“Oh yeah,” I said. “He totally wants to meet your father.”
“And then he’ll go with me I mean if my dad doesn’t go all ‘I’m a US Senator and I will not have my daughter dating some boy I don’t even know’ on him and stuff?”
I felt sorry for Lexi; really this whole thing had very little to do with her. “That’s the plan. Oh, and make sure you tell him this conference is to address the Morai problem. He was one of the few senators who sought to reopen Mythcorp, wasn’t he?”
“Oh yeah,” Lexi smiled. “He even tried to organize a picket line or something like a hundred years ago. It was probably more like ten years ago I don’t really remember but mom told me about it and about all the flak he took from that awful Zoner group. Anyway,” Lexi dug out her FAD and voxed a message to herself before turning it to me. “Tell me what you just said you know what you wanted me to tell my dad to get him to come. If you don’t I’ll forget and then I’ll have to come up with some lie and I can’t lie to my dad I just start stammering he sees right through me with his I’m-a-US-Senator-and-you-can’t-lie-to-the-likes-of-me’ eyes.”
I spoke into her FAD, leaving a vox message that I hoped no one else would hear, because I sounded like a moron.
“Later,” Lexi called to me as she skipped back to her girls.
I breathed deep—never a good idea with all the stress inhaling puts on my nanites. Thunder boomed and I shrunk, startled. The old Sanson family chill returned. I puffed a breath cloud, shook, and resumed my trip to the tool shed in the parking lot.
It was darker now, making me wonder just how long Lexi had kept me. Maybe talking with teenage girls makes time fly. Stranger things have happened.
I rounded the corner, leaned against the brick to check my thermal. “Sixty,” I breathed. Had to take it easy; zombies don’t like jogging. Most of the cars had gone by now, leaving a smattering of Ford Transits, Think City’s and about a dozen Tesla Triads. The ban on internal combustion engines in 2022 may have made our air cleaner, but it’s done nothing to lesson violence; fights and tussles over charging stations is just a way of life.
Good thing I’m banned from ever operating a vehicle. No pulse, no license.
The tool shed stood behind a battered pickup truck resting on four flat tires, a relic that probably hadn’t been used since 2021. It was a nest for birds and a reminder that the past was—apparently—dead.
I looked both ways, like mom always says, before crossing the lot. Halfway to the shed something fluttered behind me. I flicked a look back. “The wind.” Of course, that’s what the guy in the movie thinks just before the Jabberwocky eats him or Jason Voorhees slices him up.
My walk turned into a saunter, into a jog, into an oh-hell-no-I-won’t-be-caught flat out run.
At the shed door I stopped to steal another peak over my shoulder. I caught a glimpse of dark hair, but considering the waning light it could’ve been brown or dark blonde. The only certainty was that it wasn’t white. So my pursuer was not a Morai. That just left about two hundred students as potential Sanson voyeurs.
I yanked on the door handle while still looking behind. A few grunts and I had the sliding door open a couple of feet. That’s when whoever was stalking me jumped out of the shadows.
The stomp-stomp of shoes first, followed by the shikt of a sword being withdrawn. I knew that ancient sound only because filmmakers make up all kinds of excuses to have their actors pulling swords out, and, admittedly, I like it when they do. It’s a cool sound.
But not when you’re the one the sword is being drawn on.
I twisted, caught a flash of steel, but lowered my head and shielded my eyes as the steel zipped down at me. Silence. I opened my eyes. My EDISON/TESLA AC/DC shirt had been slashed. By the red splotch blooming behind it, I could tell I’d been slashed too. Time to run. I scurried into the tool shed and slid the door closed. A quick search of the nearby workbench provided me with a screwdriver, which I jammed into the latch on the inside of the door.
The thermal started blaring, crying at the sudden expenditure of precious nanites. I don’t bleed much, as my blood flows only by the trickling influence of the nanomachines, but when I do leak the good red stuff, well, as the blood goes so go the nanites.
I dropped my pack, tore out the metal case. My attacker yanked and pried at the door.
“Come on, come on, come on!” I cursed as my fingers, already going stiff, refused to cooperate. I dropped the first vial, failed to grab a second. On my knees now, thermal blaring. If it could speak it would’ve said Better hurry up, Charlie, or you’re going to watch your own funeral.
