Myrikal Page 3

  Russ burst through the door to their latest hideout with an enthusiasm he truly felt this time. “This is going to work! You will be back out in civilization, such as it is, within a few days!”

  She’d asked Russ—she wasn’t allowed to call him “dad”—once why he’d named her Myrikal and why he’d spelled it so weird. She’d been around five or six and she’d known how to read since she was three. It just hadn’t occurred to her before then that her name was actually a play on the word “miracle.” His answer took her breath away. Not in a good, life is beautiful way, but in a just got kicked in the gut by an elephant way.

  She remembered the disgusted look on his face, eyes narrowed, lips curled in a snarl as he snapped an answer at her. “It’s sarcasm at its best. Because your life is a sick joke.” His eyes glazed over and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “We tried everything to kill you before you were born. We didn’t want you. Nothing worked, so we decided to finish the job after you were born. As I held my dead wife in my arms—dead because of you—I tried again to kill you. But… you… just… wouldn’t die!”

  In a quivering, quiet young girl voice, she’d asked, “Why did you keep me, then?”

  Blinking, his eyes became clear again and he blew a sharp snort of air out his nose in derision. “I wouldn’t want a weapon like you to fall into the hands of my enemies.”

  Now, at age twelve, she’d figured out the real reason. He was training her to be an assassin like him.

  She pulled the scarlet-colored, tight-fitting one-piece suit up, slipping her arms into it and pulling it up onto her shoulders. She had three of the heinous suits. Just those. Nothing else.

  Russ always wore black, normal pants, shirts, and shoes. He told her, “I want you to stand out. You’ll be the mascot for this operation. You don’t need to hide in the darkness, because no one’s going to be able to kill you.” He narrowed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah… let them see you coming. Let their fear consume them when they realize you’re coming for them.”

  Myri sighed as she caught a glimpse of her hardened skin in the sliver of a mirror in her temporary room. It didn’t look any different from other people’s skin other than maybe being smoother. The obvious difference, to her, was the thickness. She pushed a finger into the exposed skin at her neck. It didn’t feel like normal tissue. It was hard, like pliable armor, and returned to its original position and smoothness immediately upon removing her finger.

  “Get a move on, girl,” Russ growled from the doorless doorway.

  “Yes, sir.” She hurriedly pulled her jet-black hair back into a ponytail, running her fingers down the inch-wide strand of silver that ran from her right temple all the way to the tip.

  “Stop messing with that abominable streak or I swear, I’ll yank it out of your head.”

  She knew her subconscious habit of stroking the stiff, metallic strands drove her dad crazy, but she couldn’t make herself stop. Myri dropped her hand to her side and looked down at the floor. “Yes, sir.” She didn’t think he’d be able to “yank” it out, but she didn’t want to test that theory.

  “Let’s go.”

  She followed him out of the subterranean hideout and into the pre-dawn streets of Manhattan, wincing at the dim light from the not yet risen sun. She grabbed for the dark-tinted goggles that hung from the belt at her side and slipped them over her head. She repressed a sigh as they settled over her sensitive eyes, wincing again as her father growled and shook his head. He appreciated her eyesight when darkness surrounded them since she could see in the blackest of night, even in the unlit underground tunnels. That appreciation evaporated like a drop of water on a burning hotplate whenever she reached for the goggles. Any sign of weakness put him in a dark mood. A darker mood.

  Squinting even with the protection, her eyes slowly adjusted and she rushed to catch up with her father. She wondered where their destination would be today, but didn’t dare ask.

  As she reached his side, he spoke without looking at her. “Do you remember what you learned yesterday?”

  Of course she did. Her mind took in and processed information like a fabled computer from days gone by. She never forgot anything. The trick to answering his question was trying to guess which lesson he was referring to. And… she knew she’d get it wrong no matter what her answer. It was all part of her “training”—a way to toughen her up. Feelings would get in the way of doing a job right. He’d told her over and over again he had to make sure she had none left before she joined him in the family business.

