I could almost see their ears prick up like dogs.
“A heavy woman?” One of them asked her. “Do you recall her name?”
“Sure I do,” she said. “I don’t have dementia, you know. It was . . . let me see. It was . . .” Dorcas’s voice trailed off in thought. She dragged on her cigarette and let a puff of smoke swirl around in the air between them.
“Was is Trudy Aiken?” Okay, you can take the bad guys out of the fatigues and lab coats, but they’re still bad guys, and now Dorcas knew it.
She just stood there. I could only imagine the crafty cogs of her brain working out a lie that was just believable enough to stick. “Judy sounds familiar,” she finally said. “Or it could have been Prudy. I had a girlfriend named Prudy once and let me tell you, she was no prude. That girl was easier than a—”
“No. Her name was Trudy.”
Dorcas fell quiet again, taking long, gut-wrenching drags off her cigarette. Finally she said, “I don’t recall. The girl I ran into was a biggun, though. Not in that solid kind of way. More like Jell-O.”
The two guys exchanged glances again then looked back at the helicopter where they had left the other two behind. The one who had been talking to her said, “Listen—we have to go. Try and stay indoors if you can. Hopefully this whole mess will blow over soon. Until then, staying inside is your best way of keeping safe.”
“What do you mean?” spat Dorcas. “You aren’t here to save me?”
They looked at the ground. “No ma’am,” the guy said to her. “We’re under strict orders.”
Dorcas blew out another gust of smoke and folded her arms over her chest. “What kind of strict orders? Who’s orders?”
The other guy, the one who hadn’t been talking much, muttered something. “Shut up, Charlie,” snapped his friend.
“No. Let him say what he has to say,” rumbled Dorcas.
“No one over sixty,” Charlie said. “We’re only sanctioned to bring back people under sixty.”
Dorcas stood there and stared at them until they both couldn’t look at her anymore. Instead they averted their gazes to someplace else. I just hoped it wasn’t toward the ambulance.
“Well go screw yourselves,” she snapped. The two men turned around and trotted back to the helicopter. “You hear me,” she screamed after them. “Go screw yourselves. Go screw yourselves and your under-sixty foolishness.”
I watched through the brush as they crawled back into the helicopter with the other two. The blades began rotating faster and faster until the whole thing lifted into the air, turned, and headed back toward Guilford, or at least that’s where it looked like it was heading.
Dorcas stood in the middle of the road. I could see the glow of her cigarette as she puffed on it, let it fall to her side, then puffed on it again.
“You get all that, Tripp?” she finally said loud enough for someone hiding right inside the woods to hear.
I stood up and made my way to the edge of the road. “I can’t believe you did that, Dorcas. Why did you do that?”
“You didn’t leave me much choice, now did you?”
My ears turned red. “You mean because of the snake. I yelped. It was a girly thing to do.”
“It was a girly-boy thing to do,” she croaked. “Besides I hate those critters, especially the big, black ones. My daddy used to kill them in the yard with a shovel.”
“I didn’t have a shovel,” I said.
Dorcas dropped her cigarette to the pavement and ground it into the ground with her foot. “No one over sixty, huh?” she muttered. “No one over sixty, my ass. This broad can run circles around them any day of the week and twice on Sundays.”
The funny thing was, she was right. She was right and how.
27
WE STOOD THERE in the darkness for about a half hour. It was Dorcas’s idea. She wanted to make sure that the helicopter was far away. We were mostly quiet. A few times she muttered some stuff about not being ready for the glue factory, whatever that meant.
Off in the distance, the van’s hazards flashed on and off, on and off.
“I suppose I should go get the van, right?”
A pile of ash spilled off the end of Dorcas’s latest cigarette.
“No one over sixty, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Dorcas.”
“What do they want to do, cut me in two and count the rings?”
“They’re just stupid.” It didn’t matter what I thought or what she thought. There were people like Diana someplace making up new rules, and they didn’t ask for our input. Besides, Diana was like almost sixty, herself. Was she obsolete, too?
