Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  “Devil's in the details? Literally?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I'm having a crisis of faith, and you're telling me to go with the flow?”

  “How am I supposed to prove what is right in the eyes of God? I'm an atheist. And it's impossible anyway. If you want to juxtapose one book to another, then we can chat, but that doesn't have any divine application.”

  “Damn.”

  “The questions are too big. They're designed to be big because that confuses us and makes us easy to manage. Riddle me this: would it matter if vampires had anything to do with the divine or no? You had faith before vampires became public knowledge, right? Ignore all the Revival business. Cling to what you felt before someone tried to channel it into a new so-called truth. Go with your gut.”

  “Four dead vampires...”

  And I met their murderer. I shuddered and kept it to myself.

  “Vamps have nothing to do with whether or not an omnipotent god exists. Corpses are just bodies, Contrell. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  Vampires faded to ash, mutts faded to dust. The realization gave me more shivers.

  “Are you cold?”

  “Contrell, I'd love to tell you to give up on religion and adopt a practical atheist outlook, but that's clearly not for you. If your heart has questions, you need to follow where it takes you. Don't let four bodies in the desert ruin everything. If your faith dies, let it be because religion sucks and not for any other reason. You're a good detective with good instincts. Pay attention to yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And next time, maybe talk to a priest? It's painful for me to not say offensive things about this topic.”

  “I can see that. You look a little green, actually. You're not going to puke, are you?”

  I fake punched him in the arm.

  “I owe you a drink,” he said.

  “Just keep me apprised if you hear of any more bodies missing their hearts.”

  “You'll be the first one I call.”

  “Hey, uh...another random question,” I said. “A few decades back, when there was a huge social movement toward purity, Big Fed started to document the birth of, well, human aberrations.”

  “Right. Genome Sanctity Project or something.”

  “Do you think paper copies of that data exist? Something not accessible by computers?”

  “Why? Are you dating a guy and want to know if he has webbed feet or something?”

  “Something like that. I'm trying to find a person's identity and history given a few irregular and very noticeable traits.”

  “Yeah, he'd be in the data base. From what I understand, they backlogged a decade of births, so if he's under forty and it's a blatant defect...”

  I thought of Erik's pearly white, powdery fine skin. Very blatant.

  “Where can I find those records?”

  “I'll make some calls. Tell me what you're looking for, and I'll put some apprentice on it.”

  “Albino male, at least twenty-five years old.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Should be fairly easy to find.”

  “Mum's the word.”

  “In exchange, I expect you to never mention that I came to an atheist for advice on God.”

  “Done deal.”

  He nodded, smiled, and left.

  I rose up from the park bench and there was Mullen. Standing across the green. Staring at me. I felt like a gazelle facing down a pack of lionesses. Why? Why did I feel so targeted? He gave me the creeps. Mullen waited until Contrell was in his car and backing out of the lot before he strolled over, unhurried.

  “Looks like you're making friends,” he said. “Are you fucking him, I wonder. I doubt Ms. Contrell would appreciate your stealing her husband. Don’t mind me. I happen to appreciate your sporting spirit. Competition is the basis of survival, I’m sure you agree.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Giving candy to small children. It's a hobby. How's the midlife crisis,” he intoned.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A flashy new truck. A grief counselor friend. Alcoholics Anonymous. A kid. Sounds like a midlife crisis.”

  “I'm not old enough for one of those.”

  “That depends on how long you live, doesn't it. Face it, Durant, your life expectancy isn't that great.”

  “Neither is yours,” I said. Was he threatening me? We were the same height, but he always stood so much taller. A force of nature.

  “You look different,” he said, like he was taking in the sights and trying to decide what I'd done differently. If only he knew.

  “Did you follow me?”

  “Paranoid,” he teased.

  I think he was teasing; his eyes didn't change. He tipped his chin and directed my attention across the green to a man playing Frisbee with a group of friends.

