Eyes Ever to the Sky (A Sci Fi Romance) (The Sky Trilogy) (10 page)

“
Hello?” he said, barely breathing. Nothing. He tried again. “Are you alright?”

Hugh walked over, his legs threatening to buckle. He put a trembling hand on the man's shoulder. Slowly, he turned the man around.

The clerk fell forward onto his arm. Hugh screamed and jumped back. The mangled body, slumped against the counter, was grotesque, awful. The clerk's throat was torn away, a wide red mess of sinew and bone above his blood-soaked shirt. His jaw hung askew. Wire-rimmed glasses were still perched over sightless, glassy eyes. His hand was still stretched toward the phone, now hanging from its cord and beeping. Hugh's eyes caught on a red glob resting on the man's collar. Moments ago this man had been breathing, working, maybe reading the paper that was now soaking in pool of blood. A buzzing began in Hugh's ears. The world narrowed to a pinhole. He was going to pass out.

He put his hands to his knees, vaguely aware of smearing the clerk's blood from his hand onto his clothes. He sucked in ragged breaths. The smell was everywhere, a liquid seeping into his pores, assaulting him. With trembling fingers he drew his shirt over his nose. His vision cleared. He stood up.

Get food and get out.
He took a few fumbling steps toward the nearest shelf, keeping his eyes off the clerk. A fly buzzed in the corner and in his mind’s eye he saw it land on the man’s flayed throat. He shuddered and grabbed a few bags of chips, beef jerky and a box of donuts. He found a cloth bag on a rack and stuffed it full. Then he opened the fridge and snagged four waters.

Chiming sounded at the door behind him. Hugh swiveled. A cop pushed in, whistling through his teeth. The tune stopped as the cop locked eyes with Hugh. “What the...?” The cop's eyes traveled past Hugh to the dead clerk. Hugh watched as the cop's face registered shock, then fury. 

No,
Hugh thought.
He’ll think I—

“
Hands up!” the cop said, clawing for the pistol at this belt. His hands shook as he pulled the gun out, but the cop locked his elbows and brought the barrel up to Hugh’s chest.

Hugh shook his head, lifting both hands. “I…I didn’t kill him.”

“Jesus,” the cop said, his face draining of color. “Jesus Christ.” His eyes flicked to the body. “Joe has eight grandkids.” The hitch in the cop's voice was unmistakable. The clerk and the cop had been friends. And Hugh looked very much like Joe's killer. 

Hugh couldn’t help but follow the cop's eyes to the clerk. Was that spine glistening through the sheen of blood? Sweat sprang up on Hugh’s forehead. He lifted a hand to wipe it out of his eyes.

“Don’t move!” The cop's arms trembled, his shaggy, gray eyebrows arching high. He thumbed off the safety.

“
I didn’t kill him.” Hugh's voice was high-pitched, strained. He'd be arrested and locked up. He never should've come in here.

The cop licked at the sweat dotting his mustache. “Oh God... Joe.” His eyes tracked back to the dead clerk, then he shuddered and looked away.

Hugh looked toward the backdoor. He could make it in four steps. The cop bristled and tightened his face. “I said don’t move, asshole!”

Hugh blinked once, calculating. Then he turned and bolted toward the back door.

The gunshot cracked the air like a bomb. Something punched into Hugh’s side. Then another shot. The glass case behind Hugh exploded. Glass shards pelted his legs and back. A can of pop sprayed a hiss of foam into the air. 

He fell, the tile rising up to meet his face. He hit the ground, brain jarring, vision dimming. Then he was lying on the floor, the coolness of the tile a relief on his flushed cheek. His eyes focused on a bag of Doritos. The pain in his side burned as if a hot poker was boring deep into this stomach. It was hard to draw breath.

Behind him he heard a voice muttering. The cop? Through a haze, Hugh heard him say, “How'm I gonna tell Nancy? God, Joe. Who's gonna tell your wife?”

Then the world became a throbbing pulse somewhere far.

It dimmed, blackened. Gone.

