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Undead Much

Page 19

by Stacey Jay

“In Aaron’s car,” I sa­id, kic­king at the gro­und. “He to­ok it and threw it in the back­se­at.”

  “Well then, let’s go get it.” Cliff grab­bed my hand, but then tho­ught bet­ter of it and let me go. Thank­ful­ly the awk­ward pa­use only las­ted a se­cond. “We can he­ad up to yo­ur scho­ol and bre­ak in­to his car.”

  “Or I co­uld just ask him to let me in, Mr. De­lin­qu­ent.”

  “Fi­ne,” he sa­id, tho­ugh it was cle­ar he didn’t li­ke the idea of me exc­han­ging two words with Aaron. “You can ask him to let you in and I’ll hi­de out so­mew­he­re clo­se to ma­ke su­re he be­ha­ves him­self. Then we can lo­ok over the re­cords on the way down­town.”

  “Down­town?” I as­ked, fol­lo­wing him to­ward the bus stop.

  “Ye­ah, we ne­ed to ta­ke a walk by the ri­ver. I’ve… re­ali­zed a few things, and the­re’s so­met­hing I want to show you.”

  I sig­hed. “Cliff, I ha­ve to go to scho­ol.”

  “You’re not at scho­ol now.”

  “But I will be, and if I hurry I won’t miss mo­re than first pe­ri­od, so may­be the prin­ci­pal won’t call my pa­rents. Be­si­des, I’ve told you, I can’t ke­ep Set­tling you. The­re are ru­les abo­ut this type of thing, and I ha­ve ot­her res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es to-”

  “What res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es? You ha­ven’t had anot­her Un­set­tled sin­ce I sho­wed up by yo­ur boyf­ri­end’s car that night,” Cliff sa­id, lo­oking as frust­ra­ted as I felt.

  He was right, tho­ugh I hadn’t re­al­ly tho­ught abo­ut how we­ird that was un­til just now. “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve be­en ke­eping an eye on you, Me­gan. I ha­ven’t ma­de any sec­ret of that, so don’t lo­ok at me li­ke I’m so­me kind of psycho stal­ker.”

  “Oh, right. Wo­uldn’t want to do that.” I rol­led my eyes, angry, tho­ugh I co­uldn’t say at exactly who, or what. Cliff was frust­ra­ting, yes, but he wasn’t a bad guy, and he’d do­ne not­hing but help me. Still, I was just sick of my li­fe be­ing so crazy, sick of things I co­uldn’t exp­la­in, and Cliff was a big one of tho­se things.

  “What’s that sup­po­sed to me­an?”

  “Not­hing.”

  “No, it’s ob­vi­o­usly not not­hing.” He stop­ped a few fe­et away from the aw­ning that co­ve­red the bus stop and tur­ned to fa­ce me. “Lis­ten, you can try to push me away, but I’m not go­ing anyw­he­re. I’m sup­po­sed to be he­re, and I’m sup­po­sed to help you. The­re’s a re­ason you ha­ven’t had any ot­her Un­set­tled and I’m it.”

  “You are?”

  “The­re’s so­met­hing I know, so­met­hing you ne­ed to know that-”

  “What? What do you know? Just tell me!”

  “I will,” he sho­uted back. “Just co­me with me and I-”

  “I don’t ha­ve ti­me for fi­eld trips. I ne­ed ans­wers.”

  “I’m gi­ving you ans­wers! What abo­ut tho­se re­cords? You ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught to ta­ke them wit­ho­ut me.”

  “And I still don’t know if wha­te­ver is in them will help me or not,” I sa­id, ga­ining mo­men­tum. “All I know is that my li­fe was go­ing okay be­fo­re you and tho­se ot­her we­ird zom­bi­es sho­wed up. And now a girl is de­ad and I’m in the big­gest tro­ub­le I’ve ever be­en in and not­hing is-”

  “What? You think I ha­ve so­met­hing to do-”

  “May­be. It’s an aw­ful big co­in­ci­den­ce, isn’t it? I me­an, how do I know I can be­li­eve anyt­hing you say?” The hurt in his eyes ma­de me crin­ge, but I co­uldn’t se­em to stop myself. “So just le­ave me alo­ne. I don’t ne­ed-” My new cell buz­zed in the poc­ket of my co­at, ma­king me jump. I fis­hed it out and flip­ped it open. “Hel­lo?”

