Impervious (The Ascension Series Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Why did I do that?
Fran cursed her actions and caterpillared backwards. Chan always warned against this careless type of action. How had he phrased it? Something on the order of “
Be vigilant, Wolf. The old Fran is still alive in there somewhere
.”

She continued to chide herself all the way back to the zigzagged venting and for the entire next floor of her ascent. By the time she climbed up to floor four, however, her brain had quieted. She refocused on the upward movement and her original task. Near the surface, the smell of the Beast entered the shaft, and panic prickled her senses. Irritated with another wave of weak emotions, she pressed harder into the side of the flue, jamming her toes into the notched footholds. An itchy sweat accumulated on her scalp and spread down the back of her neck as her legs hummed from the exertion.

At last, she flopped, belly-first, onto the final landing and took a moment to rest before reaching through the grating to apply the code. The covering slid open. She crawled out, stretched her back, and resisted the urge to sneak over to Chan’s old room. She scanned up and down the hallways hoping to see something that would offer a clue. She snorted. What did she expect? A lit-up sign that said “Open Air” with a thick arrow to point the way?

As Fran contemplated which direction to go, she wondered how she would recognize the portal. Would it look like any other door―a sleek slider with a sensor panel to the left? Maybe it would be an enormous wheel made of steel that she’d have to crank to release the hatch. It might even resemble the pictures she’d seen of old fashioned doorways with a shiny, rounded knob at the height of her belly-button.

She leaned against the wall, closed her eyes until the plotting map blossomed into focus, and then hurried to the first room along the hallway.

Point A. Identical to Chan’s. Single bed with tight corners, old fashioned computer, and haze-gray locker standing open, devoid of contents. Fran examined the ceiling, scanned the walls, moved the locker out of the way, and then checked under the bed. No trap doors. She rapped her knuckles up and down the wall and listened for any sign of hollowness. Nothing.

She moved on to the next room—Point B. Similar to Point A. When she opened the steel locker, however, a few heavily-stained, wrap-around smocks hung on the hooks. Fran recoiled from the sour smell, and moved across the room to check for any sounds of a hollow opening. As she stood with her ear to the wall, angry voices erupted in the hallway.

“I’m not doing diaper duty this time. I did it last time.”

A brief pause followed. A second voice chimed in.

“Hey, how many accidents has the idiot logged this week?”

“I’ve recorded four, maybe five,” the first guy responded.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You know what that means?”

The first guy let out a whoop. “End of the line, buddy!”

Fran winced at the careless laughter that came from the two.

“Yep. So long sucker.”

“Come on; let’s get our drink on with Freddie.”

Fran tiptoed to the doorway, peeked around the frame, and spied the backs of two uniformed guys as they moved away. They walked with the swagger of youth, in no big hurry to complete their job. In the middle of the hallway the deserted Post-Primer remained forgotten in his chair.

On a shiver, Fran approached the chair. Stale air surrounded the Post-Primer and she cupped hand to cover her mouth and nose and then looked into the face of the…
Man? Woman?

Those being cared for at the Ranch wore similar smock-like tops and wrap around pants, dotted with chunks of gloppy porridge. Sharp shoulders, elbows, and knobby knuckles jutted out at odd angles as if they might burst through the confines of paper-thin skin. Eyes reflected yellow where the white should have been, and a murky gray-blue through the center. They seemed to lock on to Fran, with a silent plea for help. The Post-Primer lifted a gnarled hand and drew pasty lips apart, just as a new set of voice bellowed from around a far corner.

“Come on, Bullwinkle. Let’s get this job done so we can head out for the day.”

Fran took one last look at the boney face, mouthed the word 'sorry,' dove into the nearest room, and lingered just the inside the threshold.

“Where do they take them anyway? Ya know, after we drop them off?” This guard sounded just a little younger than the first.

“Who knows? Who cares? I’m figuring an incinerator of some kind. Less mess that way.”

Fran grabbed her stomach.
Don’t go there, Wolf. Stay above it.

As much as she wanted to find the portal, an even greater need to depart from the lair of the Beast pervaded every living cell in her body. Fran waited for the sounds of the guards to retreat before slinking back to the venting. Within a few short hours, she had learned about an exit in this buried city, shared a mini-reunion with her brother, and stared into the murky-blue eyes of a resident who warred with the Beast. All she wanted to do now was chow down and sleep.

However, when she remembered her promise to Pete, a new burden weighed her down. She wouldn’t call Pete’s kisses awful. His lips felt soft and warm, and his breath tasted like sweet cinnamon candies on their last encounter. However, if the scenario played out anything like the last time, the kiss would give him false hope, and a hovering, love-sick Pete-shadow would annoy her for the next several days.