***

He came to with a start.

Hugh sat up, instantly regretting it. A piercing pain lanced his abdomen. His brain pounded like a kettledrum. His mind was sluggish. Why was he on the floor?

He looked around. The gas station. The cop. Where was the man that shot him? From his vantage point on the tile, the cop was no where to be seen. His eyes trailed past the shattered glass that littered the floor. An exploded pop can lay on its side, its contents a messy red puddle on the floor. Then he saw the pool of blood beside it. Hugh reached a hand down to his side.

His hand came away red. Blood. His blood. Hugh's vision smeared. He shook his head. He had to focus. He pressed his hand to the wound and looked for the back door.

Scooting to the edge of the shelf, he peered around the bags of Doritos to the door. The cop sat in his black cruiser, a CB to his mouth, the red and blue flashers throwing crazy splotches on the walls. His complexion was as green as the tall grass that swayed in the distance.

He thinks I’m dead,
Hugh thought. He had minutes, maybe seconds before the cop learned that wasn't true.

Crouching, Hugh ran to the back door. His bloody hands had trouble with the knob, but he managed after a few tries. He slid out onto a small concrete parking lot, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. A beat-up truck sat on a giant oil stain. The dumpster reeked of rotten meat and old beer, but anything was better than what he'd been inhaling inside.
                           

He ran, hunched over, past the truck, the little air pump and the gravel that marked the edge of the lot. He fled into the woods without looking back.

Shivering, he pushed himself deep, deep into the forest. When the tree cover was so dense he could barely make his way through, he stopped. A cold sweat covered his body. His legs shook and his stomach churned. He leaned his back against a tree and swallowed. He'd have to look at his wound eventually, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Whatever awaited him would be bad. Real bad. And now he couldn't ask for help, no matter how close to death he came. He couldn't look. He couldn't—

Man up!
he told himself. He took a couple deep breaths and looked down.

The white t-shirt was red except for a few spots on the collar and arms. Just below his rib cage, the bullet had ripped a jagged hole through the fabric. He bit his lip and peeled the t-shirt up. So much blood. The world narrowed and he fought for consciousness. He wiped away the blood,  revealing the skin of his stomach. Hugh blinked and probed it with his fingers.

There was no wound.

“
What?” He poked at his skin. It felt tender, liked he’d taken a proper punch, but not at all like a gunshot wound. It was like...like he had healed.

Hugh fell back against the rough tree bark and tried to keep breathing. He pressed his palms to his knees. The shovel was one thing, but a gunshot? How?

“Just keep calm,” he said out loud, suddenly afraid of the thoughts banging around his head. He ran his hands over his stomach, his back, his arms. Nothing. He wiggled a finger through the bullet hole in his shirt. Then he slid down the tree and put his head in his hands.

Good God, what was he?

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN — NOMAD

Wednesday 2:12 p.m.

Nomad punched his fist through the glass window at the back of the shop. Shards fell to the ground with a deafening smash. He winced and waited, listening for an alarm or a barking dog (Gods, he hated dogs). Glancing over his shoulder, he eyed the tall, green line of pines and maples running as far as the eye could see. He could be in thick tree cover in seconds if it came to it.

Silence followed: no alarm, no elderly cry of, “Who's there?” or a yapping “guard” poodle. He had picked this little mom and pop resale store for a reason. It was the most isolated shop in town, four miles out, nestled in a residential area with the closest neighbor a quarter mile away. The two lane gravel road saw almost no traffic. Despite the faded sticker on the window that read “Warning: Alarm System Connected to Rapid Response Central Monitoring,” Nomad guessed the total inventory inside (used clothes and sporting goods) added up to maybe a couple thousand dollars. Not even the cash flow to warrant being open during the middle of day on a Wednesday.

Reaching carefully through the broken shards, he found the doorknob on the other side, fiddled with the lock and felt it click open. He smiled. What was that saying? Like taking candy from a baby.
Mmm, candy
. He hoped there was some inside.

