Bad Bloods: November Rain

by Shannon A. Thompson

  Old Man Gregory scanned my items without studying my arrangement of over-the-counter medicines and bandages. The owner didn’t care who I was. He only cared about two things—money and booze—and that’s why I returned to his convenience store.

  Acquaintances weren’t necessary. Medicine was.

  When the door opened, the entrance bell rang. “How yah doing, Gregory?” The newcomer wobbled until he found an equally wobbly seat at the countertop, a.k.a. the bar. I could smell the whiskey on him. Definitely a regular. “I’d sure appreciate it if you turned the news on.”

  Gregory swung around, and the television lit up at his touch. Two faces appeared—a woman and a man—with a solid line separating them. Another political debate was on.

  “What could Henderson be thinking?” the male anchor shouted into his clipped-on microphone.

  My stomach twisted. The upcoming election had Vendona on the verge of a revolt—a violent revolt—and my kind was the center of it all. Alec Henderson was the first government official to be pro-blood, and he had a real chance at becoming president. Joshua Logan II was his opponent. He wanted to establish required identification testing to expose bad bloods for earlier execution. At this point, Vendona was torn. Even I couldn’t tell who would win, but the election would be over within the month. For bad bloods, it was life or death. It was merely politics for everyone else.

  “This isn’t the Civil Rights Movement,” the man continued. “This isn’t even the Separation Movement.” The war demonizing bad bloods—something Vendona called a movement—happened twenty years before I was born.

  “But that is exactly what Henderson is trying to do,” the woman argued. “He’s beginning a movement. He’s creating a movement.”

  “He’s abolishing the Separation Movement, something elected by the people and for the people,” the man corrected. “No one asked him to change it.”

  “His voters are asking for change.”

  “These are bad bloods we’re talking about,” the man interrupted. “Violent, incompetent creatures—”

  “These are children we’re talking about,” she returned his interruption with one of her own.

  “Children that contribute to over half of our growing crime rate, including the murder of innocent civilians,” he retorted. “Do you think the government can change that?” His biased beliefs never changed. “Even if we save them, the two remaining flocks will kill each other.” The Northern Flock and the Southern Flock were notorious for hating one another. “How can we trust a species that hates itself?”

  “Maybe they wouldn’t have to kill if they weren’t forced onto our streets.”

  “And maybe you can write that on all of our graves.”

  “Money.”

  I forced myself to turn away from the debate to meet eyes with Gregory. His palm stuck out, nearly touching my chest. “Money,” he repeated.

  I laid the cash in his hand before I shoved the items into my backpack. When I slung the bag over my shoulder, I ignored the heated ramblings. Other than being disgusted, I didn’t have the luxury to listen. Vi was waiting at Calhoun’s house, and being late wasn’t an option.

  I pushed open the exit door, and humid air slammed into me. It was later than I thought. The sun was gone, but a murky glow stretched over the crowded buildings, evidence of the Highlands. The early evening was the only time the outskirts could see the murky light from ground level, but that didn’t mean we forgot its existence. The richest part of Vendona was iridescent, separated from the outskirts by one large gate, but tonight, it was brighter than ever. It pulsated against the purple sky. Even then, the sight didn’t hold my attention for long.

  The warning lights lining our streets were flashing. We had three settings: yellow, orange, and red. Ever since the pre-election votes had been polled, the lights had been yellow, a minor warning, but they were orange tonight.

  I leaned back into Gregory’s store. “Why’s the light orange?”

  The owner glanced over, but the customer was the one to point at the television. The debate was replaced by a reporter’s ramblings, “All are advised to find immediate shelter.” Behind her, Western Vendona’s largest blood camp loomed. “Escaping from here only moments ago, the bad blood is believed to have fled through the western part of town.”

  “Escaped?” Gregory cursed. “That’s a first.”

  The reporter continued to rant out scripted directions, “I repeat, all are advised to find shelter and report any suspicious activity immediately.” A phone number scrolled below her. “This is considered a high-risk situation. Red lights have been turned on, and curfew is in effect.”

  Blake. The youngest in my flock flashed in front of me. Michele. Vi. Adam. Tessa. Peyton. Floyd. It could be any of them.

  I had to go.

  “The light’s red,” Gregory shouted at my back, but it was too late.

  I ran.

  The muscles in my legs burned, and I weaved through the panicking crowd with ease. Voices flew by, and faces blurred together, but no one paid any attention to me. They were too busy fleeing. Rushing through the splitting crowd was almost too easy. I didn’t have superhuman speed—that would be Adam’s specialty—but I felt like I did. I would get to the bad blood before the police if it killed me. That was the duty of a leader.

  I was only a block away from the depths of the western part of town, but a block was enough time to figure out where they would be. Any bad blood would head straight for Shadow Alley, the only street Vendona’s government avoided. It was a thin road, cut in half by an old fence, and remarkable shadows masked the worst crimes. It connected the condensed northern part of town with the southern countryside, and it blocked out where the Western Flock’s house once stood. It was notorious for crime and even more notorious for being a bad blood itinerant. No human would go near it, not even a cop, and that hesitation would be what the escapee would rely on.

