My muscles tense. It’s almost involuntary. The same way I used to know my dad had polished off a bottle of Wild Turkey the second I stepped through the door. Bad things in the air.
For the first time in a while I look up. We’re not in the crowds anymore. In fact, we’ve taken a side street or two, closer now to Allie’s place. There’s no one around.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “You’re not going to kill her?” I fight off the panic threatening to overwhelm me and force a laugh. “If you keep killing them, there won’t be any left.” We don’t know exactly what they are, and only a bit about the power they have. Mostly that we want it, too.
Jamison raises an eyebrow, amused. “Brandon told me where to find Allie’s aunt before he ran out of breath, and a couple tidbits about Allie herself. Besides, once we can do all the things they can, we won’t want anyone else having that power, right?”
He’s never mentioned this before. “Jamison,” I say feigning nonchalance. “That’s not why we’re doing this. No one else needs to die.” No one should have died at all.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. He takes a step toward me and lands a soft punch on my side just under my ribs. It’s not until he pulls away that the pain comes, sharp and spreading. “You do.”
There’s a knife in his hand, the entire blade coated in red. My blood. I watch the stain spread down my shirt in disbelief before I think to smash a hand against the wound. Burning radiates through my side.
“What...why?” I can’t get my mouth to work through the pain.
He grins. “Christ, relax. I was being dramatic.” Shock keeps me from fighting when he loops an arm under mine. “We both know these people are picky as hell, but you said yourself, you’re in with Allie,” Jamison says, stumbling us toward the street again, toward her gate.
“Not in enough to risk my life!” I say through grinding teeth.
“She’ll heal you. Don’t worry.” The voice in my ear is certain, consoling.
Black dots scatter across my vision. My feet feel like lead as he drives us on, blocking the bloody wound from view with his body. Each breath hisses through my clenched teeth. “This was such a dick move, Jamison,” I get out and he snickers.
“Would you have let me do it if you knew it was coming?” Crazy or not, he does have a point. When we make it to the gate, he adjusts me against him. “We don’t have time to wait for her to trust you with her secrets. I saw my mom heal herself after they brought her back. She couldn’t do it for long before it wore off, but Allie will be able to do more. She’ll fix you. And when she does, she’ll have to tell you the rest. Then you just need to convince her to change you permanently.”
“If she doesn’t?” I ask.
“I’ve got her aunt’s address. If you can’t get Allie to at least heal you, we’ll get you some stitches and I’ll work the angle I can.” He lifts the latch and practically carries me through the gate, toward the house. I stumble and drop to my knees, the concrete of the sidewalk biting into my skin, my palms shredded. I barely feel it through the grating waves coming from the stab wound. A puddle of red drips to form beneath me.
“You’ve gone crazy,” I say, sure it’s too weak and low for him to hear until he laughs.
“We’re not crazy, you and me. We’re determined. And pretty soon, we’re going to be unstoppable. We’re right there.” He points to the stairs. “You can make it.”
It takes everything in me to get to my feet and stagger forward.
His eyes catch on the blood I leave behind. The easy confidence he wore is gone. “Hey, you’re okay right? I cut you on the side.” He presses against the wound and unleashes another round of agony. “You shouldn’t be losing this much blood.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?” I spit.
He sets his jaw. “I’ll get you up there. Don’t worry.”
“No!” I raise a hand to his shoulder and push off, wavering as I stand on my own. “No, she can’t see you.” I don’t want him anywhere near her. My fingers tighten around his wrist when he reaches for my shoulder. “I can make it.”
He gives me an uncertain look, but finally nods. It’s a fight to stay standing as I take the stairs one by one. He’s watching me from near the gate. If he sees me fall again, he’s not going to trust me to do this on my own.
I have to make it to her door. I have to. My vision tunnels until all that’s left is the handle at the end of the hall, a tarnished brass beacon of a knob against the black. I crash into the wall and drop. Crawl. I have to make it to the door. I can’t die. Not like this. I lift my hand, too tired to even make a fist, and slam it against the wood. Again. Again.
Again.
“Allie!” I wheeze.