  “That's Ned Brown,” he informed. “I'm going to kill him tonight. An HRP. Figured I might as well let him play for a while. Take him out at home as he's standing in the kitchen, fridge door wide open, drinking from the milk carton. The roof access across from his apartment building is a joke. FBHS won't even have to phase out any camera feeds.”

  He mentioned it like a bedtime story. Soft cadence, smooth gait.

  “What did he do?”

  “Not much of a quick learner, are you, Durant.”

  Mullen spat on the ground, pulled out a cigarette, and plopped it into his mouth. I hated cigarette smoke. Couldn't remember for how long, though. Maybe I hated it because it reminded me of Mullen.

  He looked at me, perused. Winked.

  My gut twanged like he'd driven a stake through it.

  He loved the idea of killing me. If my file ever dropped on his desk, he'd dance a jig of joy and hop to the task. He wouldn’t kill me from afar though. He'd want to be in my face when he did it. Smiling. Smoking. Heck, maybe he'd even use his hands.

  What, he wanted a cookie for being a tough guy? He might try to kill me. He might succeed, but it wouldn't make him special. Hell, he was merely another monster competing for survival. I shook off the dark thoughts with a smile. A grim one, but a smile nonetheless.

  Another gleam of interest dampened his shiny eye, and I stared into a viper's vat of ideas.

  Whatever. I was too tired for this. I had things to do. A house to prepare.

  Without so much as a fare-thee-well, I left.

  It was surprisingly easy to put Mullen out of my mind as I pondered the basics required for teen life. I reasoned that universal necessities were sleep and food, so I stopped at a mattress store, plunked down some cash for a new mattress, and then purchased basic groceries.

  At home, I surveyed the spare room. Books littered the floor. I carried armfuls to my bedroom and stacked them against the wall in the corner. A layer of dust covered the space, so I swept and mopped. It was clean but still empty and bleak.

  What was I doing? Buying a mattress for someone I didn't know?

  Who would be living with me.

  In my house.

  Because I was his legal guardian.

  Vertigo whupped me. I grabbed my thighs and dropped my head between my knees. Forced breathing. Panic made me want to run, cry foul. Change my mind.

  No, Durant. No mind-changing allowed. Rule number one: never doubt your gut. Besides, you need a hobby.

  I put a sheet on the mattress. It sat in the middle of the room like a prisoner's bed. Shit. I went out to the garage and looked for a box marked ‘stereo.’ I'd never unpacked it because I didn't like noise in the house. I blasted music in the truck, but my home needed to be quiet so I could listen for intruders or cross-burning fanatics. If another person lived with me, I'd have to grow accustomed to more noise. A radio might help us both.

  I'd heard that soothing music can ease traumatic dreams.

  Hell, I also heard that ticking clocks can put puppies to sleep.

  By now it should be clear I had no idea what I was doing.

  I dusted off the stereo
and brought it inside, setting it up in the corner of the room. I stood back and saw the place where someone else would be living. Should I buy clothes, too? I wonder if he liked to read. Maybe I should bring the books back. Wasn't this all premature? The kid might never wake up. Hell, he could be dead now, my heroic gesture falling uselessly and harmlessly beside his corpse.

  I doubted it, though. The universe wouldn't let me off the hook so easily. Anxious, I needed reassurance and knew precisely where to find it.

  “Come in,” Zelda said as I knocked. The door swung back, unlocked.

  “Seriously, lady. Consider locking your door.”

  “We both know if they decided to come for me, a lock wouldn’t matter.”

  “True. Also, not the issue. Don't make me worry about you.”

  “Ah, that's sweet of you to say,” she said, which was not a promise to lock her doors. “Have a seat. I'll bring tea.”

  “Maybe whiskey instead,” I mumbled, half-jokingly. The tabby cat flexed his claws at me and gave a disapproving look. I bared my teeth and considered shooting him off the mantle. He turned, wagged his butt, and hopped up onto a grandfather clock, vying for a better vantage point from which to wage his inevitable attack. Little guerrilla warfare bastard. I scooted aside a plethora of decorative pillows and sluggish cats and sat on the sofa.

