Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (6 page)

“
Help
me! Heeeeelllppp! I’m covered. I can’t move. I need help. Will
somebody please help me!”
said the girl,
her voice becoming ever more hysterical with every passing
syllable.

“
I’m here!” began Marissa.
She flattened her palms against the fabric, shaking them with
vigor, hoping the girl could feel the pressure and calm down. “I
can here you. I’m trying to get the tape off. Ok? Can you hear
me?”

There was a pause.
“Yes! Yes, I can here you. Can you please hurry!
I can't breathe in here!”

“
Shit!” Marissa said
aloud, but to herself. She glanced about with furtive orbs, trying
to locate anything that would improve the situation.

The sack!
she thought of a sudden.

“
I’ll be right back! I
have to find something the cut you free.”

“
No! Don’t leave me!
Please, don’t leave. I can’t breathe!”

“
I’m only going a few feet
away. I need to find something.”

She could hear the girl
begin to cry, her stifled wails loud in the nine-year-olds’
ears.
Jeez, she must be screaming her head
off in there.

Enough, Marissa! Get
moving!
she admonished herself,
knee-walking over to the sack, upending it for greater speed. The
contents spilled about her lap and onto the floor, cans and various
cylindrical items rolling this way and that. She rummaged through
the throng, knocking aside useless items, searching. Her eyes
darted over them like those of an Avian, breakneck almost, jerky
and inhuman.

“
Can you
please hurry…?!”
She sounded on the verge
of a full-fledged breakdown.

“
I’m right here! I’m still
looking to -.”

She saw it then, gleaming
back at her – a white plastic knife bound to a few forks and spoons
of like manufacture.
The man-thing brought
me utensils! How weird is that?
she
thought, quaking anew at the thought of the unbearable creature
that had taken her from her family. She shook the thoughts away,
reaching for the disposable implements. She broke the rubber band
binding them together. She scooted back toward the bundle, knife at
the ready.
Which one do I cut
first…?

The one by her head, you
idiot!

She edged toward the end
where the girls’ weeping was the loudest, putting the semi-sharp
knife to the tape. She pinched up one of the sides so she would
begin to cut along its’ width. This was the easiest way to slice
through the ultra-strong, waterproof adhesive. It took a few hard
back and forth motions, but once the knife caught it made a deep
enough divide, enabling her the grab a hold on either side. She
tugged with all her strength, hearing a satisfying tearing sound
and the tape came apart.

At once, the tension about
the textile released and within seconds Marissa had the girls’ head
free of the fabric. Only it was not a girl. It was teenager. A
petite, half-Caucasian and half-Chinese girl with a face streaked
with dirty tears. Her dyed-blonde hair was stuck fast to her scalp.
She had been sweating ample amounts within the confines of the
blanket (if that’s what it was).

She turned her head to
look at Marissa, her eyes wild with fright. “Oh, thank god for you,
little girl. Oh, thank god!”

The nine-year-old smiled,
tired far beyond her age. “Let me cut the other two bonds, so we
can get you the heck out of there.”

As Marissa went to work,
all she could hear was, “Thank god for you. Thank god for you,”
over and over. It took the younger girl some time to realize the
older girl was not praising her. She had been praying for quite
some time. It might not have sound like one, but Marissa knew it
was one all the same.

The instant the
nine-year-old had parted the third and final bindings, those about
her feet. The teenager burst from the blankets, swiping at her
clothing. Turning in a counter-clockwise manner, she bounced on the
tips of her toes. It was like there were a thousand ants riddling
her body.

She wore skinny
blue-jeans, a light brown, long-sleeved, form-fitting sweater. She
had on a pair of chestnut-colored flats that grated against the
age-old surface of the ground. The noise was more than a little
annoying, and the fact the older girl was squealing like a stuck
pig the entire time did not help either.

She looked about fifteen
years old, and weighed no more than ninety-five pounds. She had
hazel eyes and a narrow face with prominent cheeks in the middle of
delicate features. Her hair, as Marissa had assumed, she dyed. It
was bright yellow-blonde, but there were varying shades of light
brown the closer the strands got to her follicles. Marissa could
tell she had not dyed her hair in a long time, and was instead
letting it grow out, revealing it’s natural color over
time.

Marissa had watched with a
bemused expression on her face, the first mien devoid of fear or
anxiety she’d had in a quite a while.

When the older girl
finally stopped, she looked over at the smaller female for no more
than a second before she rushed forward. She engulfed her in a
tight embrace. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! You don’t know how
grateful I am. Thank you…” She trailed off, swinging Marissa to and
fro for a few more heartbeats. In was evident, her emotions were
getting the best of her.

The nine-year-old endured
the outburst of gratitude, her arms pinned at her sides beneath the
near-crushing grip.

The older girl came away.
“My name is Christine. Christine Sturge. What’s yours?”

“
M-Marissa Avalon,” she
said, hushed, peering up at the teenager through her thin
eyebrows.

She leaned in and gave her
another hug, much lighter than before. “Nice to meet
you.”

The nine-year-old
nodded.

“
Although, it would be
nice if the circumstances were a bit different. Don’t you think?”
she added, scrutinizing their surroundings for the first
time.

Marissa clicked the roof
of her mouth with her tongue. “You got that right.”

Christine’s lips stretched
taut with a grim smirk, though her eyes continued to glance about.
“Where are we?” she asked after a time.

“
Your guess is as good as
mine,” began the 3rd grader. “I think we’re underground,
though.”

Christine turned toward
her. “What makes you say that?”

Marissa shrugged. “It
smells like we are.”

