Trance. Part 7

Ten minutes across the Arizona border, we flew low over rocky terrain, marred by the occasional dry gulch and freestanding mountain. The Grand Canyon was somewhere north of us, the city of Flagstaff south, and miles of open countryside in between. Flyboy made a turn toward I-40.

I was the first to spot the tornado. It danced across the desert, at least six stories tall, zigging and zagging like a drunken top beneath a bright, cloudless sky.

"There." I pointed.

Gage leaned across my lap to look out the side window. "Five gets you twenty that's Ethan, but what the h.e.l.l is he doing?"

"He's got to be inside the funnel."

"I don't think so."

The funnel proved Gage right by ejecting the twisted hulk of a pulverized pickup truck. It flew through the air like a wad of tissue paper, careened past us, and missed the helicopter by thirty feet, before landing by the side of a dirt road. It hit on its side-at least, I think so, because it was hard to discern its exact shape-and lay in a smoldering, dusty heap.

"Coming around," Flyboy said.

The copter swerved sideways, tossing me across Gage's lap. He caught my shoulders to steady me, and I looked up to see him smiling down at me. Embarra.s.sed, I reached for the handlebar by the door and hauled myself upright. The funnel cloud was gone, the dirt and debris in its core settling back to the earth with a few scattered car parts.

Flyboy landed across the road from the wreck. I tossed my headset onto the seat and scrambled out of the copter. The chilly, swirling air surprised me. We must have been pretty far north, where the desert actually got cold in January.

Gage and I walked toward the wreck, wary of our unfamiliar surroundings. A few hills rose up a quarter mile away. Tall scrub trees dotted the landscape, providing some cover, and a thick shadow cut across the ground ten yards past the wreck. A dry gulch, if I correctly remembered the aerial view of the terrain. Good place for an air manipulator to hide.

An orb sparked from the tips of my fingers as I approached the car, more as a precaution than from any real sense of danger. As the old Trance, with my mostly inactive powers, I never would have been so bold. I probably wouldn't have left the safety of the copter. This unexpected gift emboldened me beyond simple caution. I found myself craving a confrontation, hoping for a chance to zap someone with an orb.

The realization stopped me short, and Gage slammed into my back.

"Trance? You okay?"

I blinked, clearing the thoughts away. This was no time for a self-a.s.sessment. I'd ponder the meaning behind my newfound bloodl.u.s.t once we had the rest of the Rangers safely back at HQ-not in the middle of the desert, vulnerable to attack from all sides.

"I'm fine, sorry," I said. "Can you smell anyone?"

He didn't have a chance to try. Cold, gritty wind hit us like a giant hand and slapped me backward. I expected to go toppling, but Gage kept us upright against the sudden gale. Squinting through the sand, I released my orb in the general direction of the earth fracture. It hit on the edge and splattered dirt and rock into the air. Bad idea, because the intensity of the wind increased.

"Cut it out!" I shouted into the tempest and received a mouthful of dirt. I coughed, spat. It became increasingly difficult to take a good breath.

Gage s.h.i.+fted to my side, still hovering protectively, and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Ethan! Turn it off, windbag!"

The gale ceased. Spinning grit stopped in midair like the freeze frame of a film, and then fell to the ground in a puff. I spat out a wad of mud, disgusted by the bitter taste. Grateful for fresh air.

"There," Gage said, pointing.

A head of flaming red hair appeared over the lip of the gulch, rising slowly until a face was revealed, followed by a neck and shoulders. He stared. We didn't move, and neither did he.

"Okay," I said to Gage, "I could never win stare-downs without cheating. Should we go over there?"

"He's terrified. I can hear his rapid heartbeat and smell his perspiration. I can smell blood, too. He might be hurt."

I took an instinctual step forward, concerned about possible injury now that Gage brought it to my attention. "Ethan? It's Teresa. Do you remember me?"

