Erica Hayes - Scorched

My sweaty fingers slip as I clutch the glass. The stairway's cut off, enemies everywhere. I have to climb. Fifty stories below, the ground looms. Swirling wind threatens to sweep me away. My stomach plummets, but I scrabble and drag myself skyward…

I swallowed, dry. The numbness in my shoulder was spreading. I had nowhere else to run. Surely, they had to see me.

But the goons didn't look up. They just kept running.

I let out my breath in a rush, and gulped for air. They weren't dumb. I didn't have much time before they realized their mistake and came back. Gotta get out of here.

I stood, and dizziness rinsed my balance thin. I staggered, clutching the chimney. Jesus. My fingers were numb. I couldn't stand straight. Fighting creeping nausea, I crawled to the rear of the building and peered over the edge.

The ground telescoped, shimmering. I closed my eyes, lowered myself over the gutter. Dropped to the ground, cushioning my landing with a clumsy flex of power.

The narrow alley was shadowed and caked with grime. A few plump black trash bags heaped next to a dumpster. I leaned against the wall for a second or two, sweating, struggling to straighten my thoughts.

I had no other clothes. Couldn't disguise myself. And I had nowhere to run to. I couldn't go back to Adonis's place. Someone in my own family had betrayed me, and they'd know where to look. I was on my own…

Someone shoved me, and I bounced off the brick wall and fell.

Terror squeezed my guts. I scrabbled to get up, run. But a boot slammed my shoulder, pinning me down. A smoke-roughened voice taunted me. "What have we here, lads? An uppity little augmented bitch, that's what."

Huh? I fought to clear my vision. Big blond kid, sleeveless black hoodie, steel hoop earrings. Not a Mengele goon. Three of his friends slouched behind him. A skinhead one spat nonchalantly on the sidewalk, the chains on his jeans clanking. A dreadlocked girl popped pink bubblegum, stretching it around one tattooed finger. Another fat one sweated, his pasty skin gleaming, and clutched something shiny and round in his fist.

Haters. Great.

I struggled to rise, but my thigh muscles softened like pudding, and the ground kept sliding out from under me. Frustration jabbed me sharp in the belly. I didn't have time for this. "Look, just lemme 'lone, 'kay."

"I seen you jump onto that roof, bitch." The leader prodded my collarbone with his boot, cracking my head back into the bricks. "Who the fuck you think you are, Supergirl? You're not welcome here. Geddit?"

"Uh-huh. Whadebba … " My mouth was stuffed with sticky string. Goddamn it. I tried to focus, to stretch the air like elastic and fling these assholes away from me, but I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't flex. I was just plain Verity, and I couldn't get away.

Shit.

He kicked me. I barely felt the pain, just my ribs bending under the force, my skin swelling. Again, more, all four of them getting into the act.

Hysterically, I laughed. These morons would kick me to death before Mengele's goons could get to me. And thanks to the drug, I couldn't even feel it. That was some funny shit.

I tried to crawl away, to cradle my head in my arms. The sidewalk scraped my elbows raw. Crimson splotched from my nose. A punch slammed me into the wall, dizzy. I spat red, and crawled some more. What else could I do?

The leader loomed over me, his spiked blond hair dripping with sweat, and dragged my chin up with a fist in my hair. "Like that, bitch? Where's your power now?"

Dimly, I fumbled for my list of oh-so-witty replies. Up your butt, you stinky hater. Your momma wears jackboots. Or just plain screw you . That's always a good one.

The fat one gave a slobbery grin. "You ever make an augmented bitch squeal, Bro?"

"I don't believe so, Slugger." Bro's smile split wider. "I'm thinking we should see to that."

"I'm thinkin' you're right."

The girl popped her bubble gum, shuffling. "Jesus Christ. You can't do that."

"Shut up, Cookie." Bro dragged my head back harder, and reached for his belt buckle.

I coughed out a bloody mouthful. Take that out and I'll bite it off, you whiskey tango son of a bitch, I tried to say. "Urrphh…"

He screamed, and clawed at his own face.

I scrambled back, bewildered.

He kept screaming. Kept digging his fingers deeper into his own eyes. The others did the same, howling and flailing about in unseen agony, and finally they hurled curses and staggered off.

Huh? I hadn't done that. I couldn't do that. What the hell just happened…?

The air shimmered like heat haze, and a shadow coalesced on the bloodstained concrete.

A tall, broad shadow, in the shape of a man.

I scuttled away like a dizzy crab, fumbling on the rough sidewalk. Who the hell was that?

But my eyelids drooped. My numb lips drooled. I dragged my swimming head up, forcing my blurry eyes to focus. There he was, leaning against the dumpster. Long legs in jeans and boots, a scuffed leather coat. A glimpse of tousled black hair and white teeth, mingled with shimmering shadows. I couldn't see his face. Need to see…

I fought my clogged tongue, my sinking wits. Who are you? I wanted to say, but the drug overcame me. I caught the warm scent of vanilla as the stranger lifted my limp body in his arms, and the world dissolved into murky nothing.

I awoke sluggishly, in dim electric light that hurt my eyes. Soft cushions squished beneath me, a whiff of dark vanilla. An ancient incandescent bulb swung above on its cord, an inch one way, an inch the other. The tiny breeze stirred my hair. The air smelled crisp, recycled. Overhead, I heard rushing water, and something large and mechanical rumbled distantly.

The subway, I registered dimly. I was underground. But where? And how?

I sat up on the bed, wincing. Thirst tore my throat, and my body ached like poison. I stretched, popping my vertebrae one by one. Bruises everywhere, purple and yellow. Those assholes had really kicked the shit out of me. And… uh.

I wore a man's white shirt. Soft and clean, buttoned over my chest. Underneath, I was naked.

My ribs itched, and when I scratched them I found gauze and white paper tape. Someone had washed me, tended my bruises. I touched my face gingerly, and my fingers came away clean and smelling of antiseptic ointment.

Whoever had tended me, they didn't necessarily mean well.

But hey, at least I wasn't wearing hospital scrubs and an augmentium helmet. That had to be an improvement. Right?

I swung my legs over the bed's edge and tried to stand. Instead, I fell, a six-foot drop. I landed, shaken, on a cool concrete floor. Roughly, I tugged the shirt down over my butt. Very funny.

The bunk bed was jammed into an alcove behind me. I squinted into the gloom. Large square room, low ceiling, walls fading into darkness. Next to the bed, in another alcove, sat a claw-foot bathtub with a rusted shower. Somewhere, a generator hummed, and a keyboard clattered as someone typed.

I swallowed, my throat crispy. Would I discover my shadowy rescuer's identity at last? I might not like what I found. Sapphire City vomited up new villains as fast as we could wash the old ones down the drain.

But I had to know. Mr. Mysterious had probably saved my life—not to mention my dignity—from the haters at least, and probably from Mengele's goons too. Presuming it wasn't all a trap, of course. If we didn't get along, I'd just flip him a quick thanks for nothing and run again. I was getting good at running.

I followed the clickety-clack of keys, tiptoeing past gray metal shelves loaded with books, files, boxes of photographs, newspapers, cables and electrical components I didn't recognize. Light flickered between the shelves. I clenched my fist, readying my power for a swift onslaught, and crept out.