Gifted

Chapter Twenty-five

Bella

Thick smoke chokes my lungs as I awake, coughing hard, into almost complete darkness. An alarm is blaring loudly, its staccato shrieks sounding like a wounded animal. I carefully move my arms and legs, assessing if I’m injured. I probably was, but whatever injuries I had have apparently healed while I was unconscious. How long have I been out, anyway?

I get slowly to my feet, holding my breath so not to breathe in the toxic smoke. Before I can raise to full height, though, my head smacks against something solid and unyielding. I cuss fantastically, rubbing my head, eyes watering from the pain. “What the hell?” I wonder, reaching up slowly to see what I hit. My hands run up the sloping sides of a concrete tent, the two massive slabs leaning together precariously over my head. By some bizarre fluke, these huge blocks fell right around me, shielding me from the greater destruction apparently suffered by the rest of the room.

I stumble out of the room, but the hallway beyond is full of smoke too. What happened? I remember a sound like an explosion overhead, and then the ceiling collapsed on us. Dad yelled, and then—oh God, Dad...

I run back into the room, but right then the building shakes again. Something gray flashes down from above and I feel a crushing pain in both my legs. I’m knocked to the ground by the impact. The thick slab of concrete is lying across my obviously-shattered legs, and the pain nearly causes me to pass out again. Ignoring the searing pain, I grab the slab and try to shove it off. We’re stronger than nonpowered humans, but only a little, I think. With supreme effort, I succeed in pushing the heavy slab off of me, unable to keep from screaming as my broken legs grind against the concrete floor.

The healing begins rapidly, once the crushing weight is removed; I can feel the steady warmth working through my legs, like just sliding into a hot bath on a cold day. It feels wonderful and for a moment, it’s all I can focus on.

Soon I can stand up again, and I glance quickly around the destroyed room, open to the gaping gymnasium above. Massive piles of concrete are visible just out of the gloom all around me, and I know I don’t have the incredible strength necessary to lift them away.

“Daddy?” I call shrilly over the blaring alarm. I hear no answer. “Dad!” I yell again. Still no answer. “Daddy!” I scream, panic beginning to claw at me. My frantic mind begins positing all sorts of explanations, each more wild than the previous one: scenario one—he wasn’t knocked unconscious and fought off the two men and escaped, thinking I’d already run out of the room when the building blew up (again, I need to know how long I’ve been unconscious); two—he was knocked unconscious, woke up, and went to find me. That explains why he’s not in the room, because he can’t be in the room, because if he is...then, number three...

NO! I yell at myself. He’s not...he can’t...I’ve got to keep looking!

My foot slides on something slick and wet, and I scream, stupidly looking down.

A man is lying on the floor, his torso and legs crushed by three huge slabs of concrete. My breath catches in my throat as I dare to take a close look, and a fragile sigh of relief seeps out of me. It’s not Dad. I see the second gun-wielding man crushed over by the wall, and my stomach turns as I see his head’s been caved in by a head-sized chunk. I wheel away and retch, but my relatively empty stomach doesn’t bring up much.

Convincing myself Dad’s not here, I manage to stumble my way back out of the room and locate the stairs, which remarkably haven’t been damaged. I emerge into the lobby and stumble out into the cool fresh air, choking and gagging. I double up and throw up again right on the sidewalk, but I’m so relieved to be out of there that I don’t feel too embarrassed. Several officers in uniform are making their way over to me.

“Miss, are you injured?”

No.

“Miss, are you powered?”

Yes.

“Miss, did you have anyone with you today?”

Yes.

I find myself shaking or nodding my head numbly to their incessant questions, my eyes scanning constantly, automatically, for any sign of Dad.

As an officer is leading me gently to a makeshift triage unit, there is a slow, gradually-building roar and then an incomprehensible amount of crashing masonry and rending steel fills the air. Screams cut through the noise. I turn, as if in slow-motion, to see the entire gymnasium—thousands of pounds of stone, concrete, and steel—crash to the ground, belching flying bits of concrete and thick white dust.

“Holy motherfucking shit...” the officer breathes beside me, her eyes wide.

It hits me, then. I know. If Dad wasn’t out by now (and if he was, he’d have found me by now), he’s dead after that.

Miss, did you have anyone with you today?

Not anymore.

Blinded to the horror around me—the fires everywhere, the burned people still running around outside (some who heal slowly, and others not at all) the screams and moans—I fall to the ground, my legs finally giving out, and howl.