He turned his head a few degrees, back and forth, as if looking from me to Gage and back again. His head dipped back out of sight. I almost screamed with frustration. Ethan reappeared a few yards further left, carrying someone in his arms. Her head and legs hung limply, arms tucked against her body. Even from a distance, I saw the blood covering her clothes, staining the front of his s.h.i.+rt.

I started running, my boots crunching over rock and sand. I reached them first. Ethan "Tempest" Swift had a round face, thin lips and hazel eyes, and a smattering of freckles along the ridge of his nose. Save the pain bracketing his eyes, he appeared uninjured. Not like the last time we'd seen each other, when he'd been shot in the shoulder and was still desperately trying to help. Not hiding from the Bogeyman.

He held Angela in his arms, and I knew without checking her pulse that she was dead. Blood had seeped from a variety of deep gashes on her face and chest. My heart constricted, squeezed by a steel band of grief. Looking at her adult face, I barely recalled the preteen she had been, and yet her death hurt like we'd been friends for years. I had lost a part of me; we all lost a part of each other every time one of us died.

"Hey, Teresa," Ethan said. "Gage." His voice carried the fatigue of an elderly man and more pain than any human being should be forced to carry.

"What happened?" Gage asked.

"Angela and I ran into each other in Flagstaff and decided to travel together. Twenty minutes ago someone ran us off the road. She wasn't wearing her seat belt and was pretty banged up when we crashed. The other driver got out of the car and his eyes-"

Specter.

"-were bright yellow. He fired a shotgun at us a few times. I threw him back with some wind and got Angela out of the car. He tried to run us down again. Clipped me, but he got her hard. I picked her up and hid her in that ditch, but by the time I got us there ..." His voice cracked. "Then I called up the biggest d.a.m.ned cyclone I could manage."

I looked over my shoulder at the ball of metal that had once been a truck. "The driver is still inside?"

"Yeah." He s.h.i.+fted the weight of Angela's body, which couldn't have been much. She was a tiny woman, maybe five feet tall and small-boned, but Ethan was a thin guy and the muscles in his arms vibrated from the strain.

Gage eased her body out of Ethan's arms, releasing him from the burden. Ethan's shoulders slumped. I slipped my arm around his waist, offering silent support while we walked back to the waiting copter. There was little use in inspecting the hunk of metal. Specter's latest host was hamburger.

"I remember the hair, but what's with the eyes?" Ethan asked.

"I got back the wrong powers," I said. "Something like what my grandmother had."

He stumbled. "Really? Anyone else get them back wrong?"

"Not so far. In addition to my sparkling amethyst eyes, I can blast things with purple energy orbs. It would be more fun if it didn't make me so d.a.m.ned hungry."

The copter blades kicked up dust, and I coughed, desperate for a drink of water after taking in that mouthful of sand.

Ethan raised his right hand. The wind whirled in a different direction at first and then formed into one solid, swirling motion. In seconds, he created a tunnel of clean air, its walls made of s.h.i.+fting layers of desert sand. It led right up to the side of the copter, and it made the rest of our legwork easier.

Once we were strapped back in, and Angela was laid at our feet, I rifled through the supply compartment above my head. I felt around and retrieved two bottles of water and tossed one to Ethan. I gulped from mine, swis.h.i.+ng it around to clear out the grit. Only when I was ready to spit did I realize we'd already taken off. I looked around the small interior. Nothing.

Everyone eats a peck of dirt in their lifetime (or so I'd heard once), so I swallowed. And then guzzled more water. My stomach churned from drinking so much on an empty stomach. The filling lunch of chicken and pasta seemed like days ago.

Ethan pa.s.sed his bottle over to Gage, and then asked, "Who else is with you guys?"

As we told him about Specter and the three dead Rangers, he sank deeper into his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.

My hand jerked, spilling a bit of water on my T-s.h.i.+rt. I sat, still as stone, unsure where the voice came from.

Gage nudged me with his elbow, and I understood. I retrieved my Vox and pressed the silver b.u.t.ton. "Onyx, it's Trance, go ahead."

