When I finish chewing and look up, Ploy’s staring at me. “I brought you back,” he says, as if he doesn’t quite believe it. Technically, he only sped up the process—my genes would have done the job on their own—but I let him believe what he wants. Because in truth, if he hadn’t gotten me out of the cabin before Jamison showed up, my genes wouldn’t have done much good. “You said it was temporary. Me being able to do this.” He touches his chest, his heart, almost unconsciously. “Or were you lying about that too?”
“I wouldn’t have lied to you,” I say, my voice soft, a bit bitter though I don’t mean to make it sound that way. “It’ll be gone in a month.”
“You’re sure?” He’s holding his hand in front of him, slowly turning it over as if he expects to find the answers he wants tattooed on the other side. Where’s his sudden doubt coming from? There hasn’t been any time for me to get away. The words drift through my mind in Ploy’s voice, fragments of a conversation I can’t place.
I offer him a weak smile. “My cells changed yours. As soon as your body starts producing new cells they’ll treat mine like an infection and kill them off. You’ll be able to heal basic cuts and scrapes until everything’s flushed from your system. Broken bones, anything worse, and you’ll be knocked on your ass just like you were after you showed up dead on my doorstep. If it works at all. I told you, it goes away unless you’re born with it.” It’s all information he already has; I’m careful not to give him anything new.
The suspicion in his eyes catches me off guard. “You probably want to change,” he says, suddenly shuffling, bent over, toward the entrance. “Your shirt’s wrecked.”
“Okay,” I manage. When he’s gone, I take stock of myself. Blood is crusted to my side. The material sticks to my skin when I try to pull. It’s not until I get it over my head that I see the bandage he’s taped over the wound. The gauze is freshly changed.
My backpack is next to me. As I reach for it, I see the pile of leaves, the vaguely Ploy shaped indent in the middle where he’d clearly slept, giving me the sleeping bag. It makes me pause. Leaves. Something falling in the leaves. I remember it.
“There was a phone,” I whisper before I can stop myself. I remember my head on the backpack and the phone tumbling into the leaves. He reached for it as my eyes slid closed, but I listened. He talked to someone. Should I forget it? Leave her here? I mean, she’s worthless if we can’t get anything off her, right? I freeze. Ploy wouldn’t say that. It must have been a nightmare. You won’t hurt her. You won’t go near her. The sentences bubble up in broken syllables stained with anger. I won’t let you kill her.
The granola bar is a sour ball in my stomach. I’ve been still too long. He’ll know something’s wrong. I search for the small pair of scissors. When I find them, I carefully peel off the bandage. The tape strips away the dried blood and leaves behind two twin lines of clean skin. The stitches are already gone. He removed them, just like I did for him at the apartment. I grab the first shirt I touch and pull it on. She doesn’t have to get hurt.
We were wrong about some things, Jamison.
The line drops into my mind like a corner puzzle piece. One side of a conversation builds itself in my mind. Ploy was on the phone. He was talking about me.
With Jamison.
Ploy is with Jamison. The man who killed my aunt. The man who killed...Brandon? But that doesn’t make sense.
I’m nauseous, my skin crawling and I can’t be sure if it’s the after affects of healing or the shaded nightmare dribbling back to me in fits and starts. Ploy wouldn’t do that, I think frantically. He likes me and I.... I twist and heave into the leaves.
“Allie?” I hear Ploy call.
“Don’t come in here!” My voice shakes. I should have known. I wipe a weak hand across my lips. I’ve got to run. Get away from him. Instead, I close my eyes for a beat and force a slow breath. Calming down will help me think. I’ve been passed out and helpless for nearly twenty four hours. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it already. Instead of being a consolation, the realization only confuses me. If he’s after my blood, he could have waited for Jamison to show. But he didn’t. Why? The word pounds through me with each frantic heartbeat. What’re you after, Ploy?
