Two Weeks' Notice: A Revivalist Novel

by Rachel Caine

  There was a tenant list on the aged felt sign in the lobby; only a few names were listed. Most were bail bondsmen clustered on the bottom floor of an almost entirely empty building. Her eyes rested on the last listing, for the top of the building: GRAYDON INDUSTRIAL WASTE SERVICES. It was on the top floor, the eighth. There was probably a reason for the mass upper-floor tenant exodus, which Bryn found as she pressed the button for the elevator. When it opened, the floor of it was about two feet below ground level, and it made an alarming grinding noise.

  She took the stairs.

  Those weren’t much safer, mainly because the lights were dim (or out) on the stairwell; it clearly had been used as a toilet from time to time by passing drunks, and there may have been a dead animal somewhere. She tried holding her breath as she jogged up, and, after that became impossible, drawing in shallow gasps. By the time she arrived at the door to the eighth floor, her lungs were aching, and so were her calf muscles. Right, she thought. More jogging, less lounging. She stepped out into the hallway—also dimly lit, but blessedly urine free—and took a second to compose herself. Her breathing smoothed out, and she took long, confident strides past shut doors until she saw one in the middle that had a glow bleeding out from under it. There was no sign on the door, but the number was the same as had been listed on the sign below.

  She knocked, then tried to turn the knob. It opened.

  Inside was a standard, cheap reception area with thin, stained carpet and the dead skeleton of a potted plant leaning against the corner. Two plastic chairs, the kind sold at the dollar store neighbor, most likely. The receptionist’s empty station had a high counter and thick glass that looked bullet-resistant. From the dust on the desk, it wasn’t too likely anyone had been answering the phones in a while.

  There was an interior door. Locked. Bryn tried the polite thing first, knocking and calling out in her most inoffensive voice. No response. She pulled out her cell and tried the phones, which rang on the other side of the glass and went to voice mail.

  Enough Ms. Nice Lady, she thought, and hoped her shoes were up to it.

  Her kick landed squarely where she aimed it, and the cheap lock shattered like glass, throwing the door open and back with a boom. That didn’t draw any more attention than her knocking or phone-ringing. Not a good sign.

  She stepped into the hallway beyond it. Right or left? It looked like there were offices in both directions. No sound of anyone at home. She listened, turning her head each way, and when she directed her attention right, she got a hit.

  Not a sound. A smell. Just a bare hint of it, ripe and rotten.

  God, no. Not again. She had a flashback of walking into a rich woman’s house on the hill, and hearing the storming buzz of flies, stepping over the march of ants, seeing the moving, rotting thing on the bed.

  Sack up, she told herself. You’ve seen it before. She had. She wasn’t frightened of the dead, and decomp didn’t shock her. What had shocked her back in that house had been seeing the spectral ghost of her own future, of being dead and still living, still knowing as her body fell apart around her.

  But that wasn’t the case here.

  She found the staff of Graydon Industrial Waste Services gathered in the break room, if it could be dignified by that name—there was a cheap old TV in the corner with broken antennae and a coffeemaker still grimly reheating a carafe of days-old undrinkable sludge. There were also seven bodies, each wrapped neatly in plastic tarps and secured with duct tape, envelope folds at the ends. It smelled chokingly vile. They’d been dead awhile, no doubt about that. The blood that had been spilled on the walls and floor was long dried to a bitter brown.

  Hand over her nose, Bryn said, “You getting this, Joe?”

  “Copy,” he said. He sounded grim. “Get out. I’m calling the cavalry.”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I’m checking the offices. They died for something.” She had a briefcase with her, and opened it to remove and don a pair of disposable gloves. She hadn’t touched the break room doorknob; the door had been cracked open already, so there’d been no need. She retraced her steps to the left and began opening doors. The first was an office. There was no nameplate, no pictures, nothing personal…just a desk, a dead computer monitor with no PC attached, some junk in the drawers, and a few emptied-out file drawers. She checked around. Nothing hidden.

