Liquid Death (The Edinön Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

              “
Sh
, no need to fuss, Kandi,” Jim says. “I’m taking care of you.”

              Tears sting the corners of my eyes with part relief/part dread. At least I am not alone.

              He shifts with his full weight on me and tosses the knife behind him. “Your blood is so warm,” he murmurs into my neck. “I can almost taste it on your skin.”

              I whimper and squirm beneath him as he gently caresses my collarbone. “And to think I have you all to myself. How lucky am I? Look at me, Kandi!”

              Bile rises in my throat.
Please make this quick
.

              My silent plea ends with a loud ring. Something cold presses against my cheek, and I realize with a start that the
ring
is coming from that something.

              “Kandi? Is that you?”

              Kyle’s voice. Oh, my gosh. How did he get here?

              “Don’t worry, I’m coming. Hang in there.”

              I scan my surroundings and collapse on the linoleum kitchen floor. I made it. I called Kyle. He’s coming to help me. My eyes overflow with tears.
Oh, thank God.

              With my back against the oven, I glance at the phone on the cabinet. It is a cell phone. Jim’s cell phone. We don’t have a landline. Why did Jim leave his phone? Does he have another one, or is he home and I never noticed him walking in?

              I listen to the empty lull in the house. He can’t be here. He must have forgotten his phone. I raise my eyes to the cabinet again – only it isn’t the cabinet anymore. It is the nightstand by my bed. The cell phone is Kyle’s card.

              And I never called him.

***

The File

              Jan. 4, 2017

                           
We were sneaking through the
neighborhood in the middle of a rainy night, wearing black hoodies and black sweats for increased invisibility. I was fourteen years old, about a month from turning fifteen. Zeke, the only white boy in our gang (and the tallest), had promised that tonight I would become a man. At the time, I wasn't sure what that meant, but I had an idea. I was anxious and a little nervous. Maybe even a little afraid. I wanted to make sure I didn't screw up, because if I did, it could mean expulsion from the gang. Expulsion was a nicer term than execution.

              A week before, my father had critically damaged me, so I was still a little bruised and broken in places. My eyes weren't quite as swollen and black as they had been a day earlier, but I still looked tough and frightening – precisely the appearance any fourteen-year-old kid in my neighborhood wanted, really.

              Emilio, the gang member I disliked the most, hid behind a large dumpster as the rest of us approached the chain-link fence that surrounded my dad's old warehouse. We waited for the signal, then passed through a hole we'd dug under the fence and sprinted through the dusty field to one of the many warehouses Emanuel owned.

              We entered the warehouse through a cellar door in the back. The room below the ground had once been full of cobwebs and rodents, but we got rid of them weeks ago and accommodated the place to our liking, which consisted primarily of a variety of couches and chairs. The floor was made of wood, covered in soft rugs, and had been recently dusted. The walls were painted vermilion (the color by which we were known), and the table in the center of the squarish room had three legs and appeared to have been pulled out of a dump site. Emanuel and Julio (Emanuel's son) were playing checkers on this table.

              The rest of us – twenty-two gang members – pushed off our hoods and peered around as we waited for Emanuel to address us. I shuffled my feet on the floor and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. Raul, the only one I considered a friend at the time, offered a blank stare – his version of a reassuring smile.

              As a son of the gang leader's rival, I had to go through extra efforts to prove my loyalty to the group, despite the fact that my father, according to Emanuel, regarded my mother and I as trifles and nothing more – since he had another family living in a mansion somewhere in Los Angeles. I had been shocked to learn that my father had to make excuses to his wife (he and my mother were not married, and never had been) whenever he visited us. This information provided yet another reason for me to loathe him with every fiber of my being.

              “
Jefe
,” seventeen-year-old Martin said, standing at his maximum height of five feet, three inches. “Juan
está listo
.”

              I wasn't sure about that. How ready could I be when I had scarcely an inkling of what was ahead?

              Emanuel, the
“jefe
,” looked up from his intense father-son checker match and smiled that same deceitful smile that I've seen on so many other faces – Ms. Hendricks is one of them. My eyes narrowed at the deep, down-turned lines around his dark eyes and the upturned position of his mouth. “
Excelente
. Where's the girl?”

