by G. Bailey
At the very least, you can find somewhere to wait until this storm passes, I tell myself, and keep moving. The clouds still seem thick overhead, and that doesn’t seem like it’s going to be anytime soon. Still, all I need right now is a place to rest and figure out what to do next.
As I walk, I think back to that feeling I had when Mark took a swing at me. There was the fear, yes, and the realization that I needed to leave, but there was also something else--something I couldn’t put my finger on. Have I ever felt something like that before? It was almost like there was something inside me, trying to get out. Maybe it was just the adrenaline, I reason. But I’ve felt adrenaline before, and this wasn’t it. I can’t fight the feeling that it has something to do with the growing sense of unease and foreignness I’ve been feeling increasingly lately. It hasn’t just been the new foster family, or the fact that I’m an adult now. There’s something more to it, but I can’t figure out what.
I lose myself in thought for a while, the events of the past hour feeling more and more absurd as I walk. The rain continues, and before I know it, I’ve left Mark and Tonya’s neighborhood and am entering an industrial area of the city. It only takes one look around to tell me this isn’t the place for a girl, especially a girl alone. I can feel the passerby giving me strange looks as I continue down the street, wondering all the while if I should turn around.
Yeah, I ask myself bitterly, and go where? It’s not like I can return to the house, and at this point I have no idea where I am. I could end up wandering in circles for the rest of the night. I can see that the sun is dipping low on the horizon. Soon it will be nighttime, and the last thing I want to be doing when the sun sets is walking around this part of the city. Eyeing the buildings as I go, feeling increasingly self-conscious under the scrutiny of the strangers around me. Eventually a dilapidated warehouse around the corner from a run-down apartment complex catches my eye. On the door is a sign reading, “CAUTION - CONDEMNED”, but the padlock keeping it shut has been broken. I’m probably not the first squatter to turn up here. All I can do is hope it’s empty as I try the door. It groans open stiffly and a flurry of rust flakes showers down on me.
It seems like some kind of abandoned storage facility, with debris and evidence of more vagabonds scattered around the floor. There’s no electricity, so I use my phone flashlight to look around as I make my way to the back corner. It occurs to me that if the place is condemned, the roof might fall on me at any minute… but I’m past thinking about that now. Hell, maybe that would even be a blessing, I think dryly. When I reach the corner, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dirty, boarded-up window on the far wall. Blonde hair--wet, dirty, and tangled. Dark eyes--so dark they could almost be black. I look like I’ve aged ten years in the past few hours. If this is what one evening on the streets does to me, how am I supposed to survive after tonight?
Whatever, I tell myself. We’ll worry about that later. For now, just try to get some sleep.
There’s a flat piece of cardboard on the floor in the back of the room, and I decide it will do as a makeshift bed. Using my backpack as a pillow, I curl up on the hard concrete and listen to the rain fall outside. As I do, I find myself thinking about my parents once again, but I’m not sure why they keep coming to my mind tonight. Why did they leave me in the hospital all those years ago? What made them leave me to a life of bouncing from foster home to foster home, listening to drunk old men yell and having to run away to get away from it all? And what’s going to happen to me now?
At some point the sound of the rain lulls me into an uneasy sleep, and for a few blissful hours, I forget all about where I am or how I got here. Eventually, though, the sound of voices breaks the fitful sleep, and I begin to drift awake. For a moment I’m disoriented, missing the pullout couch, but then everything comes flooding back to me and I jerk awake.
There are two men standing over me.
Scrambling to get back into a sitting position, I stare up at them in shock. They’re dressed in baggy clothes, their shoes ragged, and in a heartbeat I realize why this place was empty.
“What do we have here?” the first one asks, staring down at me with bloodshot eyes.
My mind is racing—I should have locked the door, or barred it, or... something. Shit. Another mistake in a long string of mistakes. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, still trying to get a handle on the situation. “I didn’t realize this place was occupied.”
“Damn right, it’s occupied,” replies the second man, peering down at me. “What the hell is a little girl like you doing here?”
“I…” I fumble for a response. “I just needed somewhere to get out of the rain.” Still disoriented and foggy from sleep, I sit up straighter. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.” I get to my feet, backpack clutched to my chest, and begin to retreat.
“What have you got there, huh?” asks the second man, his interest piqued now that he’s seen my backpack. “Did you bring us a present?”
“Huh?” I ask, shaking a little.
The first man points to my backpack. “Think of it as an apology gift. For wasting our time.”
“I…” I glance down at the backpack, containing my only possessions, and shake my head. “I’m sorry. This is all I have. If I could just go, I would…”
“Fine,” the second man says. “Just your wallet, then.”
I take another step back, my heart beginning to beat more quickly. The door is on the other side of the room. Do I make a break for it?
The first man must have seen me steal a glance at the door, since his eyes narrow and he advances on me another step. “Thinking of running, little girl?” he asks. “Don’t bother. You’re outnumbered.” He licks his lips, his eyes sweeping me, and I can see the wheels in his head turning. Whatever he’s thinking, it’s not good--of that I can be sure. The second man is taking another step forward when the first man stops him with a hand on his arm and says, “You know what? Wait a minute. Maybe we can figure something out.”