I bit my tongue hard. Every death hurt like a physical blow, in a way that I couldn't explain. The men seemed sad, but not quite as affected by the news.

"Trickster is dead, too," I replied. "We have Tempest. He's a little tired, but uninjured. We're heading back to HQ."

I slipped the Vox back into my belt with shaking fingers. Half of us dead in two days; it didn't seem possible.

Gage's hand curled around mine and squeezed tight. "Your heartbeat just spiked," he said softly. "You okay?"

"No, not really."

I leaned my head against his shoulder, mourning the deaths of my old schoolmates. Each one tore at my heart, and I wanted it to stop. If it hurt so badly to lose five people I hadn't seen since I was ten, how would it feel to lose one I had back in my life? To lose Renee or Marco or Ethan or William? To lose Gage?

We had to find Specter and quickly. I couldn't lose them, not when I felt needed for the first time in my adult life. Needed and part of something. Able to make a positive difference.

Even if it was only temporary.

Nine.

Meltdown Full physicals from Dr. Seward seemed to be the standard greeting for new Rangers. He was waiting for us on the roof of the Base when we landed, and his team whisked Angela's body and Ethan off to the Medical Center. During the flight, my state of nausea doubled. It had stayed in check while we were airborne, but as soon as my feet touched solid ground, my stomach twisted. I chewed on the inside of my cheek and concentrated on that pain as I followed Gage off the roof. I wanted to lie down and curl into a ball until the queasiness went away.

"I'm sure Dr. Seward will want a full report as soon as he's done poking and prodding Ethan," he said once we were in the elevator.

"No doubt," I said between clenched teeth. I leaned against the wall, concerned by the sudden lavender haze that tinged the corners of my vision. Just like when I overloaded fighting Specter. Not good.

"Teresa, are you okay?" He was staring at me.

I pasted on a fake smile. "Just a little overwhelmed. Long day, and a lot of bad news."

"I hear that."

Yeah, I bet he did.

The elevator stopped on ground level, and we stepped out into the lobby.

"Do you want me to walk you back to your room?" he asked.

The offer was endearing, but no. If I just lay down for a while, I was certain I'd feel better. It was a powers hiccup, nothing serious. Mostly I wanted to get back to my room without vomiting. That weakness was reserved for me and no one else.

"Actually, I'm kind of hungry," I said, and hated that I was lying to him. "Tell you what, why don't you run ahead and make sure the kitchen is cooking something? I'm going to stop by the ladies' room. There has to be one down here."

He smiled. "Are you ever not hungry?"

Right now, very much not hungry. If he scanned carefully for my heart rate, he'd know I was lying. I grinned back. "Call it a job hazard. Now go, I'll catch up."

"I'll save you a seat."

I waited until he pa.s.sed through the outer doors, leaving me alone, and I then collapsed to my knees, arms tight around my middle. Chills and s.h.i.+vers sent goose flesh crawling across my neck and back. A strong shudder tore along my spine and sent cramps into my midsection. The lavender haze turned the green rug a strange shade of brown. I closed my eyes.

"Help me," I whispered.

If I couldn't get a handle on this, Dr. Seward would strap me back into a hospital bed, and I didn't want that. I didn't want to be an experiment, tested and examined until they found their elusive answers to my problem. Crippling cramps and purple vision were pretty d.a.m.ned big problems, and meant days-if not weeks-of testing. I didn't have that kind of time, not with five dead Rangers and a homicidal Bane on the loose.

I forced my eyes open; the world had gone purple, like someone had taped a sheet of colored plastic over my vision. Another cramp seized my guts, and I swallowed hard. On my left, a small sign indicated locker rooms down the hall. I took a deep breath, launched out of my kneeling position, and bolted. I overshot the bathroom door and almost crashed into a wall as I turned around.

Ignoring the fact that it was the men's room, I shoved the door open, ran into the nearest stall, and vomited into the toilet. It didn't take long to empty what little was in my stomach. Mostly water and grit particles (probably that sand I had swallowed), all colored purple like the rest of my world.