  The next was another office—again, stripped bare. The third door led to a file room with ten cabinets. She checked the drawers. Empty, again. A small safe was built into the floor, but it had been cracked, too.

  The next door opened onto a bathroom. The killers must have used it for cleanup; she saw drips of dried blood on the sides of the sink and a pale stain on the porcelain. The trash can was overflowing. She forced herself to search anyway.

  That was how she found the thumb drive.

  It was a small silver thing, wrapped in a clean paper towel and shoved down the side. It wouldn’t have wound up here by accident, not wrapped that way. It spoke of panic and fear and a last-ditch effort to hide something.

  She was, in effect, holding someone’s last testament in her hand.

  Bryn said, “Joe?”

  “Yeah, I see what it is. Come out, Bryn. We need to get the cops in on this.”

  She had no pockets in this suit, which hadn’t annoyed her until now; the briefcase she had with her was her only purse. She propped it on the sink and started to open it, but one of the combination locks had spun, and the left side stubbornly refused to open. Screw it. She took the thumb drive and stuffed it into her bra.

  “One more door to go,” she said, and went out and down the hall.

  She knew the second that she opened it that something was wrong; it just felt wrong. In one sense it was the same as the others…emptied-out desk, missing computer, no personal effects.

  But there was a square, dark shape sitting on the desk, just a dim outline in the flickering fluorescents.

  It had a blinking red light that sped up as she stared.

  “Get out!” Joe’s voice exploded in her ear, and her own instincts screamed it a half second later.

  She was out the door and in the hall when the bomb went off with a violence that threw her ten feet, limp as a rag doll. Fire rolled overhead, and the fact that she’d fallen flat was all that saved her from the ball bearing antipersonnel shrapnel that shredded the walls at waist level. It was a Wrath of God explosion, shaking the building, blowing out glass, shattering walls, and she was buried in a fall of brick and drywall.

  No time for a damage assessment of her body; she clawed her way free of the debris and saw that there was a murderously hot wall of burning rubble behind her, and a mound of burning debris that totally blocked the way to the reception room.

  “I think we’ve got a magenta situation here,” Bryn said, and had the wild impulse to laugh. Shock. She had blood in her mouth and spit it out in a vivid red rush; something was broken inside, but that would heal. She got up, but her legs wouldn’t hold. Something broken there, too. She crawled instead, heading for the far end where the fire wasn’t yet taking hold. The smoke—black, thick, terrifying—billowed out and up. In seconds it had formed a thick layer over her head, and the stench of plastics melting made her retch up more blood as she crawled. Keep going, she told herself. You’ve had worse.

  Not really. Magenta, magenta, magenta…She was back in Iraq, with her supply convoy under heavy attack. IED, we hit an IED, the truck rolled.…She’d survived that, survived with only minor injuries. She could survive this.

  Hell, she couldn’t die.…

  No, she could. She could burn.

  The fire terrified her, and the fear forced her to keep crawling even as the nanites rushed to the injuries and began the cattle-prod pain of repair. Joe was two minutes out, he’d said—he might be even closer.…

  He can’t get to you, said a cold little logical voice. You have to get out by yourself. Now, before it’s too late. The smoke was lowering, thickening to the consistency of
black water. She’d drown in it, pass out, and then the fire…She might be alive and aware for that part of it. The nanites would struggle to keep her going, even while she was burning.

  “Bryn! Talk to me—tell me what you want to do!”

  There was a white-hot snap of agony somewhere deep in her back, and she jerked and convulsed with it. When it subsided two breaths later, she felt pins and needles stabbing into her skin, and then she felt her legs moving.

  Whatever had gone wrong in her spine, it was fixed now.

  “Bryn, I’m coming up!”

  “No,” she said raggedly. “No, you can’t. Stay down there, Joe. You can’t help.” She scrambled up to her hands and knees. Her legs weren’t working well, but they moved, and she moved drunkenly toward the end of the hallway. Even then, the air felt thick and toxic, the smoke swirling as heavy as fabric around her face.