I can feel my stomach drop at his words. “I… I’m sorry?”
“Pretty thing like you...” the first man says, his voice trailing off as he appraises me with his eyes.
Now the second man is catching on, a knowing smirk creeping onto his face. “I like the way you think,” he comments to his friend, before turning back to me and saying, “Maybe we could trade. We let you keep your stuff, and in exchange, you—”
The fear is too much at this point, and the scream is leaving my mouth before I can stop myself. “Help!” I yell, but not a moment later I realize how pointless it is. We’re inside, and even if we weren’t, the sounds of the storm are still raging outside.
The second man seems to be thinking the same thing, darting forward and seizing me by the arm. “Not happening,” he hisses, and I can smell the stench of his breath. “No one can hear you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the other guy approaching, and for the second time today I realize I only have seconds to react. I have my backpack in a death grip, and something tells me that even if I handed it over, that wouldn’t stop them. Not now that the idea’s in their head.
It’s as the panic is surging through me that a familiar feeling—that same feeling that began to well up when I realized Mark wanted to hurt me—begins to surge through me again. Like a rush of strange, cool energy that is also nice to feel takes control of me. The fear bleeds away, like a wave in an ocean brushing everything in its path to the side.
And that’s when I begin to transform.
Chapter 3
The closest thing I can compare it to is being plunged into a pool of cold water. The cool feeling that welled up inside me expands suddenly, faster than I can keep up, shooting out from the pit of my stomach and into my arms, legs, and head. It’s overwhelming in its intensity, as if every nerve in my body is suddenly bursting with energy, the cells struggling to contain it. I feel like there’s an electric current coursing through me, uncontainable and unrelenting as it p
ulses from my core out to my fingers. For a moment, I wonder if I’m dying. Is this what a heart attack feels like?
My body seizes up all at once, my back going rigid at the new sensation, and I see the two men look at each other--first in confusion, and then in fear. I don’t understand why they look so panicked until my eyes travel down my own body and see my skin beginning to… change color? Yes, it’s definitely taking on a reddish tint. Is this some sort of physical reaction to the adrenaline? A panic attack? It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, but I’m willing to chalk it up to some kind of medical problem. That is until I see little concentric arches rippling up my hands, first becoming hard and then flaking off my skin, like scales. They’re a shimmering metallic green, almost iridescent in the dim light streaming in from outside, and it’s at that moment that I realize this isn’t something medical--at least, nothing medical that I’ve ever heard of.
“What the fuck…?” asks the first man, taking a step away from me and grabbing his friend’s arm. “What is she…?” The second man just shakes his head in disbelief, looking at me like I’m a cornered animal that might attack at any minute.
The changes don’t stop there. I let out a surprised cry as I feel something happening to my teeth; first they feel like they’re falling out, but then I realize that’s not what is happening. They’re growing, getting longer and pointer at the same time, digging uncomfortably into my lower lip.
This has to be a nightmare, I think, plunging my hands into hair that no longer feels quite right, it’s softer and longer. I’m asleep back on the pull-out couch in Mark and Tonya’s basement. I fell asleep in front of the TV or something, and this is what I’m dreaming about. Right? Right?! But it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a dream. The sensations are all too real, too logical, and that unfamiliar feeling in my torso is stronger than ever.
“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” demands the first man, digging in his pocket and pulling out a switchblade. “This isn’t funny!”
He’s scared, I realize with a start. They both are. I don’t blame them. I’m scared, too.
“Get… away… from me…” I say, groaning with the discomfort that has now swallowed me completely. These men, and the possibility of them hurting me, is suddenly the furthest thing from my mind. I’m entirely focused on what’s happening to me--what’s wrong with me--and trying to contain the explosive, frigid energy that feels like it’s threatening to burst out through every pore and cell. The men stare at me, looking uncertain. “Please,” I tell them again, my voice rising. “I don’t know what’s happening!”
“Look,” the second man says in a low tone to his companion, “she’s not going anywhere. Let’s just take the backpack and go.”
The first man gives him a doubtful look, but nods after a moment, and the two of them begin to move back towards me. “No!” I yell, unable to think of anything else to say; my mind feels like it’s falling apart almost as quickly as my body. My nails, which I normally keep short and neat, are getting longer at this point, too, extending past the ends of my fingers and turning hard, durable, and pointy. Like claws.
It’s all I can do to move backwards as the two men approach, some part of me wondering if I can somehow escape out the window, and another part telling me that’s impossible. Soon they have me backed up against the wall, the rigid concrete hitting my back as I look around frantically. I’m desperate for something to do, something to use... anything so that I can get these guys away from me and focus on more important things. Like the fact that something very wrong is happening to my body, and I have no idea how to stop it.
They’re almost on top of me now, the first man reaching his arms out as he rushes forward, grabbing for my backpack. If I lose it, I’m screwed. Desperate, fear taking hold of me completely, I let out an incoherent scream, louder than I think I ever have.