  Myri squared her narrow shoulders and looked at her dad’s profile as they rushed down the trash-strewn street. “Never trust anyone. Don’t show them all your strengths and never show them your weaknesses…” She ducked as he twisted and threw a punch aimed for her face. Throwing an arm up to block his follow-up swing, she twisted and dropped lower, sweeping his legs out from under him with one of hers. She stepped back, outside his reach, and continued, “Be ready, always on your toes, for a physical attack—even from your supposed allies. Everyone’s an enemy.”

  He nodded, rubbing his arm where it had collided with hers. “Good. Now help me up.” He extended his hand.

  Shocked at his positive words, her mouth dropped open and she reached for his hand. Off balance and unprepared, her greater strength did nothing to keep her from flying over him when he grabbed her arm and jerked. She fell, spread-eagle, and scraped along the broken cement face first. Her instincts, from years of training, kicked in and she rolled into a ball just before her dad’s booted foot slammed into her. He knows it doesn’t hurt me, ‘cause I’m sure he wouldn’t do it if it did. This went through her mind before any thoughts of action—evasive or otherwise.

  The hours and hours of grueling training kicked in and Myrikal rolled and stood in one fluid motion, caught her father’s foot by the heel as it torpedoed toward her face, and pushed it into the air. Russ’s planted foot left the ground, lifting a good two feet into the air as his body whipped backward in an awkward spiral. He landed with an oof on the flat of his back, all the air whooshing out of his lungs.

  Myri covered her mouth with her hands and stepped toward him. “Da…” She swallowed. “Russ… are… are you okay? I’m…” She planned to say “sorry”, but remembered how enraged he got whenever she apologized. Apologies were for losers and wimps.

  He narrowed his eyes at her, then rolled over onto all fours, trying to draw in a breath. Her instinct told her to go to him. To kneel by his side, wrap a tiny arm around his shoulders, and comfort him. Make sure he was okay. He would never win a “World’s Greatest Dad” prize, but he was all she had. All she’d ever known. He kept her fed and clothed and made sure she stayed safe.

  Instead, she straightened her slumping shoulders, folded her arms, and cocked her head to the side, plastering a neutral expression on her face.

  Russ finally gasped. He hung his head and took in several more deep breaths before pushing up to his knees. He lowered his butt to the ground and leaned on one arm. With a clenched jaw, he scowled at his daughter. “How am I going to get you to lose the freakin’ compassion, Myri? You can’t have feelings for your prey.” He shook his head. “Assassins can’t have blasted feelings.”

  “Sor…” she stopped herself and swallowed. If he wanted her to be tough and unfeeling, she’d show him tough… She stepped toward him, intending to kick him while he was down. His eyes widened. And… she couldn’t do it. Instead, she plopped down next to him, knees bent up under her chin, and wrapped her arms around her legs.

  “What if I don’t want to kill people?” she whispered.

  “You’ll have to get over it.” He sighed. “Look, they’re all bad people. I only kill bad people.” He groaned as he readjusted his position. “I think you broke one of my ribs.”

  She clamped her mouth shut on the apology she wanted to make. “But… what if you’re killing good people?”

  He laughed, one short, cynical snort. “In a world like this one—a world of survival
where the only goal is to survive one more day—people are no longer good or bad. They just are. We are no better than wild animals. Is the wolf that kills the baby deer for food bad? Is the baby deer good? No and no. They just are. I am neither good or bad. The people I’m paid to kill are neither good or bad.” He tilted her chin up so she had to look in his narrowed eyes. “I just choose to be the wolf.”

  Russ stumbled through the door, dried blood caked to the side of his head. He’d been out on a job all night and Myri had started to worry (or hope) that he wouldn’t come back. He slumped onto the ragged couch and closed his eyes.

  “Here… let me clean that up.” She knew better than to ask him what had happened. She reached for the duffle bag that contained the first aid kit.

  “No. Leave it.” He tipped to his side and stretched out. “Just throw a blanket over me. I’m exhausted.”

