Eyes Ever to the Sky (A Sci Fi Romance) (The Sky Trilogy) (9 page)

Paws the size of bear claws slammed into his back. He crumpled to the ground, the air spewing out of his lungs. A tremendous weight pressed on him. The animal stench was everywhere now, gagging him. Stars swam across his vision. Paws grabbed him and flipped him over like a toddler. His head smacked mercilessly on the pavement. The world shifted and spun.

“
No,” he gurgled. Vomit churned up his throat. He raised his eyes and saw a rope of saliva dripping off two rows of six-inch fangs. Hot, rancid breath pulsed against his face. He thrashed back and forth, but he was pinned. Even the whiskey couldn't dull his terror. He started to sob.

Little Mack turned his eyes to Cassiopeia as fangs cinched around his throat. He gurgled his last breath, the smell of his own blood stinging his nose.

CHAPTE
R TWELVE — CECE

Wednesday 12:36 a.m.

Cece ran up the sidewalk, her eyes locked on light burning inside her trailer. She gritted her teeth and hurdled a faded tricycle that one of the boys next door left on the sidewalk. Why had she gone to that stupid party anyway? She hadn't wanted to go. She'd wanted to sleep. This was all Fer's fault for dragging her out. Of course she couldn’t tell Mama that or Fer would be on Mama’s bad list. And you didn’t want to be on Mama’s bad list.

She jumped up her porch steps, nearly losing her footing as the metal rail wobbled loose.   Without thinking she turned the knob and pushed in.

“Mama, I...”

She stopped. Mama was nowhere to be seen. Cece scanned the trailer. Mama’s couch was empty, the cushions dented where she normally lay. The TV was blaring. Every light was on. Cece squinted into the interior of the trailer.

“Mama?” A nervous sweat dotted her back. She glanced around. Had someone been here? The hairs on her arms stood on end as she tip-toed down the hallway toward her room. Could someone have broken in?

The noxious smell of chemicals hit her nose halfway to the bathroom. The door was closed. Behind it she heard muttering.

“Mama!” She jiggled the doorknob. “Let me in.”

The door popped open and slid back slowly. Cece stepped inside. 

Mama leaned over the bathtub in her nightgown and slippers, yellow rubber gloves up to both elbows. Her hair curled away from her head in all directions. She regarded her only child with wild, frantic eyes.

“
Cecelia, I glad you home from work.” Her mother spoke so fast that the words ran together. “Just cleaning this mess up. Help me get this tub clean.” She dropped back into the bathroom and scrubbed like a mad woman.

Which of course she was.

“Mama,” Cece said, stepping into the bathroom, “stop. It’s past midnight. You can clean tomorrow.” She pulled at her mother’s elbow, just bones and skin under a loose cotton robe.

Mama shook her head and continued to scrub. “Can’t leave it like this,
mi amor
. ’S a mess. Filthy. Help me.” The brush made a shushing sound against the tub wall.

Manic. Mama was now in the manic stage of her Bipolar Disorder. Cece had read every article she could get her hands on about the disease. The manic phase could last a few hours, a few days or longer. And with all the pills gone and no money to buy new ones, who knew what was next for Mama? The possibilities were endless and terrifying. Once in eighth grade Mama had disappeared for four days. Another time, she'd bought them a new car and had it repossessed in the same week. And how many times had she been picked up for shoplifting?

“Mama, please.” Cece's voice broke.

Mama paid her no mind. Her boney knees pressing into the dirty tile, Mama scrubbed the tub, her elbow cranking like a piston. “We get this clean, don't you worry. All clean. Just help me get this grout and then I work on the sink.”

Cece slid down the hallway wall and sat amongst the trash. There was no stopping Mama now. Waiting for Mama to wear herself out, Cece sat a silent vigil.

***

Cece woke with a start. Morning. Ms Kaminski's dog howled outside. She shifted and her elbow
thunked
into a toaster. What was she doing on the hallway floo— Mama. She sat upright, a pounding starting at the back of her skull.