  Zelda must have heard my comment about the liquor because she brought tumblers of her home brew.

  “There's a glow about you,” she reported. “A rejuvenated aura.”

  “Are you sure the aura doesn't read like panic?”

  “What happened, luv?”

  I picked up the tumbler and told her. A dozen cats came to investigate my boots and recruit some petting, which I reluctantly gave. The evil tabby crouched atop the grandfather clock and twitched his tail menacingly. By the time I finished telling Zelda I would be having a long-term house guest, she was in tears. Arms wrapped around three purring kitties, she said, “Oh, Kaidlyn! I always wanted grandchildren!” Which threw me for a loop. She jumped up, scattering cats, and went straight to her kitchen.

  “Uh, Zelda?” I sat abandoned in the living room with a scarcely-touched brew in my hand, listening to her bang pots.

  “Well, hurry along,” she said.

  I ventured into the kitchen. She was face-first in the fridge, her rump wiggling as she dug deep.

  “Now,” she said, “the key to homemade soup is the stock. You have to start with a good natural base or the overall product is going to be substandard. And don't over-salt the broth. You can always add salt, but it's impossible to take the stuff out. Unless you have demon weed, but it's easier to simply not add too much salt to start with. For chicken soup, don't skimp on the veggies. Lots of people think all you need is a ton of noodles, a spot of chicken, and a fleck of carrot. That isn't soup; that's watery pasta. Grass-fed chicken, which you can only find at organic markets these days, is essential. Don't over-trim the meat. There's nothing wrong with some tasty, nutritional fat getting into the broth. Here, cut these veggies.”

  “Uh, Zelda?”

  “Chicken noodle soup, sweetie. You want our guy to get better, don't you? Don't you appreciate homemade soup when you are sick? You must learn this.”

  “I've got some canned—”

  “Shh! Don't say such things in my house. C'mon, chop those. After I teach you, it'll be so easy you'll wonder why you bothered to avoid cooking.” She shoved a knife in my hands and winked. “She can shoot, but can she wield a paring knife?”

  Smiling, I took another sip of her brew and set to work. Everything was going to be okay. And it was, for about three hours, until I laid in bed in the dark and hoped for sleep.

  Tossed and turned. Tried to remember what my mother looked like before the incident. Strained my memory until my constipated brain nearly had a hernia. Couldn't recall. I remembered an amethyst necklace, an indigo dress, a silver wedding band, long lines of roses in the garden, the clutter of candle-making supplies in the kitchen. Hair brown like mine but shiny and smooth. A yellow scarf. Laughter.

  I remembered her laughter even though I couldn't picture her laughing face.

  I vividly recalled an argument about college and the guy who invited me to a prom I never attended. Yet the memory of her face escaped me. My brain created fictions to fill the gaps, leaving mutated images.

  I remembered her screaming, her face contorted to unreal proportions.

  Her picture sat in my gun safe, but I couldn't bear to look at it. What if I didn't recognize her?

  Clearly wasn't getting any sleep.

  I fired up the treadmill and ran in the dark.

  Dawn was moments from the horizon when I quit and showered. I thought about my father, the land and house, and my mother’s garden. Many farmers were taking on migrant workers. With so many people leaving the cities, serfdom was back in style, but I couldn't see my dad asking for help. Knowing the stubborn old man, he'd be out there all by himself with a chainsaw. Probably die in the woods and no one would bother to tell me. Maybe he was already dead.

  No, Caprelan would have said.

  After that concern, I spent a solid hour staring at the phone as if I might call my father. Not that I knew his number, anyway, or if he even had a phone anymore. As if that would be hard to learn. With my clearance, I could easily access that information. Of course, if I called, I'd need something to say.

  The phone rang.

  Hospital number. I grabbed it.

  “This is Dr. Hoyt calling for Ms. Durant.”

  “What's wrong?”

  “David woke up,” the doctor said.