I crawl out of the makeshift hut. I manage to get first one foot, then the other, underneath me and stand. My legs are tingly, numb. Each breath burns. Either my organs were more damaged than I thought or the pills haven’t quite worn off. I won’t think about spinal cord damage, permanent weakness. Glancing around, all I see are trees, the puddled start of the swamp. There’s no way I can make it out of here by myself. Not as weak as I am. Blood loss is a simple fix. A deflated lung, not to mention whatever else was hit, takes time to heal.
Even merely sitting, my breaths are sharp and gasping. I catch Ploy watching me out of the corner of his eye. His lips were on mine the night before last. I’d begged him to keep going.
I have to grab a tree to hold me up. The rough bark digs into my arms. “I’m fine,” I say, but the way I’m swaying isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement of my health.
“You’re not fine,” he says as he takes my elbow. I want to shake him off, but force myself to accept the support. “You took a bullet, Allie, and you... You died in my arms.” His anger softens. “Hell of a thing to do, by the way. I’m gonna need therapy.”
I ignore the attempt at humor and lock eyes with him. “And if you hadn’t helped, I would have taken a lot longer to come back. He’d already called. I never would have made it out on my own.” I glance at the shelter he made. Was he not supposed to turn me over to Jamison? I search my brain for missing parts of the conversation, anything to give me a clue as to what’s going on.
He bites his lip. “If you’d listened to me when I said we should leave, you wouldn’t have gotten shot.”
“I thought we were doing the right thing,” I say. I’d thought there was a ‘we.’ I’d thought we were a team. The anger fades to a bitter disappointment. I’d thought a lot of things that were wrong. “Jason would have called people and this would have been over. I could have trusted him.”
“That easy?” Ploy asks.
For a long time, I don’t answer. “I guess I know not to trust anyone anymore.”
He winces, feigning hurt. Then he reaches for me, hesitates, and pulls me into a hug. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
I think of him bandaging me, checking to make sure I was breathing. Taking care of me instead of taking my life and I hate that I’m grateful. I bury my head further into his shoulder. It’s the only place to hide, and right now, I can’t bring myself to look at him. He betrayed me, but I can’t help but wonder if he betrayed Jamison a bit too and I don’t know what that means. “Did you read the notebook?” I ask.
Ploy shakes his head. “I honestly forgot you had it.”
If he’s after any resurrectionist, how could he simply forget I had a book full of their names and addresses?
“So what’s our next move?” Ploy asks.
I don’t hesitate. “A phone or Fissure’s Whipp. I need to get to my friend, Talia. I want to make sure she’s okay.” More so, I want to get backup I can trust and figure out how to play this new development. I glance at Ploy. You stupid boy, I think. You’re in so far over your head and you don’t even know it. I’ll use him to get out of the woods and to town. Talia will know what to do from there.
Talia will want him dead.
He doesn’t bother taking apart the shelter. “If they find it,” he says. “Maybe they’ll think we’re camping here. It’ll give us some extra time.” For just a second, his face darkens.
When we set off for the road, the sun’s high in the sky. My shoes squish with each step. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. Mosquitoes whine in my ears, leave raised welts where they stab through my skin, steal my blood. I wonder if it has any effect on them.
He and I skirt around the edge of the swamp, close enough to smell the algae blooms, the stagnant
water. I’m not even sure I’m heading the right way. But it’s better than sitting still. Better than being stuck here with him.
Every half hour or so, Ploy asks if I need a break. Most times I turn him down. I’m afraid if I lose momentum, I won’t be able to start walking again. I lean too heavily on him. Anger, adrenaline and Ploy’s arm around my waist are the only things keeping me upright.
Finally, we make it to a road.
“You ever hitchhike before?” Ploy asks. Panting, hands on my knees, I shake my head. “Okay,” he says, slipping his pack off his shoulders. “You’re going to go stand on edge of the road there, and I’m going to wait here. When a car pulls over, just say Fissure’s Whipp. If they say yes, wave your hand low and I’ll come out.”
I don’t like it. I’m not used to this lifestyle Ploy seems so comfortable in. I’d never hitchhike on my own. I’m gasping great gulps of air, weak and exhausted from the hike. “Isn’t it safer to stay together?”
