Mechanical Hearts

By Rheanna Markoski

Mackenzie Salvador has very little in life. With a dead father and an out-of-commission mother, Mackenzie is left to run the familys mechanics shop and juggle school. Every night, she is exhausted and worn out, but the thing that makes it all worthwhile is her brother, Hunter, and best friend, Jay. When Hunter is sold by Mackenzies mother to the Reinhardt Corporation as a test subject for the mysterious mechanical-hearts device, Mackenzie and Jay rush to the rescue. Nothing is as simple as it appears to be on the surface, and making new friendships and facing betrayal, Mackenzie must fight and persevere if she hopes to ever save her brother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524590086

Rheanna Markoski

Rheanna Markoski is an 11th grade American international student living in Germany that enjoys reading and writing. She wasn't too intimidated by the process the first time round and with a passion for writing she has more and mores stories to share to those avid readers.

Book preview

Chapter One

My name is Mackenzie Salvador, and if I were to describe one of my best qualities it would be that I am resilient; I had to be to survive.

The problem thwarting me at that particular moment was not one of life or death, but a small screw that had rolled under a standing storage compartment. I was reduced to lying on my stomach and stretching my arm forward under the standing storage compartment to grab a small screw that I had spotted on my search under all of the shop’s furniture. My hand ran along the old wood picking up dirt until I found the miniature part.

I tossed the screw into a cardboard box filled to the brim with other screws, nails, and miscellaneous parts that I had spent the last few hours collecting on my way around the mechanic’s shop.

The store itself was closed, so there were no more customers shopping and business was slower, but clients could still come in and request my services to fix or help with the construction of various items in their house. Even without customers seeking my services, there were still different jobs to do such as cleaning, restocking, and documenting.

Picking up after customers who had dropped the small parts onto the floor or displays while perusing the shop was tedious and a daily job that took hours to complete, but it was necessary because the majority of the parts in the shop were rather sharp and dangerous. Just a few minutes ago, I had picked up a four-inch nail from the floor that could have easily pierced through a customer’s shoe. Scattered along one of the displays was a minefield of thumbtacks. I would like to say it was just the children who came in with their parents and accidentally spilled products and just walked away, but I regularly saw adults knock over items and then just keep on walking.

I hefted the cardboard box up from the floor where I had placed it while I was occupied retrieving the screw. It was so heavy that I worried the bottom would cave and spill all of the parts onto the floor, but it thankfully held out as I walked toward the office door. I backed up through the swinging door that led to the room and set the box down on my desk with a thump that shifted the items in the box.

My arms fell to my sides sore and fatigued from the stress of carrying the heavy box. The rest of my body similarly ached from just holding my body up all day. I knew that if I sat down, I would have a hard time getting back up, but I couldn’t resist the temptation and I fell onto the old, musty leather chair. The chair groaned in protest as I leaned back closing my eyes, which had been weighed down throughout the day. The sweet tug of sleep pulled at my core lulling me into a false sense of security.

I had done enough work. What harm would a little bit of rest do? My mind seeped into darkness, but even with my drive diminishing the thought of work not getting accomplished and setting me back had enough momentum to pull me through my need for sleep and catapult me into consciousness.

I abruptly sat up wiping the sleep out of my eyes and shaking my head as if I could brush off my exhaustion. I was able to go a longer period without sleep compared to most people, but I had almost reached my limit having stayed up to the crack of dawn these past few days organizing the shop and then pulling an all-nighter the night before to stock the new items before customers started appearing.

I checked the clock to see how much time until closing and suppressed a groan. It was 9 o’clock, and I still had three hours to go before it was time to close up shop officially and I would not fall asleep. I refused to fall asleep. Sleep meant work was not being done. If work were not done, then I would fall behind and the weeks I had taken off from school would be worth nothing. It was a continuous cycle of taking time off school to work until I was exhausted and then getting up to work again until I ran out of steam and went to school.

Again I futilely wished that things were different. I wished that Mom would come out of her depression; I wished that we had the funding to pay for food, rent, and lighting; and I most of all I desperately wished that dad was alive. If only, father was alive.

With a shuddering breath in I realized I was about to cry. I could feel the waterfall of tears threatening to fall that I was only holding back through sheer willpower. My trembling hands ran across the wooden desk, circling the cup stain, stopping at each sharp nick in the wood. Everything about this desk- this office- reminded me of my father. The permanent cup stain came from the countless amount of times he had coffee and set it down in the same place, and one of the nicks came from when he had dropped a massive machine tool onto the table. The coffee stain warmly reminded me of my father, later telling me to be careful with tools.

If I concentrated, I could almost smell the mixture of aftershave and coffee that used to linger in a room after he had left it, but that was impossible because it had been three years since he had passed. I had had three years to get over his death and still, I sat here mourning over the loss of a man who I had grown inexplicably close to in the thirteen years he had raised and taught me.

Not much had changed about the office in the three years. Mom couldn’t bear to change anything after dad died, and I wouldn’t change much if only for my greediness to keep some semblance of when Dad was alive. The one thing I had changed was the pin board a few centimeters above the desk on the wall that would have made me cry every time I looked at it if I hadn’t changed it.

As a kid, I would always race home to find my father in the office. My Dad was the kind of person who talked while he worked and I was the type of person who learned by watching and listening to him talk. Sometimes I would patiently watch him fix a machine and learn about how each tool and part worked together while he told me about his life’s experiences and what he had learned. Other times I would dump out my backpack in search of my notebook and colored pencils. I would draw out childish blueprints for silly inventions. Each time my father would praise me as if it was the most brilliant invention in the world and he would proudly pin it up on the pinboard.

