Death Incarnate

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “Now for your history, Mr. Thomas.”

  Clyde heaves a regretful sigh as Bobbi slides her hand into his.

  He begins talking, and I listen, because, in the end, it involves me.

  *

  Clyde's expression is wistful, regretful. He speaks to his lap, Bobbi stuck to his side. “It was a girl child,” he states quietly.

  “There is so much knowledge now, eventually, I was able to learn who she was. When her birthday was, her name—the day of her death.”

  After a minute, Bobbi squeezes his hand and urges, “Go ahead.”

  “Adeline Parker.”

  Clyde looks at us, but his eyes are far away, remembering another time, another place. “The little girl had to take her mother's name because I wasn't there to give her my own.”

  He stares at his loosely knitted hands folded neatly in his lap. “Maggie never married. Probably no man would have her in those days. By all appearances, she managed.” He clears his throat and looks off into space at a time we can't see. “Maggie lived to see Adeline married.”

  I frown, not completely sure how to connect these dots.

  Clyde looks at me. “The birth of her only grandson.”

  I stand. My mother's name was not Adeline. There is no way. No way that the grandmother I vaguely remember from my mother's side was the red-haired Irish lass Clyde loved.

  Clyde stands, as well.

  We stare at each other from across the room.

  “My guilt is like a festering scar that never heals. Forgive me,” Clyde says to me.

  I clear the frog in my throat. “Forgive you for what? My mother's name wasn't Adeline. You've got things crossed, Clyde.” I put my hands on my hips.

  He shakes his head, sliding his hands into his front pockets. “That was her first name, but she went by her middle—Mary.”

  Mary.

  My mother's name. Jerking my head in Clyde's direction, I put everything together speedy-Gonzales style. “So you're my—”

  “Grandfather.”

  Caleb says, “And Deegan's great-great grandfather.”

  Roberts, who’s been silent all this time, spreads his hands away from his body, stretching his white lab coat taut across his chest. “The family estimation is correct then.”

  “Okay, I know we don't have time for this, but I have to know—what about Jeffrey Parker?”

  Clyde shrugs. “If there was an easy part to the story, it would be that Maggie had a brother, and that brother was Bruno Parker.”

  “Nice name,” Tiff chirps from the peanut gallery.

  “Tiff, shhh,” Sophie says.

  Tiff snaps a bubble.

  Clyde gives Tiff an indulgent nod and continues, “I've always imagined that Jeffrey is a great-great nephew or some such.” He lifts one shoulder. “It was enough that I knew we were blood. The specifics did not matter and always seemed too painful to examine—given my role,” he finishes in a soft voice.

  Roberts stands. “Let's save Deegan's child.”

  “There is that, at least.” Clyde follows, but asks him, “What is the protocol, doctor?”

  “I take stem cells from you and insert them into her growing embryo.”

  Clyde stops. “Will I survive?”

  Roberts mouth quirks. “Oh, yes, you zombies don't die easily.”

  The comment is an odd one. But we troupe after the quack, regardless. Sometimes the only option isn't the best one—but it’s still the only one available.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Deegan

  “I'm scared.” It’s the truth. My eyes roam the sterile environment of the hospital, over the cots with drapes around them and a high-waisted tray filled with shining surgical instruments. Germ destroyers are working frantically, making the surfaces seem like a moving, living tapestry of small slick and metallic bodies that appear to wink as they ceaselessly move.

  Dr. Roberts gave me something to calm the cramps, but it's only a temporary measure as the method slows, but doesn't halt a spontaneous abortion. We have to do this stem cell procedure, or we'll lose our precious cargo.

  Uncle Clyde is lying beside me, in an identical rolling cot.

  Our eyes meet. “Is this going to hurt him?”

  Doctor Roberts shakes his head. “I hear you're numbered.”

  I nod. Wonderful time to bring up my IQ.

  “Then you would easily understand stem cell therapy.”

  Fine. “If I were interested, I would understand. But forgive me if my inquiries don't extend to this area of science.” I’d never thought, even in my most wild imaginings, I would need to know the intricacies of stem cell therapy.