Breath clouds lingered around my head while blood trickled to the asphalt floor. You could almost see tiny gleaming specks in the midst of the precious red stuff, my expensive life-saviors, spent. The door rattled: the latch was giving way under the onslaught. Some idiot had used only short nails to attach it, when he should’ve used long screws. I was going to be killed (permanently this time) because some half-wit carpenter had done a lame job.
I tried one more time to grab the fresh vial. Steadying my right wrist with my left hand, I slowly reached for it. With an almighty effort I managed to wrap fingers around it. But then, halfway through the battle, my joints completely seized up; I teetered and fell onto my knuckles, like how Grandpa Sanson used to get on all fours to play horsey. There I remained, frozen.
I couldn’t even shake in surprise when the latch finally gave, blowing out and landing beside me. The door squeaked open. Footsteps. Taking his time now. “Who,” I managed, but then my jaw froze too.
Without a word the WHO walked up to me. I saw the shoes. They were white, no bling or color or swooping lines like every normal in the universe wears. These were the plain-Jane shoes of the orphaned Morai. That and the lack of white hair eliminated everyone but Morgan. He’d been giving me the creepy-eye since he got here. If he didn’t kill me, I’d be sure to pay him a visit.
Something whistled through the air and must’ve conked me on the head. Fortunately, I did not feel it.
The sound of a rat gnawing on something: that was what brought me round. I scanned the shed for it. Then it dawned on me that I was moving, capable of movement, able to wave my hands. After sitting up and while still massaging my thighs splayed out before me, I noticed the hypo-spray-gun lying outside its case, an empty vial in the loading chamber.
“Nimrod?” I called. Who else would’ve helped me?
I sat there in silence for a long time, letting the nanites acclimate to their new environment. When my thermal was back up to 61, I packed the gun, stuffed the case into my backpack, and stood.
“You okay?” Nimrod appeared in the doorway, wearing a halo of gloom.
“Yeah,” slinging the backpack over my back. “Thanks for injecting me. Why’d you leave though?”
Nimrod walked into the shed after looking over his shoulder. “I did not inject you.” He stood erect, straining that bizarre augmetic knee. “The one who hurt you also injected you.”
“What? Why?” nothing about this night made any sense. “Who hurt me?”
He opened his mouth but then closed it, noticing something about my face; which frightened me. I could be missing an ear for all I knew. He leaned in close, held my head while his augmetic eye whined. “What are you doing?” I struggled. “Let go.”
“You do not have a concussion but you should ice that bump.” His eyes traveled down to my chest, to the slashes, which had stopped leaking but were not yet scabbed over. Zombies don’t scab. We need special nanoscale materials called dendrimers to heal wounds. Only Dr. Wilmut could provide these little wonderworkers.
“Who hurt me?”
“Morgan,” he growled. “Black hair, skinny as a rail. We’ll deal with him later.” Nimrod reached into a remarkably deep pocket and pulled out a silver shaft that reminded me of the toy I’d found in my mother’s bedroom last year. He handed it to me.
“Yeah, ah, no thanks.”
He grabbed my ha
nd, shoved the shafty thing into my palm. “Open it.”
Indeed, there was a cap. I twisted it. A hiss accompanied the release of mist. As I held the smoking dildo-thingy, Nimrod withdrew a syringe from inside. “For Ash. Tomorrow.”
If I was like any dumb yahoo, I’d have taken Ash’s recruitment of me as a compliment, but now I saw plainly why he’d befriended me: I was the only bloke in Philicity High allowed to carry metal through the detectors. That clever, manipulative yahoo.
Nimrod slid the syringe back inside and I sealed the dildo-thingy. It barley fit inside my hypo-gun case. Tomorrow I would carry it through the detectors, past the Iconocops on whom Ash would use it later. “I got to get these looked at,” I told Nimrod, pointing at my wounds. “I could have an infection or something. Who knows where that sword has been? Frigging Morgan. Pfft.”
“I’ll handle him.” Nimrod squeezed my shoulder.
“Um . . . you’d do that, like, for me?” not sure exactly what we were discussing.
