Eyes Ever to the Sky (A Sci Fi Romance) (The Sky Trilogy) (11 page)

Cece glared at Michelle. She’d taken taunts like this her whole life: about her Salvation Army clothes and the free lunch she got at school every day. Mama always told her she was better than to sink to their level.
Stick and stone, mi amor,
she’d say.
Sticks and stones.
It was Fer who fought back and it was Fer’s day off.

Cece plastered a smile on her face and went out to collect the overflowing trash bags.

The sun baked her hair as she strode out onto the blacktop out front. The trash barrel smelled like a dead animal in the hot sun. Cece breathed through her mouth as she pulled off the dome lid. Five goopy bowls spilled out onto the pavement. A splash of something red splattered her shoe. Two teenage skater boys, sitting on the picnic table with boards in their laps, snickered at her misfortune. She shot them a dirty look, picked up the bowls and shoved them into the black bag. Then she hoisted the trash over her shoulder and shuffled to the back.

Like a trash Santa,
she thought, smirking.
Except my reindeer would be giant flying rats. I’d dole out soupy ice cream to all the good little boys and girls.
As she turned the corner to the back alley, she was still picturing a garbage sleigh.
The good kids would get the leftover sprinkles. The bad ones would get whatever dead animal is stinking up this bag.
She smiled naughtily and turned the corner to the alley.

A man stepped out of the shadow. Cece jumped back.

The boy from the dumpster. His arms and legs were a mess of dirt and scratches. His white shirt sported a huge rust-colored stain. And his expression? Terrified.

“
Oh my God, what happened?” she asked, dropping her trash bag. His jaw was tight, his eyes hollow. There was another smear of whatever was on his shirt on his cheek. Now she recognized it. Blood. He was covered in blood.

She stepped back, her hands starting to tremble. “Are you hurt? Did something happen?” Her eyes flicked to the back door. Should she run? His face was so full of fear. He couldn't be here to hurt her. Could he?

Finally his voice broke from his throat, a cracked whisper. “I didn’t know where else to go. I…” He looked down at his trembling hands. He clenched them and plugged them to his sides. “Something happened and I can’t trust anyone else.” His head shifted slowly back and forth. When he spoke next she could barely hear him. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.” He swiveled to go.

“
Wait!” She held her hands out as if that could stop him. What was she doing? She should be running, calling the police. But, he looked absolutely terrified. How many times had she wished someone would step in to help her? How many times had she faced her terrors alone?

She had to think quick or he'd bolt again. She slipped both hands around her body and lifted the baggy work
shirt off her head. Before the pink fabric covered her eyes, she saw his mouth drop into an O. Clad in only a thin white tank top, she held her t-shirt out to him.

“
Here,” she said, locking eyes with him. His were so deep, so brown, she could fall into them. “Take it.”

He took a step toward her. The light hit the top of his head, highlights of copper running through his brown hair. She looked into his face, the strong chin decorated with a few days worth of stubble, the dark smear of blood on his cheek, the way his sorrowful eyes watched her like she was a falling star and he was making a wish. She could smell his earthen scent beneath the blood and dirt. Heat ran up her arm as his hand closed around the t-shirt.

He stepped back and looked at the ball of pink fabric in his hand. Then he lifted his eyes to hers, a question forming on his face.

“
You can’t walk around covered in blood,” she said. “Do you need medical attention? Should I call the ambulance?”

He shook his head vigorously. “Don’t call the ambulance.” Fear flooded back into his eyes. What had he been through? Had he…

“Then,” she asked, taking a step back, “did you… Is someone else hurt?”

He stripped off the stiff t-shirt. The flex of his chest drew her eyes, his washboard abs, the ripple in his thick arms as he pulled the pink shirt on, tugged it over all that muscle. She hoped to God he had a good explanation.

“I didn’t do it.”

“
Oh… Okay.” She accepted it so readily it scared her. She had no reason to trust him and yet, she did. It was stupid and naïve, but something inside told her he was telling the truth.

He threw the blood-stained shirt in the dumpster. “What’s your name?”

She dropped her eyes and smiled. “Cecelia. Cece.”

“
Thank you, Cece.”

“
I don't know your name.”

He looked up at her. “It's…Hugh.”

Voices from inside. Cece stiffened. “They’re coming.” She turned around, then spun back to Hugh. “Where are you sleeping tonight?” She shook her head. “Never mind, just meet me back here at nine. Okay?”

The nod of agreement came immediately, relief flooding his eyes. Seeing the fear leave his face sent warm tingles across her chest.

She smiled, lifted her hand in parting and then turned and walked back into the shop.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN — HUGH

Wednesday 4:17 p.m.

Hugh watched Cece walk back into the ice cream shop. Then he stared at the doorway for ten minutes hoping she’d reappear. A police siren down the street shook him out of his daze. He had to hide out until after sundown. Then he’d see her again. And food, hopefully. God, he was starving. He pushed the hunger aside (as much as he could) and slipped back down the alley and out of town.

Going to her was the right thing to do. He’d felt torn up, shaken to the core. The dead man's face, frozen in terror, floated after him wherever he went. Every so often his fingers would stray down to his stomach and probe the wound, or lack thereof. His world had flipped upside-down and there was no one to turn to. No one but the girl at the ice cream shop. Cece. Her name was Cece. As he tore through the brush, he pictured her again: her petite frame, the way the white tank top had contrasted so nicely with her brown skin, the way it clung to her curves.

What if she turns you in?
He silenced that nagging voice as he thought of her face. He was going out of his mind and if he didn't talk to someone soon, he didn't care what happened to him next. He needed to trust someone, no matter how terrifying the concept.

