Coping

Coping

Girl With Broken Wings

A Novella By J Bennett

Copyright © 2012 by J Bennett, All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-9840048-2-9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not
assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

A Note To Readers

COPING is a short novella
that takes place between
FALLING
(Book One) and
LANDING
(Book Two) in the GIRL WITH BROKEN WINGS series. I originally wrote this fun
and gruesome little number (odd combo, I know) to keep readers hooked as I
finished LANDING. New readers can jump right into Maya’s world with this
novella, but I suggest starting at the beginning with FALLING. Either way,
please enjoy!  

“Step one…” Gabe leans the shovel
against his body, spits into his hands and rubs them together vigorously. “Less
friction. Come on, try it.”

“Ew, no,” I say.

Gabe frowns. “And I suppose you’ve
done this before. You know everything about it.”

“I’m wearing gloves, I don’t need
to spit.” I hold up my hands to show off the black fingerless gloves that are a
necessary fashion accessory.

“Oh yeah.” Gabe grins at me, and
despite the circumstances, I see playful hues of green edging the glow around
his body.

“Get going,” Tarren calls behind
us. His long body is stretched out on the roof of his silver Murano SUV. He’s
propped up on his elbows, peering back toward the road through a pair of
binoculars and listening to the police scanner next to him.

“No one’s going to see us,” Gabe
responds to Tarren. “We’re in Fucksville, Michigan, population no one. They’ve
got more out-of-business mattress stores than people.”

“And one less angel,” I murmur. I
try not to be nervous about this; try not to think about the shovels and the
thing the shovels are meant to do. But a small, desperate voice in my head
keeps whispering,
this is not my life, this is not
my life
.

It is
now
, I think back…at myself…because I’m not crazy or anything.

“Right,” Gabe grins like I just said
something funny. A heavy wind kicks up. There’s nothing in this endless stretch
of flat land to stop it, and it hits us hard, tossing around my short hair and
rippling Gabe’s blood-stained t-shirt.

I smell the blood, the sweat
trickling down Gabe’s face, the car exhaust from the distant road, the rich
scent of earth kicking up in the wind…so many smells.

“So, we’re going for a six by four
rectangle,” Gabe continues. “The key is to start on the outside, get in deep
with the shovel and try to take off the top layer in as few pieces as we can.
We want to keep the grass as intact as possible so when we’re done it doesn’t
look like much of a disturbance.”

Gabe plunges his shovel into the
dirt. It goes three quarters in. My brother’s face turns sour. Actually,
half-brother if we’re being technical.

“Thick as clay. This is going to
suck royally,” he says. “Texas is my favorite. Lots of empty space and loose
dirt, but not too sandy. Best burying ground for my money.”

He steps on the crest of the metal,
pressing his thin body onto the shovel to force it deeper into the ground. I
follow his lead. My first strike with the shovel is a timid one. It only nudges
halfway into the ground. When I step on my shovel, it doesn’t sink at all. I
bend my knees and hop a little, and the shovel pushes about an inch deeper into
the stubborn clay.

Gabe laughs. “This does not bode
well for your grave digging future.” His aura pulses deep sapphire blues and
those amused strands of emerald.

“Shut up.”  I pull the shovel out,
tighten my grip and plunge it all the way into the ground in a single stroke. I
pull up a thick wad of soil with slender roots hanging out over the sides.

“Well, yeah, I guess the super
strength will pretty much compensate for poor fundamentals,” Gabe shrugs.

“I don’t have super strength,” I
mutter. “I can’t like, lift a car or anything.”

“Really?” Gabe dumps a shovelful of
soil next to mine. “Have you tried to?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you can.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the
truth is, I honestly don’t know if I can lift a car. In those first weeks after
the change, Tarren tried to test the limits of my new abilities. I always held
back. Part of it was fear of what my new body could do. A bigger part was about
hiding my secret. It takes three injections of an angel’s bone marrow to turn a
human completely into an angel. Tarren and Gabe think I only got one injection.
I need them to keep on believing that. If Tarren discovered that I’d had two
injections and was even more of a genetically-enhanced superhuman—of an angel—than
he already thought, he’d put a bullet through my brain and consider it due
caution.

I shiver, even though I’m not cold.
I can feel Tarren behind me, the flat, slow churn of his aura. He always keeps
a tight grip on his emotions in my presence. He doesn’t know how well I can
read auras, but he suspects enough to be careful.

While Tarren keeps watch from the
roof of the Murano, Gabe and I dig a grave for Madelyn Mendoza. Even with the
protection of my faux-leather gloves, the handle of the shovel rubs painfully
against my palms, and my back begins to stitch with cramps. Super strength or
not, this isn’t exactly easy. Also, Gabe’s aura is flaring with his efforts.
This is a problem.

The thing is, I don’t just see
auras. I feed on them. The equivalent of sucking a person’s energy right out of
their body. I’ve been getting by on animals—drained a couple of rats while Gabe
and Tarren were on the hunt this afternoon—but just barely. They keep me alive,
but they hardly slake my hunger.

My hunger, it is a fearsome thing.
More addiction than normal physical function. It plays a dangerous melody in my
brain, confusing my thoughts and sawing through my self-control. As Gabe’s
energy flickers higher, the colors brightening around his frame, I bite down on
the inside of my cheek and focus on the pain. This is a new trick I’ve learned.
It helps a little.

Twice during the grave digging,
Tarren calls us to halt. Gabe and I pull up our shovels and duck in front of
the Murano. Tarren slides off the roof, opens the driver’s side door and turns
off the headlights that illuminate our efforts.