He scoffs. “Yeah, but a body like yours is going to get us a ride a lot faster.” He digs through his pack and passes me a tattered flannel. “Tie this around your waist. It’ll hide the blood on your pants,” he mumbles and then glances up. He sighs at my shocked expression. “Look, that’s the reality of being on the road. You’re a pretty girl and you look like you’re in trouble and vulnerable. Use it to your advantage. As soon as he says he’ll give you a ride, wave me over. Get in the back seat, not the front, and slide over so I can get in with you. He’ll be too embarrassed to say no.”
“What if...”
“If he tries anything?” Ploy’s expression deadens. “I’ll gut him.”
Something inside me coils tight. I don’t like seeing this side of him, violence there like alligators, hidden just under the surface. He never struck me as dangerous before. We killed that man at the cabin, me with my knife and Ploy with the gun. I’m a murderer. The realization hits me fast and hard. I ended a life. Had you killed anyone before? I want to ask him. I think of the leaves in the little hut he built me and wonder if he slept, if he could. He’s spent the night on my couch countless times. I’d thought I was so clever. It only reminds me how little I know about him.
Gut him. He had to choose those words.
And then a smile breaks out of him and just like that, the threat is gone. For the first time, I wonder if Ploy isn’t the perfect villain I’m giving him credit for. He reaches over my shoulder and gathers my hair until it flows long and loose. The ends, tangled with blood, are hidden by my pack when I put it on.
“Ready?” he asks. I swallow hard and nod, watch as he ducks down into the tall grass near the forest’s edge.
I’m tense, uncertain. I want to dive in front of the first vehicle I see and beg them to call the cops. Tell them the boy hiding in the tall grass had something to do with my murdered aunt. ...Except...Why is her aunt dead? Ploy’s voice echoes in my head and there’s so much anger in the words I hesitate when a car does finally pull up, a middle aged business man inside.
“I...”
The man’s gray haired and looks about as nervous as I feel. “You alright, young lady?”
I am not. Not even close. Ploy’d been angry about Sarah dying. He’d told Jamison not to hurt me, not to go near me.
“Do you need a ride?” the man asks.
Ploy knows how to find Jamison. I can use Ploy to find Jamison.
“Young lady?”
I nod and wave my hand, low. Ploy breaks free of the swaying cattails in the ditch and slides in beside me. Just as he said, the man doesn’t say a word.
Our ride takes us all the way to Fissure’s Whipp, the awkward silence broken only by the sound of tires on the road.
Half an hour later, as we head down the main drag in town, I spot a café. “You can let us out here,” I say.
When we enter, the waitress shoots us a dirty look. Right now, the promise of a decent meal overrules the need for a shower. I don’t even smell myself anymore. I ignore her and Ploy follows me to one of the unoccupied booths in the back. My ATM card is in my pocket. And then I remember the envelope of cash from my aunt’s house. I order a bowl of gumbo with extra bread. Ploy does the same. “To go,” he adds as the waitress turns away. He covers a yawn and leans his head against the worn leather backing of the booth. “You needed to get a hold of your friend?” he asks me as if I’ve forgotten.
The dim lights cast shadows under his eyes. Both of us need sleep and food first and foremost. I don’t know if that makes my priorities messed up or not. Jamison is out there, hunting, and I’m sitting in air conditioning, shivering as the sweat on my skin dries and thinking of a shower.
“Yeah, Talia. My friend,” I say, finally answering Ploy. I’m going to put her in danger if I make that call. Bring her in on things. But it seems like Ploy has a bubble around him Jamison’s unwilling to tap. It’s kept me safe so far. Maybe it’ll keep her safe, too. And I need help. God, do I need help. “I should call her.”
Ploy doesn’t respond. His eyes are shut, his chest rising and falling in even breaths. His face is relaxed, slack. Most people look younger when they sleep, but Ploy looks worn through. Hidden by a set of double doors, what sounds like a stack of plates shatters, followed by a round of claps and laughter. Ploy doesn’t stir.
Halfway to our table, the waitress sees he’s asleep and creeps quietly up to hand me the check and a bag with our food in it. I give her my debit card. If I have to run later, it’s better to have cash. “Do you have a phone I can use? It’s kind of an emergency.”