After my father’s passing, I came down to my dad’s office. Face-to-face with the pin-board overloaded with my simple drawings, I broke down and cried for hours. In order to get my work done, I took all of my drawings and my father’s notes off of the pinboard and stored them in a plastic box in my bedroom. Replacing them were my own up-to-date plans and notes, which helped keep me going when it felt like going just wasn’t possible anymore.

I narrowed in on one of the notes. On a small sheet of paper and pinned up with a red pushpin was a single smiley face and an I love u written by my brother. Its simple statement never failed to fill me with motivation and happiness. My little brother, Hunter who almost naïve to a fault, was born just four years before my father died had become my reason for continuing.

In some ways, I could understand and relate to my mother who, after my father died had slowly lost her reason for living. My father was a very significant figure in my life, and I was crushed when he died. But unlike my mother, I gained a reason for living and worked myself to the point of exhaustion. As a small kid, I was burrowed in the sadness of losing my father. I woke up and cried. I went to school and cried. I went to bed and cried. If I were to name the point in which my brother’s happiness became a cemented goal for me, it was the day that I got home from school and collapsed into my bed letting the tears stream out. I had heard the noise of crying next-door to my room and startled. I walked in wiping my running nose on my sleeve to see Hunter bawling. At the time, he was too young to be able to understand the fact that his father was gone. His biggest problems were the broken wheels on his truck. Somehow that moment burned itself into my consciousness, and I felt obligated to make sure that if I could help it, he wouldn’t cry again.

A sharp tinkle of the bell hanging from the front door rang out echoing throughout the store and into the office. I took another look at my brother’s note before pushing myself up from the chair and making my way around to the front desk.

Mrs. Budmitcher, the customer, was content with ringing the silver little desk bell repeatedly and calling my name in a loud, obnoxious drawl until I was completely behind the small raised front desk. Mackenzie. Mackenzie! MACKENZIE! Mrs. Budmitcher cried.

Customer service was half the profit in the merchandise and service business, so I stretched a smile, but this woman was one of my least favorite people to be around. An abundance of perfume always swarmed around her making my gag reflex activate when the overpowering flower sent flew into my mouth as I tried to speak.

How may I help you? I asked choking on perfume. Maybe hiring someone to dust would help you not to sound like a dying animal, she replied. There was a thin line between being blunt and being rude, and almost always Mrs. Budmitcher completely overshot bluntness and landed smack dab in the middle of being straight-up rude. The statement itself didn’t directly convey anything, but it was the tone of Mrs. Budmitcher’s voice. The silent cackle and smirk at her own joke. The store was in no way clean with dust lying on almost every surface, but I had not the time nor money to have the store cleaned, and Mrs. Budmitcher was very aware of this. She reveled in taking the opportunity to chastise me. Completely spent of energy, she poked me like a dead rat with a stick.

Mrs. Budmitcher jutted out her bottom lip placing a hand on one of the full hips that came from gorging herself on jelly donuts and said, My husband, he needs his car fixed by Monday. You can come over tomorrow.

I shook my head at Mrs. Budmitcher, I have school tomorrow, so I’m closing up shop. I watched Mrs. Budmitcher huff at me, but my face carefully stayed placid. Throughout these five years, I had missed school too many days to count working in Dad’s mechanics shop, but it wasn’t till a week ago that I filled out the documentation that was needed for me to quit school. If it weren’t for the fact that the forms required processing, I would have been out of school already. Instead, tomorrow would be my last day of school.

Mom never finished high school; orphaned at a young age, she had met Dad and never gone back to school. Dad had graduated from high school and had received a scholarship to go to college, but instead inherited the store when his father died. Now, I wonder if Dad regretted not ever getting the chance to go to college. Either way, one thing was clear from when I was growing up: Dad wanted me to finish high school. Maybe it was my dead father’s wish that kept me from dropping out or maybe it was my own selfish enjoyment of school, but the deed was done and tomorrow would be my last day.

I made my decision, and for the most part, I had no regrets. But I did not revel in telling Jay who had been encouraging me to finish high school that I was giving it all up for the time to work more. My history teacher Mrs. Woodhouse, who was aware of my excellent grades, was also hopeful that I would reconsider my decision to quit school. So, after informing her that my decision was final, I could look forward to seeing two disappointed expressions.

Well then come on Saturday, Mrs. Budmitcher counter-offered, already shoveling out her wallet from her tiny purse.

Okay, then Saturday, I agreed taking the money that Mrs. Budmitcher placed on the counter.

Tottering out unbalanced by her high-heels and significant weight, she left without saying goodbye. The door swung shut behind her, none too soon for me.

With a ding, the cash register opened, and I placed four crisp twenties inside, walking back into the office with shoulders lowered by the stress of handling Mrs. Budmitcher.

I picked up where I left off hefting the cardboard box into my arms before walking to the shelving units and placing each screw, nail, or wire in its respective box. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and I still had almost an hours work to do if I was lucky. I sped along trying to be as efficient as possible with the tedious job, struggling to keep my eyes open.

Chapter Two

I woke up late the next morning trying to shake the drowsiness that hung over me like a dark cloud. I had fallen asleep in my clothes on top of the duvet, and now