Hugh found himself at the edge of the trees where a train track cut through. In the distance he could see the abandoned train cars. Rusty browns, maroons, navy blues, with the spray-painted tag marks running along the sides. He’d gotten here so quickly. It wasn’t … normal.

“
I’m
not normal,” he muttered to himself. He rubbed a hand over his abdomen again, feeling the smooth pink skin under the t-shirt Cece had given him. Hugh looked around the train yard and felt goose bumps race up his arms. He had powers. There was no denying it any longer. It was about time he tested them out. He might need them to survive.

So he was fast, huh? How fast?

He stepped over to the track and eyed the stretch of railroad ties. Hugh placed his feet on a wooden slat. He flexed his filthy toes, his eyes looking north. The worn gray boards and rusty rails tracked off to the right about a quarter mile up. He had a good couple miles before any civilization. He flexed his calves, inhaled and took off.

He raced along the tracks, pumping his arms, feeling his legs coil, kick out and pump back. He felt like a machine. The grass on either side of him blurred to a green-brown smear. Trees clipped by so fast he couldn’t count them. The wind dashed tears from his eyes, rippled his clothes, his hair. When he finally stopped and saw just how far he’d run in less than a minute, he let a smile slink up his face.

Pretty damn fast.

He trotted back to the abandoned train cars, feeling great for the first time in days. There was no doubt that he was faster than an average human. That sure would help. What else could he do?

Hugh walked over to the cars, looking for something to test out his next theory. He stepped next to one of the mammoth boxes, recalling the way the shovel had dented against his head, how he'd thrown the man off him like a doll. Hugh picked a spot on the train car’s side, just left of rivets the size of silver dollars. Then he folded his hand into a fist and reached back.

He paused. What if he broke his hand? How would he survive with busted knuckles? Then he remembered the feeling of the bullet ripping through his skin. He'd healed from that. He gritted his teeth and threw a punch.

Dong!
Pain radiated from his hand up his arm, but the sight of the train car rocking back and forth, shuddering, made him forget his throbbing knuckles. The car slammed to rest on the tracks. He'd rocked a twenty ton train car and put a massive dent in the side.

He turned his attention back to his hand. Puffy and red, his knuckles looked mangled, but as he watched, the redness subsided, as did the pain. Soon he could flex it without wincing. Feeling his bones stitch themselves back together was not something he'd get used to any time soon, but, damn, that could come in handy.

Looking back at the train car, Hugh pressed his hand into the giant dent his fist had made in the metal. He hopped inside the dusty car and touched the fist-shaped mound bowed in on one wall. “Wow,” he mouthed.

Hugh jumped out of the car, the dust puffing up around his ankles. He scanned the yard, looking for something heavy to pick up, but the only thing for miles were rusty train cars. Those were too heavy. Weren’t they?

He smiled, feeling just crazy enough to try anything at this point. He squared up to the rectangular metal box about forty feet long, fifteen feet high and twelve feet across. It had to weigh at least twenty tons. He slipped his hands under the metal lip at the bottom. He looked down at the massive wheels that rested on the track in front of him. The sheer size of the object he was trying to move made him chuckle. This was never going to happen.

Hugh took a deep breath and pulled.

His arms tensed and legs flexed. The veins on his neck pulsed with the strain. For a split second he thought,
See, I knew it’d never work
. Then the metal he was gripping lifted up ever so slightly. Loud groaning filled the air. The car creaked and shifted. He was doing it! He grunted and pulled harder.

Slowly, sweat breaking out across his forehead, he straightened his legs. He looked down and saw the back wheels on his side hovering two feet off the ground. Suddenly the weight was lifted from his hands as the train car toppled and fell. Hugh threw his arms up over his eyes, jumping back into the dirt.

BOOM!
The train car smashed into the earth, shaking the ground. Birds sprung up from the trees, cawing. Dust spewed out from both sides, coating the air. Hugh coughed and batted at the clouds.                            

When the dust cleared, Hugh dropped his jaw. On its side, the train car, rusty wheels and gears facing him, looked like a slaughtered animal. He looked down at his rust-coated hands. Then he stared at the toppled train car in wonder. It didn't seem real. Yet, he'd seen it with his own eyes.

Hugh took off, sprinting through the forest. He’d made one hell of a racket and needed to put some distance between himself and the train yard if anyone came investigating. While he was running, he couldn’t help but smile.

Super powers. The thought both amazed and frightened him. Now if only he could find that silo and figure out why he was here.

CHAPTER SEVEN
TEEN — HARSON

Wednesday 7:32 p.m.

When the microwave dinged, Harson shot a glance at it from across the room. With his recliner thrown back to full tilt, even the thought of a warm microwave dinner didn't stir him from his chair. The dinner needed to cool for a few minutes anyway. He laid his head against cushion and closed his eyes.

It had been the right decision, swapping his sixty inch LCD TV for the recliner in the divorce. Susan had wanted both. He pictured her down-turned mouth and the ugly green sweater she'd worn the last time he'd seen her at the lawyer's office. Just thinking about Susan raised his blood pressure, something the doctor told him to avoid. Well, how could he keep his blood pressure down when his wife left him and took their dog? He shook his head, his thinning hair brushing against back of the recliner. He missed that damn dog.

The microwave beeped again, reminding him his Hungry Man dinner was ready. He pushed down the recliner's lever and the footrest dropped with a metal groan. His hips ached as he stood. His doctor had told him to get more exercise since his job was so sedentary, but who had the energy? Chasing down teenage delinquents all day made you plum tuckered. Sure, he did it from his Ford Focus, but dealing with their lip, their waving middle fingers, sucked all the energy right out of him. Two years until retirement. Two more years of cruising the parking lot and handing out parking tickets to high school brats while they silently wished him plagues of ball cancer. Retirement couldn't come fast enough.