  Chapter 34

  “He came out of the coma like an alarm clock went off,” the doc said.

  “Davey's okay?”

  “That depends mostly on how long he stays awake. If he goes in and out incoherently, we'll have cause to worry. If he's attentive, we're on much higher ground than we anticipated.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You can see him now.”

  “Oh!” That didn't seem like a good idea. I put on my sweatshirt, seized a container of Zelda's soup, and drove to the hospital. Standing at the hospital room door, I thought, I should call backup. Which was silly, of course. By the time I walked into the room, Davey was sleeping again. Maybe unconscious? I didn't know.

  He was thinner than I remembered. His foppish hair remained disheveled. His entire arm was bandaged past the shoulder. Lines of tape crisscrossed all the way to his neck and back down to his white fingers. The thickness of the bandage made me worry. His chart listed GorgonBlood, antibiotics, NSAIDs, and a healthy dose of painkillers (though they could afford to give him more, the cheap bastards). I pulled a chair to the bed. Realizing that I still held the food, I set it aside. Chicken soup was not a safety net.

  He smelled of alkaline-heavy silver ointment. The cheap stuff. I would tell the doctor to stop using it, as it contained lead.

  I snuggled the sweatshirt over my chilled hands and nestled into the chair, exhausted. Sleep came easily and left me cramped. I woke to sunshine streaming into the hospital room and worked my sore neck back and forth, grimacing. The boy made grunts of pain. He squirmed in his sleep and his lips twitched, signs of consciousness poking through the morphine.

  A nurse entered and started when she saw me. Blond hair coiffed into a chiffon more elegant than the blue scrubs required. She ignored me and tended to Davey. I recognized her disapproving stare but kept my mouth shut and watched as she bent over the bed to check his IV needle. Despite whatever she thought of me, she'd positioned herself so I'd see the curve of her rear cheeks as she attended her patient. I smiled, stared, and made the most of the opportunity. She straightened, moved around the bed, and caught me looking.

  I winked.

  “Hmph,” she said. The sound was so frequent, I wondered if she hmphed in the throes of an orgasm. When she left, I paced the room until Dr. Hoyt arrived. He was young.

  “Update?” I said.

 
“We reopened and retouched the work started before his transfer. Honestly, some of the transposed skin isn’t worth mending. You know how a body can reject an organ? Well, sometimes it rejects skin, too. We'll need a few more slabs of donor tissue, provided his body holds onto it. Odd that he has no health history, what with all the med requirements for public schools. His CPS rep said the father was a French national and they spent some time overseas, which probably accounts for the lack of records. The French lock their shit up tighter than a prison-bound sphincter and don’t give a fuck about sharing crucial information. You know the arrogant bastards want to quarantine the entire continent? Got some serious sticks stuck up some tight—”

  “How long have you been a doctor?”

  “Concerned with my professionalism because I drop the f-bomb? Six years of med school followed by a hellish year of internship. Six years is admirable, if I can fuckin' say so. Think I did pretty well for a guy starting with a GED. Of course, when the population took a rapid dive and patients erupted into monsters, there was a shortage of medical practitioners, and they were accepting anyone who could hold a syringe. Don't look so impressed. Other than prescribing drugs, I spend most of my time patching holes and unplugging anuses and airways. Makes me more of a glorified plumber than a physician. Working with your young man was a real pleasure.”

  I blinked and voted to ignore his chatter. “Davey will be okay, right?”

  “If we avoid infection, he's going to keep the limb. Not sure how much he'll use it, but recovery depends on his cooperation. I'll recommend a therapist for rehabilitation. Meanwhile, Davey will be on bed-rest, but he's out of mortal danger. Unfortunately, that also means I can't justify keeping him unless we qualify him as a contamination threat and isolate him in q-ward.”

  “No, thanks. I know you need the beds.” Plus, quarantine sucks.

  “Better fucking believe that shit. Seven people were admitted this morning for wounds sustained in an animal attack.”

  “Animal? You mean a mutt incident?”