Nimrod’s mouth curled up but then sagged. “I owe it to his father. Both have it coming.” He released me and whisked over to the door. After a quick glance into the darkness, he stiffened.
“Go home.”
“What do you see?”
But he was already gone. My walk home was not the pleasantest time I’ve ever had. Mom found me on 86th Street. She’d been out driving around, worrying herself silly. Considering what I’d just done and what I was going to be a part of tomorrow, she was right to worry.
Chapter 24
“Hey,” someone was shaking me. “You’re going to be late.”
“For an important date?” I said, getting up on my elbows. “Ava? Why the flip you waking me? I was dreaming I was a prince and everyone had to do what I said. That included women—and I said a rather lot to them, sure as sure.”
“That explains it,” Ava quipped. She tossed my inexplicably soiled blanket back over my head and started walking away. “Take a cold shower and get to class. No more excuses.”
I tumbled out of bed (after making sure it would be a cool thing to do first). “No new excuses. No need. The old ones are still perfectly acceptable. I was beaten and the pain prevents me from concentrating on class. And look,” I grabbed Miss Little’s note from my stand, “an official nurses excuse. See, it’s got her John Hancock and everything. Complete with little hearts above the ‘i’.”
Ava shot a pillow at me before heading out the door. Castor was waiting for me. For what, I had no idea. But he was looking at me with his spooky spook peepers, so I popped a B-drop. I’d found the bag of lovely’s on my bed-stand, to my intense joy. A few minutes later Castor dissolved to a mere wisp of spectral vapors.
Ten minutes after that I was making myself a peanut butter and cucumber sandwich in the kitchen, trying for the tenth time not to crinkle my nose at the lingering stench of formaldehyde, when I heard them behind me. I swiveled slam-bang quick, bearing the knife that was still covered in a gob of peanuty sweetness. Fortunately I did not have to use it.
“Ash.” I breathed easy again. “You scared the crap out of me. You here for a textbook?”
The tyke didn’t say a word, only stood there gazing into my peepers. I showed him my back. Oh no you don’t. You are not going to Mesmerize me. The sandwich got finished, got eaten. When it was all gone, and when there was no more mess left to clean up, I sighed and finally turned around.
“What are you looking at?” keeping my peepers away from his.
Ash strode forward, hands locked together in front. “Why would you do that?”
“Um, I was hungry?”
I braved a look down in the general direction of Ash’s face. His lips were doing something funny. Maybe he was experiencing some kind of emotion.
Without a word Ash turned and walked out of Camelot.
I was left there, utterly, stunningly, ball-shrinkingly alone. My hands were jittering again, making the cane go all whiz-bang tap-tap-tap on the wood floor. The buzz going on from the b-drop was not enough. I wandered over to my nightstand, downed a second. Five minutes later I was mellow as Pooh Bear with a jar of fresh honey.
I limped over to the other side of Camelot, to where Ash and his boys spent so much time whispering. Something I hadn’t noticed before: the walls here were plastered with pencil art.
“Holy crap.” Every single sheet boasted a depiction of Ash. A few displayed the little wonder in class, teaching, while others showed him arrayed in sunshine, a halo about his head. There was even one drawing, by Mrs. Rogers, of Ash standing on a gravestone with Mythcorp rising behind him.
“I’m going to be sick.”
Fortunately the drugs had shut down my gag reflex. Colors emanated from the grays and whites of the drawings, so that they were all as brilliant as rainbows. As I was gazing (probably like a total dolt) at the Mythcorp-gravestone-Ash picture, something obvious occurred to me.
He wants to reopen Mythcorp; maybe even become its president.
How much of a dum-dum was I that I hadn’t realized this before?
“Hey yo,” said the drawing of Ash. “You have our paper?” His lips, red as apples, were moving but he didn’t sound like himself. More like if he’d swallowed those apples and was trying to speak without realizing he’d swallowed those apples. I laughed.
“Hey,” someone grabbed my shoulder. Confusion rushed through me, lost its rush as I saw Damien’s main crony, Keenan, a punk with a temper as short as his hair. He was bald.
“You’re not Ash.”
Keenan and another black dude stared at me. “Lookit his eyes. He’s flyin’. Yo, Morgan? Where. Is. Our. Money?”