“
Hmmm,” said the other
considering her words. She breathed in the air out of habit,
resuming her inspection. “I think you’re right.” Her hands came to
her hips. “We’re in some kind of tunnel.”

“
Yeah, I think
so.”

“
And, you have no clue
where we might be?”

Marissa shook her head.
“Naw.”

Christine trembled with a
new thought. “You wouldn’t happen to know why we’re here, would
you?”

The nine-year-old
meandered back toward the concrete wall. Near to where the
quasi-provisions the man-thing had brought with him. She leaned
against the barrier, sliding down with care until she was sitting
once more. “I don’t know,” she replied, her fingers formed a
steeple before her face, arms resting on her knees.

The teen sighed, weaving
her way toward the girl. She decided to sit cross-legged on the
ground, across the pile of boxes and cans and plastic containers.
With alacrity, she wiped away the tears forming at the corners of
her eyes.

“
You okay?” asked Marissa,
her gentle, caring nature embedded too deep to suppress.

Christine turned her
Asiatic orbs toward her, brushing her hair behind her ears. Another
tear escaped and fell into her lap. “No,” was all she managed
before she broke into tears once again.

Without another word, the
tiny, 3rd grader pushed aside the “food” barring the way to
encircle her arms about the young woman.

They remained that way for
quite some time.

When they parted some time
later, Christine asked: “What should we do now?”

Marissa wasted no time.
“We should eat.”

“
Why? I’m not even all
that hungry.”

“
Trust me,” said Marissa.
Her eyes were haunted when they met those of the teen.

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

~ 3 ~

Questions

Friday, November
26
^th
,
the Day after Thanksgiving, 2:47 pm…

“
What do you think
happened to him?” asked the dark-complected, dark-eyed
teen.

He was slender, though
muscled from many hours in the gym. He was not particularly
athletic or sports-inclined. Rather, he liked to work out to look
good for the girls. He had wavy, shoulder-length hair, parted in
the middle. His large forehead, wide-spaced eyes and puffy cheeks
were typical Guatemalan features. He dressed like any
neo-punk-rocker of the twenty-first century. He had on torn black
jeans (faded) and a t-shirt bearing the name of one of his favorite
bands. His shoes were double-souled, black leather Doc Martins,
splotched with white paint.

“
I have the faintest idea,
man,” replied the large teen, sitting on the other end of the
bench.

Richard Fernandez glanced
over at his friend, Daniel Florentine, shaking his head. He was
miffed at the dude, because he had not even looked up from his cell
phone.
He’s definitely texting Mariah
again,
he thought.
I swear to God this lug-nut obsesses over the girl!
As always, his thoughts bounced toward those of
his girlfriend as well. The memory of her well-made body in his
arms warmed him for a second or two. Memories of her were some of
his favorites, filled with long kisses and hands full of her firm
flesh.

Richard considered himself
lucky to be dating someone like Melanie Dean. She did not resemble
any of the girls he had gone out with in the past. First off, she
was not from Latin America. In fact, her heritage had roots in some
long forgotten European country, nowhere near those ones south of
the border of the U.S.

Though his mother might
look at him funny over the top of her reading glasses when she saw
the two of them together, he could care less. So what if Melanie
was as white as snow? To him, she was beautiful. Her stringy,
carrot-colored hair, freckles and smoky eyes of crystal-clear
tourmaline made it so. So what if she had tattoos up and down her
arms, one on her ankle and another along the small of her back. He
knew what it meant. He knew people called body art in that location
a Tramp Stamp. And, he knew many people of his culture deemed
Caucasian girls easy. Or they would say she was of a loser moral
character if they had a degree of tact.

He did not care. She was
funny. She was playful in his arms, unafraid to express herself
with either mind or her body.

He liked that more than
anything.

Then, thoughts of Anthony
intruded and he forced those luscious recollections of Melanie
aside. What was he doing? This was not the time to get all hot and
bothered. There were more important things than hot shorties,
right?
Right?

“
Don’t you care?” he asked
Daniel, with more force than he intended, a residual response to
the frustration he was directing at himself.

Daniel peered up from the
LCD of his phone, his brow furled. “What kind of fucking question
is that, Rich? Of course, I care! He’s my friend as much as he is
yours.” He copied Richard’s gesture of a few moments before. Then
the chirping and vibrating of the smart device in his hand
distracted him.

Daniel was the polar
opposite of Richard. Though they both had Latin American roots,
they’d been sprung from different origins. Daniel was Mexican, a
big one at that. He was not overweight per se, but still carried
considerable bulk. One could say he was big-boned with large hands,
large feet and a large frame to match. He was way over two hundred
pounds, his skin a few shades lighter than Richard’s with hair he
wore combed-back and greased. It was much like the pompadours of
old, seen way back in the 1950’s. To his friends, Daniel was one
such relic when it came to his appearance. His attire was usually
proof enough.

For their afternoon foray
to the Glendale Galleria he had donned 501 Levi’s, turned-up at the
bottom and a starched white t-shirt. A waist-cut jean jacket and
the black leather Sketchers he had on his feet, made him look like
a bigger, Hispanic version of James Dean.

“
If you care so much, how
come you can’t stop texting Mariah for like one second?”

Daniel's sigh was huge. He
tapped the glass of the phone a few more times, and then gazed over
at his friend, his eyes hooded with the first wisps of
anger.

“
They’ll be here in a few
minutes. You can hold off on the incessant messaging until then,”
added Richard. He met the foreboding cast of his friends’ face,
unwilling to back down.