Andy wondered.

  Wyn responded with a flurry of images and information that had the other two blinking at her as they tried to assimilate the information. “What?” she said aloud, “Photographic memory, remember? I’m surprised Zita knew the definition.”

  Andy pondered. “So it’s a shared phone circuit that connects to a central exchange. In this instance, Wyn would be the exchange, and our thoughts are bouncing around like we’re sharing a phone?”

  Guilt on her face, Wyn nodded.

  He patted her arm. “We’ll deal. Keep working on it.”

  “You watch too many old movies, based on that crap ton of info. I stayed at a campground with one,” Zita murmured, and then coughed, leaning hard against the sink. When she recovered, she could have slapped herself. Why didn’t I run for the medical kit first? Where is my brain? This is not the first time I’ve seen violence. “Your arm! We should clean that while we have the chance. What happened to it anyway?”

  “A bullet ricocheted off my skin and got her,” Andy contributed. Misery dripped from his voice. Now hovering nearby, he must have moved during her coughing fit.

  At the same time, Wyn shrugged. “I don’t know… Oh, that explanation seems plausible. Don’t feel guilty, Andy. You cannot claim responsibility for others’ actions. Zita, we should help you first.”

  Since talking irritated her throat, Zita’s reply was mental. Yeah, don’t be a dumbass, Andy. Since you didn’t fire the gun, drowning in guilt is stupid. Seriously, you should be doing a victory boogie and working a swagger! You get to be immune to bullets and turn into a sweet eagle, even if the size is overkill. She swore as her form changed to an eagle. Listen, I’ll get my medical kit and we will clean Wyn’s arm. You two can run for it before I get myself to a doctor. My injuries need more than we have. If I pretend not to speak English, perhaps they’ll assume I’m an illegal and I can escape before the government catches on. She fluttered for a moment before she managed to find human form again.

  Wordless, Andy blocked the entry to the hall.

  After a second, Wyn stepped up next to him. “Why don’t you sit? Andy will retrieve it, and then we can all talk.”

  He nodded, his eyes somber.

  We’re wasting time! Zita fumed. Her friends remained in her way. She threw her hands up in exasperation and planted herself on a kitchen chair. When even that small motion set her bad wrist throbbing, she mourned the time she would lose to physical therapy. Fine, then, it’s in the equipment closet. Go straight down the hall to the blue exercise room. Look for the two white doors; you want the one closest to the silks hanging from the ceiling track. It’s the purple bag with the white cross.

  Andy grunted and left.

  “It’s for your own good, Zita,” Wyn said. She tilted her head. “Do you have a bathrobe or something I can get you?”

  Zita scowled. My robe is on the back of the first door on the right. When you two are done overreacting, can we get to cleaning your arm and planning?

  Neither of her friends bothered to reply. Andy returned before Wyn did, carrying her duffel. He set it on the counter by the sink. Wyn swept back in a moment later and set the bathrobe on table. “This is all I could find,” she said, sounding apologetic.

  After Zita rose from her chair, she slid into her old purple robe and belted it. “That’s the one. Let’s hose that out over the sink,” she ordered. After a quick scrub of her hands, she rummaged through the bag, cautious of her aching wrist. She tossed a few sealed packages and soap on the counter. The astringent scent of cleanser stung her nose as she gestured to her friend.

  Wyn and Andy drifted closer, but the other woman stopped out of arm’s reach. Her face was pale and glowed with sweat. “That whole thing is your medical bag?” she asked, wrapping her unhurt arm around her stomach.

  Zita set a magnifying glass on the counter. “That’s the portable one, why?”

  “The portable one?” Wyn’s voice rose in pitch.

  A thought escaped Andy. That’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.

  Despite her concern with the bag, Wyn snickered. “I usually only hear that in a romance novel.”

  Andy smirked. “I’ve heard it a few times before.”

  Ignoring the joke, Zita moved next to the other woman, and started unwrapping Wyn’s arm. “Sí, I like to be prepared for an emergency. The wound equipment is easiest to find in this bag. Doesn’t everyone have one? Let’s clean up your arm.”

  That bag is preparation for a zombie apocalypse. Many labelers died to tell us what everything is, Andy mused. She could not decide if his expression was amused or awed or both.

  “You said it, not me. That bag is enormous! What are you expecting to find when you finish removing my bandage?” Wyn proffered a smile, but the line between her eyes that appeared during her migraines was visible. “Sit down before you collapse. No insult intended, but you’re near to filthy, even if you did cleanse your hands. I’ll take off the bandage myself and give it a
wash, get out any debris. Ointment and a bandage will be fine; I don’t want to explain how I got shot or have to sweet-talk people into not calling Animal Control.” She removed Zita’s hands from the sticky, makeshift bandages.

