Ghost Heart

by Ripley Patton

  Surprisingly, the thudding from inside stopped. Jason wasn’t normally that cooperative. Then again, he must have heard the gunshots.

  I slid off the body bag, trying not to put my hands anywhere but on the cold metal of the truck floor. When I stood up, the front of my shirt was sopping and my arms felt slimy, but I had no time to be squeamish. From outside, I could hear the unmistakable sound of an approaching vehicle. Someone was coming for us.

  I stumbled, feeling my way across the truck bed to the far bench. Amazingly, Mr. James’s briefcase was still lodged under it and I pulled it out.

  “I’ve got it,” I told him. “I’m bringing it back.”

  “Good girl. Don’t trip on David.”

  David. Right. Of course Mr. James referred to his nephew by his first name. But I had always known him by his middle name.

  “I won’t. He slid. He’s by the door now.” It had been much longer than ten minutes since we’d pulled Marcus from the pool, and he still hadn’t rebooted. I didn’t want to think about what that meant. I didn’t have the luxury.

  I could hear muffled voices outside now. “Someone’s coming,” I whispered as I fumbled my way to the back of the truck feeling for the crate with my feet.

  “I know,” Mr. James said from right in front of me. “I’m hoping they’re my people, but we can’t be sure.”

  “Here’s the briefcase.” I tried to hand it to him in the dark.

  “You’ll have to let him out,” he said. “If these aren’t my men, I’m going to need to be holding this gun. Can you do it?”

  “I’ll try.” I set the briefcase on top of the crate and felt for the latch release. When I’d found it, I lifted the lid and reached inside, my hand landing immediately on the cool smoothness of a crowbar. I pulled it out and latched the case, setting it at my feet. Everything took so long in the dark. The voices outside were closer. They were coming around the back of the truck to the doors.

  I felt along the top of the crate and over the edge to the crack between the lid and the container. I slipped the tip of the crowbar into the crack and yanked, hearing the satisfying creak of wood and nails separating. I ran the crowbar along the crack a few more inches and yanked again. It was coming loose.

  The voices were closer, maybe right outside the doors.

  Metal clanked, the sound of the handles being lifted.

  I moved around to the end of the crate. One more yank and the lid came free, moving under my hands as Jason pushed it aside, sending it clattering to the floor.

  The voices outside went silent.

  Jason’s dark form rose out of the crate, and he grabbed me, swinging me around and wrapping his arm around my throat, squeezing, pulling me against the crate, him inside and me outside, the wood pinned between us.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he huffed into my ear, his words slurring a little. Whatever they’d given him, it hadn’t completely worn off. But his arm was strong, squeezing the breath out of my throat so I couldn’t even answer him.

  “We’re about to find out,” Mr. James said, and Jason’s arm seemed to relax a little.

  The handle to the truck doors screeched and they swung open, light shining in and blinding us.

  6

  PASSION

  “Mr. James?” a voice called.

  “Marshall, thank God,” Mr. James answered, striding forward. “We were compromised at the park. Holbrook switched out Rodgers, so I had to do a little improvising. I had no idea if he’d caught you in his net as well.”

  “Never, sir,” the man said, looking up at Mr. James reverently. “I will always have your back.”

  “Did you bring the ambulance?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s load him up,” he said, gesturing at the body bag. “The quicker we’re out of here, the better.”

  Men came forward from behind Marshall and began to carefully lift the mesh bag out of the truck.

  “Who are these guys?” Jason asked, his arm around my throat relaxing completely, but he didn’t let go of me. “And who’s the stiff?”

  “That stiff is Marcus,” I said, stepping out of his grasp. “And those men are the old Hold, the ones still loyal to Mr. James. There was a coup or something, because of the Eidolon, and the new Hold thinks you invited the CAMFers to it.”

  He just stared at me, his dark eyes blinking.

  “They were going to take you to Indy for questioning. That’s why Mr. James knocked you out and put you in there.”

  “I guess I owe him then,” Jason said, stepping over the edge of the crate, still a little wobbly, his arm slipping over my shoulder for support. It was certainly better than being choked.

