The Undead Age Series (Book 2): Damage In An Undead Age

by Geever, A. M.

  “He’s still here.”

  Miranda sighed. “Jeremiah in a cell never gets old.”

  Courtney’s perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “We don’t imprison anyone lightly around here.”

  Confused by Courtney’s reaction, Miranda said, “I never said you did. I’m just glad he’s locked up.”

  “Oh,” Courtney said. “We weren’t told much about why he’s in the brig apart from a history of being violent toward others.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Miranda said.

  She understood why Smith had to keep some details of Jeremiah’s past secret, but some of his crimes could be revealed without giving anything away. Then again, Smith knew her people. She must have her reasons for proceeding as she had, but Miranda figured she could give some general information without treading on the commander’s toes.

  “I don’t want to speak out of turn and get on Smith’s bad side,” Miranda said. When Courtney leaned forward, Miranda continued. “He’s clocked me a few good ones, actually. I know I can be a pain in the ass, but still. He’s also a rapist.”

  Courtney looked at Jeremiah askance. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Miranda thought, then added, “He can be very charming when he wants to be. Never forget that he’s dangerous.”

  Courtney nodded as she seemed to reassess Jeremiah in light of this new information. Miranda left her and walked closer to Jeremiah’s cell.

  “What’s this?” she said when she was several feet away. “Cat got your tongue? I’m going to start thinking you don’t like me anymore.”

  Jeremiah opened a paperback he had picked up while she and Courtney talked.

  “Not one word of welcome? You must be trying to make a good impression on the people who don’t know you.”

  Jeremiah glanced at Miranda, seeming as if she was not worth the effort of responding to, but he couldn’t hide the anger percolating underneath his calm facade.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “You try that on for size, but I guarantee you, no one here is buying.”

  She turned on her heel, said goodbye to Courtney, and left.

  Jeremiah in a cell would never get old.

  14

  The light seeping through the bedroom blinds looked a lot brighter than it should. Miranda forced her slitted eyes fully open. Beside her, Delilah yawned and stretched. Miranda sat up. After looking for her watch on the bedside table, she realized it was still on her wrist.

  “Oh no,” she groaned, pushing the blankets aside. “Why didn’t you wake me up, Liley? We slept all morning!”

  Miranda dragged herself out of the warm bed, feeling the prickle of gooseflesh travel over her skin in the chilly air of the townhouse, and picked up her jeans off the floor. She padded to the dresser, pulled out a long-sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt, and pulled them on as she walked to the kitchen. After three weeks at LO, she was beginning to get into a routine. First—and no matter how early she had gone to bed the night before—she overslept about half the time, but usually not like this.

  Mornings were spent helping Rocco with the winter vegetable crops. She liked the loudmouth farmer. He reminded her of another loudmouth farmer except that Rocco was more tactful than she had ever been. He had the Italian-American well-meaning but patriarchal male chauvinism thing down pat. She had dealt with that growing up, so it didn’t faze her. She had also noticed that he laid it on thicker around people who would bite at the morsel dangling in front of them that let him yank their chain.

  After lunch, which she wolfed down like a starving person since she had arrived at LO, she often hung out with Skye. Skye had managed to get a climbing wall built in what they called the Community Room at the Nature Center. In addition to learning how to climb herself, she was helping Skye during her lessons for the kids. Different grades came on different days. Miranda liked the second graders best. They were too little to know they should be afraid to scamper fifteen feet up a wall and possibly fall into the cushy, thick mats when they climbed free hand.

  Afternoons that she didn’t help Skye were her own, and she kept them free. Then she could do whatever happened to be going on that day or help in the gardens again. Or nap, which was something she never used to do, but did now on a pretty regular basis.

  She padded downstairs and opened the townhouse blinds facing the street. January was not the brightest month in Portland, but it was better than inside with no lights on. Outside, people were busy going about their day, walking by in twos and threes.