She zigzagged down the chute and then paused on the sixth floor platform to give her shaky legs a moment of rest. As she rested, she peered over to the diagonal leading to the second hallway of the sixth floor.

No. Don’t you dare, Wolf.

Too late. She scurried toward Ted’s place.
Just a peek.

She moved past the quiet gaming chamber without even glancing inside knowing the match would be over by now. As she continued to crawl, her knee bumped into something.

What the…?

As soon as Fran reached down, she felt an aluminum meal carton. A heavy, warm, aluminum meal carton. She ripped off the top and hot steam, laden with the savory aroma of burgers and fries, wafted across greedy nostrils. Her stomach ripped a ferocious roar while a shiver raced through her body. Salivary glands lubricated her mouth, and her taste buds quivered at the delicious prospect. Fran couldn’t help but laugh at her physical response as she shoved a fistful of fries into her awaiting chops. Crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside, salted just right, and hot enough to sear her tongue. She forsook all social graces in the dark tunnel, and before swallowing the first mouthful, she attempted to cram in more. She lifted the burger from its aluminum nest. Hot juices drenched the bottom bun and transformed it into a soupy sponge. With the fries squirreled into a fold in her cheek, Fran chomped off a bite so large it hung half out of her mouth as she chewed its meaty goodness. Was that cheddar? Yes it was. And ketchup. And mustard.
And
pickles! Fran ate and ate until she couldn’t eat any more.

One burger, hundreds of fries, and a chocolate chip cookie later, she lay on her back and rubbed her swollen abdomen, stretched beyond its norm. After a few minutes of enjoying the most satisfying pain she could remember, Fran rolled over onto her belly and let out a whopping belch before pushing up onto hands and knees. She shuffled backwards with awkward movements and inched past the gaming chamber. As she glanced into the confines, she found herself face-to-face with her brother. His cheek pressed against the mesh, and with the weave imprinted, he bore the essence of Pete.

“Did you enjoy dinner?”

Fran cleared her throat. “Mm hm. Thank you.”

“Are you ever going to come home?”

Fran froze and her heart ticked off the seconds of silence. She wanted more than anything to be a family. She missed him more than she cared to admit. But he had deserted her. He had run off with Nissa, leaving no room for a little sister. She continued to back away with no answer for her brother.

Chapter Eight

By the time Fran made it back to her niche, she had digested enough of the food to feel comfortable again. She trekked blindly, but with ease, until she tumbled headlong into a body.

“Who…?” she whooshed out.

“Wha?” A familiar voice replied as warm hands steadied her.

“Pete?”

“Hey Wolf! You’re back.” Fran could hear a smile in his voice.

She fumbled around for her old Light Genie and soon a soft glow illuminated Pete’s sleepy face complete with a cocky grin in the center.

“Brought you some food.”

Her stomach recoiled, but she figured she ought to fake gratitude anyway. Pete might have employed some risky maneuvers on her part.

“Oh, um… great. Thanks.” She forced a smile.

Pete searched around in his pockets and fished out a worn, but rather large, baggie. He held up the prize.

“Care for some chocolate covered peanuts?”

Fran reached out to take the treat, but Pete snatched it back.

“Not so fast.”  He scooted closer.

How could I forget?

Although in an awkward position, he managed nestle up next to Fran and exhale a chocolaty breath in her face. Fran turned her head to offer Pete his prize, but he didn’t lean in right away. Instead, he reached over and cupped the back of her head. Fran froze as he moved his thumb in easy circles at the base of her skull. He still reeked of the Agora—a mixture of fried foods and humanity. Fran sensed a layer of men’s cologne hidden within Pete’s bounty of smells and realized he must have gussied up for tonight’s event from a display counter.
How sweet.
Her heart kind-of mushed for his obvious puppy love.

She didn’t resist when he pulled her close. In a way, his nearness brought comfort, and her shoulders relaxed for the first time that day. His hot breath on her ear tickled as he whispered her name.

Not Wolf.

Not Fran.

But here real name…Sarah. The name she swore off during her schooling years when her sixth year teacher mortified her by proclaiming that Sarah meant “Princess.” Her classmates had giggled until her face burned. From then on, she had become Fran. But now, as the name floated from Pete’s lips, enveloped in a hot whisper, it transformed her. The darkness of the day vanished. A flicker of youth flashed through her soul. Their lips touched―just barely―with a sliver of a breath still between them. Somewhere in the moments between the peanut exchange and their merging breath, something changed. For a fraction of a moment, the clown turned into a hero. She pressed into Pete’s warm mouth. The cologne, the breath, and a warm sensation in her belly overwhelmed her senses.

