2. i'm so screwed. . .
"Ow! Dammit!" I cursed as my wing hit another tree, sending starbursts of pain rocketing through my back.
Hey, it's me again. Only now I'm ten times as pissed off!
As you remember, I'm hurt and on the run (also, it was dark, and until about thirty seconds ago I'd been wearing sunglasses). Now, to add to my personal dilemma, I'm overtired, I've been stumbling through the dark forest in search of shelter for three hours now, and, uh, hm. . .oh, yeah: it's raining!
Not much water was getting through the branches, but if I walked under them and got too close, my flippin' wing hit something and I cursed. So I was forced to walk in full downpour. I was freezing, drained, and just plain mad at everything.
Frickity frick frick frick! I screamed in my head. (Only I wasn't sayin' frick.) I stopped wandering and spun a full circle, trying to decide on a new direction. My raptor vision picked out a multitude of areas--a cluster of trees a little to the south, a rock formation up west, a stream to the nor--
Light.
I turned back and faced west, which was where my destination was. I focused again on the rock formation situated a little more to the north and distinctly picked out a warm, flickering glow coming from somewhere near the bottom of it, from the mouth of a cave.
Which meant a few different things.
One: shelter was close. A mile, maybe. Not even. I could get out of the rain.
Two: if shelter was close, then people were fiery glow definitely gave off a human-presence vibe.
Three: if people were close, help was a possiblilty, and man did I need help.
Four: I'd been hooked since one.
I began to walk again, this time keeping my eyes focused on the little pocket of light. It took me about half an hour to get there, and when I did, I felt lost. I hesitated around the side of the mouth of the cave, leaning against the rock. I could hear, like, a million voices (as in about six, seven tops) but couldn't make out words over the sound of the rain.
What if they were campers, or hikers or something? What would I say? How would I explain myself? Oh, hello there! My name's Nicole Ackerly. I'm a fifteen-year-old mutant bird-kid with an injured wing. Could ya help me out? I'd appreciate it!
Yea-no.
And what if it was a trap? Like, what if those guys who'd attacked Dad and me had anticipated my escape to my Coloradan home and were waiting for me?
Sudden laughter interrupted my thoughts and I jumped so bad, jarring my wing and dropping my dad's jacket. It fell to the ground with a big noise: that of eleven bottles of Moltrin knocking together, the pills inside rattling way too loudly.
Even the rain seemed to fall silent as I froze, blood running under my fingers and heart pounding.
"Stay here," a girl's voice ordered quietly.
I closed my eyes and breathed. They were kids. Probably a bunch of friends on a camping trip.
Even so, I was utterly screwed. In fact, I was so far past screwed that if screwed were the sun, I was something beyond Pluto. I sucked at human contact.
Either way, I bent down and grabbed the knot at the top of the bundle, wincing at the obvious rattle of pills. I straightened up, took all the expression off my face, and, keeping pressure on my bleeding wing, walked purposefully towards the mouth of the cave.
And, like an idiot, ran smack into the kid rounding the corner.
"Ow! Frick!" I cursed as I reeled back, unbalanced. My half-cocked wing automatically stretched out for balance and I swallowed a cry of pain. I dropped my jacket again and had to lean against the side of the rock so I wouldn't pass out from the sudden stabbing of pain.
Dammit dammit dammit!
"Uh. . .are you okay?"
I glanced back up and saw two kids--a boy with black hair and dark clothes, and a girl with blond hair and lighter clothes, both around my age.
No, I'm perfectly fine, thanks. It's just a scratch. It's just a minor flesh wound!
Yeah, that's me. Sarcastic to the point of downright jerkiness. What're ya gonna do?
"N-no," I stuttered. My breath hissed as I stretched out my wing for them to see better. "I kinda need help."
The girl and boy exchanged questioning glances.
"Look, I can explain later," I said quickly. "But my stitches opened and I really need somebody to fix them 'cuz I already tried and I can't do it. Please?"
Still eyeing me warily, the girl said, "Yeah. . .come on."
I offered a weak half-smile and bent to pick up my meds. Then I followed the kids into the cave.
Inside, I didn't find what I'd expected.
My expectations? I dunno, maybe a couple other teenagers, a few parents, sleeping bags, maybe a tent. . .
What I found?
One other teenager, a twelve-year-old, an eight-year-old, a six-year-old, and a black Scotty with weird little growths on his back. I couldn't tell exactly what they were and frankly didn't want to find out. But other than that, nothing. Well, each kid had a little backpack near them, but there were no other signs that they were campers.
"Are you guys alone?" I asked, unconsciously slowing my steps.
"Yep," the blond girl said shortly. The boy in black went to sit in between the other teenager (a tall, pale boy with cloudy blue eyes (blind, maybe?)) and the twelve-year-old (a pretty black girl with supercurly hair). He leaned forward and began to talk quietly to the others--even the dog, in the youngest girl's lap, seemed to pay attention. Then the other girl caught my attention again.