Nothing.
“Allie?” This time it comes out a whisper. Wetness soaks into my jeans. Blood. Too much to live through losing. She’s not just gonna have to heal me. She’s gonna have to bring me back. What if she’s not home? I think. I’m propped up against the door frame. I can’t make it down to Jamison. Hell, I can’t even stand. Jamison had told me once these people had limits on how long after death they had any effect. The first time they’d brought his mom back, it’d almost been too late for her. I’d told Allie I wouldn’t be here until dark. One last time, I manage to lift my hand to the door.
She doesn’t come.
Allie
I detour into a small grocery store, killing time. After walking the aisles for ten minutes or so, I pick up milk and a loaf of bread. I’ll have to ask Ploy what he likes to eat. Later, we can come here together and grab some stuff. With the extra money Aunt Sarah promised me after last night, I can actually afford real groceries.
Giving in to the inevitable, I hook the bag around my wrist and head home.
I’m a little surprised to see Ploy asleep against my door for the second time in as many days.
“Sorry, I was at the library,” I call, pulling the key from my pocket. He doesn’t stir. Halfway down the hall, I notice three streaks of maroon on the wall. I stop dead, the key frozen in my hand.
Dread worms up my spine. His head is drooped forward, chin resting against his chest. His legs are spread in front of him, one arm around himself, the other to his side, palm up on the carpet.
I crouch and drop the bag of groceries as my hand lowers to the knife strapped to my ankle. The handle is warm against my palm. “Ploy, wake up. Now.”
He doesn’t move.
Death isn’t exactly an unfamiliar state. I know a body when I see one. But still, my brain refuses to accept it. I ease my way forward, watching, sure any second his chest will rise and fall with a breath, that he’ll stretch and wake up and this will all be a terrible overreaction. My imagination gone haywire. Because he can’t be dead.
Reaching out, I give him a rough shake. His head lolls, rolls to rest against his shoulder. His eyes are open. They don’t blink.
“No.” I drop to my knees, my fingers racing up his neck to search for a pulse I know he won’t have. He’s warm. It’s not too late, a voice whispers. You can save him.
I slide behind him as I unlock and turn the knob. A double trail of blood follows his shoes as I wrench him into the apartment.
Racing to the bathroom, I grab a towel to cover the stain outside my door. There’s no reason for anyone to wander by, but if they do, the makeshift mat will hide the worst of the mess. I can’t do anything about the wall. I take a last look at the empty hallway, then close and lock the door, slide the chain. With shaking hands, I click the deadbolt.
Standing over his body, I almost bite my nails before I stop myself. What are the chances he got hurt, in a fight maybe, and got himself to my door? Not very likely, my brain spits. Which means someone did this to him on purpose. To get to me?
“Shit,” I murmur. “Shitshit.”
I glance at the clock. It’s been almost four hours since I left for the library. His brown eyes stare at the ceiling, unfocused, dilated but unclouded. Which means he’s been dea
d less than three hours. Rigor mortis begins to set in less than half an hour after death. He hadn’t seemed stiff when I moved him.
I kneel. “Okay, Ploy. Tell me what happened to you. Give me something.”
I can’t look at his face and stay focused. His side is wet and red. I close my eyes, concentrating. “Okay, blood on the wall. You got yourself here.” Was he hoping I’d be home to take him to a hospital not knowing I could heal him myself? He wouldn’t have been thinking clearly with an injury like that. I peel up his shirt. I have to roll him to the side to see the wound. Just under his ribs is a knife slash. I squint, trying to remember anatomy. Left side. Whoever stabbed him hit the spleen. Once it was ruptured, he would have bled out in minutes. He probably hadn’t thought the injury was that serious.
My fingers slide across the sticky mess of the two-inch slice, debating. The cut is clean, too small for someone to have gotten a hand inside, drawn out a fist. All his major organs are present and accounted for. “I can work with this,” I whisper.
My trembling, bloodstained hands in front of me, I walk to the bathroom. Under the sink, behind a box of maxi pads is a medical kit. I knock aside mouthwash and a bottle of lotion and grab it. Next, I go to my room. Under my bed where I’d hidden it earlier, is my messenger bag. Clutching them both to my chest, I stagger back to Ploy.
