15. Aileen
CHAPTER 15
AILEEN
T he steel jaws of the crusher slam down on the pickup truck ahead of me. Metal screams. Glass shatters. The machine's hydraulics hiss as they compact two tons of Detroit steel into a cube the size of a coffee table.
My prison inches closer on the conveyor belt. Each metallic clank of the chain drive counts down the minutes until it's my turn.
"Help! Someone help me!" My throat burns raw from screaming. The reinforced glass won't break no matter how hard I kick it.
That thing wearing my face trapped me in here good. Handcuffs bite into my wrists. The doors won't budge.
The crusher's shadow falls over the windshield. Hydraulic fluid drips from its jaws like saliva. The pickup truck cube tumbles off the belt, making room for the police car. For me.
"Please..." My voice cracks. "I don't want to die like this."
The conveyor jerks forward another foot. Through the windshield, I watch the crusher's massive press descend again, testing its mechanisms. When it comes down next time, I'll be under it.
My bones will snap first. Then my organs will rupture as the metal folds around me. They'll find pieces of me mixed with the steel when they melt it down for scrap.
"Varak..." I whisper his name like a prayer. But he's probably dead too, after that fall with my doppelganger.
The car shudders as it hits the crusher's feed ramp. Tears blur my vision as the hydraulic arms extend toward the roof. This is it. In thirty seconds I'll be human origami.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The first impact will be quick at least. Maybe I won't feel anything when the press...
A grinding shriek of metal on metal. The crusher's jaws halt inches from the hood.
The jammed crusher buys me precious seconds. I twist around in the back seat, eyeing the metal mesh barrier. The handcuffs limit my movement, but maybe...
I brace my feet against the mesh and push. Nothing. Push harder. The metal groans. One more time. The welds snap with a metallic pop.
"Come on, come on!" I wriggle through the gap, scraping my arms raw. The steering column digs into my hip as I tumble into the front seat.
Keys. Where are the keys? My fingers brush cold metal in the ignition. The engine roars to life.
I slam the gas pedal. The tires spin uselessly on the conveyor belt's slick surface. The crusher's hydraulics whine as it starts moving again.
"No no no!" The jaws descend toward the trunk. I gun the engine harder, fighting the conveyor's pull. Metal shrieks as the crusher bites into the rear end.
The car lurches. Half in the crusher, half out. The tires finally catch on something. With a grinding screech, the front half of the cruiser tears free from its own trunk.
The sudden release sends me surging forward. My stomach drops as the front half of the car tips off the conveyor belt. I hit the brakes just before the nose slams into the concrete floor.
I'm alive. Somehow. The crushed rear half of the police car disappears into the machine behind me, but I made it out. Now I just need to find Varak.
The glove box yields a ring of keys. My hands shake as I try each one in the handcuffs until - click! Freedom. I toss the cuffs aside and grab the wheel.
What's left of the police cruiser groans as I gun it toward the exit. The ragged edge where the crusher bit through drags along the ground, throwing up a shower of sparks. The frame scrapes against concrete with an ear-splitting shriek.
Chain link fence looms ahead. I floor it. Metal tears as the cruiser bursts through, leaving half its bumper behind.
Varak can take care of himself. He's basically indestructible - I watched him fall thirty stories and walk it off. But my parents...
"Shit!" I slam the steering wheel. Mom and Dad are alone with those things. Those shapeshifting zealots who want to rewrite human history.
Dad's probably giving Smith attitude right now. He gets lippy with everyone - especially people he thinks are disrespecting his pizza place. And Mom's even worse. She'll back Dad up and escalate things until somebody snaps.
The cruiser fishtails as I take a corner too fast. More sparks spray from the mangled rear end. The engine makes a concerning rattle but I push it harder.
I picture Dad puffing up his chest, getting in Smith's face. "Nobody tells Sam Marella how to run his kitchen!" Mom standing behind him with her arms crossed, that look that could strip paint. "That's right! Show him, Sammy!"
The Grolgath won't hesitate to kill them both. To them, my parents are just two more primitive humans in the way of their mission.
I need to get there before my family's big mouths write checks their bodies can't cash. Before they push the wrong alien too far.
The cruiser's engine coughs black smoke as I race through a red light. Hold on Mom and Dad. Your loudmouth daughter is coming to save you.
