Soulless The Girl in the Box - By Robert J. Crane Page 0,4
as I raced toward the place where she had landed. I pushed aside tree branches to find her in a creek, the water running over her. I cringed and hurried over. I felt the cool water splash into my boot (black, pleather, fairly nice until I got them wet) and soak my socks, felt the chill of it on my hands as I reached down and grabbed her under the arms to drag her to the bank. My gloves were leather and not meant to get soaked, but I dared not take them off; her shirt was sleeveless and her pants were short. My touch as I pulled her out of the water would be much worse than the damage she’d already taken.
Her hair was wet with water and just a little blood, I noticed as I pulled her onto the stony bank of the creek. She snorted and choked out clear liquid and bile as I pulled her onto the rocks. I felt the dampness make its way through my jeans and my long sleeved shirt. It was desperately hot, I was sweating, and the cool wetness was a kind of sweet relief from the heat.
“Woo hoo hoo,” came a catcall from the other side of the creek. “Look at that; Sienna and Eve, getting all wet and clingy.” A low guffaw came after it and I felt a bitter pang of annoyance. The speaker was a little taller than me but still short for a man. He wore a cutoff tank top and ragged blue jeans, and his hair was thinning on top, obvious since he wasn’t wearing his usual baseball cap to cover it.
“She’s hurt pretty bad, Clary,” I said. I looked down at her and her eyes fluttered. A thin trickle of blood ran down her forehead.
“She’ll be fine.” He dismissed us with a wave, turning his head away and puckering his lips in amusement. “It’s not every day I get to see the two of you rubbing up against each other. I might have to watch for a bit.”
I picked her up and carried her off the rocks to the trail. She was wet, an unconscious, dead weight that wasn’t fighting back. I set her on the dirt, long strings of her hair tangled. They touched the ground and I saw the little granules of sand cling to them. I felt guilty; she was going to be super pissed when she woke up.
I heard Clary splash through the creek behind me as I knelt next to Eve. Her hair had gotten long; it was short when I first met her. She was very thin, her chest flat, heaving up and down with great effort; her breathing was ragged. When I pulled her shirt back to look at the damage, I heard a moan of pain from her and a deep breath of interest from Clary. I shot him a dirty look and turned back to Eve.
Her sternum was broken, a hideous blackish blue bruise had begun to spread from the center of her chest. I didn’t dare unzip her shirt to look closer (especially with that pervert Clary behind me) but I knew enough that I was certain I’d have to call—
“Dr. Perugini is on the way,” came the voice from in front of me. Roberto Bastian came toward us at a jog, his buzzed black hair dripping with sweat. “She’ll be here in five or less. Until then, let’s just assess the damage—” He halted and dropped to a knee next to Kappler. “Damn.” He shot a look at me, but there was a surprising lack of guilt in it. “You’re playing a little rough for a training exercise, Nealon.”
“The rock kinda got away from me,” I said. “It’s not exactly easy for us ground-based types to take down a flyer. She was throwing her nets at me and I just...” I searched my memory, trying to make my vicious ambush seem not quite so vicious. “...figured out a way to take her down and did it.”
“Boy, did you,” said Glen Parks, splashing across the creek with Scott and Kat in tow. Parks was an older man, his long hair gray, mustache and beard matching it perfectly; not quite ZZ Top length, but close. He brushed the beard to the side and I could see a contusion across his neck that looked like my wristwatch. “I’m not upset that you took this exercise seriously, but next time be more careful with the neck. Even