  Roberts looks at me with a quirked eyebrow, and I see Mitchell's smirk out of the corner of my eye.

  “I see. Well, the most succinct explanation is: Mr. Thomas is undead. And your child is also part”—he glances at Mitchell—“undead.”

  Clyde taps his long tapered fingers on the sheet. “Take no offense, Deegan, but I am quite through with waiting. Worry not, I will be fine.”

  Still worried.

  “We will give the embryo a running start with stem cells from Mr. Thomas. This should boost growth, while neutralizing compatibility issues of live and dead cells, which tend to pull against each other or cancel each other out. In other words, I suspect your living body is trying to reject the undead matter. Though it is only part of the embryo, it is an integral part.”

  Makes a sad kind of sense. My fingers ache from clutching at the sheet.

  Doctor Roberts raises his eyebrows—waiting.

  Finally, I nod my consent, though I signed for the procedure two hours ago, before they ascertained that Clyde could even help.

  Mitchell's hand is warm in mine.

  I shut my eyes as the sedative swamps my consciousness.

  *

  My eyes open slowly. The state-of-the-art anesthesia wears off quickly and is safe for the baby.

  If I still have my baby.

  My hand moves to my stomach. Of course, the baby's half the size of a double-shelled peanut. I couldn't feel it if I tried, but the gesture makes me feel better.

  “Hey,” Mitchell says softly by my side.

  His hand blocks my vision for a moment as he gently brushes my hair off my forehead.

  Mitchell's soft kiss is a tender press of flesh on my forehead where his hand just laid. “You okay?”

  I nod. “The baby?”

  Mitchell's grin is all the affirmation I need. “In the clear.”

  Sinking back into my pillows, I breathe a sigh of relief. Suddenly, I half sit up.

  Mitchell's eyes widen. “Whoa, babe—what is it?”

  “Uncle Clyde.”

  “He's cool. Don't stress.”

  I slump back down and cover my face with a forearm. “I was so terrified.”

  “Won't lie, I was kinda freaking out. As a matter of fact, been to war, done some shit. And having our baby's life on the brink was the scariest slice I've ever been through.”

  Me too.

  His deep-blue eyes study my expression. “Ask.”

  “How is—how are my parents and everybody?”

  He shrugs. “Don't know. Been kinda wrapped up in the Deegan welfare biz.”

  I laugh. “I guess—do we have to worry about Hugh Easter?”

  “I don't know,” Mitchell says. “I've got bigger fish to fry than that murdering pencil dick.”

  “Mitchell,” I say in partial chastisement. But I admit the guy’s not on my fave list, either, and I haven't been here to see all that Mitchell has. His pained expression tells me things happened that were awful and his dislike of Easter runs deeper now. I open my mouth to ask, but a soft rap at the door interrupts me.

  “Come in,” Mitchell says, but I notice he drops my hand and faces the door.

  He's a fast learner.

  When you hang out with the Harts, anything can happen.

  As it turns out, it's not a threat—it's just my parents.

  Mom ru
ns to my bed, checks me out with a two-second sweep of eyes, then hugs me before I can say a word. “We heard that everything's okay, honey.”

  I nod, standing tears wrecking my view.

  Dad waits in line, but his eyes are soft, relief making the brown irises appear darker. “That's great news, Deegan.” He squeezes my hand.

  It is.

  I find Mitchell's hand again with my free one as more people pour through the door.

  It's like a receiving line at the conclusion of a wedding. And I'm so happy for it.

  *

  Pax

  I'm still pissed about Mitchell taking advantage of my sister.

  But to be fair, I had sex and impregnated Tara. So if a tally was going to be made, we would be even.

  And in a way, Mitchell and I are in the same boat: unstable—hell, dangerous—environment.

  We're both trying to protect our women, like cavemen, but desperate times and that. Dad's got Mom. Uncle John has Tiff (though who's protecting who in that relationship is debatable). It's completely obvious that Jonesy did the deed with Sophie.