  I had to be right.

  When I saw Mulberry Street, I prepared to turn. It led to Shadow Alley, and I was all too familiar with the paved walkway. I grabbed the side of the brick building to help me spin around the corner, but my dexterity failed. I crashed straight into a body—a person smaller than me—and I bounced back to stay on my feet. The other person fell. As their body smacked against the concrete, a high-pitched yelp escaped their lips. I would’ve kept running if they hadn’t leapt back up and attempted to hit me.

  My adrenaline froze.

  Only a bad blood would hit someone, but this person wasn’t Blake. This person wasn’t Michele or Tessa, but she was a girl, a teenage girl with wild eyes. Blood dripped down the side of her face, and her hair was browned with soot. Because of her sunken cheekbones, she resembled a dirty skeleton more than a living being. She wasn’t a member of my flock, but she was definitely blooded, and she was in trouble.

  “Let me help you—” I began, but she dodged to the left.

  I cut her off.

  She stepped forward, leaning too far to the right in a limp. “Get out of my way.”

  I didn’t respond. The police would catch her if she kept running, and I wouldn’t lose another blood to Vendona’s massacre.

  “I will kill you,” she promised, baring her teeth.

  “I know.”

  She paused at my words, and her hesitation was the only weapon I had.

  Before she could react, I stepped forward and raised my arm. When she ducked, I swung my leg out and my foot collided with her injured leg. She hit the pavement with her head.

  I cringed but bent down to haul her up. She was a rag doll in my arms—an angry rag doll—but a rag doll, nonetheless.

  She screamed as she reeled back to hit me, but I dragged her into Shadow Alley and pushed her against the bricks. “Shut up,” I ordered, kneeling down to put my lips near her ear, “and you might live through this.”

  Her eyes darkened, but her screaming subsided. I turned my back to her, counting on her pain to prevent her from attacking
me, and I made a decision. I rushed back to the main square through the neighboring alley and grabbed my hair as I stumbled into the receding crowd.

  “That way,” I shouted, pointing my finger in the other direction. A cop appeared as if he had been waiting for someone to scream out of terror. “That way. She went that way.”

  He didn’t question my integrity. He ran where I pointed, and other cops followed him like the obedient officers they were. I had to fight the smile forming on my lips. The girl they were after was only a few feet away.

  Before I returned to her, I caught my breath as the red lights flashed over the emptying streets. The chaos would disappear with the sunset, but it wasn’t gone yet. We weren’t safe, and it’d probably be up to me to find shelter.

  I ducked back into the alleyway and jogged around the corner, half-expecting to see the girl wobbling away with a makeshift crutch but she wasn’t. She stayed where I left her, sitting against the brick building as if it were the only thing holding her up. Which, it probably was.

  As I approached, her gray gaze focused on the sky without really focusing at all. “Are you going to kill me?”

  Ignoring her question, I winced as I examined her damage. Her scalp was torn, but her leg was worse. Her ripped pants exposed shredded shin. I could see the bone. It wasn’t broken, but I had to prepare myself.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I said, reaching out to touch her leg.

  She shot forward, but I pushed her back. “Calm down,” I said. “I’m trying to help you.”

  I was a bad blood after all, and I healed people. The only fault in it came with the exchange of energy. Anytime I healed someone, I was hurting myself. It was the only time I felt pain. It also exhausted me.

  Her face drained of color. “Don’t touch me—”

  But it was too late. I laid my finger on her skinned leg, and the electricity in my veins vibrated into her blood. That’s when it happened. My muscles burned, my head spun, and my tendons tensed. Everything in me pummeled until she squirmed away. When my vision blurred, she was all I saw. The slit on her brow began to close, and in what seemed like seconds, her massive injuries died out with her unsteady stare. Her wild eyes lost the fire in them. I had seen the look once before. When I couldn’t control my healing abilities, my powers killed a person I touched. Healing everything drained all the energy from their body. I’d only done it to one person before. Twelve years later, I was seeing the same expression on this girl’s face.

  I caught her before she slumped over. “I didn’t do that.” Panic forced my words out. “I didn’t heal you that much.”

  “You’re a bad blood,” she managed through a shallow breath.

  That’s when I understood. She had healed herself with my abilities, and now that she had them, she didn’t know how to control it.

  “Concentrate on something else.” I told her how to restrain the power, but she looked past me. “What’s your name?” When I grabbed her face, she found my eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Serena.” The healing slowed down. “I’m Serena.”

  I kept my fingers locked around her chin. “Just hold on, Serena,” I repeated her name, hoping she would continue to concentrate elsewhere. “You’re going to be okay,” I promised, and as if she could defy my promises, she went limp in my arms.