ARC: Cracked (10 page)

I lean back, refreshed from my nap and more food, and scout the teeming, creeping hordes of human larvae. All of them have what I want – information. Chi and Uri are still the easiest targets, but why limit myself?

Which one’s brain can I pull it from? From their brain to their mouth to my ears. I feel a tug on my sleeve. A volunteer! How opportune. I turn, but am disappointed. She is too young to be of use. A small girl, still young enough to suffer the indignity of pigtails, holds out a dead goldfish in her cupped hand.

Thanks, but I just ate
.

“My fish died,” she lisps around missing teeth. She looks at me expectantly.

Ah – catastrophe has struck and she’s in search of an adult to handle it. My luck to be closest to the door. Fortunately, I know just how to handle this one.

“Flush it down the toilet.”

Or maybe not. The girl’s lower lip starts an ominous trembling and the big eyes take on the glossy sheen of a slug. Tears – danger, Will Robinson, danger! I look frantically for backup before the emotional volcano erupts, but my companions are looking at
me
horrified.

What? It’s a
fish.

Jo grunts in disgust and stands to scoop up the little girl, dead fish and all. “Aww, it’s OK, Sarah. She was just teasing.” She shoots me a look over the little girl’s head that says clearly,
Weren’t you, you evil witch?

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” But seriously, it’s a fish. The room is littered with the corpses of its cousins. Fish-ageddon in the cafeteria. Jo pats and rubs the little girl’s back and I hear sniffling. Slimy sadness leaks out of the child.

“I know you miss him,” Jo says.

Miss what? Their long conversations into the night? The phone calls, the rollerblading? Summers at the shore? Ah well, stupid or not, apparently my response was Not Human – even for Emma. I’ve always struggled with the concept of mourning the death of food.

I feel the faint niggling of a memory. Not of food, but of pets.

Scally was an ugly, vicious cat who took to hanging around our dingy dump of an apartment building when I was younger. One-eyed, half-eared, with some kind of scaly skin disease. A cat-leper. One leg was missing, like a pirate, so it became Scalawag. Mom encouraged the naming; I was content with “That Stupid Cat”. I fed it. It became a hissing, clawing shadow. Even when I became a shooing, kicking human, it followed. It wasn’t the cuddling kind and neither was I. One day it was kissed by a clever car.

I found it cold in the road.

I cried. I can’t tell you why, now. I used to do things like that before Mom… died.

She held me, her scent of lavender mixed with strawberry shampoo in my nose, and even though I was sad and she was sad for me, I also knew she was happy. Not because Scally was dead, but because I cared. Mom suggested a funeral to honor Scally. I declined – I knew better than anyone that there was nothing left of that mean old cat. Its body was just an empty shell.

“We should have a funeral,” I blurt. Everyone turns to me and their disgust morphs to much more acceptable expressions. Relief, awe at my brilliance.

OK, so maybe those are my feelings and not theirs, but at least the disgust is gone. As for Jo… she told me just this morning that she hates pets. What a hypocrite. I can’t help but point it out to her as we stand half an hour later next to a gold shoebox, the spray-paint still drying, for the silly-solemn event.

“Hypocrite,” I murmur for her ears only. She looks at me blankly. “You hate pets.”

She quirks a brow. “Well, I didn’t comfort the fish, now, did I?”

Touché. Sometimes she makes it hard to hate her.

The funeral eats up time I would have rather spent plundering information, and afterwards we have to head straight to the gymnasium for the games. I’m not sure what the game will entail but it doesn’t really matter. I will be playing my own.

Knowing Chi, I’m not expecting Scrabble, but their game, once described to me, sounds like attempted homicide.

“We call it Paranoia,” Jo says with a toothy grin, “because everyone
is
out to get you.”

Awesome.

The game’s rules are simple – they set us loose in the playing field in teams ranging from three to five. In the groups of five there’s one “Beacon”, who has to pretend to be weak and slow like a human or it’s a foul. The difference between this game and real life is that even the other Beacon-protecting teams are trying to kill you. A team gets one point for each person they “kill” and your whole team “dies” if your Beacon does.