  “You two. Come on,” Mr. James called. “We need to get out of here.”

  Jason and I shuffled to the doors, his arm still around me.

  Hands reached up, helping us down.

  There were about fifteen men stationed around the doors, armed and alert.

  We were led to the front of the truck where an ambulance and several SUVs waited.

  The ambulance doors were open, two EMTs frantically working over someone on the gurney inside. At first, I thought it might be one of the guys Mr. James had shot. But when we came up to the doors, I realized it was Marcus, the black body bag gone. They had his clothes stripped off and were wrapping him in some kind of insulated blanket, but it was still hard to ignore the gaping hole in his chest. His skin was grey and he did not look alive.

  “Get those heat packs on him now. We have to get his core temperature up,” one of the medics said, a petite, dark-skinned woman with a nose ring.

  The other EMT, a big guy built like a linebacker, started slapping blue heat packs all over Marcus’s body: in his arm pits, in his crotch, and across his abdomen.

  “You’re taking these two as well,” the guy behind us told them.

  “We don’t have room,” the woman said, not even looking up from the IV she was inserting into Marcus’s arm.

  “Make room,” the guy said. “Mr. James wants them all in the ambulance.”

  “Fine.” She finally looked up. “What are their manifestations?” Her eyes fell on Jason and then me, inspecting us as if we were petri dish specimens.

  “He’s leg. She’s blood,” the guy behind us rattled off.

  “Oh, you’re blood.” She smiled at me like “blood” was my name and she was my new best friend. “Excellent. I’ve seen your labs. We can use you for a transfusion. Come on. Get in.” She moved aside and indicated a seat at the back of the interior.

  Jason was still a little wobbly, so I helped him in, the two of us passing so close to Marcus I could smell the dank, fishy heat coming off of him. Could the EMTs really bring him back, and would my blood actually help? I’d never given blood before, for obvious reasons. Samples of it had been taken twice though, once by Dr. Fineman and once by Samantha James. I’d thought Samantha’s sample had only been tested at Edgemont High School but, if this woman had seen it, it had obviously made it further than I’d thought.

  Jason and I sat down, buckled ourselves in, and someone slammed the ambulance doors closed.

  “I’m Reiny.” The female EMT introduced herself as the ambulance engine rumbled to life and we began to move. “This is Pete.” She gestured at the big guy.

  “Um, I’m Passion and this is Jason,” I said.

  “Great.” She smiled. “And now I need some of your blood.” She began unwrapping a large needle. “Can you roll up your sleeve please?”

  I hesitated—of course I did—and she saw it.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I do this all the time. I’m really good at it, and we won’t take too much.”

  “No, I—it’s fine,” I said, pulling up my sleeve.

  She was a pro. She didn’t even bat an eye at the scars. She wrapped a rubber strap around my bicep, tapped the skin of my inner arm for veins, found a good one, swabbed it with disinfectant, and inserted the needle, my blue and red blood racing thro
ugh the catchment and down a tube into a waiting IV bag, swirling like purple marble before it began to separate into PSS and blood.

  “Are you sure it won’t mess him up?” I asked. Didn’t blood types have to match? Because I was pretty sure mine wouldn’t match anyone’s.

  “Your regular blood type is O negative, which is the best universal match,” she said, like my blood was something to be proud of. “The PSS doesn’t change that. Anyone with PSS could take your blood.” It was strange to think having PSS blood might be a perk, rather than a dark secret I must hide.

  “What about people without PSS?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she said, her eyes glancing away.

  There was something there. Something she didn’t want to tell me.

  When the IV bag was full, Reiny pulled the needle from my arm and slapped a cotton ball and Band-Aid over the small welling of blood.

  Then she turned back to Marcus. “His blood is low on oxygen,” she explained. “Your blood will help re-oxygenate it, as well as help stabilize his core body temperature.”

  “So, you can bring him back?” I asked. “Even after all this time?”