The road is a mile out, but the
land is so flat and barren that if a driver turned his head and squinted, he
might see the dark outline of our SUV and wonder what an abandoned car was doing
out in a vast stretch of nothingness.

“Our cover story is that we’re
geo-cashing,” Gabe whispers the first time we have to hide.

“And that explains the blood how?”
I whisper back at him.

“Ketchup. I’m a really messy
eater.”

“Quiet,” Tarren commands. He’s like
that sometimes…all the time.

In both instances we wait and watch
the long glare of headlights from the oncoming cars. Tarren is tense, expecting
trouble, but in each case, the car goes on its merry little way without a
pause.

It takes less than 30 minutes, even
in this stubborn Michigan soil, to open up a shallow pit that meets with Gabe’s
approval. When Gabe gives our efforts the thumbs up, Tarren opens up the hatch
of the SUV and slings a bundle over his shoulder that use to be Madelyn
Mendoza. The shape of her body is softened by its swaddling of blue plastic
tarp, which I had carefully laid out in the trunk while Gabe and Tarren were
tracking her.

I’m still more “accomplice” than
“partner”, but at least I finally convinced my brothers to buy me proper black
attire—a snug outfit of polyester long-sleeved shirt and nylon pants that would
help me blend into the night…if my brothers ever actually let me out on a hunt
with them.

Then again, a small part of
me—okay, a more than small part of me—is glad for just tarp and grave digging
duty. That little voice inside my head that keeps saying,
This isn’t my life, this isn’t my life,
is right.
One month ago, I was a mediocre college student with purple bangs, a few stupid
dreams and a boyfriend who didn’t think they were stupid at all.

I turn away as Tarren carries his
cargo to the pit and drops it in. I jump a little at the heavy smack of impact.
My mind is starting to whirl with fear and anxiety again. I’m still getting
periodic mini-breakdowns where my brain suddenly revolts from this fucking
crazy new reality I’ve stumbled into.

I keep calm on the outside and try
to think of other things. Happy, pleasant things not related to the fact that I
lost everything in my life, and the only thing I got in return was two
vigilante half-brothers, a few physical upgrades, and one overriding mission
for vengeance.

The happy, calming thought I come
up with is donuts. The round, powdered-sugared kind with raspberry jam inside.
Then I remember that I can’t eat donuts anymore; can’t eat any human food.

Stupid, fucking donuts.

I turn around toward the grave.
Both Tarren and Gabe are staring at me. Standing side by side, they look
absolutely nothing alike, even though they’re full brothers. Tarren is tall and
muscled with chocolate brown hair that he keeps trimmed close to his head. Gabe
is average height and has a wiry build. He lets his hair grow out in golden
brown waves that he tames with his lucky baseball cap, an object worn so
continuously that the white has turned a turgid gray.

“Why don’t you go rest in the car,”
Gabe says. “This part is easy. Tarren can do it.”

Tarren picks up the second shovel.

“No,” I say, because I can’t be
weak in front of them anymore. Not if I want my brothers to trust me, to help
me find Grand, to let me kill him. “I’m good. Hunky-dory.” Yes, I actually say
this.

“You sure?” Tarren says. It sounds
more like a challenge than a question. He doesn’t let go of the shovel.

“Yeah, someone needs to keep
watch,” I say. Actually, no one really needs to keep watch. On this silent,
desolate night, I could hear a car coming from a mile away, but I know Tarren
is completely paranoid and thinks we should keep watches at all times. Mostly,
he thinks we should keep a watch over me.

Even though we’ve come to an understanding
and Tarren’s been keeping up his side of the bargain, our truce is uneasy. He
remains wary of me. I remain convinced that he’s just a big dumb oaf with no
sense of humor and no compassion. He’s been through hell, but so have I, and
that’s no excuse for being a dick all the time.

I hold my hand out for the shovel.
Tarren releases his grip, allowing the shovel to fall into my palm. He doesn’t
like to get close to my hands even though I always wear my gloves.

Gabe and I pitch dirt on the
bundle. As I was relegated to the car, I didn’t actually see the kill go down,
but I remember what Madelyn looked like from the research Gabe pulled on her. 
She was VP of finance in Harold Krugal’s seed investment company. She had a
long, stern face. I wonder if any of it is left beneath that tarp.

After news of Krugal’s
disappearance, most of the angels in his circle fled. With good reason. We’d
tracked Krugal down through the bread crumb trail of dead bodies left by his
granddaughter, Amber.  Turns out, his whole organization was filled with
angels. He gave them up with some persuasion from Gabe. My happy, sarcastic
brother still won’t talk about what specifics that persuasion entailed. This is
probably for the best.

The blue tarp disappears beneath a
hail of heavy, chunky dirt as Gabe and I erase Madelyn. Krugal was similarly
erased, and so was young Amber.  I think of the red-headed teenager, her
tear-filled eyes and the wet Strawberry Shortcake pajama shirt she wore the
night we fought and Tarren killed her. I know that Amber was an angel. I know
that she fed on innocent people. I know that we saved lives by taking hers.

The hole is filled. Gabe and I turn
over the top layer of soil, packing the grass back on top. It doesn’t look very
convincing to me, but Gabe seems satisfied.

Just like that, Madelyn Mendoza is
gone. We’d been chasing her for over a week, following the trail of bodies she
left as she fled to this barren place. In fact, Madelyn had just killed a young
couple this morning. The two were engaged.

Madelyn deserved to be erased, just
like Amber. That doesn’t make it easier, at least not for me. I still feel like
I’ve tripped and fallen into a living nightmare.