No one wants to be the lame Beacon so the teacher, a woman in her mid-thirties – so hugely pregnant I think she might be carrying a litter – waddles through the gym assigning Beacon roles while everyone tries not to meet her eye. No one’s surprised when Jo’s selected, and interspersed with her long and creative swearing is the complaint that apparently she is
always
designated a Beacon. The teacher seems unsure what to do with me, so she ignores me. I guess she assumes I won’t play. I will, though. I don’t have time to sit around waiting for everyone else to finish. Besides, in the confusion of the game, surely I can figure out some way to lose Jo.

Chi leans back on the bleachers but is propped up on his right elbow so he can see what Jo, one bleacher lower, is sketching as they plan their strategy. His hair’s pulled back, but it’s not all quite long enough, so some hangs rakishly in his face. Uri sits next to Jo, watching them both, while I sit a row above, watching them all. Zebedee was recruited to our team during lunch, but she hasn’t shown up yet, so only the four of us are sprawled on the bleachers when we are approached by an optimistic fifth. She’s the kind of girl all other girls are required to hate on sight. Jo certainly does, but then Jo hates everyone.

The pretty brunette tosses her pretty hair and props her pretty butt right next to Chi on the left, just behind him. She’s decked out in coordinating workout clothes. Pink, of course. It’s loud in the gym and he’s so focused on the plan, he doesn’t notice until she speaks.

“Hey, Chi, I missed you in the gym this morning.”

He starts, then rotates so he’s leaning back on both elbows. His faded grey T-shirt clings. “Oh, hey, Rachael.” He smiles. “Yeah, late start this morning.”

“Oh, really?” she purrs. I swear she purrs. Have I mentioned I hate cats? “Late night?”

Chi’s eyes slide briefly to Jo and he catches her watching. Chi turns back to Rachael and ratchets his smile up from “charming” to “heartbreaker” and leans in a little.

“Nah.” Chi’s eyes shoot again to where Jo sits trying not to fume. This time Rachael notices his glance and looks a little confused before she shrugs it off, dismissing Jo as a threat. Which doesn’t seem fair, really. Jo’s pretty in her own way – if you like the angry-violent type.

“Well, anyway, I was wondering if you wanted someone?” the girl asks, leaning in and flashing some cleavage. I didn’t even know they made low-cut sports bras. Chi looks surprised by the discovery as well – rendered speechless actually. “You know, for your team?”

“No,” snaps Jo. Rachael seems surprised to find her there.

“Uh, no, that’s right.” Chi collects himself. “We’ve got Zebedee.” He grins at the little tramp. “Next time, maybe?”

She smiles back. “I look forward to it. See you for our workout tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Chi says. As Rachael sashays away, her back is treated to a patented Jo death glare. It occurs to me that it would be easier to get Jo pissed enough to leave on her own than to lose her. Rachael already did half the work for me.

I stand and walk around the table. “So, Chi, what’s the plan?” I ask. Jo’s death glare switches to me but I think it’s more from habit than anything else. It’s about to be deserved. I take the designated tramp spot at Chi’s elbow and look at him, big-eyed. “How are you going to protect Jo… and me?”

“You?”

“You weren’t just going to leave me behind, were you? All alone?”

“Uh, no, of course not,” he stumbles, but it’s clear he hadn’t thought about it.

“You’re not just going to let them kill me, are you? I mean, I can’t look out for myself.” I think I hear a snort from Jo. Not the emotion I’m trying to get from her. I put a hand on Chi’s bicep. “You’re so strong. You can protect us both, can’t you?” My lashes batter my cheeks like demented butterflies, but he seems to like it. My eyes flicker to Jo. She most definitely does not.

Bingo. She doesn’t leave, but then I never thought she’d be an easy nut to crack. The best plans take time.

Chi grins as he stands up and pulls on his hoodie. “Of course. Stick by me. I’ll make sure no one gets you.”

“Me too!” agrees Uri from my other side.

Jo says nothing, but refuses to go back to plotting after the tramp and I play our games. Instead she stomps and fumes, radiating displeasure. Fortunately we’re like a superbug, immune through prolonged exposure. Zebedee shows up and bumps fists with the boys, nods at me and returns Jo’s snarl with a shrug. We join the rest of the students at the metal weapon racks to pick out our instruments of destruction.

The practice blades are all safe, dull wood with fabric, stained a bright blue, fixed along the “cutting” edges. They’re all shapes and sizes, from daggers to claymores, but have in common that they all look old and hard-used. Big dents and chips are beat into them and the brightly colored designs on the hilts are flaking off. Chi selects a dagger and a sword, testing their weight in his hands and giving them a few practice swings. He snatches up what looks like a bright-blue dusty sock and rubs it along the fabric, painting it even bluer.