The engine gives one final wheeze and dies. Steam hisses from under the mangled hood. Perfect. Just perfect.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. What I wouldn't give for one of those fancy portable phones Varak carries around. But those things cost more than I make in six months at the pizza place.
The street signs tell me I'm in the wrong part of town. Graffiti covers every surface. Broken glass glitters on the sidewalk. Most of the buildings sport boards instead of windows.
A payphone. There has to be a payphone somewhere. I lock the car doors and start walking, keeping my head down. The sooner I find a phone, the sooner I can call Varak or the real police.
The rhythmic thump of a basketball draws my attention. A group of guys play on a chain-link enclosed court. One of them spots me and nudges his friend.
Great. Just keep walking. Don't make eye contact.
"Hey mamacita!"
I quicken my pace. Footsteps follow behind me. More than one set.
"Los Lobos kick your ass!" The chant starts low, then grows as more voices join in. "Los Lobos kick your face!"
My heart pounds. The nearest cross street is two blocks away. Breaking into a run might trigger their chase instinct, but walking feels too slow.
"Los Lobos kick your balls into OUTER SPACE!"
The chant gets closer. I count at least five different voices now. My legs itch to sprint, but I force myself to maintain my brisk walk.
Just stay calm. Don't run. Don't give them a reason to attack.
A neon sign flickers at the end of the block, casting blue and red shadows across wet pavement. My heart leaps - a bodega! The owner will have a phone. Maybe even a working one.
The footsteps behind me get closer. My shoulders tense.
"This is a dangerous neighborhood this time of night, Chica." The voice is closer than I expected.
I spin around, hands raised. "Look, I don't have any money. I really need to be somewhere important right now."
The group exchanges confused looks. The tallest one - the one who spoke - furrows his brow.
"What? You think we're trying to rob you?" They burst out laughing. The sound echoes off brick walls.
"But you said?—"
"I said it's a dangerous neighborhood." He shakes his head, still chuckling. "Was just saying it because we were worried about you. Would you like an escort to a safer neighborhood?"
"That's really sweet of you, but I can't accept." I bite my lip, glancing over my shoulder. "I need to handle this alone."
"What, we ain't good enough to help?" The tall one's friendly smile vanishes. "Too street for you, princess?"
"No, it's not that at all!" My hands clench into fists. If only I could explain about the shapeshifting aliens hunting me. About how they can look like anyone. "The men after me... they're incredibly dangerous. I won't put anyone else at risk."
"Dangerous?" He scoffs. "Lady, we are Los Lobos. We own these streets."
"Trust me, you don't want to get involved. These guys will kill without hesitation." My voice cracks. "I've already seen what they can do. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you because of me."
The gang members exchange looks. The tall one's expression softens slightly.
"For real? You turning us down to protect us?"
I nod, throat tight. "Please. Just let me handle this myself."
"Damn." He shakes his head, chuckling. "First time someone's tried to protect Los Lobos. Usually it's the other way around."
The tall one steps forward, extending his hand. "I'm Jefe Rios. And you, brave little lady, are now officially a member of Los Lobos."
"What? No, I can't—" I stop mid-protest. Wait. This could work. Those shapeshifters would never look for me among a street gang.
"Take her to Maria's," Jefe says. "Give her the full treatment."
Before I can object, I'm whisked into a nearby salon. The smell of hairspray and chemical dye fills my nostrils. A tiny woman with tattoo sleeves circles me like a shark.
"Such pretty hair," Maria clicks her tongue. "We fix that right up."
Two hours later, I barely recognize myself in the mirror. My conservative black hair has been transformed into a spiky purple mohawk that sparkles with glitter. Dark makeup rings my eyes.
The gang colors - a leather jacket with the Los Lobos insignia - completes my transformation from pizza shop girl to street tough.
"My Dad is gonna kill me," I whisper, touching the shaved sides of my head. But I have to admit, no one would ever expect to find Aileen Marella looking like this. Sometimes the best hiding spot is right out in the open.
Maria adjusts my jacket, beaming with pride at her handiwork. "Now you look like proper Loba."
The bell above the door chimes. Jefe steps in, nodding approval at my new look. "Perfect. Those pendejos won't know what hit them when they mess with our new sister."
I turn back to the mirror, still stunned by my reflection. The girl staring back at me looks dangerous, untouchable. Maybe that's exactly what I need to be right now.