  At that, Zita stopped and nodded. She ran a hand back and forth over her sodden locks. When her hand stuck in something, she made a face. After she sniffed, she realized the source of the stench. “You’re right. I think I passed filthy and gave it the finger.”

  Wyn’s discomfort at the conversation rose through their link, even as the witch worked on removing the makeshift bandage. I don’t like hospitals or even doctor’s offices much anymore, her mental voice whispered. With a moan, she removed and dropped the bandage in the trash. A wide gash stretched down her arm, trickling blood with the loss of the bandage.

  Andy inhaled sharply. It might not be as bad as it looks, he thought. His sentiments mirrored hers. He reached for the bag, but stopped, and withdrew his hands.

  Zita grimaced at her friend’s wound. “The bag has aspirin and cream or spray. If that graze requires stitches, we need the ER. My stitches never come out even, and I’m down a hand.” She stopped to wheeze and sat in the chair before her friends could fuss again. I’d get Andy to do it, but he has poor control of his strength based on the door thing. The thought slipped out.

  Andy turned away, his shoulders slumping.

  Distress showed on Wyn’s face and she winced. “Oh, Zita.”

  Hastily, Zita spoke aloud, echoing her thoughts. “At least let me finish the thought before you get all pissy!” When she felt her throat clench, she switched back to mental communication. You have no control yet. I’ve all the control of a wiener dog in a butcher shop. When the change in her perspective registered, she twisted to verify the change. Scents almost overwhelmed her little black nose. The kitchen was all about the food. Andy had a surprisingly complex scent of desert and wind and asphalt. Wyn’s aroma was much like before, save the addition of a breath of air and rain, and the strong tang of blood. With a toss of her floppy ears, her toenails clicked on the chair seat as she marshaled her thoughts. A low woof escaped. Her two friends watched her. Wyn’s listening in on the entire state. We all need to practice to control our respective abilities. I want to be human again. The tile was cool but hard under her hands and bare knees as she stood up again. Part of her mourned the loss of the wealth of scent.

  Andy pointed to the hall. “I’ll be there,” he said, and escaped.

  Rinsing Wyn’s injury was… unpleasant. By the time Andy rejoined them, Zita (redressed in the bathrobe) and Wyn were arguing about the now-clean gouge in her friend’s arm. If he noticed Wyn’s eyes were red and puffy, he said nothing.

  Zita frowned. “Can you tell Wyn that her arm needs a person with actual medical skill?” She collapsed into her white, glittery, wooden chair, tugging her bathrobe shut as it drooped open.

  Andy’s eyes widened and he looked back toward the bathroom. His bare feet shuffled on the beige carpet and he shifted his shoulders. “Uh,” he began. Tension returned to his stance with her question.

  “It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Wyn said before he could offer an opinion. Her soft voice held steel beneath its usual sweetness. She waved her uninjured hand in the air. “You and Andy are lovely, but it is my arm. We cleaned it, and now I will cast a healing incantation. I’ll bandage it again after that. If that doesn’t take and infection sets in, then I’ll consider going to a doctor.”

  Andy let out a relieved breath. “It is her arm. Seeing a doctor if it gets infected seems like a fair compromise,” he said. I have sisters. The most dangerous place in the world to be is between two women arguing, he thought.

  “Really? Worse than being on the wrong end of a bazooka?” Wyn asked. She set one elegant hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes at Andy.

  Worse than a bunch of makeover-crazed twelve-year-olds? Zita thought. Both of the others turned and looked at her. She huffed. “What? They’re relentless, vicious, and armed with strange pink instruments of torture. Bazookas run out of ammo after a shot or two.” Her good hand compensating for the other, she packed up the medical supplies and tucked them back into the labeled compartments.

  “The phrasing is all Zita, but the last bit is true.” Wyn’s attention returned to Andy.

  Andy’s eyes went wide. Aww, man. Maybe they’ll lose interest if I stay quiet and refrain from moving. He almost kept his face blank, but he swallowed a few times under the heat of their glares. He grimaced. What a lousy time for party line to come back.

  Wyn muttered under her breath. “Sorry, I thought I had it figured out, but your neighbors are copulating. I really didn’t want eavesdrop on that. Give me a second,” she said aloud.