The dark closed around us like a glove. I suppose a poxer could have walked right up to me and taken a taste before I even knew it was there, but somehow, we weren’t thinking about that at the moment. The last four hours had left us a little shaken. They had been filled with zombies and psychopaths and helicopter freaks with some sort of agenda that still revolved around me and Trina.
To top it all off, Dorcas had been told, up close and personal, that she was no longer an important part of the world—like her life didn’t matter anymore. I suppose when we were back at Site 37, Diana hadn’t been kidding around. She said she was going to find whatever it was inside of me that protected me from Necropoxy and synthesize it to rebuild our race for those who were worthy enough to call themselves a part of it.
Dorcas was just told, loud and clear, that she wasn’t worthy.
“I’m getting the minivan,” I said. This time I wasn’t asking permission. “You take the ambulance. I’ll follow you back.”
“You sure I can handle it?” she muttered.
“Yes,” I said. “Just like you handled surviving the past week, and dealing with the poxers on the bridge, and saving me from Roger Ludlow and those guys in the helicopter. Yes, Dorcas—I’m sure you can handle it just fine.”
I didn’t wait for her to respond. I took off down the street, the minivan’s keys still jangling in my pocket. The woods pressed in around me on either side of the road, but I just focused on the blinking lights and didn’t think about what could be hiding behind the trees.
What’s the worst that could happen—a poxer could come after me? Been there, done that, over it.
When I got to the van, I plopped myself into the front seat, turned off the hazards, locked the doors because, you know, scary squirrels, and started the engine. Then I did a three-point turn, which is another reason I would have definitely passed my driver’s test, and drove back toward the ambulance.
I found Dorcas still trucking her way up the road. I pulled down the window and said, “Need a lift?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Dorcas, come on. What the hell do they know anyway?”
She grumbled something which almost sounded like a growl. I braced myself for the inevitable wad of phlegm that followed, but this time she didn’t spit.
“Dorcas?” I said in a small voice. She stumbled a little and her arms shot out in front of her like claws.
Oh, no. What was happening? I was just with her.
“Dorcas?”
She turned to me and snarled like a . . . like a poxer.
“On no,” I cried. “No.”
Dorcas lunged at the car. It was all in slow motion and that much worse because it was dark. She was so close that I didn’t even have a chance to think. I slammed my foot on the breaks and threw both arms over my face. You can bite me anywhere, bitch. I’m immune, but not on the face—anywhere but the face.
Dorcas didn’t bite me. Instead she started laughing—that deep, throaty, mucus-filled laugh of hers.
“Gotcha,” she roared, her hands gripping her stomach. She doubled over and belly laughed like what she had done was the funniest thing ever.
She punked me.
“That’s so not funny,” I snapped. “I can’t believe you just did that. That is so, so not funny.” She kept braying like an old mule, the laughter spilling out of her like vomit.
“Grow up, Dorcas. Just grow up.”
She stopped laughing then, but a smile spread across her ancient face, making it crack into a million pieces.
“Never,” she said. “I’ll never grow up. Not ever.”
28
SWIFTY’S WAS DARK. The headlights on the ambulance lit up the little fishing bear on the steps and made its polished wooden eyes look like they were watching us. In the sudden light, I could see people on the front porch. Jimmy was there with Trina. She was sitting on a wooden rocker and he was next to her in his chair.
“Who’s in the deathmobile?” she said as I got out of the van.
“Dorcas.”
“Nifty ride,” said Jimmy. “And if no one is going to mention the irony, let me be the first.”
“Hey, what can I say, I’m awesome.”
“Yeah, Tripp,” said Trina in a flat monotone. “You’re the bomb.”
“Next time you bring back an ambulance, I’ll give you a gold star, deal?”
“Whatever.”
The front door opened and Prianka stepped out, her dark hair framing an even darker face. “You’re late,” she said.
