Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1)

by Leah Clifford

  Her lips form a line, eyes slipping shut for a beat. “Yeah,” she says.

  I take off like a shot, give up on keeping us low. The dim light fades with every second that passes. Soon, it will be full dark. The wind kicks up again. My lungs fill with the smoke smell.

  “Why is he doing this?” Her voice is so low I’m not sure if she meant me to hear.

  “I don’t know,” I answer anyway. “But I’m going to find out for you.” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. They give too much away. Will make her think if she’s paying attention. The thing is, they’re true. Jamison has answers he will be giving me.

  “We’re just letting him go, you realize that?”

  “Would you kill him,” I ask. “If you could?”

  I wonder if she has it in her. For all her vengeance, she looks uncertain. “We won’t be able to find him again and he’ll just keep doing this,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say as I spin on her. “If we have to call every number in that book, get an army after him, we will find him.” There’s only one number I have to call, and it’s stored on a phone Jamison gave me weeks ago. Right now, that phone is buried at the bottom of my pack, wrapped in a pair of socks and tucked into a cooking pot. I’m aching to use it. He had to have a reason to do this.

  Ten minutes later, I still haven’t heard any sirens. Not even fire trucks though the blaze must have consumed most of the house by now. The tops of the trees glow with the slightest orange sheen. It’s getting harder to pick our way through the vegetation. I drop her hand to slap the brambles aside. I think about Jamison, just after his mom died. I think about the time months later when I brought her up and how he looked me dead in the eye. Every hero needs an origin story, he’d said.

  A splotch of water hits my arm, then another.

  The rain starts as a scattering of drops before it builds into a steady fall. As we hike, the ground squelches under my shoes, but I can’t be sure how much of it is due to the weather. We have to be getting close to the swamp Allie mentioned.

  As if to spite me, the storm finally breaks, a deluge pummeling down. What little visibility I have cuts to nothing. We don’t dare use a flashlight. Allie grabs onto a strap of my backpack, as if afraid she’ll be lost. Rain shatters through the trees.

  “How much farther?” she yells above the cacophony. Her hair hangs, sopping where it’s come loose from the bun she wore.

  “To what?” Once the forest turns to full swamp, it’ll be impossible to keep going. Lightning shears across the sky and I wince against the sudden brightness. Blind spots shimmer through my vision.

  “Don’t you have a tent?”

  I’ve got nothing we could use for shelter. Not even a tarp. I think about taking the plastic off the sleeping bag to fashion her a poncho, but we have to keep it dry. If it gets wet, we’re screwed. I shouldn’t have made her run. We would’ve been better off watching from the woods until the fire department showed up. Did Jamison take off before they got there? Is he wandering around here in the dark, too?

  Did he get caught?

  Another bolt pierces the night and with it, a flicker of hope.

  “See that?” I point into the blackness. A rumble of thunder quakes the ground under our feet. The storm is heating up. “Don’t lose me!” I shout.

  She barely has time to grab the bottom of my shirt before I launch ahead. I don’t know how I’m still standing; I’m so far past exhaustion.

  We’re practically on top of the place before I catch the outline again.

  “I think it’s a hunting shack, or a cabin or something,” I scream over my shoulder. The door doesn’t have a knob, just a simple drop latch. I lift it and stumble inside ahead of her. Luckily, the place is small. A quick flash of lightning gives me all the glow I need to be sure there’s no one else inside.

  Rain hammers against the tin roof, careening through spots where the metal has rusted through. Dropping my pack to the floor, I search for my headlamp. The place smells of dampness, mold. I click on the headlamp and flick it around the room.

  There isn’t much. A few cabinets hold old dishes. Everything inside is covered in dust and cobwebs. I wonder at the last time the place was used. When I’m sure it’s secure, I turn to Allie. She’s shivering violently, staring at the wall, her face blank as she blinks slowly. “Hey,” I whisper. “You okay?”

  Gradually, her pupils shift over to me, her eyes focusing again. She gives me the smallest nod, but for now, I’ll take it.