The bathroom was empty. She listened for movement in her house and heard none. Mama must've given up cleaning and went to sleep. Maybe things weren't as dire as she thought.

Cece walked into the living room, but stopped in mid-stride, her foot crunching into a stray Cheerio. The couch was empty.

“
Mama?” Cece strode to the couch. No trace of Mama. She stepped over a few piles and searched the kitchen. The two stacks of dirty dishes and the overflowing trash had not been touched. After a quick look into her own bedroom, Cece flung open the front door and peered into the carport. No trace of her mother.

Cece stuffed her feet into her flip flops, thundered down the front steps and tore down the road. She ran to Ms. Kaminski's and pounded on the screen door. Ms. K was the only person in the park that Mama ever talked to.

“Ms. K!” Cece banged her fist on the screen door. It thundered in its casing. Harley, the cockier spaniel staked on his chain in the side yard, barked like mad. “Ms. K, I need your help!”

Cece's mind raced. The last time Mama went manic, she'd taken off like this. She came back eighteen hours later with a dozen dollar store bags slung over her arms, the cops right behind.

Through the screen, Cece watched as the old woman lumbered forward from her back bedroom. She wore a flowered house dress and flattened flip flops. Veins stood out like Ramen noodles on her white legs. Her thinning white hair showed too much scalp.

“
Cecelia, is everything alright?” Her arthritic fingers fumbled for the door latch.

“
Ms. K, is my mom in here? Have you seen her?” Cece peered over Ms. K's shoulder into her trailer. It smelled of mothballs and cheese. An old rocker with worn arms and a cushioned seat rested in front of a tube television.
The Price is Right
blared on the screen.

Ms. K shook her head and frowned. “She run off again?”

Cece didn't want to nod. She just stepped back down the porch, her eyes sweeping over the trailer park for answers. “I don't know. Will you let me know if you see her?”

Ms. K nodded. She leaned out the screen door. “Shut up, Harley!” The crusty-eyed cockier spaniel kept right on yapping and charging his chain, his crimped ears flapping. “Sorry, sweetheart. I'll let you know if I see her.”

Cece was already heading down the sidewalk. She ran around the trailer park once, peering in all the windows, checking down all the rows, but Mama was nowhere to be found. By the time she got back to the trailer, she was tired and footsore. She clomped up her porch steps, a thick dread hanging over her.

Then her eyes found the clock.
She was over a half an hour late for work. She scrambled around the trailer for her keys and phone. She was on her bike and pedaling down the block in seconds.

She skidded up to the ice cream shop, dropped her bike at the back door and almost ran into Lizzy.

Her boss whirled around, placing both hands on her hips. Her ratted hair was clamped back in a banana clip, the blond bangs spilling over the top like a hair sprayed wave. She scowled at Cece. “Here you are. We've been trying to call.” She pinched her lips together.

“
Lizzy, I'm sorry. It was my mom. She's gone—”

Lizzy's red fingernails sliced through the air, cutting her off. “Cecelia, you know what I hate more than someone being late?”

Cece shook her head. “I don't know.” Behind Lizzy, Travis offered a sympathetic shrug. Michelle, standing next to him, smirked.

“
I can't
stand
when someone tries to blame their screw ups on others.” Her carefully drawn-on eyebrows drew together. “My numb nuts ex-husband tried to blame our breakup on
me
,” she pointed to her chest, “when I knew all along
he
was boinking Darcy in the back of his Suburban. Is that what you're trying to do to me?” Lizzy flashed nicotine stained teeth. “You trying to screw me, Cecelia?”

Cece dropped her head. “No ma'am, but you don't understand. My mom's
missing
. As in gone. If I could just get an hour to go looking for her…” She trailed off when Lizzy's scowl did not fade.

“
You can have the whole day if I fire you right now.” Lizzy jutted her chin and waited.

Cece dropped her eyes and shook her head.