  Myri knit her brow but didn’t argue. Asleep and snoring before she could cross the room, Russ jerked a little then settled in as she spread a blanket over him.

  No training today, then. Myrikal smiled. Time to go exploring.

  The wilds of Central Park intrigued her. Vegetation had sprouted in the city streets, finding purchase in cracks in the sidewalks and roads—even inside buildings. But Central Park had become a jungle, complete with wild animals. Mostly human wild animals. It was her favorite place to explore.

  Myri ran, not as fast as she could, but close to it. She counted in a steady rhythm to see how long it took her to go the seven blocks to the old park entrance. Dodging around and jumping over garbage and people, she ignored the stares and occasional hollers from those who had risen early or who were still out after the night’s activities. Running thrilled her. She ran fast. Her father had told her that she could almost keep up with an Olympic runner, whatever that was. He thought her speed was related to her strength. Strong leg muscles could just pump faster.

  Two-hundred twenty-five. Approximately two-hundred twenty-five seconds. She smiled. And that wasn’t even her fastest. Walking now, she turned off from the main trail as soon as she found a spot that didn’t look like it had been disturbed anytime recently. She pushed through the overgrown vegetation, ducking under branches and vines.

  “Help! Someone. Anyone. Help me!” The voice wafted quietly from a distance.

  Myri stopped, cocked her head to the side and pushed her thick hair behind her ear.

  “No one’s gonna hear you, branch hanger.” Different voice, followed by the laughter of at least two others.

  “Guys,” the first voice pled. “I gotta pee. Just let me down, please.”

  “Ha! No way! I wanna see ya’ piss your pants. Branch baby.”

  “Well… that ain’t gonna happen.” The first voice quivered just a tiny bit. “I’ll just hold it. I’ll hold it ‘til my bladder bursts.”

  “Let’s throw rocks at him! That’ll make him piss his pants!”

  Myrikal pushed her way toward the voices and found the boys—no, wait, two boys and a girl—digging around in the underbrush, trying to find suitable projectiles to fling at their target.

  She looked from them up into a tree where a boy about her age hung tightly wrapped to a tree branch with rope, some fifteen feet in the air. He caught her eye, raised his eyebrows, and mouthed, “run.”

  Shaking her head, she narrowed her goggled eyes at the boy she picked to be the leader of the pack. “Hey. Jerk-face. What’s going on here?”

  The boy with a mess of dirty-blond hair and a mud-smeared face whipped around to stare at her. “Are you… did you… did you just call me a ‘jerk-face’?”

  Myri nodded and placed her hands on her hips.

  The boy took a step toward her as his two companions gawked. “No one talks to me that way, little girl. Prepare yourself to join Branch up there. We’ll see which one of you’ll piss your pants first.”

  “I told you to run,” the boy in the tree said.

  The blond boy lunged for her and found himself clotheslined and laying on the ground less than a second later. His bully crew stared with disbelief.

  “Dude, you just let a little girl demolish you,” his pizza-faced companion laughed.

  “Get her!” the boy on the ground growled.

  The much bigger boy—he had to be at least fourteen—hesitated briefly before jumping for Myrikal. He grabbed her wrist. She whipped her arm around, breaking his grip, and grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm behind his back. He cried out in pain and the girl-bully looked down at the rocks in her hands before cocking an arm back to throw one. Myri caught it bare-handed and dropped it to the ground. Then, small-for-her-twelve-years-of-age Myri, lifted the boy a few inches off the ground and shoved him toward the rock-throwing girl. They tumbled to the ground, the boy sprawled on top of her.

  Blond-boy pushed himself to his feet, eyes wide as he stared at Myri. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Myrikal.” She shrugged, meeting his gaze.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said to his friends as they struggled to stand.

  The three hoodlums hurried off in the opposite direction from which Myri had come.

  She looked up at the captive. “So, Branch, you want help getting down from there?”

  The leaves rustled on the captive’s branch as he broke out into full-bellied laughter. “That… was awesome.”