  “All right. Give me a second,” I say. In the corner a thin log leans with a few foot long sections of wood nailed onto it as steps. A platform above our heads makes for a sleeping area, almost like a tiny version of a hayloft. I jump, craning my neck to see. “We’ll go up there and pull the ladder,” I say, shining the light. “If we scoot back, no one will be able to see us.”

  “Okay,” she says through chattering teeth. Her lips are blue. Exhaustion tugs at me but I can’t give in yet. With the temperature drop and the soaking from the storm, I’ve got to get us warm.

  “We need dry clothes,” I say.

  Slinging her pack around, she unzips it. Inside, everything is damp if not drenched. She seems to forget about the clothes and digs until she pulls out the address book and opens it to the picture I gave her at the house. Luckily, it stayed dry where it migrated near the bottom. Her pruned fingers tap against the surface. She takes out a tank top and gives it a shake. Water droplets spray from the fabric.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” I ask.

  She nods. She’s totally unprepared, but then again, why would she be? We were just supposed to be going to her aunt’s for a quick trip.

  “That won’t work,” I say as I dig into my own pack. “It’s wet and it’s cotton. Take your shirt off.”

  “What?” she manages.

  I hand her a balled up pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt that looks like something a runner would wear. They smell dusty and used. “They’re not the cleanest, but your jeans and shirt will take forever to dry. The cotton will actually make you colder.”

  “Oh,” she says quietly. I wonder if she’s ever been so much as camping. I turn away, slip out of my own wet clothes and into dry ones. Behind me, I hear her doing the same. The fabric absorbs some of the chill from my bones.

  “Better?” I ask when we’re both done.

  “Yeah, thanks.” She shoots me a grateful look but doesn’t say what we both know. It’d been me who stopped her from running back into the house. Me who had spotted this place. Who had the dry clothes we both needed.

  She takes her hair down as I lay the makeshift ladder against the platform and climb. She tosses her pack to me and then follows, pulling the ladder after. I tuck it against the wall along with our stuff.

  The old wood creaks. Drops cascade from leaks in the ceiling. Outside, the rain is a torrent. Lightning sears through the cracks and the one broken window. I unroll the sleeping bag and unzip it.

  “We’ll have to share,” I say. The nylon whispers against the rough wood as I adjust it. She lies down and drops her head to her crossed arms. Thunder quakes the ground, the release of power like a sonic boom. In the far distance, I hear the bawl of a hound just before the wind kicks up and buries the sound.

  “They won’t find us,” she says as if reading my mind. “The rain’s good. If they’re tracking us, it’ll wipe out the trail.” The fabric of the thin shirt clings to the skin of her shoulders and upper arms, dampened by her wet hair. I’m not entirely sure I buy her theory, but it’s the first time she’s made a coherent contribution since the house.

  “Should we sleep in shifts?” I ask as I lay down. I’m shaking, but whether it’s from exhaustion or cold, I can’t be sure.

  “No.” She crawls closer and rolls over to face me as I click off the headlamp. “We’d never hear them coming anyway,” she says.

  Another flash of lightning brightens the shack. I catch a glimpse of Allie’s eyes in the glow. It’s dark aga
in before I have a chance to read her expression.

  “Well this storm might be saving our asses,” I get out before another chill wracks through me. I’m definitely warmer than I was, though.

  Allie, however, is shaking so bad I can feel it through the wood beneath us. Without a word, I drop my arm across her shoulders. “Thanks,” she whispers.

  I edge closer, tightening my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. Between the cold and the rain, I’m a little more awake.

  After a while, the lightning moves on, the rain settling into a persistent drizzle. The shack is pitch black. My mind wanders to snakes, rats scurrying through the rafters. And then it goes to Sarah, her mouth open in that terrible scream. I picture flames crawling across the floor, consuming what was left. From her silence, I can only imagine Allie’s thinking about the same thing. Would Jamison kill her aunt? If he did, something’s cracked inside him. But why else would he have set that fire? Maybe I’m missing something, or misunderstanding. I need to make that call.

