Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

Originally, Trevor anticipated problems with Jon, and sought to earn that man’s respect. Now Trevor wondered, perhaps it might be Jon seeking respect. Or something else.

Lori Brewer came along carrying a first aid kit and added her voice to the discussion.

"There’s some dried blood on her noggin’, a few cuts and scrapes, but from what I can tell she’s in good shape."

"But unconscious?"

"That’s how we found her," Jon said. "She was under a collapsed roof at the scrap metal yard a quarter mile from the crash."

"A quarter mile? And it took this long to find her?"

Jon's beaming faded as Trevor's words inflicted a wound.

Stone immediately mitigated, "Still, good job and all. I can’t believe you found her."

Captain Jerry Shepherd and Sal Corso emerged from the first-floor guestroom and the five people shuffled into the living room. A chill seeped in from the early-Autumn evening. Jon piled kindling in the large fireplace and Trevor pulled the tall red drapes closed to keep light from escaping.

Shepherd sat in a tobacco-colored wing chair and said, "I told you she’d make it."

"But she’s unconscious, right?" Trevor spoke as if the woman’s unconscious state made her survival less remarkable.

Lori, noticing the tone in his voice, countered, "Other than that, she’s fine."

"One tough chick," Sal used the word chick with lots of respect.

"I see," Trevor absently inspected a collection of porcelain carousel horses displayed in a corner curio cabinet. "Let’s hope she wakes up soon. Anyway, I’m not sending any more people in town for now."

A glare from Shepherd reminded Trevor that the police officers had not yet conceded to take orders from him.

"When Nina wakes up she’ll tell us what happened to Scott. Seems to me we’ll just have to go from there."

The kindling crackled as the fire started. Jon stoked the blaze with more logs. Heat billowed across the living room as the flames grew.

"I suppose so," Trevor acquiesced.

He did not need to extend an invitation again. He did not need to remind Shepherd that the invitation came with conditions. He had done so a dozen times already. Each time Shepherd told him they would wait and see.

Trevor left the living room with the intention of going upstairs to change clothes. He stopped and gazed toward the first floor guestroom. Curiosity got the better of him.

She looked nothing like he expected. In fact, he almost laughed.

Nina Forest lay in bed on top of a checkered comforter. An oil lamp cast the unconscious woman in a soft glow and filled the room with a subdued smell of kerosene. She wore black BDU pants and a white top. A series of small cuts and bruises decorated her arms, the only trophies she displayed from nearly three days in Hell.

The petite, early 20s girl sleeping silently on the bed contrasted sharply with his expectations of an Amazon warrior. She had medium length blond hair with naturally curly waves yet pulled it into a tight, short ponytail clearly designed for function, not style.

She did not resemble a warrior.

More like a cheerleader, he thought.

Except not a cheerleader as Sheila had been. More like the strong and agile cheerleader charged with performing the gymnastic stuff.

His eyes drifted across her shoulders and arms, all sculptured by a kind artist’s eye: no bulging muscles, but chiseled tone with nary a hint of body fat. She matched the stereotype of the all-American girl: attractive and physically fit with small but well-proportioned breasts.

But a warrior?

Trevor chuckled quietly at the difference between expectation and reality. Having debunked the legend, he turned to leave.

The arm seized his neck. How did she move so fast?

The cheerleader held him in a headlock and it felt as if she might crush his larynx. He grabbed at her arm futilely. The wind to his lungs clamped off.

The All-American girl spoke evenly but forcefully, "Where am I? Who are you?"

Her vice grip allowed only a grunt.

He felt lightheaded. The walls spun. Blurry figures entered the room.

"Nina! Nina let him go, it’s okay!"

The grip released. He collapsed to the floor on his back gulping air. Sal Corso bent over and looked down at him.

"You okay, Chief?"

– The fire waned. Jon Brewer placed his bottle on the mahogany coffee table and stacked more logs in the flames. Lori Brewer curled on the couch while Trevor sat in a walnut-framed easy chair massaging his bruised throat and dealing with a burgeoning headache.

Sheila Evans long ago retreated to her room while the guests from Philadelphia accepted temporary shelter in apartments above the garage. Shepherd promised a decision by morning.

Lori teased for the third time, "You got beat up by a girl."

Trevor pinched his nose. He could not decide if credit for the headache lay with the trauma dealt to his throat or Lori’s ribbing.

Outside, the wind whistled, rattling the windows. The people inside felt secure knowing K9s watched the grounds beyond those rattling windows.

Jon drank from his beer and asked, "What’s the story with Sheila? You two goin’ rabbit?"

Lori slapped her husband on the knee.

"No," Trevor answered.

"Where did you find her?" Lori asked.

"She was being chased by Mutants. I helped her out."

Jon mocked, "Trevor Stone to the rescue."

"Something like that, I guess. But…well I don’t know."

Lori pushed, "What? What is it?"

"It’s just…I was hoping she’d have it together more. All she does is sit in her room. She’s afraid to do anything, to go anywhere."

Lori shrugged, "I think we all are."

"No, not like this. If she had her way we’d just sit here behind these walls and hope to God nothing ever finds us."

Lori pushed again, "Sounds like a plan to me."

Trevor had enough pushing.

"You don’t really mean that. Don’t play games. I’m serious. She’s useless."

"Useless? Do you hear yourself?"

"Lori, you know what I mean."

Jon broke in, "That’s right. People have to carry their weight. No room for lazy bones."

She asked, "Are you sorry you saved her? Like it’d be better if she died?"

Trevor pinched his nose again.

"Forget it."

Lori took a long drink and then set aside her beer. She leaned forward and crossed her arms on her knees. Her eyes drooped a little, then narrowed, and her head tilted in the slightest. Trevor recognized her counselor’s face.

"What happened to Ashley?"

Trevor ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

"She disappeared into thin air. Her whole neighborhood I think. Just like Wrigley Field. Just like West Point. Nothing but clothes left." Trevor asked Jon, "Did you ever hear any more about what they thought caused that? Still just vaporized?"

Jon’s posture on the couch stiffened and his eyes darted fast for the floor. He occupied his hands and mouth with the beer bottle.

"Go ahead, tell me. Did your cousin hear something more?"

Jon sighed and said, "Last I heard the only new info was that there was some sort of strange radiation left behind."

"And?"

"So…so they figured it was like a neutron bomb."

Lori did not understand. "A neutron bomb?"

Trevor said, "Designed to kill only people. A massive burst of radiation that would leave buildings and stuff in place."

Jon figured, "Makes sense. If someone wanted this planet and just wanted us out of the way, then that’s the perfect weapon. No structural damage. Just the people…gone."

The fire crackled and popped loudly as the flames devoured the fresh logs.

Lori consoled, "I’m sorry."

Trevor said bluntly, "You never liked her."

Her head cocked and she blinked. Her voice wavered with defensiveness, but she did not take well to playing defense.