  “Me­gan, it’s Et­han, whe­re are you?”

  “I’m in Lit­tle Rock, but I’m on my way back to Ca­rol, what’s up?” I as­ked ner­vo­usly, tur­ning my back on Cliff. I co­uldn’t lo­ok at him, not and ho­pe to con­ce­al my gu­ilty cons­ci­en­ce from Et­han. Even over the pho­ne he wo­uld be ab­le to tell so­met­hing was up if I wasn’t ca­re­ful.

  “I think I’ve got a le­ad, and if we hurry we can check it out and get you back at scho­ol be­fo­re lunch. Stay whe­re you are and I’ll co­me pick you up.”

  I ga­ve him di­rec­ti­ons to the McDo­nald’s down the stre­et from the Ple­asant Mo­un­ta­in cli­nic and hung up, not bot­he­ring to ask what his le­ad might be. It had to be so­met­hing go­od or he wo­uldn’t ad­vo­ca­te skip­ping mo­re class. The En­for­ce­ment se­lec­ti­on bo­ard lo­oked clo­sely at scho­ol at­ten­dan­ce re­cords and con­duct re­ports when they we­re in­ter­vi­ewing new rec­ru­its. They didn’t want an­yo­ne who co­uldn’t hand­le re­al li­fe in­filt­ra­ting the­ir ranks, and I knew Et­han wan­ted me in tho­se ranks with him so­me­day.

  Spe­aking of hand­ling re­al li­fe, was las­hing out at one of the few pe­op­le trying to help me just be­ca­use he was a fre­ak of Un­de­ad na­tu­re and fil­led me with con­fu­sing fe­elings re­al­ly “hand­ling” anyt­hing?

  I tur­ned slowly aro­und. “Lis­ten, Cliff, I… ” My words fa­ded away. Cliff was go­ne, which ma­de me way sad­der than I wan­ted to ad­mit.

  CHAPTER 16

  “I’m pretty su­re I wasn’t sup­po­sed to tell you, but-”

  “That’s se­ri­o­usly mes­sed up,” Et­han sa­id as we swung thro­ugh the dri­ve-thro­ugh at Micky D’s fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter. I ha­ted to ad­mit that Aaron was right, but I did ne­ed mo­re than do­nuts for bre­ak­fast. “So the El­ders ha­ve al­ways known what ca­uses SRUs?”

  “Gu­ess it’s so­met­hing they’ve pas­sed down thro­ugh the ages or so­met­hing, and why SA stop­ped wor­king with hu­man go­vern­ments back in the Dark Ages,” I con­fir­med. “But they don’t tell the lit­tle Set­tlers abo­ut it un­less they screw up li­ke Mo­ni­ca and I did last night.”

  “Don’t they think we sho­uld all know the pos­sib­le con­se­qu­en­ces of be­ing ob­ser­ved be­fo­re we un­le­ash a zom­bie epi­de­mic?” Et­han as­ked, pro­ving we we­re so­ul ma­tes. And then, pro­ving it yet aga­in, he le­aned out the win­dow and or­de­red me a sa­usa­ge, egg, and che­ese bis­cu­it with no egg. We’d only eaten bre­ak­fast to­get­her a few ti­mes, but he re­mem­be­red my hat­red of egg and egg pro­ducts.

  “That’s what I sa­id. They’re crazy, but this pro­ves we’re not de­aling with SRUs. They wo­uld be ac­ting li­ke Ro­gu­es, not zom­bi­es ra­ised to at­tack a cer­ta­in per­son. So the­re has to be so­me ot­her re­ason the­se things are so hard to get rid of.”

  He grun­ted his ag­re­ement; then we both fell si­lent as he pa­id for and col­lec­ted our sand­wic­hes.

  “So you re­al­ly think you we­re fol­lo­wed?” I as­ked, ke­eping my vo­ice to a whis­per just in ca­se the­re we­re En­for­cer ope­ra­ti­ves lur­king be­hind the plas­tic Ro­nald McDo­nald or the trash can whe­re Et­han pa­used to throw away the bag that our sand­wic­hes ca­me in.

  I was re­al­ly get­ting pa­ra­no­id, but I co­uldn’t se­em to help myself. Bet­we­en our pho­nes be­ing bug­ged and my mom with­hol­ding evi­den­ce, I had re­ason to be sus­pi­ci­o­us.

