Skywind

Winoa hardly ever washed her hands growing up. Tiny hairs of caterpillars tickled her palms, dirt clogs parched from the drought fell apart between her fingers, she’d wrap herself around the coarse stumps of trees, picking apart the bark and searching for the sap that rarely came out. Winoa’s hands once had the soft callousness of a child and muck coating of a wild paw. Her mother watched — in horror for the first few years — as that coating became an unwanted condiment on any of the dinners she made for her daughter. Dirt was the same as paprika, just another taste blending into the mix of food.

The adolescent fondness of this taste disappeared as Winoa’s teeth slid through the mud, filling her mouth with the soggy dirt, pebbles, and more than a dash of her own blood. She knew it was impossible, but she could feel an empty gap inside where they took out her kidney in the market. Once she overheard a hacker – the surgeons who take them out – say the insides of sellers just fill back up to take the space. The bastards have room for more food, he joked to anyone who’d listen. Winoa didn’t listen to hackers back then.

She sunk her hands into the mud and raised herself up like she was an old man and the rain were weights shackled across her stitched-up torso. Taking anything but a short breath was a gamble with her side aching to split apart. Still, she grimaced as she managed one deep breath. She went back to the long walk. She got good payment for the kidney, a good downpayment for the ransom, she figured.

The black clouds bulging with water, mocking Winoa’s empty body, covered the noon sky by the time she arrived. A stitch tore out as she straightened her back and wrapped at the metal door. “Open up. I have it.” The banging of the door sounded like the ringing of steel drums when Winoa used to throw rocks into them. Hollow.

“Open. The. Door.” She pounded. “Open the mother fucking door!”

Finally the door swung open. A young man who appeared like he still hasn’t learned how to stand up to his father looked at Winoa. “Who ya here for?”

Another stitch felt like it popped out. “I’m here for Southwell.”

“Southwell?”

“Yes.”

“Southwell? Lemme check.” The kid flipped through a clipboard hanging on the wall. “Southwell.. Southwell..” he ruffled the same page. “Southwell! Come on in. Butch wants to talk to you.”

“I have the money. Just give him to me.”

“I don’t make the deals. ‘pparenlty neither do you.” He eyed her bloody side. “You see Butch. Come on.”

Winoa looked over the weathered cement wall, beaten by years of desert wind and drought. Her side ached and she followed him in.

Winoa’s arm was grabbed by another guard. She tore it away. “I can walk just fine.”

“Looked like you were limping pretty bad. You should get that side looked at. Clay will take care of you. Good luck.” The doorman returned to his post. The new guard walked Winoa through dusty rooms and through the back door.

Butch’s skin was burnt to a black crust, like he stopped trying to moisturize the cracked, dead skin years ago. He stared into an empty swath of land, nothing but dirt, shrubs, and far away mountains. He stood at the edge of a small trench that seemed to mark a barrier.

The skywind, Winoa realized.

The guard grabbed a chunk of Winoa’s head and yanked down. With a flash the guard ripped her hair away, Winoa flinched as pain spread across her scalp and she fell to the ground. Her matted hair hung in the clutches of the guard. Don’t fight. You can’t even fight, you crusted piece of shit. She imagined herself breaking all of his fingers — any other day.

“There are legends about the skywind.” Butch walked over to Winoa. “Legends you know. Legends you haven’t heard. And, of course, legends lost to the sky.” he nodded to the guard who walked towards the shallow trench.

“Most are wrong, you know. There’s no black magic at work. No vengeful God. No ancient creature stirring its breath. Nuh-uh. Just one god-damned scientific conundrum. In other words -” Butch pointed to the guard without looking.

“Weird.” The guard mumbled.

“Weird!” He said with finality. “This is just one weird place, my friend. But you know what? For you, this weird place ain’t no circus. For you, no, it’s terrifying.” He nodded over for Winoa to watch the guard. She kept her watch on Butch’s sun-scorched skin.

“Go ahead.” He said.

Winoa’s hair was tossed into the barrier of the skywind. It hung for a moment. Like it sat on a dinner table. Butch grinned. Faster than anything she’d seen before, the hair was gone. Up into the sky. Fuck. It is real.

“Skywind. Hell of a thing.”

“What are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing! I just like to keep ol’ Clay greased and fine-tuned. It’s a fine theatrical play we have –”

“Shitty play.”

He continued on, “– and we like practice now and then.” He knelt down to Winoa. “We’re not looking for your money.” Butch said. “I mean, we’ll take your money, of course, make no mistake about that. Can always use some good cash. But we need the rest of it. And don’t you dare pretend you don’t know.”

“Southwell knew everything. He told you everything. I don’t know why I bothered coming here.”’

“Yeah, I believe that. You think what you got saved on that little stick is worth just one kidney?”

She could’ve been surprised, but half of her stitches had fallen out and blood was dripping out.

“Or even just one life? Two? No.” Butch reached in and dug his fingers into her side. “I know the damn drive’s in there.” A white tunnel clouded her vision. Every twitch of his finger was a hot iron mixing inside of her. “Give the stick to me and it’s over. Give me the real election results. Like the first ‘free’ election in a thousand years was gonna be real.” He said as an afterthought.

Winoa reached out through years of too much reckless action and slammed him into the ground. She cried out more than Butch. The slam wasn’t as hard as it should’ve been. Butch stood back up.

“Oh, no. No, no no. Clay. Bring up Southwell.”

The man that Clay brought out was a tall, handsome man despite an unkempt beard stealing away the highlight of his face. “Deron.” Winoa whisperedto herself. He wore the same suit from election night two months ago. She worked hard to bring the first elections, to bring him into the light.

The guard walked Deron to the edge of the skywind.

“Now. I’m only giving you one chance, Winoa. Give the stick to me, or Southwell — the savior of the world — gets thrown to the sky.”

“I have the money!”

“It’s not about the money, is it?”

“It’s ok, Winoa. Winoa,” Deron stood tall after weeks of captivity, “they can’t take –”

“DO IT!” Butch yelled. The guard flung Deron into the skywind. Deron’s face was paralyzed looking for Winoa. Then it was gone. Deron was gone high up into the sky.

“No!”

“Now her! Take it out!

The guard ran from the shallow trench and lunged at Winoa. She wasn’t fast enough. Clay had her grappled and started towards the skywind.

“Get the stick from her wound.” Butch wiped his chapped lips. “Then toss her in.”

Winoa snaked her body trying to slide out of the grip, but it was too tight, the white tunnel flashed over her eyes.

The guard pulled out a knife and dug into into her skin that was slowly turning green. Winoa clenched her yellow teeth and used the sudden force that Clay used to spin away. The knife tore away from her inside. Only a glimmer of the world remained as the white tunnel enveloped everything, but Winoa threw out out leg and kicked the guard passed the small trench. He stayed motionless with wide eyes. Then his body flung into the air, flung higher than the mountains and clouds, higher than all the stars, she thought.

“That’s not how this fucking works, Winoa!” Butch stood tall and reach for his gun. “I liked Clay. He was a good supporting actor God-damn –”

Winoa grabbed the knife impaling her side and flung it. Butch’s skull cracked with a thud. He fell dead. Winoa wasn’t far behind. Guards rushed towards her. Winoa fell into the small trench by the skywind, clawing at the dirt around her and stuffing it into her side gushing out blood. She didn’t feel it, everything was numb. Her hands were caked with an all-too natural mixture of blood and dirt. It had the feeling of mud.

She watched the figures surround Butch’s body and point towards her. Bastards. She rolled into the skywind.