  River stood on the porch of the house where her office was located, kitty-corner to Miranda. She often wore her long black hair in two braids that hung over the front of her shoulders. Miranda had almost made a wisecrack about how she must have had hippie wannabe parents when River said she was three-quarters Northern Paiute Native American. Miranda had reexamined River’s high cheekbones, dark eyes, straight ebony hair, and tawny skin, and wondered how the hell she had missed it. The braids still seemed like overkill, but the white Italian girl knew when to keep her mouth shut. The neighbor from the other side of the townhouse, whose name Miranda could never remember, pushed her daughter’s stroller in front of her as they left the townhouse. Miranda waved at the toddler, who waved back.

  Miranda thought of this place as ‘the townhouse.’ It wasn’t home, or even her place. It was temporary. When Mario finished recreating the vaccine, they would need to distribute it and kill a shit-ton of zombies. After that, who knew?

  She would love to go home. She wanted to see Father Walter and Karen, even Harold, if only so she could kill him for selling them out to the City Council. She wanted to be there when the assholes on the Council realized their days of holding the people of Silicon Valley hostage were over. The idea of watching the light drain from their eyes as it had from every doser she had ever met, to see the moment they realized they had no power to insulate themselves from the wrath of those they had oppressed… Good God! Finding out that Santa Claus was, in fact, real would not come close.

  For Mario, it was more complicated. He wanted to be with his children, but it would probably never be safe for him there. His years of being a double agent had entrenched him as a bad guy in the minds of the populace. The demands of keeping his cover intact meant that a lot of people had turned into zombies while the Jesuits’ long con against the Council played out. To their loved ones it would not matter if Mario helped get the vaccine back and made freely available to everyone. Miranda understood why Mario would be a bad guy forever to those people. For him, going home just wasn’t smart.

  Going home would also mean dealing with Emily, which was complicated for both of them. One of the last things her friend, Mario’s wife, had said to her before they left San Jose was that she should forgive herself. Self-forgiveness was not something Miranda was good at. She wasn’t sure if she ever would be. That early Catholic conditioning of right and wrong ran so deep, even if it did not necessarily apply in the same way to her lived experience in this world as it would have in the one before. She and Mario were finally together again. Miranda would never give up this precious second chance. There would not be a third, of that she was certain.

  She shook herself. There was no point in thinking about any of this now. She was planning the future she wanted, with Mario. There was no guarantee it would be the future she would get, but that was what you did—delude yourself, then adjust.

  She fed Delilah, brushed her teeth, grabbed an apple that tasted sour on account of her commitment to good dental hygiene, and headed to the Nature Center.

  The noise as she entered the rock-climbing room was tremendous. Nahesi Andrews, a scrawny eight-year-old girl with kinky hair and freckles, was the highest up the wall. Skye belayed her from below, calling out to the girl with suggestions.

  “A little more to the left, Nahesi,” Skye said as Miranda stepped in beside her. Skye gave Miranda a sidelong stink eye. “That’s it! Good job! You want a fist lock n
ow.”

  A high-pitched squeal preceded Nahesi falling off the wall. Skye hit the belay brake.

  “Nice of you to join us, Coppertop. You’re only an hour late,” Skye said to Miranda. To the young climber she called, “I’m letting you down, Nahesi!”

  The child bounced her feet off the wall as she descended, then unclipped her harness.

  “Fifteen-minute break,” Skye announced.

  Like cockroaches when a light is switched on, the children who were not climbing scattered. Those on the wall ignored the summons, unwilling to let their turns be cut short, so Skye and Miranda stayed nearby.

  “I overslept,” Miranda said, while Skye extricated herself from the belay gear. “And quit calling me Coppertop. It’s bad enough when Doug does it.”

  She looked around to see what had become of Delilah. Through the door to the lobby, she caught a flash of brown rounding the reception desk, which meant Delilah was off to hit up Commander Smith for treats.

  “I can tell you just got up by the bedhead,” Skye said irritably. “You obviously did not look in the mirror.”

  Miranda liked Skye, even though she had found her a little standoffish at first. Helping Skye with classes had helped with that. She had never seen Skye so cranky.