  “Bar­ker pul­led in­to the par­king lot of the hos­pi­tal just as I was pul­ling out. I had glas­ses on, but my car is pretty dis­tinc­ti­ve.”

  I star­ted in on my sand­wich but fo­und myself unab­le to swal­low the fo­od I’d che­wed un­til Et­han pul­led out of the par­king lot. “Ye­ah, you sho­uld in­vest in a win­dow­less whi­te van if we’re go­ing to ke­ep with the lur­king and sne­aking.”

  “Not a bad idea.” He gun­ned it thro­ugh the red light ahe­ad and tur­ned east on High­way 11, he­ading out to less po­pu­la­ted are­as. “I co­uld think of a few things a win­dow­less van wo­uld
be go­od for.” He wig­gled his eyeb­rows at me.

  “Right.” I smi­led and tri­ed to la­ugh, but it ca­me out as mo­re of whe­eze. Thank­ful­ly, Et­han was too busy fi­nis­hing his own bre­ak­fast and chec­king all the mir­rors to ma­ke su­re we we­ren’t be­ing fol­lo­wed to no­ti­ce my mi­nor mal­func­ti­on.

  “So what did you find out?”

  “A lot, but… the­re’s so­met­hing el­se you ne­ed to he­ar first.”

  “Okay? This is a bad so­met­hing?” I as­ked, wad­ding up the last few une­aten bi­tes of my sand­wich in its pa­per, sud­denly lo­sing what was left of my ap­pe­ti­te.

  “I cal­led Kitty,” he sa­id, ma­king a swift right and then a left, pre­su­mably to ditch a ta­il if we’d ac­qu­ired one. I hadn’t se­en my SA spi­es sin­ce I’d snuck out the back of the do­nut shop, but he was pro­bably right to be ca­re­ful. “Abo­ut the DNA test for you and yo­ur mom.”

  “Ethan! I sho­uld ha­ve be­en the one to do that. I wan­ted to-”

  “I was just trying to help. I knew you pro­bably hadn’t had ti­me to call, and I tho­ught the so­oner they got star­ted the so­oner you’d be ab­le to bre­at­he easy, you know?”

  “But I’m not go­ing to be ab­le to bre­at­he easy?” I as­ked, he­art clenc­hing in my chest.

  He sig­hed. “She wo­uldn’t tell me anyt­hing ex­cept that the­re wasn’t go­ing to be a DNA test be­ca­use a DNA test was im­pos­sib­le.”

  “What?” I ba­rely re­sis­ted the ur­ge to hit so­met­hing. “That do­esn’t ma­ke any sen­se! They’re just be­ing pig­he­aded, stu­pid-”

  “May­be not. I cal­led Mo­ni­ca af­ter I hung up with Kitty and told her to go back and lo­ok thro­ugh that list of blo­od types she was re­se­arc­hing last night. I don’t re­mem­ber for su­re, but I think so­me of tho­se can ca­use mu­ta­ti­ons in DNA.”

  “Mu­ta­ti­ons that wo­uld ma­ke DNA tests im­pos­sib­le?”

  “May­be.”

  “But I tho­ught Mo­ni­ca sa­id the­se blo­od types co­uld only be de­tec­ted with fresh blo­od and only with Set­tler tests,” I sa­id, the pi­eces of the puz­zle not ad­ding up in my mind. “If my DNA is gim­ped up, wo­uldn’t a nor­mal me­di­cal test be ab­le to de­tect-”

  “I’m not su­re,” Et­han sa­id, a lit­tle too fast for my li­king. If I didn’t know bet­ter, I’d ha­ve tho­ught he was hi­ding so­met­hing. “Let’s wa­it and see what Mo­ni­ca finds out. She’s go­ing to call me back as so­on as she gets a chan­ce to lo­ok thro­ugh her no­tes.”

  I lo­oked out the car win­dow and won­de­red bri­efly whe­re he was ta­king me. We’d tur­ned off the old high­way and we­re mo­ving furt­her west than I’d ever be­en be­fo­re.

  “Okay,” I sa­id, fe­eling the tight ro­pe of ho­pe I’d be­en wal­king on snap and send me plum­me­ting in­to the mo­uths of the al­li­ga­tors be­ne­ath. The­re wasn’t go­ing to be a DNA test, which me­ant I pro­bably only had a few mo­re ho­urs be­fo­re Kitty got that blo­od test back and ca­me to ar­rest me.