  “Should we get closer?” Allie asks and then quickly adds, “to stay warm. The temperature’s dropping already.”

  “Um, yeah. Good idea.”

  There’s a scrape as she adjusts and I adjust and suddenly her breath hits my lips. I freeze.

  The air feels full of static that has nothing to do with the faded storm. Her hand courses over my hip to find my waist. In the blackness, I hear her breath catch, feel the absence of it against my cheek. What’re you doing? I want to ask, but it’ll shatter whatever’s going on between us. My fingers move almost on their own, graze the bare skin where her t-shirt has ridden up and linger there. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly.

  She leans forward until our foreheads touch gently. Her hand curls around my neck. “Is this?” she asks instead of answering.

  It’s everything I told myself it was wrong to want. I shouldn’t be feeling anything for her and instead the scent of her wet hair and the heat finally warming her skin and the goosebumps running across her collarbones, they’re intoxicating me. But it’s more than that. It’s how she does what she thinks needs to be done even if it puts her in danger. It’s how she came back for me in the garden when she thought I was gone. It’s her.

  “Um... I don’t...” Nerves shake my voice. I could have her if I wasn’t such a coward, if I’d stood up to Jamison and told him things had changed and she was off limits. I’m lying to her about who I am, what I’m really after. But she lied to me about why she even let me stay with her in the first place. Things have clearly changed for both of us. I’m doing what I can to keep her from getting killed. The thought brings me back to the blood on the floor of the living room. I can’t shake the image. ...So how can she? “Allie, what’s—”

  She leans. In the darkness, her lips miss, graze the corner of my mouth instead. She’s pressed tight against me. An embarrassed breath escapes her. “Please,” she whispers and I break.

  My fingers tilt her head so her mark hits true and smothers out the word. Her lips are soft, hesitant, but her hand locks on my hip in a greedy grip. Every muscle she moves, every shift, grinds against me and yet her lips are so gentle I want to scream. She slips a hand to my chest.

  My mouth moves across her cheek, down to her neck and then she finds my lips again. I tangle myself in her arms, one of my hands in her hair, tugging her closer. I can do this. I’ll give in, let go the way I want to, lose myself in breath and skin. Forget everything else. Why I’m here with her, why we shouldn’t.

  Why I can’t.

  My forehead drops against her shoulder.

  “Please,” she moans again.

  I’m not sure what to do. Never once, in all the nights I’ve spent at her apartment, has she so much as touched me and now she’s all over me. “Wait,” I pant.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispers and this time I hear the sob buried behind the word.

  “I have to…” My fingers thread through her hair once more but when she moves to kiss me again, I tip my head back and away.

  “Why?” she says finally.

  I’m not a saint. Hell, I’m not even a decent human being half the time. But I know what she’s after and why. My fingers curl against her hairline and then tuck a lock behind her ear. “I don’t want you to do this because you’re afraid.”

  “I’m not,” she says at the same time I say, “Or because you’re sad and want to forget.”

  She stills. In the darkness, I can’t see her face.

  “Allie…”

  “No, you’re right,” she says, her voice brimming with nonchalance so fake I wince out of secondhand embarrassment. “Stupid idea.”

  “I’m sorry about the house,” I say.

  “Stop. Talking.” She grates the words out through clenched teeth and I know I was right.

  “I’m sorry about your aunt.”

  She rolls away from me. “Please,” she begs. “Just stop talking. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want any of this. I don’t... ” I hesitate and then touch her gently. This time, she doesn’t brush me away. The tremors in her shoulders build until silent sobs shake through her. “Why are they doing this?” she sobs.

  Power, I could answer. Fame, too. Those were Jamison’s reasons.

  What were mine?

  Christ, I didn’t want world domination. I wanted a pair of shoes on my feet that weren’t held together by duct tape. A roof over my head not made of metal. It was always about survival. I glance up at the tin roof and a drop leaks through and strikes me in the middle of the forehead. When I tilt my head forward, the water rolls down the side of my nose to my chin, and then falls to seep into my shirt.

