Damaged Hearts

How peculiar, she thought and flipped the filigreed heart back and forth between her fingers. She never saw anything like this before. Her fingers rubbed over the bumps created by the fancy design. It was silver and could bring her enough money to eat for the week or at least food and a crappy place to rest for a day, maybe two. The extreme cold weather was on its way and anyone without shelter was doomed to freeze to death.

As she ran her finger along the side of the heart it snagged on a thin sharp latch. The once looped latch was broken. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked the blood from the scratch the sharp metal made on her finger. A bitter gust slammed into her back. Her skin quivered as she tried to shrink into her jacket. The tiny teen couldn’t stop the single warm tear that escaped her eye. Swallowing, she forced the rest back.

I won’t die tonight. No! Damn! I’m only prolonging the inevitable.

“Malin!” She heard Nakoa call.

Turning she asked, “do you have a place?”

“Yeah, I do,” Nakoa answered, “and it’s got easy access in the

back to sneak you in.

Thank God, or not god. Malin was never sure what to believe in. Her parents went to church every Sunday, but after the bomb went off, they were gone. What kind of god allows so many of his people to be destroyed and left in a desolate world, forever altered by the worst evils of humanity?

In her town, only eight people survived. When the weather changed, she and Nakoa, her best friend, were orphans. No one wanted to help them. They traveled as far away from their home as possible, but even after three years of walking away, there was no escape from the desolation. Bombs went off everywhere. It shifted the axis of the earth, causing extreme weather. The energy grid died too.

Nakoa took Malin’s shivering hand and slipped it into his oversized mitten. He only had one. He pulled it off a frozen corpse the winter before when they managed to find an abandoned home with no damage to the windows or doors. They survived thereby burning what they could find for wood. Sometimes they used dried feces. The only thing they didn’t burn was a single bed. Unfortunately, the smoke brought dangerous adults to the house and they fled for their lives. People eat what they wouldn’t fathom eating when they are

starved to the point of near death.

“What are you thinking?” Nakoa asked Malin.

“Just reminiscing.” She said.

“What is there to reminisce about?” Nakoa asked as he walked her

around the back of some haphazardly placed shipping containers.

“I don’t know,” Malin answered.

“So, what’s that you got in your hand?”

Malin forgot about the silver heart. She pondered about whether to tell him. Heck, it’s too late. It’s in his hand too. Might as well tell him, plus who else could she trust, if not him?

“Let’s get inside and I’ll show you.”

Nakoa walked her through the darkest shadows until they arrived at the furthest container out. There was a door in the center of the container and no windows. It didn’t matter. There was no moon in the sky to view through a window. There rarely was a moon or a sun. The sky was perpetually light gray.

The instant her friend opened the door, heat blasted her in the face. She stood still in the doorway as the warm air thawed her cheeks and nose.

“How is there so much heat?” She asked.

“I did some work,” Nakoa replied gently pushing her into the room

and closing the door behind her.

She knew what kind of work he did. They both sometimes did that to survive, but only when they felt it was safe to do so. Too many people died doing “favors” for survival.

She pulled her hand out of Nakoa’s mitten and left the heart in

his hand. Pulling his sleeve back to look at it he rolled the heart-shaped

locket around in his hand.

“That’s silver,” he said

“I know,” Malin replied.

“I wonder,” mused Nakoa as he fidgeted with the busted latch.

The broken latch scratched a line down the tip of his fingernail.

That would have annoyed Malin, but she watched Nakoa, unfazed, continue to

fidget with the latch.

She ran her pale white fingers through his thick black hair. He smiled and leaned into her hand while he continued to fidget with the broken metal. She kissed his brown cheek and noticed a small fresh yellow bruise.

“Yes!” Nakoa screamed as the locket flopped open.

Malin leaned in, letting her head rest on Nakoa’s shoulder. Inside the locket was a photo of a woman holding a baby in a christening outfit. The mother beamed with the most intense loving look in her eyes. Malin recognized that look. It was the same look her mom had when she bragged to other parent’s about Malin’s grades and her extracurricular success in science and martial arts. Her science achievements were worthless, but the martial arts, well, that was useful.

Bang!

Malin jumped and Nakoa pushed her towards the bed. She crawled under it and ate dust bunnies. A sudden slamming of metal on metal alerted her to the fact that someone violent entered the room.