  It was lo­oking li­ke I hadn’t just be­en a jerk to tell Cliff to get lost, I’d be­en an idi­ot as well. What if he re­al­ly had in­for­ma­ti­on that co­uld help? I had to think of a way to mend the rift bet­we­en us, and it was past ti­me for me to tell Et­han abo­ut my Un­de­ad fri­end.

  “Lis­ten, we’re go­ing to fi­gu­re this out. I think I’m get­ting so­mew­he­re with the rest of the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. You’re not go­ing to be­li­eve what I fo­und at the hos­pi­tal,” Et­han sa­id, a no­te of for­ced op­ti­mism in his vo­ice that I ap­pre­ci­ated even if I didn’t comp­le­tely buy it. “I’m not su­re I be­li­eve it, and I saw it all myself.”

  “I don’t know-I’m fe­eling very open-min­ded the­se days. A lot of stran­ge things ha­ve be­en hap­pe­ning.” The­re, I’d gi­ven myself a go­od le­ad-in to a con­fes­si­on abo­ut my re­cur­rent zom­bie. Now I just had to gat­her the last of my co­ura­ge and spill my guts.

  “Not this stran­ge. I ne­ver even ima­gi­ned so­met­hing li­ke this.” His jaw clenc­hed as he tur­ned right on­to a small co­untry ro­ad I’d ne­ver be­en down be­fo­re.

  The way his jaw jum­ped re­min­ded me of Cliff. I won­de­red whe­re he’d go­ne, and what he’d had to tell me. If he to­ok my last words to he­art, I’d pro­bably ne­ver know. It ma­de me want to punch myself re­pe­atedly in my big, stu­pid mo­uth, and not just be­ca­use what he knew might help cle­ar my na­me. I wo­uld just… miss him. Even sit­ting next to my boyf­ri­end fe­eling gu­ilty for ke­eping my “other guy” a sec­ret, I got sniffly when I tho­ught of ne­ver se­e­ing Cliff aga­in.

  What a hot sloppy angsty mess I was be­co­ming. I re­al­ly ne­eded to chill out.

  “I trac­ked down a lab co­at when I got to the ICU so I co­uld ro­am aro­und. At first I didn’t find much, un­til I got to whe­re they ke­ep the pe­op­le who are on li­fe sup­port-co­ma vic­tims mostly.”

  “Co­ma vic­tims?” I as­ked, not mis­sing the sig­ni­fi­can­ce he ga­ve the words.

  “Yep.” Et­han pul­led on­to a gra­vel ro­ad that led to a bar­ren fi­eld that lo­oked li­ke it wo­uld be plan­ted with soy­be­ans co­me spring. He par­ked the car be­hind a clutch of le­af­less tre­es that for­med a bar­ri­er bet­we­en the fi­eld and the ro­ad, be­fo­re tur­ning to fa­ce me. “I wan­ted to wa­it un­til we we­re so­mew­he­re se­cu­re to tell you this.” I ga­zed aro­und the fi­eld. Pretty much the mid­dle of now­he­re. If an­yo­ne we­re to try and spy on us, we’d see them co­ming for abo­ut a mi­le. Et­han swept so­me ha­ir out of his eyes. “I-I think I fo­und the zom­bi­es who at­tac­ked you last night. They we­re pa­ti­ents from the ICU, co­ma pa­ti­ents.”

  “But zom­bi­es are de­ad, Et­han,” I sa­id, his words ba­nis­hing all tho­ughts of spil­ling the Cliff be­ans. At le­ast for the mo­ment. “That’s the who­le-”

  “I know, it so­unds crazy, but the nur­ses we­re chan­ging the ban­da­ges on the­ir fe­et when I got the­re. The­re we­re three, may­be fo­ur who­se fe­et we­re cut and bru­ised.” He le­aned clo­ser, his ex­ci­te­ment cle­ar. “How co­uld that ha­ve hap­pe­ned if they we­ren’t out of the­ir beds?”

  “May­be they we­re out of the­ir beds, but that do­esn’t me­an they we­re trans­for­med in­to blo­odt­hirsty fre­aks,” I sa­id, the very idea of li­ving zom­bi­es sca­ring the crap out of me. “The zoo is right next do­or to the hos­pi­tal, right? May­be they just step­ped out to ta­ke in the new baby elep­hant. Did you know the zoo has a new baby elep­hant?”