“Didn’t think so.” Lizzy wiped a smudge of goo off the counter and frowned. “I'm a three-strikes kind of lady. You get another chance. But if you're late again, your ass is grass.” She gave Cece a final look. “Travis,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Get Cecelia a spare shirt from the back.” She turned to Cece. “It'll come out of your check, little lady.”

Cece nodded, but the news stung. She needed every bit of that money. She opened her mouth to tell Lizzy, but her boss was already stalking toward the back with her cellphone in hand. The conversation was over.

Cece grabbed the t-shirt from Travis, offered him a pathetic smile and shuffled to the bathroom.  Once inside she locked the door and slumped against the wall. She felt sucker-punched. First her mother was missing, then she got slammed by Lizzy and now she had to pay for her extra t-shirt. She'd have to work nine hours with a fist of worry clenched around her stomach.  She sat on the toilet and stared at the floor. A few dead flies lay on the peeling linoleum tile. Cece felt like one of those fly carcasses: broken, lifeless and looking for hope that would never come. 

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN — HUGH

Wednesday 11:32 a.m.

Hugh trekked through the brittle grass, watching the heat waves shimmer along the long stretch of railroad track. His stomach cramped, a sharp pain twisting his insides. He fought the urge to throw up, swallowing hard and wiping sweat off his brow. He was sick. So sick.

He kept his head down, his body hunched over and his hands protectively around his stomach. This morning he'd given in to thirst and drank from a trickling steam. Now his stomach was revolting. The half-eaten jelly donut he'd snagged from a backyard picnic table had come up a while ago. His empty stomach churned with nothing to calm it.

Three days of searching for the silo in his vision. Three days of starving, running, of being constantly afraid. And now he was going to die from a drink of water.

Bile rose up his throat, the hot acid burning his esophagus. Hugh stopped, put his hands to his knees and gagged. Then he lifted his bloodshot eyes to his surroundings. They'd find his body here beside the rusty tracks, the wildflowers dancing beside his bloated corpse. Or, more likely, no one would find him but the vultures. Or the monster. Hugh shuddered, clutched his stomach and shuffled forward. 

Help. He needed help. There was no way around it. His skin might crawl every time he was around people, but if he didn't ask for help soon he'd die. What was he so worried about? He hadn't done anything wrong. Not that he remembered. Still, deep in his heart something pinged at him.
There's a reason you were in that crater,
his brain said.
There's a reason your body seizes up when you think about talking to strangers
. He told that voice to shut up. It was time to get help or die. Plain and simple.

Ten minutes of shuffling and gagging later he came across a tiny four-pump gas station sitting between tall pines, on a long gravel driveway. The gas station was empty except for one rusty pickup in the back. A metal
Walt’s Crawlers
sign creaked lazily in the breeze. A freezer hummed in front, the word
Ice
written in huge blue letters capped with snow. Hugh eyed the padlock on the freezer, his throat tightening. What he wouldn't give for ice right now. His eyes flicked to the QuickE Mart behind the pumps. Inside, the clerk's head was slumped to one side, asleep. How would he react when Hugh limped up, asking for help? It didn't matter. Too late to turn back now.

His stomach tightened like a fist as he walked under the cool shade of the pump cover. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the door just before he entered. His face was streaked with dirt, his arms too. With the tight blue running shorts, he looked homeless and crazy. 

I'll just walk in and say 'Hi. I'm Hugh. Can you help me?'
He took a deep breath and pushed inside the store.

The smell hit him first. His hands flew up to his mouth as the putrid decaying stench hit him like a wall. He stumbled back, his shoulder slamming into the door. Good God, what happened? His eyes flicked around the place: metal shelves with bags of chips, beef jerky, canned peanuts and candy. He spotted the trail of blood along the back by the beer fridge. His hand, clasped over his mouth, began to tremble as he took a step forward.

On the tile, bloody prints tracked toward the door, huge and animal. He spun, trembling. He had to get out. His eyes grazed the clerk behind the counter. Was he…alive? Fear raced up his spine as he turned toward the cash register. The clerk's back was to him, slumped in a chair against the wall.