The lecture exhausted Lucy, but she wasn't going to let
their only chance at food escape. She reached up into the trees and tried to
catch it. It stared straight at her, as if it knew what she was thinking, and
then fluttered away, stretching its long, beautiful wings as it flew. It was
even bigger than she'd first thought, and its wings glittered in the sunlight.
Luke also watched as it flew away. "Weird. You're
right, that's not like any moth I've ever seen. It kind of looks like an
Attacus Atlas, but even those don't get that big. They have beautiful wings,
but not in jewel tones—more maroon to tawny. Besides, they're only found in the
tropical areas of Southeast Asia. I have no idea what that was, but it was
amazing."
Hunger pangs made it hard to think, but a part of her was
glad she'd failed at catching the creature. Something so beautiful should not
be torn from the world. Then again, beauty wasn't the only criteria of worth.
One of the most amazing beings she'd ever met would not be considered beautiful
by any stretch, but he should never have been torn from this world, either.
Adam.
A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of
her friend. They'd only known each other briefly, but he'd died to save her.
He'd been part of that horrible lab in Russia, where creatures that were part
man, part beast spent their lives in locked rooms, stared at and poked and
prodded by scientists. But Adam had been special. He'd been her friend.
Luke wrapped his arm around Lucy's shoulders. "You
thinking about Adam?"
She nodded. "How'd you know?"
"Sam may be the only mind reader, but I know you like I
know myself. Maybe better sometimes. Think our butterfly was a mutant?"
She sniffled and wiped a stray tear. "Don't know.
Maybe. Or maybe you don't know bugs like you think you do."
Luke ruffled her already messy hair. "Them's fighting
words, Sis."
The jungle creaked around them and Lucy stood and smiled,
grateful for the distraction of her brother. "Sorry, I only fight guys who
can give me a real challenge."
Luke stretched his long, lean body, like a panther, then
pounced. Lucy shrieked and ran from his mock attack, leading them deeper into
the jungle.
Their games were short lived, as neither had the stamina to
keep up, but the dark mood that Luke had been carrying seem to have lifted, and
Lucy relaxed and linked arms with him as they walked. No more doom and
gloom—time to get serious about the food business.
The sun caught the glint of something metallic in the
ground, and Lucy bent to examine it. She pulled a bit of metal from the mossy
ground. Its jagged edges looked torn apart.
She handed it to Luke, who examined it and said,
"Hmm... guess there are humans here somewhere. Or were. Wonder what it's
from."
They kept walking over a small hill, and discovered the
source—the plane they'd jumped from the night before.
Luke's breath hitched and his body turned hard and still.
"Let's get out of here. I don't want to be here."
The plane had nearly broken in half, now sewn together by a
few random bits of metal—like some kid's toy that got dropped and stepped on.
But it was real, and there would be dead bodies on it.
Lucy wanted to flee, to get away from everything the plane
represented and all the memories it called to the surface. But pragmatism won
out. Or hunger. She needed food, and the plane had food. She shoved down all
memories and insecurities, and put up an emotional wall that allowed her to
stay focused.
"I'm not leaving without food. Plus, there might be a
way to contact someone, a radio or something. It could be our only chance to
get help."
She walked toward the plane, slowly, waiting for Luke to
catch up. For several long moments, he didn't move. When she was about to turn
around and coax him, or drag him, with her, he finally took a step and broke
the creepy statue stance he'd been sporting.
She relaxed once he walked beside her.
The center of the plane lay open like a gutted fish. They
stepped over the debris, choosing each step with care, and entered. It was well
past noon, probably close to two or three in the afternoon, and the bodies had
been decomposing since the night before. The smell gagged them both and forced
them to cover their noses. The humid heat of the jungle—the worst possible
environment for preserving a body—accelerated the decomposition.
Lucy couldn't afford to vomit, not with an empty stomach and
just a bit of water. She took small, shallow breaths and ignored the stench as
best she could.