“You rotten cheat!” a man screamed. “You gave me fake currency.”

“What are you talking about? Nakoa argued.

“This is only silver on the surface.” The man said.

“That’s not what I gave you,” protested Nakoa.

“Don’t you lie to us,” Malin heard a woman’s voice behind her.

Malin’s mistake was that she turned to see if she could get a view of the woman. Her hair caught on a spring under the bed. It moved, making a loud noise

“What was that?” The woman called.

“You brought someone with you, didn’t you,” the man shouted. “Get ‘em, Polly!”

With her hair wound around a spring, Malin couldn’t move. A skeletal woman with yellow and brown bruises on her face, and fresh reddish-blue bruises on her arms poked her head under the bed.

“It’s a girl.” She shouted to the man as she lunged under the bed.

“You are a cheat,” the man screamed.

Thwack! Thud.

Malin spun. She kicked. Her foot slammed into the woman’s face. She didn’t react.

From under the bed, Malin only saw large Timberland work boots and Nakoa’s battered tennis shoes. Nakoa’s feet stumbled back. Another thud sounded. Malin, distracted, took a scratch to the face. She grabbed the woman’s ratty hair and slammed the woman’s face into the floor. A pain shot through Malin’s head. Her hair held her captive. The woman picked up her head. She had an evil smirk.

Clink, clink. The locket! Nakoa dropped the locket. It landed between the Malin and the ugly lady. Both of them lunged for the locket.

“Give it to me!” The woman shrieked.

“It’s mine!” Malin shouted back.

“Thief,” the woman yelled. “You’re a thief.”

“It’s mine! Malin shouted again.

She yanked her hair free from her scalp. The lady had her hand over the locket. Malin smashed it with her fist. The lady yelped and pulled her hand back. The locket was still under her hand. A noise distracted Malin.

Ahck, ahck,ahck, ahck. The noise started slow and rhythmic. Within seconds the beat was chaotic. The grotesque choking noise made Malin cringe.

With the stealth of a deadly snake, she slid out from under the bed. There was barely a brushing noise as her leg swept around and took the man out. He fell. His right hand still gripped Nakoa's neck. Malin punched the man’s spine as Nakoa slammed his knee into the man’s face.

“No!” the woman shrieked.

A loud cracking noise echoed in the barely furnished container. The man landed on his face with a metallic thud. He didn’t move. Nakoa kneeled and placed two fingers on his neck. Malin stared at her friend. He shook his head.

“Well, thank God for that,” a voice came from behind.

Nakoa and Malin spun around.

“Kill them, Willy!” The woman screamed.

“Hell no,” he replied in such a calm, eerie way that a chill raced up Malin’s spine. “How many times do I have to tell you, Mrs. Jones,” his calm face turned to rage as he faced the woman and screamed, “My name is Willard!”

The woman froze in fear. Nakoa moved a step behind Malin, placing a hand on her elbow. Malin spread her feet and steadied herself for a fight against the tall, black-haired, black-eyed devil before her.

“My name is Willard,” he repeated and tilted his head.

His twisted mouth and wide-eyed stare sent chills down Malin’s back. No one moved or spoke. Willard reached out, grabbed the woman’s wrist, and pulled it to him. He dug his fingers under her tightly clenched fingers and slowly pulled them upwards. With his other hand, he ripped the locket from her hands.

Malin lurched forward. Willard turned his head. His eyes were wide with fury. Nakoa squeezed Malin’s arm and held her in place. Willard shook his head slowly.

“This is between me and Mrs. Jones,” he snarled.

Malin took a step back. Nakoa pulled her close and pressed his lips against her ear.

“It’s not our fight,” he whispered, “but we should figure out how to get out of here alive.”

Malin agreed, but said and did nothing. Willard was still staring them down. She hoped he didn’t hear what Nakoa said.

Mrs. Jones trembled. The open door let all the heat out of the small container room during the fight. It was colder than brass balls now. Everyone’s breath was visible, except Willard’s.

Does evil equate to cold blood? Thought Malin.

Willard turned slightly and took one step towards Malin.

“Belong to you?” He asked.

“No!” Mrs. Jones yelled as Malin nodded. “That’s mine. Look inside.”

“Where’d you find it?” Willard asked Malin and opened the locket.

“Over by the mound before the junk metal pile,” Malin answered.

