CHUPACABRA

Chapter Six: The Go-Between

Testing, testing. 1, 2, 3. Dr. Zapata's voice sounds muffled and far away when it comes out of the black box in Forty's palm. A walkie-talkie, he called it. Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3. Forty, can you respond?

"Yes," Forty says out loud, then says it again when he doesn't answer a few moments later. Finally, Forty, hold the button with the clear tape down and talk into it.

"Oh!" She holds the button down and puts the box against her mouth, speaking loudly and clearly into it. "Yes! I can hear you!" A few seconds later, through a staticky hiss, Dr. Zapata says Good, just try not to scream into it.

Forty nods, remembers Zapata can't see her, then holds the taped button down again and hums an affirmative. She's seen monitors using the walkie-talkies before but has never held one herself, as Jane avidly refused to let her touch her own. Dr. Zapata explained it as sort of like a phone, though the walkie-talkie he gave her only worked for her and him. No one else could hear them this way. Forty isn't sure why this is important, but the thought that Dr. Zapata only wants to talk to her is a nice one. It makes her feel wanted, not just for the possible cure but for entertaining conversation. Conversations that go much like this:

Forty, come in.

"Yes, Dr. Zapata?"

What is your favorite color?

"Yellow."

What is your name?

"Forty."

What did you eat today?

"Toast and eggs."

Did you like it?

"Not much."

It is truly enrapturing dialogue, more than a human had ever spoken to Forty without her prompting it. One day, when Dr. Zapata came to her domicile to check on her forehead bandage, she asked him if Jane could get a walkie-talkie too. He said no, that this was a game only for him and Forty, and Jane wouldn't understand the rules. This is completely believable to Forty, who knows Jane probably would not like being bothered by her and her questions. Dr. Zapata, however, seems interested in answering any question Forty has, whether it's pointless or awkward, and he too asks her things. In the last couple days, he's made sure to keep up a constant stream of communication, encouraging Forty to get used to the walkie-talkie. Although she still isn't very quick at using it, she's become more familiar with what each button means. Some are glued into a stationary straight line, while others are marked with clear and blue colored tape. Dr. Zapata had also shown her where to set the device in her domicile during the day, a small corner directly below the camera where the sun could charge the solar battery.

Forty-Five groans from her place against the window, clamping her palms against her ears and kicking out clawed feet. "Turn it off already!" she whispers harshly. "I hate the noithe it maketh!"

This is as common an occurrence as Zapata's inquisitive conversation. Forty knows Forty-Five hates human technology as much as the next specimen, but she has no clear vendetta against Dr. Zapata and even seems to appreciate the man. The noise she refers to is the constant static radiating from the walkie-talkie when it is in use, and by her account the unshakeable hiss it gives off when silent but powered on. Forty can't hear such noise, at least not the background clammer Forty-Five hears, but she does admit the static is a bit annoying. However, she knows Forty-Five's major complaint isn't the sound, but an amalgam of fear and jealousy.

"He put that here to lithen to uth," Forty-Five said when Forty first showed her the object, though from the way her guilty eyes looked between Forty and the walkie-talkie she could tell this was just a cover for another concern.