Killshot (Icarus Series Book 1) (20 page)

              I pressed on, sweat pouring down my face, saturating the towel that was slowly drying around my neck. The blue cord was still tied around my apron strings. It anchored me, reminding me that my friends were at the other end of it, waiting for me to come back. Finally, I reached the CPU unit. Unsure of its stability, I tapped it with the toe of my boot. When it didn’t shift after a few more kicks, I stepped off the board onto the top of the box, just as the wood fell to the tar below. I shoved the mask tightly to my face and breathed deeply, grabbing the roll cage so I wouldn’t tumble off of my wobbling legs.

             
Round port by the blue gauge, upper right-hand corner
, Jake’s words echoed in my head. I bent my head over just far enough to see and located the port. I sucked in as much oxygen as my lungs would hold, gripped the cup in my teeth as I had before and began the arduous task of connecting the cable.

              Most of gauges on that side of the machine were completely over my head, so I focused on twisting the cable into place. Just as the port slid home, I located the temperature display and read the meter. One hundred and thirty-two degrees.

              “Holy hell,” I yelled, expelling the air I had been holding in.

              I pushed back from the edge of the CPU and pressed the mask back to my mouth and nose. Now that the cable was attached, I could continue on with my AWOL mission. I pulled the phone out of the apron with my free hand. Start to finish, the bridge construction and circus act had only taken about three and a half minutes. I was making pretty good time, but I needed to step it up if I was going to keep Falisha from doing something stupid.

             
You can do this,
shouted my inner cheerleader.

              She wasn’t one of those pretty-pretty-princess cheerleaders. No, my inner rah-rah girl was more like Falisha, all bad-ass and sass, with flaming pom-poms. And she was— okay, my mind was definitely starting to wander. I took a few deep breaths on the drinking cup. I was grateful for the clarity it provided, but at that moment, I wished it could supply me with water.

              The towel on my head was completely dry now and the sweltering heat was making a little hard to stay focused, and upright, for that matter. I stared at the sidewalk across from me, bolstering my courage and repeating my mission over and over in my head. As soon as I felt somewhat centered, I went for it.

              I was in mid-air and half way to the sidewalk when it occurred to me that I was a runner, not a long-jumper. I was going to fall short of my destination by at least a foot. In a desperate attempt to adjust my trajectory, I shifted my weight forward and used the bulk of the tank on my back to propel me. It was just enough for me to get a toehold. I wavered a bit, teetering on one foot at the tarry edge of the sidewalk, then landed hard, my palms grinding against the concrete.

              The cup flew over my head as I hurtled towards the ground and dangled awkwardly behind me, out of my reach. I immediately jumped to my feet, anxious to remove my hands the scalding concrete below. I twirled in a circle and groped aimlessly behind me, desperate to find my mask. I must have looked like a dog chasing its tail— but I was getting a little woozy, and passing out now would mean certain death.

              After a few frantic twirls, my brain’s survival mode kicked in. I squared my feet, twisted my shoulders sharply to the left, and caught the cup as the centrifugal force flung it around my body. I wasted no time celebrating. I buried my face in the mouth of that cup and sucked in the sweet life-giving goodness. Once the crackles cleared from my eyes, I brushed myself off and moved forward.

              “So much for Grace Kelly,” I said, shaking my head at myself as I dragged my heavy limbs down the sidewalk.

              My footfalls echoed inside my head, dampened only by the towel covering my ears. The tank thunked against my back; a steady beat for my marching rhythm. I scanned the area for new dangers, careful not to step anywhere near the new asphalt as I moved forward towards the street corner across from Mrs. Proud’s.

              Cars were scattered about. Some were burning while others seemed to have simply stalled in precarious positions. A few hundred yards past Mrs. Proud’s house, was a red SUV that was wrapped around a tall oak. The doors were closed and smoke rose in a winding black rivulet towards the sky, but I didn’t see anyone inside. Less than a car length away, a small two-door sat diagonally in the middle of the intersection. Two more vehicles had crashed into each other, a bit further down the block. There was no major damage to either vehicle aside from the mysterious black splatters that coated inside of the glass.

              It was as if everyone just disappeared.

              I stopped dead in my tracks a few feet from the stop sign across from Mrs. Proud’s house. Small black lumps, about the size of my fist, dotted the ground all around me; on the streets, in the yards, even a couple in the trees. They seemed to be clustered in this one area.

              I grabbed a stick with my free hand and touched it to the street. When it didn’t sink in, I tested it with the toe of my trusty combat-boots. Again, no sinking.

             
Now or never.

              Before I could talk myself out of it, I bolted, the toddler sized tank slamming against my back with every step. I dodged the mystery blobs on the ground. I didn’t know what they were, so I wasn’t taking any chances. I wove my way around them until I reached the other side of the street where I had to leap over a large cluster. I landed on the sidewalk at the end of Mrs. Proud’s driveway.

              My timing could not have been better. The fires on this block had spread and were now just a few feet from reaching her property. Out of habit, I reached up to wipe my brow. It was dry as a bone, and I realized I was no longer sweating. Uh-oh. My head began to swim, and that fuzziness returned around the outside of my field of vision. I was running out of time, in every way possible. I needed to— wait, what did I need to do?

             
Get the key,
the voice in my head shouted.

              Right the key…where was that damn key, again? Key, key, key. Such a funny word, Key. If you said it a bunch of times, it lost its meaning and became nothing but a sound. Key…Oooh, the Florida Keys. Mom and Dad took us all there, once. Beans and I gathered shells on the beach. We had a picnic, I think. We all swam in the ocean for hours.