  The break room was the last door. She slammed the entrance open and braced herself for the smell, but the stench of the fire had overwhelmed everything else. The plastic-wrapped bodies still lay in an orderly row, but the coffeepot had given up its struggle; electricity had shorted out. Fires burned at the outlets. This room would go up in minutes, and there was no safety here.

  There was a window with daylight beyond it. A route of escape.

  But it was barred on the outside.

  Bryn screamed in fury. She grabbed a chair from one of the tables pushed against the wall; it was heavier than the cheap plastic ones melting right now in the reception area, and she swung it hard into the glass. The window shattered halfway down, and two more hits disintegrated the rest of the panes…but the sudden breeze sucked into the room made her realize she’d just screwed herself, hard.

  The fire roared into the open room, sucked in by the rush of oxygen, and it leaped from carpet to walls to ceiling, licking everything as it went. Plastic-wrapped bodies began to smoke and sizzle.

  There was no quick-release on the bars outside. They were fastened in hard. She wrapped her bloody hand around one and tugged. No leverage.

  “Bryn!” she heard Joe’s voice in her earpiece, and it sounded taut with stress. “You have to get those bars off. It’s your only way out.”

  “I’m not the fucking Bionic Woman!” she yelled back. “How do I do that?”

  “Find a lever!”

  Lever. God. What the hell was she supposed to use? Something metal, something strong…

  The chair. It had metal legs. She battered it in panic against the wall and floor until the plastic split, and one of the legs fell free with a rattle. Her lungs were burning, and her eyes; she coughed, gasped, and choked on a mouthful of rancid black air. The bonfire clawed at her back—no, that was just the heat, the heat.

  She smelled meat cooking, but that was the dead people, not her, not yet.

  She threaded the metal between the side of the window and the bars, and threw all her weight into it.

  The leg bent. Not the bars.

  Goddamnit!

  “Fuck it. Get down!” Joe shouted in her ear, and she did, pressing her face flat to the floor.

  Gunfire slammed into the outside of the building, a continuous rattle of firepower, and when it stopped, she scrambled up and took hold of the bars. He’d concentrated his fire into the brick on two corners of the window—beautiful and precision aiming—and the bars were loosened. She pulled and yanked and twisted, and they swung suddenly free. The whole grate came loose from the building and fell in a spiral down to clang and bounce on the street below. The air was being sucked in through the window, and as Bryn climbed up onto the sill, she realized that it was a straight drop. No fire escape. Nothing to break her fall. Just the merciless, remorseless concrete.

  “Oh God,” Joe said in her ear. “Bryn, don’t, don’t do that. Christ—”

  She didn’t have a choice. The fabric on the back of her jacket was burning now, and she could feel her skin starting to sizzle.

  I’m not burning to death.

  The jump was a vivid, conscious decision, and as she stepped off, she felt a sudden, absurd regret that she’d worn a skirt as it blew up around her waist. The last sensation she had was of panic, of the wind pulling through her hair and clothes, and then…

  The landing, she supposed. But that, at least, she didn’t feel. Everything just went from hyperbright and chaotic to…black.

  When she did feel something again, it was, of course, total bloody agony.

  She tried not to shriek. Someone was holding her hand. She couldn’t see—Blind, oh God I’m blind—and then dim shapes began to ghost through the dark.

  She made out Joe Fideli’s face as he loomed over her. He had a hand over her mouth. “Easy,” he said softly. “Easy, kid. I’ve got you. Had to move you. Cops are already here; so is the fire department. Couldn’t let you be found where you landed. You’re healing. I know it hurts, but you can’t scream, understand? You can’t attract attention.”

  She understood that, but it was a lot harder to control. She stopped trying to claw Joe’s hand free and instead pressed her broken fingers over his straight ones to keep the gag in place.

  And she let the scream burn itself out against his muffling palm.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, clearly shaken. “Okay. Okay, relax, relax. Let it go.…” His other hand stroked her hair. He didn’t say anything else. When she felt steady enough, she nodded, and he raised his hand, cautiously.

  “Bones healing,” she whispered. “Help me.”