  Sobs break her words apart. “They killed her like she was some sort of animal! I don’t understand why this is happening.”

  “I’ll find out,” I promise her and I mean it. She hiccups, trying to get her breathing under control. Slowly, her sobs ease into steady silent tears.

  She buries her face against my neck as I smooth her hair. “We’ll find him,” I murmur over and over until her breathing evens.

  Chapter 12

  ALLIE

  My eyelids are swollen, my face puffy from crying. “Ploy,” I croak out. Dawn has broken. Dim light streams into the shack. “Wake up. We have to go.”

  I roll over. The spot next to me is empty.

  He probably just went to the bathroom. Except his pack is gone. And now that I notice, mine is too.

  The ladder already leans against the edge of the platform. As I ease onto it and start down, my eyes catch on a drop of blood. Then another smeared onto the ladder itself. I tap it gently with my fingertip. Still wet.

  “Ploy!” I call, jumping the last steps to the floor and barreling toward the door. I throw it open. His pack is spilled, clothes and camping equipment scattered in a trail around the corner of the shack. And then I see his foot, see his shoe, tilted to one side. I can’t make out more than the ankle.

  He’s dead. Torn fabric lies beside the shoe, soaked in blood. It’s the shirt he wore last night. Please, I pray. Not him, too. I need him. It’s so much more than that, though. I care about him. Not Ploy. I can’t see him carved and empty.

  The shoe moves.

  “Ploy?” I gasp, forcing myself forward. He leans against the side of the shack. At the sound of my footsteps, he glances up. My pack sits beside him, open. A long strip of gauze winds around his leg.

  I don’t even wait for him to get up to throw myself into his arms. He catches me with an ‘oof.’

  “There was blood!” I stammer.

  A long second passes before he hugs me back. “I got up to go to the bathroom and I caught my leg on a nail!” He pulls me off his shoulder. “I should have woken you up, but it was bleeding and—”

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again! Understand?”

  He stares at me in surprise.

  “How bad is it?” I ask. “The cut.”

  “Um, it’s...well...” He tips the gauze away from what’s left of the wound. I
t’s scabbed over, the edges already pink with healing scar tissue. “It’s because of what you did to me isn’t it?”

  “My blood,” I say. “You’ve got a month of this, maybe less. Depends how long it takes your cells to fight mine off once yours are healthy again. Your immune system is going insane right now.” The words rush out of me until guilt closes my lips. We don’t tell people these things. We don’t invite questions. We’re not honest about any of it. And yet here I am spilling too much. I could blame grief or exhaustion, but the truth is, it feels good to trust someone. None of the kids I went to school with got far with me. I didn’t date. I never really bothered to try. Now, the more time I spend with Ploy, the more isolated I realize I’ve been. I don’t want to be that way anymore. “We get old,” I say quietly. “We live normal lives.” When we make it that long...

  “Even now though, before being able to heal myself goes away,” he says. “I can’t do it, too? Bring people back?”

  “Nope.”

  “But what if you gave me more—” he starts but cuts himself off when I give my head a shake.

  “It’s an infection, Ploy. It jacks your system up healing-wise and then your body fights it off. If I resurrected you again in a year, in ten, you’d have those white blood cells and this time they’d be ready to go. To fight. It takes way more blood to work the second time.”

  “What, like two of those syringes full?”

  If only it was that little of a jump. “More like a pint. Maybe two. First time’s a syringe. Second is a transfusion.”

  “And the third?” he asks.

  It’d drain me dry, and even then... I hate when people fetishize what we can do. “The blood’s not some sort of constant miracle.” My fingers twist around the hem of the shirt he gave me last night. “It’s getting the people I love killed. Putting them in danger.”

  It’s not until the words are out that I realize what they imply. But I didn’t mean him. He has to know that. When he doesn’t say anything, I glance at him. His fingers brush under my chin.