Agent Morrison's body lay crumbled up in a corner, as if
he'd been a used piece of paper tossed aside. His severed hand lay several feet
from him, his blood brown and flaking. Lucy pushed back the memories of that
moment and silenced the guilt that threatened to overwhelm her. She wished she
could have stopped it, could have saved him. She wished there'd been a better
choice to make.
Robert's dead body haunted her. His head had been blown away
by Beleth, but she'd inflicted the real damage. He'd left her no choice. He would've
killed Luke.
She turned away and focused on locating the fridge. It was
in the front of the plane. On her way, she spotted Luke's pack, with all his
gear, and picked it up.
Luke still stood on the edge of the plane, staring at her as
if she were a stranger.
No time to deal with him right now.
"Here."
She tossed his pack at him, and on reflex, he caught it. "Might need that
stuff."
The mini fridge presented its own challenge. A dead guy
still clutched the handle, which he'd probably grabbed when the plane started
to tilt. She'd have to pry his hand off to open it.
Dear God, this is gross.
She gripped the stiff, cold hand of the dead man and, one by
one, peeled back his fingers. The body blocked the fridge when she tried to
open it, so she braced herself and pushed him away a few feet. By then she was
panting and dizzy.
Thanks for your help, Bro. Sheesh.
It contained sandwiches, drinks, and a few bottles of
alcohol. To the side of the fridge, a few cans of food lay scattered about. She
opened her pack and stuffed the food into it, then slung it back over her
shoulder. The weight of the pack nearly toppled her over, but she righted
herself and made her way to the cockpit.
She'd hoped to find a radio or way to communicate to someone
for help, but the cockpit was destroyed. The nose of the plane must have hit
the ground first, because it had crushed in on itself, leaving little to
explore in the control panels, and leaving the pilots buried under the debris.
Unable to endure the smell any longer, and seeing no point
to a more comprehensive search, Lucy made a beeline back to Luke and into the
fresh air. She slammed her pack into his chest, hitting him with more force
than necessary. "Could've used some help there, you know. Thanks for
that."
Before he could reply she stalked off, back into the jungle
and away from the plane.
Luke caught up with her as he looked through the backpack,
but he didn't say anything.
The grumbling in Lucy's stomach forced her to stop and sit
somewhere so she could eat. She pulled the pack away from him and rummaged
through it. "Found some sandwiches and drinks." She tossed the
sandwich and a coke at him and looked for her own.
Luke turned the sandwich over in his hand, then sniffed it
and tossed it aside. "It's rotten. Egg salad doesn't keep well without
refrigeration."
Right, the fridge lost power. Damn it.
She set down her own sandwich and pulled out some cans of
stew. "These should be fine. They even have a pull lid. At least something
went right."
Luke didn't reach for the can she offered him. He kept his
arms crossed over his shoulders. "How long's this going to last us? A day?
Two if we nibble?"
Great, grumpy Luke is back.
"What the hell, Bro?
Where's the logic here? You're not going to eat the food we have, because we
don't have enough to last some unspecified period of time? We need food now.
We'll eat a bit to gain our strength back, and save some for later. We need to
survive while we look for a way to escape. Unless you have a better idea!"
Frustration mounted as her normally cheerful brother scowled
at her. He didn't budge, or eat, or respond to her questions. Her hand clenched
the rotten sandwich next to her and she threw it at his face. Bits of rotten
egg salad squished through the plastic wrap and splattered onto his face.
"What's your problem?" His muscles tensed in anger
as he used his shirt to wipe his face.
Her suppressed anger at Luke's behavior bubbled up to the
surface. She stood and paced in front of him, jabbing her finger at him to make
her point. "
You're
my problem. Ever since we got stranded here,
you've been moody and depressed—no help at all. I'm the one who found us water,
and food, and all you do is mope around and complain. No, I don't have all the
answers. I don't know where we're going to sleep tonight or what we'll eat in
two days, but I'm doing my best to make sure we survive."