  “Me­gan.”

  “It’s sup­po­sed to be re­al­ly cu­te. We sho­uld go see it. On­ce it gets war­mer.”

  “Me­gan, what’s wrong? This is re­al­ly im­por­tant,” he sa­id, grab­bing my sho­ul­der and gi­ving it a lit­tle sha­ke. “You ne­ed to lis­ten to me. This co­uld be the bre­ak we’ve be­en wa­iting for.”

  “How? Just be­ca­use so­me pe­op­le who we­re in a co­ma sud­denly wo­ke up and-”

  “But that’s it, they didn’t wa­ke up. At le­ast, they we­ren’t awa­ke this mor­ning. They we­re all un­cons­ci­o­us, every last one.” His hand smo­ot­hed down my arm, and his fin­gers in­ter­loc­ked with mi­ne, of­fe­ring si­lent sup­port I wis­hed I didn’t ne­ed. “Which ma­kes it pretty hard to exp­la­in how one of the girls en­ded up with a bro­ken no­se and a du­de ma­na­ged to shat­ter his kne­ecap.”

  “Oh God.” I clo­sed my eyes, rep­la­ying the fight from the night be­fo­re in my mind and not li­king what I saw.

  “The the­ory flo­ating aro­und is that so­me psycho ca­me in and ro­ug­hed them up in the­ir beds. Ever­yo­ne se­ems to be ig­no­ring the fact that se­ve­ral of the pa­ti­ents ha­ve scra­ped and bru­ised knuck­les. Li­ke they we­ren’t just lying in be
d ta­king abu­se-they we­re dis­hing out a lit­tle of the­ir own.”

  Crap. What we­re the chan­ces that this was just a hor­rib­le co­in­ci­den­ce, and that the­se pe­op­le had sus­ta­ined the sa­me exact inj­uri­es I’d inf­lic­ted on what I tho­ught we­re the Un­de­ad in so­me per­fectly re­aso­nab­le way? Or that they’d hurt the­ir hands run­ning in­to the brick walls out­si­de the hos­pi­tal or trying to smash the glass ke­eping them from the pre­ci­o­us baby elep­hant over at the zoo?

  Bet­ter qu­es­ti­on, do you re­al­ly ha­ve ti­me for this le­vel of de­ni­al?

  “So you’re sa­ying I be­at the crap out of li­ving pe­op­le?” I as­ked. “Very sick, co­ma­to­se li­ving pe­op­le?”

  “You didn’t know. Be­si­des, they we­ren’t ac­ting li­ke de­fen­se­less sick pe­op­le. You and Mo­ni­ca did what you had to do to ke­ep an­yo­ne el­se from be­ing hurt or kil­led.”

  “Still, I-Shit!” I bro­ught my fist down hard on the se­at be­si­de me. “I sho­uld ha­ve re­ali­zed. The pa­j­amas, the lack of de­ad smell, it all ma­de sen­se. I can’t be­li­eve I-”

  “Hey, it’s not yo­ur fa­ult,” Et­han sa­id, grab­bing my fist when I ma­de to hit the dash­bo­ard. He held my hands cap­ti­ve. “Who­ever used tho­se pe­op­le to at­tack you is the one to bla­me. They’re sen­ding se­ri­o­usly sick pe­op­le to do the­ir dirty work.”

  I swal­lo­wed hard, wis­hing I’d skip­ped the bre­ak­fast sand­wich that was now thre­ate­ning to ma­ke a se­cond ap­pe­aran­ce. “What abo­ut the blo­od? Did they find blo­od on the pa­ti­ents? Li­ke, on the­ir pa­j­amas or… in the­ir mo­uths?”

  I rol­led down the win­dow and to­ok a de­ep bre­ath of cold, crisp win­ter air.

  “Not that I know of. Everyt­hing had be­en pretty well cle­aned up. I’m gu­es­sing by En­for­ce­ment.” Et­han crac­ked his win­dow too, let­ting in a ni­ce, na­usea-kil­ling draft. “The­re was no tra­ce of blo­od or mud or anyt­hing el­se on the pe­op­le’s clot­hes. The clot­hes they we­re we­aring last night we­re pro­bably dest­ro­yed, but they co­uldn’t get rid of the inj­uri­es them­sel­ves.”

 

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