His grip tightened on her head, and as he slipped a second arm around her back, her dreads tangled in his fingers, jerking her head back. Pete mumbled a quick, “sorry,” as Fran came to her senses and pulled away.

They both remained silent.

Finally, Pete cleared his throat. “Okay... Well... Um... Here you go.”

He thrust the bag in Fran’s direction. Just as her fingers curled around the plastic, he tugged it, along with Fran, toward him. She released the sack and pressed her spine into the cold metal of the pipe.

“Um, you should go, Pete.”

An uncomfortable silence hung between them.

“Hey, I was just kidding, you know.” He tossed the bag to Fran, and shimmied backwards. His loud voice amplified off the surrounding metal pipe. “I mean, this guy knows when to leave well enough alone.”

Fran heard a ‘thud’ and looked up to see Pete rubbing his head. He mumbled a few curses and moved outside of the glow from the Light Genie. His strained voice rang out from the darkness.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Fran allowed a tiny smile to inch across her face.

After giving Pete ample time to scatter, Fran tucked the reader into her jacket and headed to the Agora. The post-game, semi-deserted courts lacked the typical bustle. Outside of some leftover gaming wannabes who huddled around the small screens and a few service workers on litter patrol, a small stream of residents trickled around the periphery. Fran sashayed to a charging counter and did a quick shoulder check before pulling the reader from its confines and sliding it onto an energizing pad. She ticked off the seconds in her head and flicked her gaze between the power indicator on her reader and her surroundings. Her skin prickled as a Graphie hovered near one of the small gaming boards ID’ing each of the amateur gamers.

Fran remained on high alert. A nanosecond after the ping indicated a complete charge, she swiped the reader from the pad, and stowed it back into her jacket, while moving toward the nearest vent opening.

Once tucked into the darkness she let out a sigh, moved back to her niche, and before long, the glow of the reader again reflected from the walls of her comfortable cubby. She lay prone, propped on her elbows, with her chin resting on the back of balled fists.

Her stomach growled.
Seriously? Already?

Like a greedy child, it seemed the more her appetite received, the more it begged. She felt around for the crinkly bag Pete had left behind and then poked a hole through the plastic. After corralling a handful of morsels, she popped a single nut into her mouth and allowed it rest on her tongue, savoring the sensation of the sweet chocolate. Soon the coating melted, and the flavor of the salty nut nipped her tongue. She popped another into her mouth and continued reading.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks since Ema exited through the portal and journeyed into the old world I had known as a child. And one week and six days since her two escorts returned.

Alone.

They say it was cold. That it rained an acid-like substance. They took cover in a nearby cave, and Ema insisted they stay the night. When they awoke, she was gone.

That’s what they said.

I insisted we send out a search team. I screamed at Marcus to let me find her, begged him to open the portal. I even threatened to share the secret with the entire city.

He said it was too late. Claimed they soldered it shut this time.

But I don’t believe him. He’s not the same man. An evil seed has sprouted in his soul. A wickedness. A greediness. A desire to rule and control. So what do I do? Where can I go?

She swiped the screen eager for the next entry, but an empty white glow emitted from the screen. She swiped again.

And again. The reader mocked her efforts with pale light and a soft hum.

That was it? The end? What about “and we all got out and lived happily ever after?” Or “and by the way, if you want to come for a visit, just click the button behind the empty locker in room fifty-five?”

Why would someone reach into her soul and yank out the newly-planted seed of hope before it had even had time to take root? She wanted to toss the reader down the shaft and into the black abyss before a modicum of reason resurfaced.

What good would that do? Besides, I can still play games and stuff with it.

Her hands shook, and her mind buzzed. Who was this guy? She wished Chan were here. They’d talk about it for hours, investigate every angle and possible scenario. Together, they would unfold the mystery. Does the exit even exist? Was it soldered shut and hidden away? Did Chan even try to find his way out, or did he fall to the decline before he had the opportunity?

On a sigh, she powered down the reader and nestled into her crinkly canvas blanket to think. Her fingers rubbed the surface, a habit leftover from childhood. The constant touching had worn the fabric, making it soft like old-fashioned cotton. That’s what Mom told her anyway.

In the darkness, her mind tracked through the long day. A hard nub bit into her hip, and she felt around under the canvas to locate the disturbance—a chocolate-covered peanut. Pete’s goofy smile flashed through her brain, and a shiver threatened her spine, stirring unexpected emotions. Was she ready for this?

Back in fifth grade, she had brought a pamphlet home from school describing what to expect during the
Years of Awareness
. Mom had sat down and talked to Fran about love and kissing and stuff. It had all been very mortifying. Even worse, after the embarrassing conversation with Mom, the next day at school, boys and girls were placed into separate classrooms and the discussion continued with a social worker specializing in the
Years of Awareness
. As a class, they watched a documentary-style video discussing each part of the lip, face, and the various other sensory mechanisms. Every girl had received an anatomically-correct, gender-appropriate plastic doll’s head, and for homework, they were encouraged to poke, prod, soothe and even try out a kiss on their silicone friend. They received quizzes and tests, just like any other class. No big deal.