And that’s when a jet of fire bursts from my mouth, reaching as far as one of those makeshift flamethrowers you make with a lighter and a can of hairspray. The guys stop, the fear back on their faces. I’m left to just stare as the fire burns out, dissolving into a waft of smoke, wondering how the hell it was possible. How the hell any of this was possible. The fact that my mouth feels fine when it should be scorched, burned beyond recognition, occurs to me moments later For a split second I wonder if it’s not a dream at all, but a hallucination. That would explain why it didn’t hurt me, but it wouldn’t explain why the men are staring at me like… well, like I just breathed fire.
“I don’t like this,” says the first man, eyeing me warily. “Whatever this is, I don’t like it. We should just go. We can bring the others back and deal with her then.”
“No,” snaps the second man. “Nobody muscles in on our territory, especially a little girl. Grab her, keep her from doing that again. I’ll get the bag--”
But at the sound of their words I’m doing the only thing I can think of: screaming again, as loud as I can, praying more fire will come out of me and not caring about how that is physically impossible. And it does. Another blast of flame shoots out of my mouth, coming dangerously close to reaching the two men.
“Fuck this,” the first man says, shaking his head. “You’re on your own.” And then he’s turning around and sprinting for the door, not looking back even as his companion yells threats and obscenities.
The second man stares me down for another moment, calculating his odds against someone who’s mutated into some kind of fire-breathing freak, and eventually drops his shoulders, taking a step back. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else to me, but then closes it. He backs up a few paces before turning and bolting the same way the other guy went.
I’m left standing there, shaking and staring down at myself. Do I dare?
Before I have time to think about it, I’m turning around to face the window, looking at my reflection once again in the grimy reflection. I’m nearly unrecognizable. I look like a monster. My arms and legs are covered in scales, my hair has turned almost white and coarse, my skin still has that red tinge to it. There are claws on my fingers and fangs protruding from my mouth. It’s not something I think I could describe to anyone, and even as the sheer impossibility of everything that just happened continues to flood my mind, the aftershocks are taking over, and I realize I’m shaking.
Breathing hard, trying not to hyperventilate and pass out, I drop back down to the floor, trembling with chills and cold sweat. Two near-misses in one day, and I’m not out of the woods yet. What do I do now? Go to the hospital? Will they even be able to help me?
Of course they will, the rational part of me desperately pipes up. It’s obviously some kind of medical condition. There’s no other explanation.
Okay, sure. I could buy that for the scales, nails, and red skin, but what about the fire? When in history has a person breathed fire outside of the circus? And how am I supposed to explain that to any doctor who comes to examine me? I can already see the headlines, the documentaries, the men in black from the government and the scientists taking me away to some lab or quarantine somewhere, doing tests until the end of time and never letting me see the light of day again. What else would they do? No way. I’m on my own.
I realize I’m crying from a combination of exhaustion, the trauma of the attack, and my fear about my physical condition. Taking a shaky breath, I close my eyes, putting my head on my knees and praying this is all some sick joke. The hidden cameras will be revealed any minute now, and I’ll go back home to apologize to Mark, whether he deserves it or not. That has to be better than this nightmare I’ve ended up in.
It’s not until my panicked tears are drying that I notice something. The icy cold feeling from before, that freezing energy that overtook my body when I changed, is starting to subside. My hands are starting to feel normal again, and when I look down, I’m shocked to see that my nails are retracting back into my fingers, my skin beginning to go back to its normal color. And there’s more; the scaly patches crawling up my arms are disappearing ba
ck into my skin, absorbed under the surface. I touch my canines, which are already returning to the length they were before. I run a hand through my hair and pull a strand into the light, seeing my blonde locks back. Glancing behind me at the dirty window one more time, I see that, as far as appearances, I’m back to normal again.
Okay. So it wasn’t permanent… whatever it was. That doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better, though; I felt the same thing back at the house, after Mark tried to hit me. It didn’t escalate this far that time, but it’s proof enough for my scared, sleep-deprived mind that if something else happens to trigger it, it will happen again. And I don’t know how to prevent it.
I’m just beginning to rifle around in my backpack for my cell phone, wondering if there’s anyone I can turn to for advice, when there’s a loud booming noise on the other side of the warehouse. It sounds a bit like a firecracker going off--a short, loud crack that pierces the air and nearly makes me jump out of my skin. This is followed by the sound of footsteps scuffing on the concrete, and I can make out two figures in the shadows. For a moment I panic again, thinking that it must be the two men. They came back, I think, eyes widening. They came back; they brought their friends, and I’m back to normal. I’m dead.
But then the footsteps approach and I’m able to make out two figures, svelte and feminine. Women. Did the others send them?
“Hello?” I call, my voice unsteady. “Who’s there?”
Eventually the moonlight illuminates them more easily, and I see immediately that they don’t look normal, the same way I didn’t look normal a few minutes ago. Their skin is a deep ruby red, similar to the way mine was, and their eyes and hair are pitch black.
I gasp, scrambling back, and the women look at each other for a moment. Then they’re changing, too, as easily as taking off an article of clothing, their skin going pale and their skin and eyes going back to looking normal. They look human now…not whatever they actually are.