  “Uh…how?”

  “Pull them in line.”

  “Fuck. Okay. Here, bite down on this.” He shoved something between her teeth—leather, it felt like. She bit down hard, knowing what was coming, and felt him pull and twist her right leg. It was like dipping it into boiling lava, but the pain, while extreme, was brief enough. She hardly screamed at all. He did the left, then palpated up her body to find the rest of the damage. She had a broken pelvis, but that was clean enough. Her left arm needed resetting for the compound fracture. He straightened out her back for the spinal injury.

  Then, last, her fingers, one sharp, star-bright snap at a time.

  She passed out sometime before that, thankfully; when she came to, the pain was an ebbing burn, and everything felt straight, though weak. She spit out the leather strap—his belt—and concentrated on breathing in and out. If she had lung damage from the smoke, the nanites were thorough in cleaning it away.

  In another twenty minutes, more or less, she felt human again—especially after the booster shot Joe gave her. Even the side effect rush didn’t seem so bad, comparatively.

  “That,” Joe said in a hushed voice, “may be the most disturbing fucking thing I have ever done, and that’s…saying something. Bryn? You still with me?”

  “I’m okay,” she said. That was a lie, but not as much of one as it would have been earlier. “I can walk. We need to get out of here.”

  “I can clean the blood, but your clothes are pretty much totaled,” he said. “You look like you’ve been in the fire. It’ll get noticed.”

  “Should have worn my cargo pants.”

  “Probably,” he said. “Turn your skirt and jacket inside out. It’ll do for a quick walk to your car.”

  “Had to leave my briefcase,” Bryn said. “Goddamnit, the FBI files were in there. I dropped it somewhere during the explosion.”

  “Then it’s toasted into little bitty pieces. You’re covered.” He helped her take off her jacket and flip it to the relatively undamaged lining side; it looked weird, but not as strange as the smoke-damaged, fire-roasted fabric. She did the skirt by herself. It was almost presentable. Her shoes were weirdly misshapen around her feet, but they’d do. “I’m walking you to the car. Just hang on to me and don’t slow down.”

  “Wait.” She reached inside her bra, and found the silver thumb drive; it looked undamaged. “Take this, just in case we get separated.”

  He nodded and put it into a zippered pouch. The hunter’s checked vest he was wearing concealed
Kevlar—his version of street-legal flak gear. “You good to drive?”

  She laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Sure,” she said. “Thirty minutes ago I was a leaking bag of broken bones, and now I’m good to drive. Nothing odd about that, is there?” The problem with living as a Returné addict wasn’t so much coming to terms with surviving as it was coping with the wrongness of it. Something inside just wouldn’t accept the terms on which she lived…and especially at times like these, when she was so frankly and nakedly not human. But therapy could wait, of course. She’d need mountains of it, in the end, but right now she needed to take the first step, then the next. Get in the car. Drive home. Collapse into Patrick’s arms and try, for a moment, to forget.

  Find out what was on the thumb drive that seven people—eight, if she counted herself—had just died for. It had something to do with Pharmadene, something the FBI undoubtedly suspected and had kept from her. She didn’t think they’d known about the dead people, or the trap, but she couldn’t be sure.

  She couldn’t trust anyone, except Joe and Patrick and Liam.

  Certainly not Riley Block, or Zaragosa, who’d warned her about Riley in the first place.

  Good to go, she told herself again. It was an order, and she followed it all the way home.

  Chapter 8

  The explosion was breaking news, but the FBI spokespeople were out in front of it, in a joint appearance with the local police. The official explanation was something crime related; Bryn didn’t pay much attention. It was all bullshit, and from the tense look on the agents’ faces, they were aware of that, even if they had no idea why it was bullshit.

  Riley Block had the very same tense expression when she showed up at the gates of the McCallister estate, one hour after Bryn and Joe rolled in. Bryn was in the kitchen with Patrick and Liam when the FBI-issue sedan pulled up, and Riley got out to show herself to the camera. She didn’t speak, but then, she didn’t need to. They all recognized her face.