“Why Mrs. Jones,” Willard said as he turned on his heel. “You were pretty once. Did you bury the baby where you buried my brother?”

“What?” Nakoa and Malin blurted a millisecond apart.

Mrs. Jones turned pale and Willard held his hand up to Malin and Nakoa. Digging through her memory Malin pulled up a mental image of the photo in her memory. This desperate, battered woman with a tear-streaked red face, looked nothing like the beaming, healthy young mother in the photo.

“I would never kill a baby,” she protested.

“So, Roger killed your child? How shocking.”

Willard snapped the locket shut. Mrs. Jones flinched. Nakoa, taking advantage of the situation, edged himself and Malin a half step away from Willard. Malin knew what Nakoa wanted. The problem was that Willard and Mrs. Jones were blocking the door.

“You don’t need to do that,” Willard said.

Malin and Nakoa froze. Is it possible he knew what they were thinking, planning? How could he?

Willard pulled out a soil knife, like the ones used for gardening. He placed it just below Mrs. Jones' throat. Then he stepped in closing every bit of personal space between them. His face bent down to Mrs. Jones. He didn’t look like a teenager now. He looked like a comic book vigilante. One curl swooped in front of his forehead. His eyes, unflinching and coated with long lashes. The thin lips on his face twisted into a sneer.

“Do you remember this?” Willard asked Mrs. Jones. “It’s what you gave me to dig my brother’s grave when you accused him of stealing from you. He was six!”

“He stole from us.” Mrs. Jones shouted in defense.

“He was six, and your husband was eating the bread while I buried my brother,” Willard snarled.

With his free hand, he whacked the bottom of the knife. It penetrated Mrs. Jones' flesh. She gasped. Her mouth opened and she spat out blood.

Nakoa and Malin made a break for the door. Willard moved faster than they expected. He tripped Malin and punched Nakoa in the face. Nakoa stumbled back. Malin kicked. Willard jumped before her leg could take him down.

“What do you want from us?” Nakoa demanded.

“Honestly, I don’t like being a young single parent,” he said. “Every time Roger and Mrs. Jones step out of their house they’re off to kill another kid.”

Mrs. Jones tried to shake her head. She tugged at the gardening tool lodged in her. Willard reached out and yanked the soil knife. Blood flew everywhere. Mrs. Jones' screamed as she fell to the floor. She choked and writhed in agony spreading blood across the floor, like a messy finger-painted mural. Willard kicked her and she silenced.

“You got lucky,” Willard said as he turned back to the wide-eyed Malin and Nakoa.

“How?” Malin asked.

Willard moved towards her. She knew by the way he managed to avoid her foot sweep that he’d be her match in a fight.

“They’re serial killers,” He said, pointing at Mrs. Jones and her dead husband. “Did you notice there are only kids here?”

Nakoa shook his head as Malin placed her hand on his back to keep him from retreating. She wanted to stay near the door.

“This is one of the few places where there’s food,” Willard stated.

“Food?” Malin asked.

“Yeah, they have a really nice, large greenhouse that requires labor,” Willard informed them. “They use us kids . . . “

“There’s food?” Interrupted Nakoa.

“Plenty,” said Willard. He slapped Nakoa’s shoulder and added. “Help me clean up the bodies, and I’ll get you some food.”

He handed Malin the soil knife.

“Your fighting skills are useful,” said Willard. “I need someone like you to help keep the kids safe.”

Malin looked at Mrs. Jones. The blood-smeared woman’s ice blue eyes widened as if begging for mercy from the girl she tried to kill.

“Help me dump that body.” Malin heard Willard say behind her back.

“Sure,” was Nakoa’s response.

Malin stepped forward. The pain in her stomach suddenly became noticeable. She tried to think of the last time she ate. That wasn’t enough for what she had to do. So, she pulled up the mental movie of Nakoa’s feet in the air. The noise his feet made on the wall as he struggled to free himself. The god-awful sound of him gasping for air. Malin stepped forward. She envisioned the woman’s crazed face as she grabbed for her under the bed. Malin reached down and put her hands on each side of the woman’s head. Mrs. Rogers gasped.

Malin felt someone standing over her. She froze for a moment. Something dropped between her and Mrs. Jones. It landed on the floor with a clink. She looked down. Was Mrs. Jones' child her first victim? Malin squeezed her eyes shut and twisted Mrs. Jones' head.

Snap!