I tapped my cane, pleased to see how steady my hands were now. “Right, the money. Hang on.” I sauntered over to my nightstand, slid the bottom drawer out.
After setting it upside down on my cot, I slipped three Benjamin’s out from the rubber band tacked to the underside. I stood up too quickly. Colors swirled around me like birdies. I closed my peepers. While recovering, I made a mental note to find a new hiding place for my stash. I handed the Benjamin’s to Keenan.
Keenan and his nameless crony turned and headed for the door.
“Oh! I’m supposed to ask you something.” What was it Ash had wanted me to do? It came to me in a flash. My shoulder-angel fought with my shoulder-devil as I wavered between telling them what Ash wanted them to do, and letting the shrimp suffer. But he was already pissed at me. Best not to add fuel to the fire. God knew what Ash would do if I screwed him out of his muscle help.
So, of course, I told them. Cowards are often survivors.
They agreed at least to tell Damien about the deal going down tonight. Before they reached the door, a fire alarm started warbling. I could see it in the neon orange and firehouse red smoke plumes suddenly wafting around Camelot.
“What the hell?” Keenan wondered. “Come on, let’s beat it,” Nameless Crony said.
Nameless Crony grabbed the doorknob. He’d turned it halfway when the door flew open, sending him sprawling onto his back, conked out. Keenan backed away as Nimrod entered Camelot.
Oh man.
We locked peepers (me and the Mighty Hunter, not me and Keenan; that would’ve been a smidge silly). I recoiled, slammed into a wall.
“Who are you?” Keenan wanted to know. “Hey!” he leapt forward to shove Nimrod. The Hunter sidestepped him and with a single kick slammed Keenan to the floor. As Keenan struggled to rise behind him, Nimrod stomped my way, brandishing a sick-stick. His were heavy footsteps, the kind Robocop makes.
“It wasn’t me,” I pleaded, slithering further back along that dang wall. “If this is about Sanson, I didn’t hurt him. A spook possessed me, made me hurt him!”
I tripped on a coat rack and, buggered knee of no help whatsoever, went down in a heap.
Nimrod bore down on me, raising the sick-stick. I could almost feel my welts cringing at the sight of it. He was five feet away, looming large and not just in a fatty-patty kind of way. The s
ick-stick arced down, making an unholy whistling sound.
“I told you it wasn’t me! It was Castor. Castor made me do it. Please—”
Either he’d killed me with one swoop, or Nimrod had paused in his time-to-bash-Morgan’s-brains-in stampede. I opened my peepers to see which it was. He was standing over me, weapon still raised but not all lathered up with my brain matter, which was a really good sign. Of course, I might’ve been hallucinating.
“Castor?” Nimrod asked. “Castor, the Iconocop?”
“Yes?”
God, let that be the right answer.
Nimrod lowered his weapon. “You see Castor’s ghost? How? Who gave you that gift?”
“I don’t know. I just could always see spooks, ah, ghosts. But they didn’t used to take over.”
While speaking, I was twisting the crow-head of the cane, all sneaky-like so the purple peepers faced Nimrod. Wasn’t I just the cleverest kid on the block? Nimrod was silent a few ticks. Waiting for something? Deciding something? Who knew what was going on in his noodle.
I was about to spew a lie, a sly story to distract him while I pressed the button, when Nimrod hammered my arm with his boot. The cane fell out of my grasp as I screamed.
Nimrod hoisted me by my flannel, tearing it. Like a cartoon he hurled me up against the wall, reshaping the drywall into a perfect Morgan-impression. I was still high so I didn’t feel much save for the warm trickle of freshly released red stuff.
“Just like Knox,” the Hunter snarled. “Down to the last scrap of DNA.” He flung me back down before spitting on me. “Think you can best me? Think I survived the War and the Purge and Knox’s crusade and the mute demon by dumb luck?”
I was staring into his peepers. “Step back now.” A Mesmer command. Three words, just like the way the original Morai did it. Nimrod stepped back as his face got all funny looking. Keeping our peepers locked, I struggled to my feet, leaning on my cane. “Stay right there.”
Orphan of Mythcorp Page 17