  “Is something wrong besides me being late?” she asked.

  Skye sighed. “I’ve got cramps, and they’re killing me. Not liking Coppertop and oversleeping through lunch don’t compare to dealing with these little monsters on my own.”

  Skye arched her back as she continued, groaning. “And Rocco gave me an earful at lunch about you not being there to help him with the onions and garlic shoots.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Miranda said. As if on cue, her stomach growled to remind her she had only eaten an apple. She was, as Father Walter would say, perished with the hunger.

  Skye had to be feeling pretty bad because she never called the kids monsters. She didn’t call them angels, either, but people who dislike children generally do not volunteer to teach them.

  Skye grimaced as she straightened up. “I got you a box of Mitsubishi pencils; they’re in my bag. They stay sharp, and they don’t smudge.”

  “Oh,” Miranda said. She didn’t even remember saying anything to Skye about the pencil she was using for her journal, though it really did suck. “That’s really nice of you, Skye.”

  “I would kill for some ibuprofen. I tried to get some from River, but we’re out right now.”

  “We probably have some at the Institute. We picked up a lot of meds in Seattle.”

  “Are you serious? Does it still work?” Skye sighed. “Apart from zombies and sexual predators and no plumbing and no restaurants and terrible heating in winter, dealing with my period is the worst part of all this.”

  Miranda barely smothered a laugh at the list of complaints. Not that she didn’t agree with Skye, but restaurants had never been on Miranda’s list, and heating was not as much of a concern in the Bay Area as it was here. Skye looked so miserable that Miranda could swear her own back was beginning to have sympathy pains.

  “I’ll radio and tell the guys to bring ibuprofen the next time one of them—”

  “Hey! Coppertop!”

  Miranda turned around. Doug stood in the doorway of the community room, his skinny frame not beginning to fill the door at all.

  “Hey you,” she cried. She met Doug halfway, and he swooped her up in a hug. She had not seen Doug or Mario since moving to LO three weeks ago. Seeing Doug made her realize just how much she missed both of them.

  When he set her down, she asked, “Did Mario come with you?”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  Miranda snorted. “You know what I mean.”

  “No, just me. He’s in that lab almost twenty-four seven.”

  “I guess I’ll manage with just you somehow,” she teased.

  “Hi, Doug,” Skye said, joining them.

  “Hi, Skye,” he said.

  Doug and Skye looked at one another.

  “So,” Miranda said, because both of them seemed to have been struck dumb. “How long are you here?”

  After a three-second delay, Doug looked at Miranda like he had forgotten she was there.

  “Uh, just overnight. Needed a change of scenery.” He looked back to Skye. “How much longer till this class is over? I found some beer. Home-brew, so I don’t know if it’s any good—”

  Skye turned back to the room before Doug finished his sentence.

  “Hey, kids,” she shouted. “Class is over!”

  Some of the children looked delighted, some not, but they streamed out of the community room as raucously as a herd of rhinos. A tiny dark-haired girl shot Skye a dirty look as she passed. Miranda recognized Bebe, who at seven was small for her age.

  “Hey, Bebe,” Skye called after her. The girl turned around, glowering. “I promised you another turn, didn’t I?”

  No answer from Bebe, whose lower lip jutted out.

  “How about tomorrow morning, after breakfast,” Skye said. “Just you and me.”

  Bebe’s face lit up for a moment before she remembered she was angry. The glower returned. Skye crouched down. She extended her hand, making an O with her thumb and all but her pinky finger, which stuck out.

  “Pinky swear. But you have to turn that frown upside down.”

  Bebe’s face split into a grin. She wrapped her pinky around Skye’s. “Pinky swear,” she said, then threw her arms around Skye’s neck.

  Skye smiled as she stood up. “That kid.”

  Miranda said to Doug, “Bebe’s the teacher’s pet.”

  “You didn’t have to end class early,” Doug said, trying not to sound pleased and failing. Miserably.

  “My assistant is unreliable, and my back is killing me,” Skye said. “You had me at beer.”