Fran had done fine with the academics even if the idea of kissing a real, live boy terrified her. However, it seemed along with this learning, the rest of her classmates had catapulted into their awareness and couldn’t wait to test the waters. She avoided this new wave of activity by staying away from unchaperoned parties and soon forgot about the whole matter―until the day at the Agora when Freddie Stevenson and his posse tracked her down.

They’d followed her around like a pack of pesky Graphies, making kissing sounds and snickering the whole way. The more she ignored the boisterous crew, the louder they became. When she heard freckled-face Freddie announce her as “Sally-Spinster” and “Doll-Lover” from the PA system on the stage in front of hundreds of strangers, however, Fran’s simmering temper rose to a boil.

With confidence, she marched up to Freddie and planted a smooch on his lips so intense his face turned bright red. He ran off stammering something about having to get to work. After that, no one tried to kiss Fran again.

Until Pete.

What was it about Pete’s nearness last night that had unnerved her? He really did annoy her, right? Never serious, always joking. And what about those crazy eyebrows? She inhaled, remembering the scent of his cheesy cologne. The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement, and that weird feeling returned to her gut. Time to shut down the brain. She sighed and closed her eyes.

Hours later, the need to use the bathroom woke her. She rolled onto her side and lifted up into crawl-mode to make a beeline to the Agora. An angry bladder spurred her on, and she scuttled through the vent in record time. She punched in the code, scurried out the opening, and scampered toward the public restrooms. Because a few cafes remained open, the smell of fresh roasted coffee beans filled the air. The light pedestrian traffic proved to be a good thing for efficiency but not such a good thing for the risk of exposure.

After she relieved her bloated bladder, Fran stopped to do what any civilized human being would do. She waved a hand under the spigot and enjoyed the feel of warm water on cold, achy fingers. A moment later, bubbly soap entered the stream, and Fran scrubbed at the dirt layered onto her skin from the sooty ventilation systems. Did she dare peek in the mirror? Her face might need a good scouring as well.

Fran lifted her eyes, and a Wolf stared back. She moved one hand out of the stream of sudsy water and touched her matted hair. She knew the ends had wrapped together into the ancient style of dreadlocks, but she hadn’t realized her once springy curls had all but disappeared into a ragged pile of mange. Soot covered her dirty face, and shifty, blue eyes tracked her movements. In place of her once plump apple cheeks were sharp angles and deep recesses. Her upturned nose now pointed forward, and her neck and jaw appeared more streamlined. In a way, she saw the illusion of her own mother—the way Fran always remembered her before she declined.

Weird.

She scoured the soot from her face, ran her fingers through her hair and tried, without success, to break up the dreads before shrugging skinny shoulders and departing.

As she meandered through the Agora, Fran amused herself with the reflection she had just witnessed and laughed at her own double standards. After all, Pete didn’t look bad with his thick, wavy hair and deep brown eyes. Actually, the only thing about Pete she found even a tiny bit unattractive were his slightly-bony shoulders.

And he’d kissed her face last night?
More power to ya, Pete.

In an instant, her brain retreated back to the old sleeping niche, to the glow of the Light Genie on Pete’s easygoing eyes. The feel of his breath. His strong hand on her ratty head. Fran’s heart rate picked up a few extra beats as she wandered and reminisced.

Lost in her thoughts, she missed the heavy static in the air.

And tingle down her spine.

Temporary paralysis struck like rude lightening, yanking her out of her sweet reverie. She kept her gaze to the floor, yet only a single pair of ratty boots to contemplate meant only a single set of eyes to scan. No time for the paralysis to wear off. No time to find a place to hide.

“In the name of the Impervious Authorities, I request Accountability,” the mechanized voice demanded.

For some reason, in the heat of the moment, Fran considered the weirdest thing.
I wonder whose voice they used to create the Graphie commands.
It didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t she be freaking? Shouldn’t she be struggling against the paralysis? Shouldn’t she at least be damning the Council in her Rebel head? Yet, instead, this odd thought popped into her mind? Maybe she’d lost it after all. Or maybe she knew.

Her time was up.

Fran lifted her chin and opened her eyes. A red beam flashed in her vision.

“You have been found Unaccountable. By the authority of the Council, you are under arrest….”

She felt Pete’s thumb rubbing circles on the back of her head and his breath as he whispered her name. She smelled cheesy cologne and tasted chocolate peanuts. Then her world went dark.