              I licked my lips and rocked back on my heels. Unease and trepidation churned in my stomach.

              A moment later, a short, bald Latino with a grim, determined expression and another Latino with a full head of curly black hair (both appeared to be in their twenties) dragged a blond girl – still dressed in her strawberry pajamas – into the center of the musty room.

              My chest heaved and my heart burst at the shock of seeing the girl I'd had a crush on for ages up so close. Destiny was a shy cheerleader with long, toned legs and a curvy figure, unlike most of the girls in my class. How did they know I liked her? Had I mentioned her name before? I couldn't recall whether I had or not, and now it was making me panic.

              I will never forget the raw terror on her face. She was in a room full of black-clad boys with criminal records and piercings and tattoos and eyes gleaming with malice. Destiny, on the other hand, came from a devout Catholic family and was about as modest and innocent as a flower.

              “It's time to become a man, Juan,” Emanuel told me. “After tonight, you'll officially be one of us.”

              I knew what they wanted me to do now, but I couldn't comprehend it. I met Destiny’s wide blue eyes and shook my head. Gulping down the fiery anger and apprehension that was beginning to consume me, I whispered hoarsely, but resolutely, "
No
...
puedo
,” as shameful heat flooded my cheeks.

              I could tell Destiny recognized me, and she felt bewildered and betrayed to discover that I was a part of the most notorious gang in our neighborhood.

              “You must, Chavez,” Emanuel said authoritatively. “If you don't do it, your brothers will.”

              I looked around and met each individual's gaze. They all had the same urgent, pleading expression that said if I didn't do what I was told, both Destiny and I would pay. But what choice did I have? I knew I did not have the heart – or lack thereof – to rob Destiny of her innocence. My mind whirred with possible scenarios as everyone waited impatiently for my final decision.

              Join the gang and become a monster like the rest of them, or refuse and live a life of shame and pain if I lived a life at all?

              I felt like every one of my internal organs was tying up in knots. My heart wasn't functioning properly as each side of my brain tugged against the other to make sure I bent toward one or the other's will. One part of me felt I had no choice. I had robbed stores and homes and hurt people from other gangs despite how I couldn't morally accept it, and
now
I was backing down?

              The other part of me couldn't bring myself to hurt a girl – especially this girl. I just couldn't.

              Nostrils flaring with resignation, I opened my mouth, looked Emanuel in the eyes, and uttered, “I won't do it.” Immediately after the words left my mouth, I felt a mixture of relief and profound fear. My decision was made. Now it was time for Emanuel to make his.

              He looked at me with eyes openly displaying disappointment and apathy. My entire body tensed as survival instincts kicked in. I was ready to run or fight.

              Raul sighed. “You coulda been one of us, Juan.”

              Destiny cried as the bald man yanked her closer to him. The gang leader nodded at Zeke and Emilio, the two largest and toughest of the group. They seemed hesitant at first, but, unlike me, they were staunchly loyal to Emanuel. I anticipated their movements and darted toward the exit behind me. I was unable to get far. Twenty men grabbed for me at once and hauled me toward the wall. I'm sure I gave them plenty of cuts and bruises before they finally had me pinned to the wall in tight, thin plastic ropes. Unfortunately, I sustained more injuries than any of them, and on top of the week-old injuries that were still healing, I was in intense pain. Destiny started to scream.

              I wish they had killed me. Raul did not seem to enjoy it – in fact, nearly all of them thought that this was a necessary part of the initiatory process – but that didn't make me detest him any less for what he did. When it was finished, they untied me and locked Destiny and me in the warehouse overnight. I remember crawling over to her limp, bloody form and turning her face over in my hands. Tears and blood stained her pallid complexion. I held her in my arms, rocking and sobbing miserably, until dawn arrived, and I realized she was dead.

              Tim and Mac, miraculously healed from their injuries, arrive at my doorstep on time to drive me to Sunny Days High School for one hour of detention before school starts. If Sunny Days were a normal high school, I would have received much more than detention for my actions. But apparently Principal Walker is quite lenient, since his staff is either superhuman, or inhuman. The contract I signed on my first day had stated that the first detention assignment shall be a warning. After that, any deviation from the rules will lead me right back to Blue Skys. I wonder if this cycle will continue until I am eighty, and, if so, can they at least introduce fries to the cafeteria menu?