  “We’re pretty sure,” she said, attaching my bag of blood to his IV, then gently brushing aside the wet hair that was plastered to his forehead. It was an odd gesture, almost maternal. His bangs fell back, revealing the jagged zig-zag of scars leading up into his hairline, reminding me that Marcus had been seriously dead before. Olivia had told me he’d been killed in a terrible car accident when he was young. If he’d come back from that, surely he could come back from this.

  Reiny didn’t seem surprised by his scars either. She glanced at them briefly, then looked at me. “We’ll do everything we can,” she said, her voice confident. “We have a full hospital set-up back at the farm.”

  “What farm?” Jason asked. “Where are you taking us?”

  “To a safe house,” Pete answered, clipping some kind of monitor thing onto the end of one of Marcus’s prune-like fingers. “A well-armed safe house.”

  Jason should like that.

  We sat together, silently, watching my weird blood flow into Marcus’s arm.

  I stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets, my knuckles banging up against the hard roundness of the magic eight ball. I’d completely forgotten I had it. Thank goodness I hadn’t lost it in the truck.

  Suddenly, monitors began to beep like crazy and the EMTs were jabbing buttons and glancing frantically at each other.

  “What the hell?” Pete blurted out as the entire inside of the ambulance was plunged into darkness. The overhead lights went out. Every machine fell silent. I could still hear the hum of the ambulance engine and feel us moving forward, but the only light source was the dim red glow of the taillights through the back door windows. Jason was gripping my arm and I was gripping his.

  There was a flash, a pulse of blue emanating from Marcus’s chest and filling the interior of the vehicle like a strobe. For a moment I could see Reiny and Pete’s surprised faces before they flashed back into blackness.

  “He’s coming back,” I said, relief and excitement coursing through me.

  “Okay, but what the fuck happened to our equipment?” Reiny asked.

  There was another pulse, blue and beautiful, and the equipment hummed to life, the overhead light springing on and blinding us. The machines were still freaking out, beeping and flat-lining, but at least they were on.

  The burst of light from Marcus’s chest pulsed faster and closer together. It was amazing. I’d never actually seen the process itself, only the results of Marcus dead and then not dead.

  The EMTs weren’t even paying attention to their monitors anymore. They were focused on Marcus, as transfixed as Jason and I. It was impossible to look away from the miracle happening right in front of us. With each new pulse, his color got better, and his body became more vital looking. And then he gasped, sucking in air and jerking upwards, the blanket and heat packs falling away as he sat up. His chest was whole now, the ugly gaping hole filled with the intricate outline of PSS lungs and a healthy, beating PSS heart.

  “You’re okay,” Reiny said gently, grabbing his arm and steadying him.

  “We’ve got you,” Pete said, holding him from the other side.

  Slowly, Marcus turned and looked at Reiny, his eyes confused, his face strangely slack.

  “Waib—got—nar,” he slurred, drool dripping from his lower lip, his mouth scrunching in frustration. “Waib goth ner.” He tested the strange sounds again. Louder. Angrier.

  “David, it’s okay. You’ve experienced some trauma.” Reiny held his bare arm with one hand while she fumbled for a nearby syringe full of clear liquid. “You’re going to feel confused. It may take a little while for your head to clear.”

  “My scissor. Theb goth ner,” he said, struggling against the hold of both the EMT’s now, his head turning and catching sight of Jason and me sitting behind him. His eyes met mine, but there was no recognition. He looked like a scared animal. Or a confused child.

  Reiny sank the syringe into his bicep, and his glance flew to her, bewildered and betrayed as his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into Pete’s arms.

  Pete lowered him down on the stretcher and pulled the blanket around him again.

  “Get him oxygen, now,” Reiny commanded Pete. “I’ll put the sedative directly into the IV.” She grabbed another syringe, prepping it for insertion.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I demanded.

  “Why can’t he talk?” Jason fired at them too. “What did you do to him?”

  “Be quiet,” Pete snapped, strapping an oxygen mask over Marcus’s face, “and let us help him.”