  Doug hooked his thumb like a hitchhiker to point over his shoulder. “I have ibuprofen in my pack. It’s old, but it still works.”

  Miranda laughed at Skye’s dumbfounded expression. “There’s a reason he’s my best friend,” she said to Skye. “Even if he does call me Coppertop.”

  A few hours later, the party at Skye’s was in full swing. Word of five cases of beer got out after they stopped to tell Rocco Blabbermouth Giorgini. About ten people invited themselves in addition to those Skye invited, but as she had said, the more the merrier.

  “All I’m saying is that if you say you’re gonna be somewhere, you gotta be there.”

  Miranda finished her swig of beer and set the bottle on the table with a bang.

  “Rocco, I overslept.”

  “For five hours?” His dark eyes were sincere…tipsy sincere.

  Miranda shrugged. “Maybe you should get me an alarm clock instead of lecturing me.”

  Rocco slung his arm around Miranda’s shoulders in a gesture so expansive it nearly knocked her off the sofa. “That’s what I like about you, Miranda. You’re always thinking outside the box.”

  “Outside the— what are you talking about?”

  Miranda didn’t know how many beers she had drunk, but it wasn’t so many that she had forgotten what outside the box meant.

  Rocco shrugged. “I was harassing you; you pushed it back on me… It’s outside the box.”

  Miranda laughed at him. “You’re drunk.”

  “And what if I am?” he said, rising from his seat. He walked away on unsteady legs. A minute later, he came back with four more beers and handed two to Miranda.

  “These are my last two,” she said.

  “You said that three beers ago.”

  “But this time I mean it.”

  Rocco landed on the couch with a bone-rattling thump. After a loud slurp of his beer he leaned in and whispered, “What’s the deal with Doug and Skye?”

  “They’re friends?”

  Rocco’s mouth scrunched to one side, and he looked at Miranda sidelong, incredulity in his dark eyes.

  “They aren’t friends?” Miranda whispered. “What hap— b
ut he invited her for beer.”

  “I’m not the only one who’s drunk,” Rocco muttered. “They’re over there, in the kitchen.”

  Miranda looked across Skye’s apartment. The living room and kitchen were separated by a bi-level countertop island with barstools along the living room side. Candles were spread across the counter, their flickering light making the people gathered around them look cozy. Skye sat on one of the stools, an elbow on the counter, smiling at whatever story Doug was telling, as were River and another man Miranda didn’t know. Doug began waving his arms over his head.

  “What are you talking about, Rocco? He’s telling—”

  Then she noticed how Doug’s eyes flickered to Skye more than the others. Skye leaned in the barest fraction. She didn’t even know she was doing it. It was suddenly apparent to Miranda that Doug was not telling the story to River or the guy. He was telling it to Skye. The others just happened to be there. Then Doug hit the punchline because all of them erupted into howls of laughter. Skye’s head fell back, her long silvery-blond hair falling down her back, and a charmed curiosity flitted across Doug’s face.

  “Oh,” Miranda said.

  “Yeah. Oh,” Rocco said. He took another swig of his beer. So did Miranda. “Is he a priest for real?”

  “Yes. Of course he is.”

  Shit, she thought a moment later. She turned to Rocco and whispered, “You don’t like Skye, do you? Like, more than a friend?”

  Rocco’s belly laugh erupted with a frothy spray of beer. From around the room, heads turned.

  “Jesus, Rocco,” Miranda said, wiping beer from her face, but starting to giggle. Rather drunkenly, she noticed. “What’s so funny?”

  “I play for the other team, Tucci.”

  “You play for—oh. Oh,” Miranda said. “You’re gay?”

  Rocco nodded, still laughing.

  Miranda shrugged. “It’s not like it was tattooed on your forehead. According to,” she stopped just as she was about to refer to Mario as Mario. “According to James, I regularly miss things that are obvious to everyone else. ‘You’re so smart, Miranda. How did you miss that?’ He recognizes that I’m smart, so I’ll probably keep him.”