              Since school was closed yesterday, I’ve had a lot of time to think about the nature of my situation, including the reality of supernatural phenomenon I have recently begun to recognize. While in Blue Skys, I witnessed countless strange, unexplainable events, such as my friend Brock magically lighting every meal on fire before he ate it, or Audrey manipulating water into detailed pictures on her table and painfully shocking everyone she touched. The other patients were always asking me what I could do, and I never knew how to answer them.
Uh – I can paint?
The small girl in Sunny Days has forced me to open my eyes to the truth: I am not normal. I would not have gone to Blue Skys or Sunny Days if I was. Which means… the girl is not normal either. She can
do
things… things which I cannot explain. I believe there is more to her than a sad story and a perfect face. If I could just… talk to her without my aides forcefully removing me from her presence, perhaps I could glean some answers.

              Why am I different? Who is in charge of this whole “Blue Skys” operation? How did they find me? Why am I here? Who are these other gifted freaks in this school, and where did
they
come from? Do my
grandparents
know anything about this? Do I dare ask them?

              So many questions!

              A foot of beautiful white snow blankets the town after yesterday’s blizzard. It looks so peaceful I can almost ignore the chains tethering my wrists to my ankles as I drag my feet across the snowy driveway. Okay, my grandparents must know
some
of the answers to my questions; otherwise wouldn’t they object to the unjust treatment of their only grandchild? They
must
be in on this conspiracy! 

              So… as far as I know, I can trust no one. Not even the old couple I met for the first time three weeks ago. I wonder if they are the reason I haven’t heard from my mother since my release. If so, Grandpa is going to need a new set of dentures.

              My touchy aides cram me into the back of their van and listen to country music on the way to Sunny Days, a new form of torture. I contemplate breaking through the chains and strangling them, until I remember we are in a moving vehicle on a slippery road.

              The east parking lot is virtually empty when we arrive, save for one silver sedan and a red coupe. From the red coupe emerges none other than Surfer Boy – I think his name is Kyle? – and Kandi, a name I had heard before but had not, until two days ago, pinned to her face. The name was a legend at Blue Skys. She was Patient 1, the first patient ever to grace the infamous mental hospital’s sterile halls. I never imagined ‘Bloody Kandi’ as a stunning
chica
in hand-me-downs. I always pictured her as a little girl with sharp teeth and blood-soaked black hair based on the other patients’ stories. I watch her enter the school after Kyle, her hair secured in a messy bun on her head. She looks even more miserable than usual, with translucent, scar-covered skin and blue lips. Though she is wearing an oversized coat, she is still shivering. I clench my jaw and close my eyes, images of Destiny’s wan complexion as she lay dying in my arms plaguing my thoughts.

              Mac unlocks the chains and throws me out of the van like a bag of trash. I hit the pavement, the ice and snow stinging through my hoodie. My blood ignites with ire. It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster to restrain my hands from ripping out Mac’s jugular. Is nothing being done for Kandi? Is her aide treating her like my aides treat me? Why doesn’t someone call the cops? Are her injuries self-inflicted?

              No, they can’t be. That fist mark on her face two weeks ago told a different story. Someone is mistreating her, and I am going to find out whom.

              We pass Doctor Hendricks’ office on our way to the janitorial closet. Nothing like good, old-fashioned chores to wake a guy up in the morning. I overhear Hendricks’ less-than-friendly tone emanating from her office and pause briefly to listen:

              “I am afraid convincing her to talk is a long shot, at best. Well, I don’t know. It has been
seven
years, Ray. Seven. I have tried and… you think that would help?” She cackles. “You must be joking! No, Kandi is staying with me until I can sort the problem out. The sooner I can get her to talk, the sooner we can find the landing…”

              “Keep moving, Chavez,” Tim rumbles, shoving me forward. My upper lip curls into a snarl. I want to hear the rest of the suspicious conversation. Kandi is staying with Doctor Hendricks? Like,
living
with her? No, if that were the case, why would Kyle drive her to school? And why is she trying to “get her to talk”? What are they trying to find? Who is Ray?