I looked at my watch. “Five hours. I think that’s pretty good for almost being eaten by a poxer, killed by a crazy dude, and captured by helicopter people.”
“Helicopter people?” Trina gasped. “Again?” She stood up and walked to the far end of the porch away from everyone. Jimmy let her go.
“No worries, we’re fine,” I said after her. “No really, we’re just fine.” She didn’t say anything. She just stood there leaning up against the railing.
Meanwhile, Dorcas turned off her headlights and climbed out of the ambulance. She stared at all of us on the porch. “So what did we miss?” she croaked.
“Nothing good,” said Jimmy, his hands in his lap. “Go inside and see for yourself.”
Dorcas made her way up to the front door. Prianka took a step to one side and let her by. As she reached for the knob, she turned and found my face. “You did good, kid.”
“So did you, old lady.” Her faced cracked a smile again, then Dorcas snorted and went inside.
“How’s Mom?” I asked Trina tentatively, more than a little afraid of what she might say. As expected, she didn’t answer me. My sister was in a stellar mood. When Trina gets like this it’s best to leave her alone. As a matter of fact, I was starting to learn that when any girl gets like this, it’s best to take three giant steps backward and turn the other way. I sighed and Jimmy just shrugged in that way that meant that she’d get over herself soon.
“They’re not dead yet,” he said. “The bleeding’s stopped, but there’s something else weird going on now.”
“What?”
Prianka took a step forward. “It’s their eyes,” she said.
“What about their eyes?”
“Poxer eyes,” she said. “They’ve gone gray.” Prianka stood with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. I pulled her to me and her arms unfolded around my shoulders. It felt nice, and for the first time I realized that I was almost a head taller than her. Prianka was always so much bigger than life that I just assumed she was ten feet tall.
“What do you mean a crazy dude?” asked Trina. Okay, she was back with the living. That didn’t take long.
“No biggie,” I said. “This guy was holed up in the pharmacy.”
“A survivor?” said Jimmy.
“Well, if you can call what he was doing ‘surviving’. His wife poxified, so he locked her in the basement and fed her with Slim Jims all week. He ran out, so he thought Dorcas and I would make good Happy Meals. She’s too tough and I’m too lean, and neither of us have any fiber.”
“Seriously?” said Trina. “Gross.”
“That’s gnarly,” said Jimmy. “What happened?”
“Dorcas shot him.”
“No way,” he gasped.
“Dorcas is the man,” I said. “She’s got our backs.”
“Dorcas is a man,” said my sister. Just like that we were all relatively back to normal or whatever was now passing for normal.
I looked around. We were missing a few key players. I knew Sanjay was probably sound asleep, but where was Bullseye?
“Aren’t we down a twelve-year-old?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. I mean, I could probably guess, but I tried to talk to him earlier and he wouldn’t spill.”
“I’m tired, man,” I said. “I’m all about being immature for a night and letting him stew.” No one said anything, so I penciled the subject of Bullseye on my list of things to worry about, but definitely underneath my mother and the rest of the people who were sick.
The door opened and my father came out holding a scented jar candle. The smell of baked apples filled the air. He didn’t smile or clap his hand on my back. Instead he looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Let me see what you brought,” he said like he had already decided that he wasn’t going to be able to save any of them. His forehead was permanently furrowed and his mouth was drawn into a frown.
I kissed the top of Prianka’s head and softly pushed away from her. Then I brought my dad down to the ambulance to check out what we were able to find. Together, we climbed into the back and I held a flashlight for him as he rummaged through the different bottles and boxes of things. At one point, he opened the sliding cabinets that hung above where the gurney used to be, and pulled their contents out on the floor.
“What’s happening?” I asked. I was afraid what the answer might be, but it was better than silence.
“I don’t know,” he said. “They aren’t dead, that’s for sure.”
“Okay, I pretty much think that’s med school 101.”
“Not into the wise-cracking just now, Tripp,” he snapped. My dad wasn’t really much of a snapper, so I guess he was really on edge.