"Let me see your wing," she said, beckoning for me to sit near her by the fire. Well, ordered, more like, but whatever. I went down on my knees and turned my back to show her.
"Um, I was jumped in an alley in Chicago," I explained, wondering how much I should say. "One of the guys got me with a knife."
"Why'd they attack you?" an unfamiliar voice asked. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the littlest boy, the eight-year-old, was the only one meeting my eyes. He had blond hair and the bluest eyes.
"I don't really know," I answered truthfully. "I was just. . .ow!" I broke off in a yelp as the girl touching my wing poked me a little too hard. "Frick!"
"How long ago did it happen?" the girl asked.
"I don't know. Few hours, maybe?" I reached down and untied my dad's balled-up jacket. I picked up a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some gauze, a roll of medical tape, and found the sewing kit. I reached over my wing to pass them to the girl. "Here. I've been flying for a while, then I was wandering around in the forest. Disinfect, stitch, tape on the gauze."
"I can't stitch!" she protested.
"You'll have to!" I snapped back. I took a breath and added, more calmly, "It's too deep to stay the way it is. Just try the best you can. And be careful--that's only six inches of cheap thread."
"So no pressure," the boy with light blue eyes said sarcastically. I felt my mouth twist in a wry smile.
"None at all. Ahh!" I gasped and flinched as I felt the sting of the disinfectant. "Friiii-iiiick! Ow!"
"Sorry," the girl mumbled.
"Why do you keep saying 'frick'?" the black girl asked suddenly. I didn't get a chance to answer before words started spewing out of her mouth faster than a sprinting cheetah. "Is it a swearword? Because it sorta sounds like the f-word, but different. What's your name? How old are you? I'm twelve, I think. I might be thirteen soon, or at least I thi--"
"Nudge," the girl tending to my wing said, interrupting the chatter. "I need to concentrate now."
"Aw, geez," I muttered. With an effort, I folded my wing fully in. Then I brought my arm up to my face and buried my mouth and nose into my sleeve to muffle my cries of pain.
If you ever need stitches, make sure a doctor does it at a good hospital with a real needle and a whole lotta anethesia. If you have none of these things, it sucks big time. You can feel it every time the needle pierces your skin and you can feel the thread sliding through the muscle, going in the other side and coming back out to pull the open ends together.
I momentarily freed my mouth and said, "Get the muscle or you won't do it right."
"I know," she said absently. I buried my face again and couldn't help but worry anyway.
"I'm Max, by the way."
"Oh," I said, the word muffled in my sleeve.
"I'm Angel," the youngest girl offered when I remained silent. I looked at her and saw the resemblance to the youngest boy immediately--they were obviously related, probably brother and sister.
"Hi."
Angel smiled at me. "That's my brother, the Gasman, and that's Nudge, and that's Fang, and that's Iggy," she said, pointing to the youngest boy, the black girl, the black-haired boy and the light-eyed boy in turn. "And this is Total," she added, holding up her small black dog.
They don't have real names, I thought. Which means they're screwing with me or they're orphans or something. . .guess I should make up a name too.
"I'm. . .Spark," I lied. "Call me Spark."
Why Spark? Well, first thing I thought of was 'Sparky,' but that didn't seem to fit me, so I shortened it, which was way cooler. Secondly, it kinda worked with my personality because I could control atom movement, which, in some cases, produced electrical discharge. So there!
"I don't like it," another voice said bluntly. I jumped and got a stab with the needle from Max--that voice was obviously an adult's voice, and there weren't any adults in the cave. Were there? "Can I call you Sparky instead?"
That time I saw the dog's mouth moving. I felt my eyes go wide. I mean, seriously! A talking dog?!? How weird could you get?!?
I blinked, realizing the dog--Total, Angel had called him?--was waiting for an answer. I tried a smile.
"Can I call you Totally?"
The younger kids laughed and I flinched again as Max poked the needle through my wing for the last time.
"Finished," she said, tying off the loose end of the thread.
"Clean it again," I said. "Just in case."
I felt the sting of rubbing alcohol as she obliged. Then, almost immediately, she taped a stretch of gauze over the stitches and handed off the extra medical tape to me.
"Thanks," I said, already feeling better knowing that I had properly tended to my knife-wound. Dad would be proud.
I felt my eyes sting and my throat tighten as I thought about Dad and the rest of the family. I hoped they were okay. Mom was probably terrified for me. I fumbled in my sweatshirt pocket and pulled out the open bottle of Moltrin. I downed three of them dry.
"So. . .Spark?" Max said. I looked at her, suddenly realizing she looked like my brother and sister. She had Jeremy's eyes, but more of Kendra's hair and facial structure. I blinked and the likenesses seemed to fade.
"Max?" I replied.
She hesitated, then said, "You should know something."
I tensed up instantly. "And what might that be?" I asked warily.
Max glanced at Fang, who nodded the tiniest bit. She looked back at me and took a deep breath. Then she took off her own sweatshirt and. . .
Max had wings.