“Survive?” Luke's voice shook with disdain. “You know who
didn’t survive? Those people in that plane. You killed a man yesterday, and
you’re acting like nothing happened.”
A sob choked in her throat. Was he seriously mad at her for
killing Robert? "He was torturing you. I saved your ungrateful life."
"I wasn't dead yet. There were other choices."
Lucy sunk to the ground, despair clawing at her. She
couldn't erase from her mind the way Robert's eyes had looked as he lay dying,
but she also couldn't get over the way her brother had screamed as Robert tore
his body apart with his powers.
She hadn't known a better way to handle it.
Luke pawed through her backpack and pulled out a bottle of
Rum. "I'm outta here. Meet you back at the beach later."
And with that, he took off, leaving her alone in the middle
of the jungle so he could go drown his sorrows in alcohol.
Nice, Luke. Real classy.
They'd fought lots of times—all of their lives, really—but
never like this. Disbelief fought a war in her mind with memories of her
brother. This wasn't like him, but she couldn't do anything to fix Luke right
now.
She had bigger problems—like making sure they survived,
finding a way out, and finishing their mission.
After all, they still had some kids to save.
Drake slugged another mouthful of cheap vodka and waited for
the burn to dull his pain. The abandoned apartment building he'd holed-up in
stank like shit and piss and vomit, but he didn't care. He sat on an old
mattress with his back against the wall and watched the void where a door had
once hung.
Every second of existence tore at him until even alcohol
couldn't bury the feelings. The place in his chest where his powers had once
lived now felt empty, like the core of a rotten apple. Even when Dr. Pana had
tied him to a hospital bed and drained him of his powers, he hadn't felt this
helpless. There, he'd known it would end. His powers hadn't been destroyed, just
blocked. He hadn't felt empty, just useless.
He'd been so naive to think it couldn't have gotten any
worse.
Sam was out there somewhere, fighting to keep their baby
safe while her father still hunted her
. And what am I doing, loser that I
am? Running away. What good am I without my powers? I couldn't keep them safe,
so they were better off without me.
The lies he told himself did nothing to silence the guilt.
When he'd drained the last drop of vodka from his bottle, he
smashed it against the wall, and left his hiding spot to search for more. He
counted the money he had left: five dollars and some change. What the hell
could he buy with five bucks? Nothing strong enough to get the job done, that
was for sure.
The moon hung heavy in the sky as Drake walked the empty
streets. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the sun. It seemed a
lifetime ago. Memories of warm rays and the splash of cold salt water haunted
him. Vampires lived like this for centuries, outcasts relegated to the shadows
of life. Drake finally understood why these beings fascinated so many people.
Their plight gave form to the empty death that lived inside him.
A homeless man's cough brought him back to the present. The
man sat against a garbage dumpster, tucked under a newspaper blanket. Drake
didn't care about the smell or the trash; he only noticed the paper bag-wrapped
bottle in the man's hands.
He mustered as much authority as he could now that he'd lost
his powers of mind control. "I'll give you five bucks for that
bottle."
The man looked up at Drake and back down at the bottle. His
face looked like an ancient map that had been written on so many times the
lines all blurred together. He smacked his lips, took another swig and then
held the bottle out with a cackle.
Before Drake could take it, the man yanked it back and
rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign for money.
Drake sighed and pulled out the last of his cash.
They traded at the same time, and the man cackled again as
he stuck the money into some hidden compartment in his clothes.
The bottle felt light. Too light. Drake tilted it to his
lips, but only a drop of amber liquid fell into his mouth. Rage fed him as he
threw the bottle to the right of the man's head.
The man cried out as jagged bits of glass flew into his face.
Drake lifted his fist to punch him, but the man held up his arms and squealed.
Fear filled his eyes, and his lips smacked together. When his mouth opened,
Drake saw why the man didn't speak.
He had no tongue.
Drake's anger drained out of him in a flash, and he slumped
against the trash bin. Could he really beat a helpless man because he'd stolen
five dollars?