“Sorry,” I muttered. I held the flashlight over him as he waded through the medical supplies. “What about their eyes?” I asked. “Everyone said that their eyes started to change.”
“They have,” he mumbled as he kept rummaging through the contents of the ambulance. “I just wish I had an ophthalmoscope.”
“A who?”
“An ophthalmoscope,” he said. “It’s a lighted tool that allows you to get a close up look of the eye to inspect arteries and veins. If I had one I could see if any parts of their eyes are diseased or damaged.”
“Would that make a difference?” I asked. I think it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He crouched on the ground, his head held down, and although he was quiet about it, I think he actually started to cry.
Seeing him that way changed everything. It wasn’t about the poxers anymore. It was about my family and my mom and dad. Diana and her people hurt us all and now she made my father cry.
Who in the hell did she think she was? If I ever saw her again, I’d knock her in the head with a brick, and maybe bust the old bag’s kneecaps.
Who in the hell do you think you are, lady? Just who in the hell do you think you are?
29
TECHNICALLY, ONCE the clock dipped past midnight, it was one week ago today that Necropoxy hit. One week—it sounded like nothing, but it wasn’t. One week was seven days, or one hundred and sixty-eight hours, or ten thousand and eighty minutes, or six hundred and four thousand, eight hundred seconds.
In the space of only one of those seconds, someone could die. It only took one wrong move or one little slip for a poxer to sink its teeth into you and turn you into a monster. Except for me and Trina, that is. Except for us.
For some bizarre reason, I was really, really mad that I never got a chance to see the series finale of my favorite TV show. They were going to reveal everything about its incredibly bizarre plot that made no sense unless time travel or alternate dimensions were thrown into the mix. The thing is, the producers promised they weren’t going to use either of those.
I’ll never know for sure
, but I’m positive they lied—just like grown-ups lie about the existence of monsters, or Santa Clause, or the Easter Bunny. I’m sorry, but if a six-foot-tall, pink bunny rabbit came hopping toward me carrying a basket filled with eggs, I think I would seriously flip. That goes for leprechauns, flying reindeer, and talking snowmen, too. Creepy, creepy—that’s all I’ve got to say. Creepy, creepy.
The inside of Swifty’s was lit by candlelight and oil lamps. They burned in the gloomy candy area where all the sick people were laid out on quilts. Someone, probably Prianka, had the bright idea to cover all the windows with quilts, too, so from the outside we looked like a dark building. Still, a thin trail of smoke drifted into the sky from the wood-burning fireplace. I wondered if it could be seen at night—then I totally freaked myself out when I realized that night vision goggles were something you could get at any sporting-goods store these days. What if the helicopter people had a pair of those? What if they were watching us right now?
We couldn’t stay here past morning—I knew that for sure—but how could we possibly leave with the adults like this?
When I walked in, Aunt Ella was dabbing Freaky Big Bird’s face with a damp paper towel and sucking on an oversized lollypop—you know, the rainbow colored ones that are the size of a plate? The whole image was just a little twisted, so I decided to blot it out of my head. Someday, if I ever live that long, I’m sure I’ll have a weird dream about my aunt chowing down on a giant lollypop. Weird images like that always come back to haunt you.
Aunt Ella smiled when she saw me and gave me a hug. It felt sort of stiff because she was never the touchy-feely type, but I found myself hugging her back. It felt good to be home, even if home was a cheap tourist trap in the middle of nowhere.
“What’s with the candy?” I asked her.
“Sugar,” she said. “I need the rush.”
I smiled weakly. “Where’s my mom?” Aunt Ella motioned with her head for me to follow. We went past the register to where my mother, Nedra Stein, Freaky Big Bird, Trudy Aiken, Randy Stephens, and Eddie with the fake hair were laid out on the floor underneath the penny candy. They looked awful. Their skin was mottled and gray and their faces were splattered with the remains of dry blood frantically wiped away with paper towels.
The Dead (a Lot) Trilogy (Book 2): Wicked Dead Page 12