  Bry can still get beat up defending one of the Harts, and maybe Mia will survive it all.

  I smirk.

  Then there's Gramps and Kim—and Ron. Not sure where they fit in. Don’t know about O’Neil, the cop we stole from Mitch's world, and Jeff Parker, who doesn't know that he's my third cousin once removed or some shit. But Jeff’s probably safe right now, reuniting with the fam.

  Makes my head hurt.

  But the good news (and man, do we have to hunt for that) is that Dee's safe, and so's the baby. Tara's standing right here, whole and okay, and my parents haven't been offed or taken by a cloak-and-dagger government entity. Yet.

  “Hey.” Dee plops down next to me.

  “Hey,” I say back, taking her hand. Sometimes, all we've had is each other.

  I gaze at Mitch. And as if he can feel my eyeballs on him, he turns to look at me and Dee.

  Have to admit, Mitch boy would get chopped to pieces before he let something happen to Dee.

  What I hate the most is he's a better protector of her than I am. But maybe my job description has changed. I guess this is the process of us both leaving our parents’ house. Becoming adults. Separate.

  It's painful.

  Feels right somehow, though.

  I haul Tara against my side, and she parks her butt on my thigh.

  Got my girls.

  But as Mitch and I stare at each other, I know my relationship with Dee as I've known it is coming to an end. She'll go with him and start a life with... her zombie.

  I've got to mentally slot the new change. But I'll manage. It's not an overnight thing. But if Dee can be happy and safe, it'll go down better.

  My attention shifts to Tate organizing paperwork. Honest-to-God papers are stacked fist high. What did he say? Oh, yeah—can't pulse or disc-hack a dead tree.

  Or maybe that's my version?

  The method of archaic paper shuffling is in place to safeguard the Random list. Somebody—many somebodies—would be damn thrilled to get ahold of all the Randoms on this blue marble. For whatever purpose. Usually, it'd be a bad one.

  Randomcide.

  “The only part that's high tech at this juncture is your thumbprint signature,” Tate explains to the room at large.

  I gently put Tara on her feet and plant a kiss on her forehead before tugging Dee to Tate.

  Our parents look over our shoulders as we sign documents guaranteeing our loyalty and silence to a new cause.

  Randoms for Humanity.

  We're on board. We pored over the docs earlier, after Dee was deemed whole and the baby was okay.

  Lots of technical verbiage about what scope of tasks we'll execute. Credits paid as compensation. Even time off.

  I thought that was funny and laughed until Dee gave me the “shut up” look.

  Think about it. Yeah, I'm all done blinking for the week, I better go to the Bahamas.

  As if.

  “I got to take a stab—maybe this is a bad idea,” Gramps says.

  Drextel Tate looks at him. “I invite you to go over these documents with a fine-toothed comb, Mr. O'Brien. Randoms for Humanity is a completely transparent organization.”

  The door opens, and an old man walks in.

  Tate grins. “As a matter of fact, I think you'll be even more at ease when you find who our benefactor is. He is the one who is responsible for the inception of our cause. Essentially, he saved us.”

  I look at the guy.

  And there's something... vaguely familiar about him. Can't put my finger on it.

  He's obviously done regeneration. But it's a slow one. Not like Gramps, where in a year, he dropped thirty years. Hell, anyone's lucky if they can regenerate at all. A lot of people can't, doesn't take.

  “Meet Dr. Lowell Hampton.”

  Gooseflesh rises on my arms, and I stand so quickly, my chair topples over.

  I stride to the stooped old guy who should be around his mid-nineties now.

  He gives me a crooked smile, holding out a gnarled hand. “It's good to see you again, Paxton Hart.”

  Ignoring the offered hand, I hug him as hard as I dare.

  There's no red left in his hair, just a few random tuffs of swirly white like cream-colored whipped cream.

  Everyone starts talking at once.

  I listen only to him.

  “Your parents?” I ask, searching a face still loaded with freckles, though faded by time.

  He shakes his head. “Long gone. Regeneration came much too late for them.” His dark hazel eyes are the same—sharp, observant, and lively. “But my mother—”

  “Patty.”

