Kelly Meding - Chimera

I moved like this, a monkey swinging through the jungle, until I got back to the front of the warehouse, nearer to the trailer. Jack and Jill were running together toward an exit door. I jumped down from the shaking pallets, amazed he could keep that up while running like a coward, then aimed my gun again.

“Stop!” My voice bounced through the warehouse. “I will shoot you!”

They both skidded to a halt with five feet between them and the door. They turned slowly, in opposite directions. I had no cover, nowhere to hide if they struck. Jill seemed to be the most dangerous, so I aimed at the center of her chest and squeezed the trigger. Something solid slammed into my back, and I pitched forward just as the gun went off. The red tip of the dart struck Jill’s arm—the only thing I saw before I hit the ground face-first.

The world spun sharply. Breathing was difficult, because whatever hit me was still holding me down like a sack of sand between my shoulder blades.

Metal squealed. An engine rumbled to life.

They’re getting away.

I couldn’t get the weight off. Outside, the more horrific screeching noise was followed by a loud, metallic bang. I got my hands beneath me and gave a hard shove that finally dislodged the thing holding me down—three commercial sacks of flour. One split open and spat white powder into the air. I rolled onto my knees.

The trailer hadn’t moved more than a few inches from the dock. The rumble of the truck’s engine was moving away. I stared, confused by how that was possible. The exit door next to the truck swung open and Alexia limped inside. Her bottom lip was split and oozing blood, but she seemed . . . pleased.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Think so.” My back was sore and my head hurt, but nothing was broken or permanently maimed. “What happened?”

“I broke the mechanisms attaching the trailer to the truck, and I managed to tear a hole in the gas tank before they clocked me. I anticipated both stopping them, but the telekinetic simply moved the entire truck with his power.”

“Damn.”

“Can we follow them?” Ethan asked from somewhere to our left. He came around the corner of a pallet, cradling his left hand to his chest. He looked paler than usual—which was saying something, because he’s half Irish and doesn’t tan—and was leaning against the pallet for support.

“It’s doubtful,” Alexia said. “The boy is powerful.”

“I shot one of them,” I said. I wished I’d been able to shoot both of them. I struggled to my feet, my sore back protesting every shift of muscle, then stumbled over to Ethan. “You okay, pal?”

“Think so,” he said. “Fortunately, I hit the wall wrist-first, instead of headfirst.”

I looked at the wrist he was cradling. His fingers were already swollen, the skin red and tight. “Shit.”

“It’s fine.” The pain bracketing his eyes told a different story. “Let’s call this in so we can get out of here.”

“I’ll do it,” Alexia said.

I surveyed the damage done to the warehouse—broken doors, broken trailer, broken boxes of food. “The cops are going to have a fit.”

“Well, look on the bright side, Stretch,” Ethan said.

“What’s that?”

“They didn’t steal the food. And we all got good looks at their faces. They won’t stay anonymous for long.”

Small comfort, but at this point, I’d take it.

We didn’t make it back to our new HQ until close to five-thirty a.m., and all three of us were having trouble staying awake during the puddle-jump over to the island.

Yes, the island.

After Los Angeles was declared an uninhabitable disaster zone, we had to evacuate. Since we’d just sunk a huge amount of money into buying and renovating a Beverly Hills mansion into our new headquarters, we were at a bit of a loss as to where to go. Los Angeles had been the home of the Ranger Corps for over a hundred years, and now that the Rangers were officially disbanded, we needed a fresh start. A few days of discussion (and arguing) led to an un-unanimous decision to move our operations to the East Coast—not only for that fresh start we needed, but also to show solidarity with the Metas still imprisoned on Manhattan.

You can guess how I felt about that solidarity thing.

I don’t know who pulled strings or cashed in favors, but as a way of saying thank you for our help in the Quake Relief effort (and possibly as a way to gain our support in the upcoming election) the president gave us Governors Island.

Yep, that’s right.

Half the island was burned to the ground during the War, and the other half had sat abandoned ever since. The intact buildings had more than enough space for the original five ex-Rangers (including me) and any other Metas who’d joined us. Currently, thirty-six people lived there. We had two puddle-jumpers (think small four-person helicopters that could go short distances fast and were easy enough for most of us to fly) to get us from the island to a private parking lot near the Ellis Island observation tower lot, where we keep our Sports and work vans.

I didn’t like living so close to either the imprisoned Banes or the federal agents who lorded over them, but as usual I bowed to the majority. Without my friends, I had nothing. No matter how much I disagreed, I wouldn’t do anything to lose the only family that had ever mattered. So we packed up everything and everyone and moved into what was once a military barracks called Liggett Hall. And as usual, we had a crap-ton of work to do cleaning and rebuilding what time and battle had torn down.

The puddle-jumpers were easy to fly and most of us had lessons within a week. I landed the puddle-jumper in a square of grass right in front of HQ’s main entrance. Something about this building made me think of a college campus—the brickwork, the arches, maybe its length and sense of quiet, nestled here among trees just starting to lose their summer green. It was still predawn dark, but exterior floodlights had come on to welcome us home.

Two figures waited on the archway steps while I locked the puddle-jumper down. Once the blades stopped moving and we began climbing out the doorless sides, they came toward us.

Teresa “Trance” West strode across the lawn, her purple-streaked hair flying around her lavender face in that mad, furious way it did when her hair went in and out of a bun several times in one day. It hinted at her stress level and the fact that she hadn’t slept in a while, which was becoming a worse and worse habit for our leader. Her face betrayed exhaustion and concern, and I hated that tonight’s little escapade had put those things there.

She was shadowed by Aaron Scott, a hybrid-Changeling who could mimic the exact shapes and faces of other people, as well as crash through walls if he got a good enough running start. He ignored the rest of us and went straight for Ethan. The pair hugged, and despite what had to be excruciating pain in his very swollen left hand, Ethan seemed to relax a bit in his boyfriend’s arms.

I envied him the comfort that a single touch could offer.

We’d given Teresa a report on the way home from Pennsylvania, so our scattered injuries weren’t a surprise. She still gave each of us a critical look before saying, “You’re all expected to report to the infirmary before you get some rest.”

“No argument from me,” Ethan said. His head rested on Aaron’s shoulder, while Aaron held him up with an arm around his waist. The pair had become more comfortable with PDA around their close friends, but they still avoided it in public. Or rather, Ethan seemed to—old habits and fears died hard.

I just shrugged. Dr. Kinsey couldn’t do anything except give me an aspirin and tell me to relax, and I wasn’t really hurt anyway. Just a little bruised. I’d go, though, because Teresa was wearing her argue-at-your-own-peril face. It was a scary face.