A breezed stirred, making his naked flesh tingle. He didn't mind being naked, but the locals found it disconcerting to see a grown man strolling around nude and one of his main directives was to blend in. So, clothing—that's why he was breaking into this mothball-smelling, cobweb-infested store in broad daylight. That and food. His stomach felt like it was eating itself.

He slipped through the backdoor and shut it behind him with a quiet click. Stepping over the broken glass, he eyed the wares. To the right, several racks held used women's apparel. Nomad pulled out a large sundress roughly the size of a child's tent and laughed. Gods, people were so crazy. He grabbed a camouflage hunter's cap with floppy ear flaps and tried it on, wrangling it over his wild black hair. The next rack down was men's apparel. Faded denim, pleated khakis and baggy carpenter pants hung on metal hangers, arranged by size. He flipped through the hangers, turning his nose up at each item. Beggars couldn't be choosers, but even around here, he had a certain style to uphold. On a metal shelf beside the rack, he found what he was looking for: a Hanes white v-neck t-shirt, size large. He split the plastic covering and slipped the cotton over his skin, a thrill of pleasure running down his arms. Another row down scored him a pair of men's board shorts with muted blue tropical flowers, a white draw-string tie and roomy pockets. He pulled them on, hoping that the previous owner had washed it before donating. Crabs climbing around the family jewels could really hamper his mission.

Once clothed, his stomach took the reins. He strolled through the used roller skates and Schwinn bicycles, the dented tennis rackets. Then his eyes found the candy display at the front.

Jogging to the counter, he skidded to a stop in front of the racks of sugar-filled snacks. His stomach rumbled as he pocketed Take 5s, Baby Ruths, Twizzlers. Deciding his pockets weren't big enough, he found an old army-issue backpack and began stuffing it, too. He lifted a Snickers to his nose and inhaled, the sweet smell of chocolate and peanuts making his mouth water.

A car drove up outside and Nomad straightened, his senses suddenly alert. Through the dusty front windows he saw a cop car, flashers on, parked in the gravel lot.

Damn,
he thought.
There was an alarm after all.

As the cop hefted himself out of the cruiser, Nomad grabbed his backpack and sprinted through the back door. Outside, the dry weeds were tough on his bare feet, but Nomad was smiling. The backpack was full and he was clothed. Now, all he had to do was find the rendezvous point and wait for Jopari to show. Then the real work began.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN — CECE

Wednesday 3:43 p.m.

Travis leaned on his elbows and waggled his eyebrows up and down at Cece. “Season three of
X-Files
is by far the best. Mulder really hits his stride, man. And Scully’s bangs quit being so,” he tugged at his hair, “poufy.”

Cece giggled. “Definitely less pouf, but season four has that awesome episode with the genetic inbred farm mutants.” Oh God, did she hear herself? Back in school this conversation would’ve been social suicide.

“True, true,” Travis said, shaking out a handful of chocolate chips from the container and tossing them into his mouth. “That was a dope episode.”

From the corner she could feel Michelle’s eyes pressing on them. Michelle hadn't turned a page in her
US Weekly
in a half an hour. Why was Michelle interested in their conversation? To torture her later? She had enough to worry about with Mama wandering the streets in a manic frenzy. She pulled out her cracked cellphone and stared at the screen. No calls. Mama had been missing for over five hours. She should leave work and look, but then she'd lose their only income. Besides, Mama had taken off tons of times and always returned home. But what if she was out shopping? Maybe she should call Ms. K again to see— 

“
Customer!” Michelle yelled, hopping off her stool. She shoved between Travis and Cece to the order window.

“
What d'you want?” she asked the pre-teen girl eying the menu.

“
A slushy,” the girl lisped, tapping a finger to her braces in thought. “Blue Raspberry.”

Cece reached for a Styrofoam cup. “I’ll get it.”

Michelle shoved past her. “I’ll get it, butterfingers.” Michelle flicked a look over her shoulder, narrowing her heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “You can take out the trash.” She lowered her voice. “You’ll feel right at home.”