              We should all go back there, someday. The whole family…

              “What the hell?” My thoughts were fuzzy and jumbled, but I knew something wasn’t right. I lowered the cup from my mouth and stared at it, wondering why I had it in the first place.

              I was beyond confused and struggling to catch my breath. All of a sudden everything I was doing seemed so stupid and pointless. I put my hands on my knees and lowered my head. I teetered, fighting to take in the hot crispy air, when my stomach decided to issue an eviction notice for the corn chips I had eaten earlier that day. After a few violent lurches, nothing came out but frothy yellow bile. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve but couldn’t stand back up. I was so tired. Maybe I should just sit down for a minute and rest, and then start over.

             
Get your ass up, stupid.
That voice in my head slapped me across the proverbial face.
Zander is dying!

              “Zander,” I shouted, putting the cup back to my face.

              I stumbled up across the arid ground to Mrs. Proud’s driveway and ran up the slight incline. My muddled thoughts began to clear as I sucked at the air in my mask. My muscles were screaming at me, my head was doing back flips, and the air inside the cup tasted of corn chips and vomit. I slipped the lip of the cup down so it only covered my mouth. I was determined not to throw up again.

              I kept my head down and barreled in the general direction of the garage, once again avoiding the black lumps that were scattered about. Up close, they kind of looked like giant charred raisins. By the time I reached the garage door, I had regained enough of my bearings and higher brain function to remember where Mrs. Proud had stashed her key.

              I turned toward the birdbath and tripped over a black garbage bag thrown carelessly in the middle of the sidewalk. I stumbled forward a few steps, my hands waving at my sides to counter balance the fall. I caught myself just shy of another face-plant. With renewed determination fueled by annoyance, I stomped back to the get the key.

              This time, I walked around the other side and across her landscaping rocks, making sure I didn’t trip the stupid trash bag again. I edged around it holding the cup tightly to my face, but by the time I saw the light reflecting off the silver dog tags, it was too late to turn away.

              “No, no, no,” I choked, looking down at the charred body on the sidewalk. “Oh God, no.”

              Mrs. Proud’s already petite form, had curled tightly in on itself in a warped rendition of the fetal position. One twig-like hand clung to the chain of her husband’s dog tags, the gold band dangling loosely between her knuckles. The other held a singed leather-bound book. Her silver hair lay in blackened tufts on the ground around her, along with the tattered and ashen remains of her clothing. Even the laces of her boots had mostly burned away. Though none of her features were recognizable, I knew it was her. 

              Mrs. Proud had be an amazing woman. She had taught me, and countless others, how to express ourselves— how to
be
ourselves. She had been nothing but generous, wise, and selfless, and she had died horribly. Worse than that, she had died
alone
. Rage boiled in my chest, bursting free of the dark place I had buried it deep inside

              “Goddamn it!”

              I launched myself at the birdbath, shoving it over onto its side. It toppled like a fallen tree, landing hard a good five feet away from where it started. Multi-colored rocks scattered in every direction and a garden gnome shattered against the concrete steps. My hands shook with fury as I reached down and grabbed the keys. I clasped them against my heart like a touchstone, and slowly backed away towards the garage.

              “Goodbye Mrs. P.,” I croaked, as tears streamed down my face. “Tell Jeremiah I said hello.”

Chapter 19

Mission Impossible

               The keys felt warm in my hands as I fumbled to find the right one, the last one of the three popping the padlock to the garage door. Using the edge of my front apron to grip and turn the handle, I shoved the metal door open and stepped into the darkness. The temperature was about thirty degrees cooler, so I pulled the door shut behind me. I was just as desperate to shut out the weight of Mrs. Proud’s death, as I was to escape the scorching heat.

              For once, I was glad for the darkness that surrounded me. I soaked in the cooler air then tentatively lowered my mask and took a breath. The air was warm and stale but far easier to breathe than it had been beyond those walls. I didn’t want to risk losing hold of the mask again, so I slipped it through the string at my waist. Once again, my eyes adjusted quickly as I gazed around the room and for a moment, I simply stood there, letting the relief wash over me.

              I reached for the phone in my pocket and drew up the flashlight app, illuminating the storage space in pale white light. The beam was barely strong enough to saturate the darkness, but easily created a trail of eerie shadows along the walls. The textured, spray-on foam insulation that was layered between the upright beams of the garage reminded me of dragon scales. It also explained the temperature difference.

              To the left of the garage door, I spotted an old kerosene lantern hanging on the wall above a rusty wheelbarrow. My dad used to bring one on our rough-its, so I was familiar with how they worked. It had what my dad called a flint click, kind of like a Zippo lighter that would spark against the wick to light the lantern.

              “Sweet,” I muttered under my breath, as I snatched it up.

              It lit on the first try and filled the garage with a warm orange glow. I closed the app on the cell phone and slid it back into the pocket of the apron as I scoured the area in search of my treasure.

              The gray Rx chest lay in the back corner of the garage where I had left it and I covered the distance in less than a second. I leaped onto it like a lioness snagging a gazelle. My fingers trembled as I twisted the twin latches into the open position and slowly lifted the lid.

              The windfall was better than I could have hoped for. Inside this chest were rows upon rows of pill bottles, both prescription and over the counter. It had everything I needed and more— antibiotics, insulin with syringes, topical pain creams, antacid, antihistamines, and even sleeping pills. I shoveled through them, digging deeper into the chest. I nearly screamed with delight when I found an I.V. set up. Along with the tubes and needles, were five bags of saline. Nestled beneath the pouches, was shoe box-sized acrylic case of small glass vials.