Luckily, she’s perceptive enough to realize I’m not messing around. She reaches into her apron pocket and hands me her cell phone. I dial Talia’s number.
She actually answers. My plan hadn’t gone any further than calling her. Now that she’s on the line, it hits me how much I’ll have to trust her with, how immense the favors I’m going to be asking of her will be.
“Hello?” she says again.
“It’s Allie.” I rush the words before she can hang up. “I was shot,” I manage, cupping my hand around my mouth to muffle to words so no one else will hear. “I’m in trouble.” My eyes blur. “Still up for that cup of coffee?”
“Where are you?” she asks instantly.
Relief floods through me. I give her the name of the restaurant and tell her I’ll be outside. For some reason, she doesn’t question why I’m there with a bullet wound. “Ten minutes, Buttercup,” she says. A long moment passes. She’s waiting for me to say a certain word, a code. She’s done it since we were kids, to let each other know we were okay.
I am so far from okay.
“Got it,” she says when I don’t speak the answer she’s expecting. “On my way.” She hangs up.
“Thanks,” I say, handing the phone to the waitress. She runs my card and is back in a few minutes.
As soon as she’s gone, I scoot out of my seat. “Hey, food’s here,” I say and then raise my voice. “Talia’s picking us up outside.”
Ploy puffs a whisper of a snore.
“Hey. Time to go.” I lay a hand on his arm.
The second I touch him he’s awake. One arm covers his face, protecting himself from some imagined threat. His other hand grabs my wrist. The bones grind as his fingers tighten. My cry of pain brings him fully conscious.
For a second, he only stares at me, lost. Then he realizes what he’s doing and just as quickly lets me go. “Oh God, did I hurt you?”
His fear catapults me into confusion. The shame in his eyes only cements the feeling. He cares that he hurt me. He cares about me. It’s obvious and undeniable and I don’t understand.
“Allie, I’m so sorry,” he says. He reaches for me and then seems to think better of it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, blinking hard as I bend to pick up the bag of food I dropped. “I scared you.” I plaster on a smile and look up at him. “Really, it’s fine!”
Around us, the restaurant has gone quiet. His eyes dart over my shoulder, then to the
ground. Though I don’t look, the stares of the other customers are heavy on my back. I step closer to Ploy and tentatively take his hand in mine. With a bend to my knees, I get low enough that he has to look at me. “Hey. It’s okay.”
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”
He keeps his head down as I lead him through the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. The city’s busy, the sidewalks swollen with people. They mill around and above us, drinking on balconies. I’m as oblivious to them as they are to me. I watch Ploy pacing. Finally, I thrust my wrist at him. “There’s not even a mark!”
He doesn’t answer.
“Ploy,” I say, losing patience. “Stop.” I jerk his hand to get us out of the flow of foot traffic. “Talk to me.”
“It’s just...” He bites his lip. In the cacophony of the crowd, his whispered words are all I hear. “He used to grab my arm like that before he hit me.”
“Who?” I ask. Jamison. At the thought of him hurting Ploy, a rage builds inside me, overwhelming. A day ago it would have been justified. Now, it’s all I can do to stamp it down into a bright white ball of incandescent hate.
“My dad,” he says and I can’t hide my surprise. It’s the first time he’s volunteered anything about his home life. Now, I know why. Not that I expected it to be an idyllic story. No one chooses a boxcar and scrounging for food unless they have mental problems or a seriously messed up living situation. Did he meet Jamison on the street? He must have. I don’t say anything, give Ploy time to see if he’ll go on. Instead, he takes my hand again, like he’s tethered himself to me. I let him. He doesn’t say anything else.
Talia’s grey SUV stops in front of the restaurant. “That’s her,” I tell Ploy.
Without even taking my pack off, I open the passenger side door. Relief pours over me when I see Talia with her arms held out. I slide into her hug. “Oh God, you have no idea how good it is to see you!”
Vial Things (The Resurrectionists Book 1) Page 13