  Lowell inclines his head. “She lived many years. Nearly ninety. Outlived Pop.” His smile is wistful.

  Then his look grows sharp. “I never forgot, you hot-headed young man. My folks led me in a completely different direction because of your...” He seems to think about what to say with the now-rapt silence of an audience. “Your appearance and intervention for my mother. I was determined to be what I needed to be for you when I was grown. It was terrible to watch your upbringing from afar. But I knew the timing of my appearance was critical. And I do believe in timing.”

  I didn't used to. But I'm rethinking that whole position.

  “My life is complete, I took regeneration protocol just for this moment.” He grips my arms and is surprisingly strong for an old dude.

  “Don't waste what you've been given.” His smile crinkles his face like folded parchment paper. “To you, it was a moment ago when you healed my mother. For me, it's been decades. Unforgettable years stacking up to think about a debt owed. My parents were wonderful. My mother was alive to foster those talents they saw in me. They were especially motivated because of the gift of time you gave them.”

  “I—"

  “They have a message in the hopes I would see you again.”

  I can literally hear people breathing. I lick my suddenly dry lips. “What?” I whisper.

  “Be more than you know. Be what you were meant to.”

  “That's...” I swallow. “Kinda deep.”

  Lowell's face shapes into a tender grin. “They also said thank you.”

  I let my breath slip out and give a shaky laugh.

  Turning back to Tate, I say, “I'll sign.”

  Lowell's fist taps me on the back.

  As I press my thumb to the paper, the whorls of my unique fingerprint brighten with phosphorescence for a long second then dim.

  I lift my thumb.

  I'll explain later, I say inside my head to Dee.

  She trusts me and is dipping her thumb to the paper in the next breath. The same swirling bright flash seeps from underneath her thumbprint.

  Then we're done.

  To a brighter future or some other shit. But it'll be better shit than what we've been shoveling in our short lives.

  I'm sure of it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

&
nbsp; Mac

  I fold my arms over my chest, keeping a circumspect eye on Kim, who looks a little lost next to the Null fella. I turn my attention back to my grandson. “Now that they've fixed up Deedie, and the kids have given their John Henry to the new employers?” I hike my eyebrows.

  Caleb nods. “I think we're in the clear.”

  “Famous last words,” Tiff mutters.

  We ignore her.

  “What about Sanction? Mitchell said they killed his sister from this world.” Jade looks between the two of us.

  I scrub my face with a palm. “Pretty hard to substantiate that when Sanction ʻflamesʼ everything—or everyone. Where's the proof? Though I don't doubt the zombie.” I cup my chin. “That's an outfit that has too much damn power, if ya ask me.”

  “Agreed,” Clyde says with a grin at my elbow.

  Not bothering with preamble, I give my relation a hard hug with much back clapping. I pull away, gripping his shoulders. “You—I'm mighty glad you're a relation, Grandpa.” I wink.

  Clyde's face reddens (a neat trick for a zombie, in my opinion). He clears his throat. “I am also grateful. Though, now that all the lineage is known, I'll always wonder if I answered Caleb's call because we shared blood.”

  Caleb shrugs with a smile. “I'd like to think so.”

  He and Clyde exchange a full look. “Doesn't really matter, Gramps. Clyde was family before I knew we were related.”

  Too true.

  “All right, folks,” Tate interrupts the murmuring of conversations. “There's some details I wish to discuss with our new hires. He looks at Deedie and Pax.

  “I want to be present,” Caleb says.

  “Dad, I'm emancipated—so—so—emancipated.”

  “Yeah, but color me suspicious, I want to see this entire thing through to the end.” Caleb draws Jade in against him and lays a protective hand over her belly. “After all, you'll have another sibling in eight months.”

  “Uh-huh,” Pax says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And it's not weird at all that Tara and I will have our baby, and somehow it's going to be an aunt or uncle to sibling X.”

  Jade laughs. “I kinda like the ring of that. Let's just call Deegan and Paxton's children babies X and Y.”