Page 41 of Despair

“Go!” he shouted, and pointed after Sam. “I’ve got this covered.”

She started jogging, then turned back and pointed at the caged plant. “Burn it.”

He nodded grimly and she took off.

* * *

Daisy tookto the container tops to track Sam. He wasn’t hard to follow. His white robe billowed like the sails of a skew-whiff ship. Unlike the other Faithful, she sensed no despair in this one. With each step, the hunt bloomed in her gut, and her need to unleash swelled beneath the surface of her skin. She followed him, but her past followed her.

She wasn’t in the maze of a container yard, but in the maze of a dilapidated house. She was fifteen. The stench of wood filled her nose. Mold. Mildew. Blood.

Drip drip drip.

Daisy flattened her back against a wall. Her heart bucked like a rabid horse. Wide eyes took in every dingy corner of the room. Perked ears strained for her adversaries’ breath.

Men.

Women.

She had no idea where Julius found these people, but they smelled funny. They smelled like the old roadkill she’d been forced to scrape off the road as punishment once for failing to do as she was told.

“This is what happens when we lose sight of our goals,” Julius had said. “Decay.”

Something held Daisy back from attacking Sam. And it wasn’t the old, warped instincts to hunt him like an animal, like she’d had with the homeless people. She’d slaughtered them, one by one, hoping to gain an iota of praise from the only man who’d ever given her attention.

Daisy had the sudden urge to go back to Axel, to touch him and look into his eyes.

She swallowed.

How could she trust her instincts if they’d led her to kill so much? Her palms itched. She glanced down, half expecting to see dark stains on them in the shadows, but there was nothing. Her yin-yang tattoo was a little on the dark side, but still manageable.

The sound of a can being kicked sharpened her focus. She followed Sam across the stacks to the rail yard where a train was being loaded.

“Go, go!” Sam shouted, waving to another Faithful lifting heavy crates into the car.

The masked Faithful stopped and stared at Sam. He registered the danger and quickly closed the sliding door on the car.

Hurry.

Daisy reached for her katana only to have her fingers close around the baseball bat. She’d left the katana with Axel. She only had the bat or the whip.

And the other skill.

The telekinesis.

If she could learn to harness it, she wouldn’t need a katana. But for now, she didn’t have time. Sam was getting away. The train started creaking and rolling. She leaped off her container and landed hard on the dirt. Pushing effort into her legs, she pumped them hard and fast. Her arms following suit and driving her onward, chasing after the fleeing Faithful as he caught up to the train.

The air in her lungs labored. She was unfit. Still recovering. All the more reason to end this quickly.

Only twenty feet away, the Faithful inside the train car reached down and boosted Sam up. They tumbled into the carriage. With her eyes locked firmly on the gap, Daisy didn’t notice another Faithful appear behind Sam with a gun in his hands. He pointed at Daisy.

He fired. She flinched and jolted to the side, hoping to swerve and miss the bullet. Nothing hit so she kept going. Another gun shot. Another swerve to avoid getting shot but it slowed her down. The train was leaving, faster and faster, and their only link to Julius was on board. The last car passed, and her thighs were on fire, but she wasn’t giving up.

She had to do this.

Had to prove to everyone that she had what it took. That she could be a part of this crime fighting family, to forgive them for leaving her, and to fix her mistakes. That she wanted to. There was no Axel being her conscience. There was no Parker telling her what was necessary. No Mary with her expectations. This was all Daisy. A turning point, she could feel it. A way to balance the dissonance in her life.

Faster, faster, she urged herself forward on the track. Within five feet of the caboose, she released her whip from her belt and snapped it out. The tip curled around a bar on the end like a tendril. She gripped tight and used the whip to pull herself up. With a last painful yank that felt like her arms would pull out of their sockets, she landed on the platform at the back of the boxcar.

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