What are you doing? a voice in my head screams. All Ploy was ever supposed to be to me was an alert system, which means he served his purpose. Maybe whoever cut up that kid in the boxcar was coming after me next. Maybe Ploy stopped them. Maybe they’re dead, too. But if it was a hunter who mixed Ploy up with one of us, they failed. They didn’t get to his organs. There’s a chance, however small, that Ploy saw something that I can pass along to Sarah. And what if he was only robbed? Or attacked by another kid? I think. He said he didn’t carry the knife for fun. Better to cut ties then, leave him. He’ll only hold you back. If I let him go, anything he possibly saw will die with him.
“Then I need him alive,” I say aloud. My voice sounds strange. I never meant to get close, to make him my friend.
I should be calling Sarah. We run our cases through a point person, get permission, document them. Call in favors from those who will owe us forever for saving their lives. To Sarah, Ploy’d be some random homeless kid. He can’t pay the prices we demand even if she gives him a sliding scale. “This is why I hate this shit,” I mumble.
What if she says no? I think. She doesn’t know him like I do. I can deal with her anger if it means Ploy lives. I can tell her I’ve reconsidered. That I’m ready to step up. This resurrection, I can be the one she blackmails to get favors from.
I wipe my sticky hands on my thighs and get to work. I don’t stop, don’t reach for my phone. Instead, I sew individual stitches carefully, but quickly, snipping the thread and moving on to the next one, the wound in his side pulling together. Skin is the last to heal. My mother taught me to always do what I could to help it along.
With the last stitch, I set the needle and thread aside. I’m not after cosmetic perfection. I’m after less blood loss, keeping it inside his body when his heart gets going again, because I don’t have the setup for the slow transfusion messier jobs sometimes require.
Upending the messenger bag, I shake it until the contents spill onto the carpet. My eyes flit to the small coin purse containing my vial. I brush it aside.
I’ve still got the syringe from yesterday night. Sanitation isn't exactly necessary in what I’m using it for. I pull the cap off the needle’s point. I want to throw up but my hands move of their own accord, muscle memory burned deep. I lay the syringe on his chest and rummage through the mess on the floor for the rubber tubing, loop it around my upper arm and tie half a bow to hold it. I catch one end between my teeth. When I twist my head away, the knot tightens. I pump my fist, watch the veins in my inner elbow bulge. Taking up the syringe, I stare at the railroad spike of a needle. My hand is shaking. I have to stop shaking.
I take a deep breath and ease the needle into my vein, focus on a slow steady pull of the plunger. The syringe fills with my blood. I yank the needle free and set everything aside. With a snap, the half-bow tied with the rubber tubing comes undone. Feeling rushes into my arm. The wound leaks, a drip of blood streaking down my arm before the puncture hole has a chance to heal.
Ploy lays silent, unbreathing, unmoving. On the wall, the clock ticks audibly. “I know, I know,” I whisper to it.
The stillness is unbearable. My heart hammers away the last of my uncertainties.
I want him alive.
When I tear his shirt, the fabric splits to the neckline. It exposes his chest for me to do what I need. The movement feels good. Instinctive. I don’t think, just act.
I walk my fingers up his ribs, counting down and slip the three inch needle into the space between his fourth and fifth rib. Directly into his heart.
With a palm, I press the plunger, emptying the syringe into one of his unbeating chambers. I haven’t lost near enough blood to faint, but the sudden rush of endorphins and adrenaline has me lightheaded. Slowly, I slide the needle out. It’s done.
Coming back from death isn’t instantaneous. There’s no gasp of breath and lunge up from the floor. My blood needs time to do its work, repair oxygen starved cells that have already started their slow decline into decay. I drop my hand to his chest and wait.
The longest two minutes of my life pass. “Come on,” I whisper.