  No, this could not be happening. This was supposed to be our miracle; Marcus fully restored like he’d always been and coming to our rescue. Not this—not Marcus confused and jabbering like an idiot.

  “But is he okay?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

  “We don’t know,” Reiny said. “It’s too soon to tell.”

  “But you have an idea,” Jason pressed. “Don’t you?”

  She turned away from us, exchanging a look with Pete.

  “He’s our friend,” I told both of them. “We want to know.”

  Pete nodded and Reiny turned to us, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Most likely, he’s suffering from cerebral hypoxia,” she said. “He went a very long time without getting adequate oxygen to his brain. That can result in temporary or permanent damage. We won’t know which until we’ve run more tests back at the farm. And even then, every brain recovers differently.”

  “Brain damage,” I said, the words sounding all garbled and wrong, as if I was the one who couldn’t speak.

  “We’ll do everything we can for him,” Reiny promised, putting her warm brown hand over mine.

  But it didn’t comfort me. If Marcus was broken, damaged beyond repair, Olivia would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself.

  No, God. Please, no.

  As I prayed, my thoughts nothing but a desperate plea, the ambulance drove on into the night, Reiny and Pete watching their monitors with guarded expressions.

  Jason sat silently next to me.

  I don’t know how long we drove. It seemed like forever. From what I could see out the back window, it looked like we were taking back roads, not the highway.

  Then we turned off onto a dirt road, dust billowing behind us, illuminated by the taillights.

  A wooden sign flashed past us, disappearing into the dark, something about it vaguely familiar.

  The ambulance turned sharply and slowed, pulling to a stop.

  “We’re here,” Pete said, getting up to unlatch the doors and swing them open. He hopped out, ready to receive the gurney.

  Reiny attached Marcus’s IV to it before they lowered it out, popping the wheeled legs down and rolling it to the side so Jason and I could climb out.

  Jason stepped down first, his boots crunching in the grav
el, and I stepped after him. Pete and Reiny were pushing Marcus toward one of the buildings in front of us. It was a huge farmhouse, another long, low building to its left stretching off into the dark fields of rural Indiana.

  We were back at The Warren Gun Club.

  * * *

  I’d never expected to see the man who had taught me to shoot a gun ever again.

  I’d certainly never expected to be sitting around a table with him, his two brothers, and Jason, downing the best fried chicken and garlic mashed potatoes I’d ever had.

  Apparently, Bo, the guy Olivia had always referred to as Shotgun, was an amazing cook. His brothers, Bruce and Butch, the one who’d been my shooting instructor, were just good eaters.

  Jason and I ate and drank, our eyes flicking between each other and the three burly men. And they weren’t the only men here. On the way into the farmhouse from the ambulance, I’d seen the yard full of tents, groups of men sitting around low, glowing campfires. Jason has seen it too and given me a quizzical look. Something was going on here, a gathering of some kind.

  When we’d first arrived, Reiny and Pete had taken Marcus upstairs, and occasionally Pete would pass through the dining room, bringing yet another piece of monitoring equipment in from the ambulance. I wanted to ask him what was going on. I wanted to ask one of the three Bs, but I couldn’t work up the nerve. Still, I could guess. It looked like Mr. James wasn’t abandoning The Hold quite as easily as it had abandoned him. It looked like he was amassing a following out there, maybe even an army.

  As if he’d heard me thinking about him, Mr. James entered the room, coming down from upstairs.

  “How’s Marcus?” I blurted. I didn’t care if it sounded rude. It had been a rough night.

  “He’s stable,” Mr. James said. “His body has made a remarkable recovery already. He’s a quick healer. It runs in our family. You’ll see that when you go up to visit Samantha.”

  “Samantha is here?” My fork fell from my hand and clattered onto my plate. “Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?”

  “I’m afraid the reports of my daughter’s demise were greatly exaggerated,” Mr. James said, his eyes flicking to Jason for a moment. “Thankfully, the shooter wasn’t as proficient as he could have been. Her wound was only a graze to the ribs, not a shot to the head.”