  Zita blinked. “One of my neighbors? Who? All the other residents on this floor are over sixty. They do more than power walking, gossiping, and baking cookies?” A coughing fit took her breath and attention for a minute. When I get to their age, I hope I’m still at it too. Pues, I’d like to be at it before I hit their ages, too. With all sincerity, she continued, “Good for them! I hope nobody breaks a hip.”

  Wyn straightened, her eyes brightening and cheeks flushing with becoming color as she shook her head. “I don’t know who they are. That would be because it turns out people don’t think things like ‘I, George Smith, will now eat beanie weenies. Now I, George Smith, will enjoy congress with my wife of twenty-three years, Angie Smith, here in Apartment 2B.’ Thanks to the telepathy, I’m becoming an expert on cogitation. I could listen in, but why would I? You might want the visual, but I don’t.”

  Andy snickered.

  Zita choked. “Enjoy congress? Copulating? If you call it that on dates, I may have to grant you membership in the club for sex-deprived women. I’m President, so I can abuse my power like that for a friend.” She thumped her own chest with her good fist, and laughed until tears stung her eyes and coughing ripped through her chest. “Oye, you can both join the club. No hay bronca, I mean, no worries.”

  “Hey!” Andy protested. “Still male here! Zita, sit down.”

  Wyn’s mouth curled up into a small smirk as she examined her fingernails. She said, “The eligibility requirements likely require celibacy. I’m not celibate, especially if you count the whole Winter Solstice indiscretion. Never trust homemade wine.” She winced. If her smile had strained edges, no one mentioned it. Brightening, she gave Zita a mischievous look. “It explains a few things about your exercise schedule, though,” she teased, though the deep line in her forehead spoke of continuing pain.

  Andy turned and set his forehead on the refrigerator, putting his arms over his face. Muffled sputtering or laughing drifted out from beneath his arm.

  After waving a warning finger at Wyn, Zita staggered after him. She punched his arm with her good hand. “Hey, you okay?”

  A strangled-sounding voice answered her. “I’m fine. Let me know when the girl talk ends.”

  “What, like machos don’t talk about getting a little action? I got two brothers, even if Miguel has a stick up his—anyway, we’re done,” Zita replied.

  Wyn mumbled. Her friend radiated innocence, save where amusement danced in her eyes. She set a white candle and matches on the table. “I will cast that healing spell as soon as you sit down.”

  Zita sat.

  Satisfied, Wyn set Zita’s water bottle before the Latina. “Later, I’ll do it again properly with better supplies and so on, but it can’t hurt to nudge it in the right direction. Do you have any incense or sage?” After crossing to the counter, she gave Zita’s spice rack a spin, the little holder rattling and buzzing. One bottle popped free and spun across the counter. After glancing at the label, Wyn left it there.

  Zita had to ask. “Why? Sage is in the spice rack. No incense.” Her eyes strayed to the fallen bottle.

  “For cleansing,” Andy commented, as he turned back around. His face was too neutral. “Pretty standard equipment, back home,” he said.

  Setting aside a few s
pices, Wyn inclined her head. “Pen?” she asked, shaking a bay leaf out of a bottle. She leaned into the fridge, and then drew away, shutting it behind her. “You need to go shopping. Store displays have fuller fridges.” After selecting a pair of leaves, Wyn gathered up the other spice bottles, and took them to the table. The bay leaf bottle sat on the counter near the other abandoned spice.

  Mystified, Zita rose, unearthed a pen, and handed it to Wyn. “It shouldn’t be that bad.” Quentin should have cleaned out the perishables, but the longer-term food should still be there. Unable to resist the urge, she tucked away the two rejected containers. After slipping by Andy, she opened the refrigerator and glanced inside. Her mouth dropped open. The white shelves mocked her; a green jar of jalapeños stood alone in the lower half. The appliance beeped complaints at her for holding it open. Zita growled back at it. “He even took my bottled water,” she murmured with disbelief. “No lo creo. I do not believe it.” Slamming the fridge door shut, she yanked open the freezer. It had fared better than the main compartment, but not by much. He had, from what she could tell, taken all the meat and fruit, and left only the vegetables and other miscellany. Fratricide and disappointing her mother were both sins, she reminded herself.

  Wyn’s voice broke into her appalled contemplation. “Much obliged,” her friend commented as she labored to write on a leaf, her touch delicate. She nibbled on her lip in concentration.

  Andy drifted over, careful not to touch either of the women, and gazed over Zita’s head. “Geez, Mother Hubbard,” he commented.

  Zita closed the freezer door with more care and rummaged through the cupboards to see what other supplies were missing. Her uninjured hand flew, driven by trepidation that her friends would lack food in their escape from another government camp or from whoever had attacked the hospital.