When it happens, the flutter beneath my fingers is so weak I can’t be sure I didn’t imagine it. I press harder and feel his heart contract with a thump. A smile tightens my cheeks. Now we’re making progress. Once his blood starts circulating again, it will carry mine with it. My cells are already changing his, copying themselves to get his blood volume up. Five seconds later, his heart thumps again, hard, fighting now. The pause between beats shortens as it settles into a rhythm.
“Good boy,” I say aloud, though he’s unconscious. “Next step.” Adjusting closer, I pinch his nose shut and use two fingers to tilt his head. My mouth presses against his. I blow a quick exhale and pull away. “Breathe, Ploy!” His lungs expand as I fill them again. I can’t afford to wait and see how long it’ll take him to start breathing on his own. The faster he’s awake and aware, the faster he can talk and tell me how he got to my door. I need to know exactly what kind of trouble I’m in. “Come on, breathe,” I whisper.
His hand lurches up in a weak punch that only narrowly misses my jaw. “That a boy,” I say, and then press his arm down, pinning him to the floor. “But you’re not exactly in fighting shape right now.”
His spine curves as he twists to the side, his muscles contorting him into an unnatural backbend as he finally sucks in a desperate gasp.
“Easy, Ploy,” I murmur. My voice seems to soothe him. He settles, his chest hitching with uneven breaths. Finally, his eyes flutter open and focus on me. The rapid blinks send a tear sliding from the corner of his eye. He groans.
“I know it hurts.” I let go of his arm and run my hand over his forehead. He’s damp, clammy with new sweat. My fingers leave a smear of red on his skin and I wipe it off with the back of my palm. His arm moves again, this time toward his side. The look on his face asks the questions he can’t. “You were cut. Bad. Do you remember? Blink once for yes.”
His eyes squeeze shut. His leg jerks in an involuntary muscle spasm. Right now, his blood is thick. For at least a few hours, clots will be working through his veins and arteries, gradually breaking down. If this plays out like every other resurrection I’ve participated in, he’ll spend most of that time sleeping off his slight case of death. As his muscles cramp, sharp pain creases his forehead. He fights to raise himself off the floor with shaking arms.
“Relax,” I say but he doesn’t seem to hear me anymore. Pushing his shoulder, I force him down again. “No, you have to stay still.” If he moves too much, he could rip the stitches and bleed out again. It would mean hours more of unconsciousness while his bo
dy starts the recovery process all over. Hours we can’t afford.
He stutters a sound. His vocal cords have started to work. “He cut...”
The smile on my lips feels fake. “You’re safe. You’re going to be fine, I promise.” No use overwhelming him with the details just yet. “But you need to listen to me now, okay? Who cut you?” This consciousness isn’t going to last. It never does--some combination of the brain and body being utterly overwhelmed with all those cells and systems reanimating at once. I have maybe a minute at most. “Please. Tell me.”
Eyes wild, he gropes madly until his fingers catch mine. “Allie,” he pleads. “I don’t wanna die.”
I squeeze his hand. “Tell me what happened.” His eyes slip shut. “Was it someone you know? From the boxcars? Did you go there?” I demand, leaning closer. His eyes roll back in his head even as he fights to stay conscious. He needs time. The blood needs to do its work.
I tap my palm against his cheek anyway and he rouses, barely. “What happened?” I press.
My name slurs out of him as his breathing evens, unconsciousness stealing him away before I can get the answers I need.
Ploy
The pain squeezes through my veins like marbles covered in glass shards. And then it hits me; if it hurts this bad, I have to be alive.
I’m alive.
Adrenaline spikes my heart rate, drives the blood through me faster as agony grates across my bones. I can’t help my shocked gasp.
“Are you awake?” Allie’s voice pulls me from the fog. I hear springs squeak. Her moving on the couch nearby. An odd clarity washes over me as the early afternoon floods back and right on its heels, dread. There’s no way she healed me. Not if I’m in this much pain. “Ploy?” she whispers.
My eyes crack open. I’m on the floor, a pillow under my head. She’s draped a sheet over me, the one I normally use when I sleep here. When I look down, the tips of my duct taped shoes poke out from the bottom.
Vial Things (The Resurrectionists Book 1) Page 5