The pressure in my abdomen decreased without going away completely. I spat again, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste of bile, and pushed the manual b.u.t.ton to flush. I pulled up on shaky legs to the tune of water swirling and stumbled over to one of the sinks. After a few mouthfuls of tap water to clean out that horrid taste, I hazarded a look at myself in the mirror.

My pupils were dilated, but I couldn't judge any other changes with my eyes acting so strangely. Now I knew how Renee felt when she looked in the mirror and saw blue skin and wished it had been ivory.

"It figures," I said to my reflection. "Not only did you possibly inherit your grandmother's powers, but now it looks like you're allergic to them. Bravo."

The cramping subsided enough to convince me that I wouldn't internally combust during dinner. I washed my hands, checked my hair for any residual barf, and left the safety of the men's room, praying for the strength to get through the day.

Eating food that looked the wrong color-on top of having an upset stomach-made dinner an exercise in durability and stamina. The two-person kitchen staff surprised me with a selection of roast beef, parslied potatoes, and steamed carrots, and I surprised Gage by taking only a small helping. I made a joke about watching my figure and being hungry again in an hour. He didn't push, and I appreciated that.

He did, however, watch me like a hawk as we ate. I tried to ignore the concerned glances and keep up idle banter. We hadn't heard from the other group in almost two hours, and that elephant stalked the room and dulled conversation.

The cafeteria sparkled in a way that the rest of the building did not. Tiled floors were freshly mopped, each homey wooden table wiped down and waxed. The chairs were wood, with upholstered seats (the exact color I'd have to figure out later), and quite comfortable. We were the only people in a room large enough to hold two hundred.

Gage pushed half-eaten roast beef around his plate and asked, "Is this how you usually spend your Sat.u.r.day evenings?"

"Absolutely not," I replied. "I used to slave away at three different menial, dead-end jobs to pay my rent and buy food, because most good employers have a problem hiring convicted felons, so I blew off my steam any night I had a few free hours. I'd find a nice, dirty dive bar within walking distance of my place, hustle drinks from losers I wouldn't let touch me with a three-meter pole, dance away my frustrations, and then go home and sleep it off."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is, especially in heels."

His left eye twitched with ... what? Annoyance? I almost added to my statement, wanting to a.s.sure him that I hadn't slept with any of my dancing partners, only I had no need to defend my (lack of) s.e.x life.

"So what about you?" I asked. "How do you normally spend your Sat.u.r.day nights?"

"Sat.u.r.day was movie night," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Since the only open cinema was in the city, it was a once-a-week trek. Sometimes I'd go with a buddy from work, sometimes I'd have a date. Usually I went alone. Didn't matter much what was playing or who was in it."

He mentioned work again. I didn't have the energy to pursue the opening, especially if he pulled his standard deflection. "I can't imagine you had a lot of film options, with there only being four movie studios left in Vancouver."

A few years before the War even began, serious inflation and a failing economy had already forced the consolidation of several major studios. One year into the fighting, a showdown between a fire-starter Bane named Blaze and a water-manipulator named Ariel led to the devastation of everything south of I-10, all the way to Anaheim. The remains of a theme park that had been shut down a decade ago were featured heavily on the newscasts that week.

Smaller battles in Burbank and Van Nuys added to the ruination of a once-sprawling metropolis. Residents fled as neighborhoods were shut down and evacuated. It was the first major city to fall during the five-year conflict.

In a last-ditch effort to save themselves, the final three studios relocated to Canada. The money went with it, leaving the rest of Hollywood a virtual ghost town. With its main sources of income gone, L.A. struggled hardest to recover during the postwar years. The folks left behind had rebuilt small communities of services, businesses, unremarkable restaurants, and bars. It would never be what it was during the Corps' heyday.

"People want interactive entertainment," Gage said, "not moving pictures in two dimensions. It's a shame, really, because some of the films from a hundred years ago are really quite good."

"I admit, I am not a fan," I replied. "You'll have to introduce me some time."