“Chalk, to mark all my kills,” he says with relish. He holds up the chalk sock and says, “Holy globe,” and slips it into his pocket, along with three others.

I have no interest in weapons, but the artist in me is curious about the designs. I mean, why bother with something that’s going to be so abused? I run my finger along one, a curved sword suspended by a loop on its hilt, and realize the designs are actually stylized text. Bible references, actually. Ha, they’re trying to remind the students what they’re fighting for. I can’t help it, I chuckle. Chi raises his eyebrows as if to ask why.

I point at the Bible verses. “So far I’ve seen you lie, steal and kill. That’s three of the Ten Commandments and we’ve only just had lunch.” Not that I’m complaining, as most of those sins were committed for my benefit, but still.

Chi grins, unrepentant. “So?”

“So? How can you be the good guys?”

“Well, first of all, we have a special dispensation against the last one, at least when it comes to demons. As for the lying and stealing, well, it’s not ideal.” He has the grace to look slightly shamefaced. “But we have good intentions. We lied and stole a little, but no one got hurt and you got saved – that’s more important.” Amen. Preach it. “So it comes down to intent. Good intentions equals not evil.”

Jo looks up from where she’s selecting knives, apparently over her anger and willing to join the conversation. I almost sigh. At this rate I’ll have to kill her to get some time alone with the boys.

“I have a better example.” Her hand closes on the hilt of a large knife and she jerks it from the wall, then spinning, she presses it to my chest.

Nope, still mad.

I give her a hard glare that says
I’m not scared –
then realize Human Meda would be scared and whimper.

“Jo–” Chi starts, but she ignores him.

“Look at it this way – do you want someone to stick a knife in your chest?” she asks, almost sweetly.

Mine? No. Now,
yours
… but I shake my head no. There’s a heavy pause and she pushes down slightly. It’s just dull wood and I don’t hurt easily, but she isn’t trying to hurt me. It’s a warning. Silent threats bounce between us and I know she hears mine even if they are disguised under a whimper.

“Jo…” Chi again, and this time Jo steps back with an unfriendly smile.

“You would if I were a doctor performing heart surgery,” she says lightly.

I don’t know if I have a heart, but I get her point – both of them really.

Intent.

And she doesn’t like me.

Good.

SEVEN

We play in a few acres of wooded mountain terrain, the outer limits marked with dingy neon-orange twine. There’s lots of jumping out and scaring people, “stabbing” and screaming. They fight with a bloodthirstiness I wouldn’t expect outside of a maximum-security prison or suburban PTA meeting. My only regret is I have to spend the whole time jumping frightened into Chi’s arms and grabbing his hand instead of joining in the murdering mayhem around me. Chi likes all the attention, but I can’t help notice his eyes sliding over to Jo when I do something particularly outrageous – like stroke his abs.

Yes I did, and they are amazing.

As for Jo, I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t against the rules for a Beacon to kill her own guard, she would have skewered me. But as mad as she gets, she doesn’t leave.

As time runs out, I decide to try something else. If she won’t leave, I will.

My opportunity arises when we’re caught in a three-way fight. Chi stashes me in some bushes while they take on a pair of lean, tween boys defending a chubby grade-school Beacon. The sound of the conflict brings along a third team made up of three tough-looking girls in camo. Our team – with Chi and Zebedee – is seen as the bigger threat so the other two teams cleverly join up against us. Jo is tossed unceremoniously up a tree, while Chi, Uri and Zebedee defend at its base.

While they’re busy, I slip unnoticed through the trees.

Come along, Chi. Come find me…

I jog, wanting to put space between me and the others. If I’m too close, Chi will just bring them all. I need to get far enough away that it’s not worth waiting on Jo.

Branches reach out like claws, trying to snatch my clothes and mark my skin. I reach back to them, as if to shake their hands, then I break their arms, leaving a mini-path of destruction for Chi to follow. I haven’t been outside in weeks; the nurses at the asylum weren’t big believers in recess. I breathe in the sweet scents of rot and sunshine. A small outcropping of rocks lies ahead, forming a little cliff with a cluster of boulders at its base. It looks like a convenient spot to wait for Chi. I run a little faster and leap on one of the smaller boulders in the pile.