  Myri stared at him through her dark, scratched goggles, one eyebrow raised, long enough to take in several breaths. Then, she did something she rarely did. She smiled. A full-on, teeth-baring smile. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

  The boy’s laughter halted and he screwed his face up as he wriggled. “And… I can’t feel my hands now.” A bird swooped over him and splattered the back of his head with a load of poop. He sighed. “Today is just not my day.”

  Myri, still with a twinge of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, climbed up the tree, pulling herself up with just the strength of her arms. She reached the boy and started to untie the ropes that bound him.

  “Uh…” He twisted his head back to look at her. “Are… are you just going to let me drop to the ground? ‘Cuz, I think I might break something—or several things—if I fall that far.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Myri paused. “I’ll hold onto your arm and lower you down to where it’ll be safe for you to fall the rest of the way.”

  “I saw that you’re strong and all, but I’m a bit of a chunky kid. You sure you can hold me?” His gaze flicked from her face to her skinny arms.

  She snorted. “I’m sure.”

  “K. As long as you’re sure, ‘cuz I can’t even hold my own weight,” he mumbled.

  Myri tossed her head to get her hair out of her face and, frustrated with the knots in the rope, grabbed it and ripped it in half. She reached for his wrist, her small hand only closing half way around it, and pulled the rope from around his body.

  He let out a little squeal as he dropped, squeezing his eyes tight. The limb bounced as his weight hit their outstretched arms. Myri held firm. The boy looked down, feet dangling in mid-air. “Still too far. Don’t let go.”

  Myri swung around the branch and hooked her legs over it, hanging upside down. That got him a few feet closer to the ground. “That’s going to have to do.”

  “Okay. Okay. Hold on. G-give me a second.” The boy hyperventilated.

  “On the count of three,” Myri said. “One. Two…” She released her grip and the boy squealed again as he dropped the seven or eight feet to the soft, vegetation-covered ground.

  “Ow, ow, ow.” He rolled up to a sitting position and grabbed his left ankle, eyes squinted shut. “You said you’d count to three!”

  “I lied.” Myri swung from the tree limb and landed with a graceful shush of the tall grass. “You okay?”

  “Just twisted my ankle, but that’s nothing compared to the injuries I’da got from those three rock-throwing jerks.” His mouth twisted into a pained grin. “Thanks. I owe ya’ one. One point for you, zero for me. I’ll even the score, though… somed
ay.”

  “You’re welcome. No need to even the score.” She held out a hand to help him up. “So, Branch, what’s your real name?”

  He grasped her outstretched hand and winced as she pulled him up. “Everyone just calls me Branch.” Several inches taller than her, he looked down at her. “And what’s your real name?”

  “Myrikal is my real name.”

  “Your parents must really love you.”

  Myri frowned and shook her head. “Just the opposite, actually,” she muttered.

  Branch tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “Okay, then. Parents are off the list of polite topics to discuss. How old are you?”

  “Twelve. How old are you?”

  “Thirteen. You’re kind of a shrimp. Why are you so strong?”

  Leaves rustled and Myri looked up at the crow that had just landed in the tree above them. She looked back at Branch and shrugged. “Not sure.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Well, what is your theory about it then?”

  “I don’t know… I think it has to do with the multiple times my parents tried to kill me before I was born.” She kept her voice flat, without emotion.

  Eyes wide, Branch opened his mouth then closed it. He swallowed and opened his mouth again before finally speaking. “Wh… what? They tried to kill you? Why?”

  Myri put her small hands on her hips. “Obviously because they didn’t want me.” She jerked her head up and sniffed. “But it backfired on them. The only one to die was my mom when she gave birth to me.”

  “Why…”

  “Don’t even ask why my dad named me Myrikal,” she warned.

  He shut his mouth.

  “What about you? What’s your story… Branch?”

  He ignored her question. “What’s up with the goggles? And that silver streak in your hair?”

  Myri sighed. “I was born with the silver streak. As for the goggles, the light bothers my eyes. But I can see great in the dark.”