“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Venya…”
Venya launched upward and away from the table, screeching, a flash of gold in her maw.
Red mist filled the air with the gun’s percussion and the woman fell headless against the mirror. Ellen dove under the table.
Olden was on Lock like a bolt of lightning. They grappled backward toward the foyer, beyond Willa’s periphery. The MK clattered to the marble and she heard the sickening thump of Lock’s body hitting the ground. The sounds of hand fighting and struggle came clear, but she could not see it or do anything to help.
“No!” Willa gasped. She felt all of those she’d lost coming back to her: the friends, family, Claude, her own daughter, gathering in wait on the other side for this new entrant who had so quickly become someone she trusted; a friend. For a flash Willa saw herself as the common denominator in the death of so many, a cursed person, a reaper not only as government blood collector, but in the mythical sense. The last visitor. The one who guides the newly dead to the underworld. Now it was happening again. Her ears heard, translated the process of Lock’s dying. Willa screamed and screamed, squirmed against the vault, powerless to save her friend.
“I can’t say –” Olden spoke as he strangled the woman, “– that I loved her.” Willa could hear Lock’s hands slapping and grabbing, her breath only bubbles. “… so vain and boastful… overshadowing my own vanity and boastfulness.”
“Let her go!” screamed Willa.
“I – am – free,” Olden continued. “You have liberated me – leaving me with quite the mess, however.”
Willa struggled against the vault, roared and fought to pull herself free, to see her friend. She owed her that.
The sounds coming now were abrupt, Lock’s body running through its final reflexes. Airless coughs convulsed, her head bumping the tiles.
“You held on for longer than most.”
Then choking. A gargling release. A thump. Silence.
Willa sobbed, her breath shallow, and her thoughts flowed to Isaiah. He was as safe as he could be, and with people who knew the truth. People who could help get the word out. Maybe they could expose the lies of Patriot and those it served, the Apex, these Ichorwulves.
Footsteps. Tears ran cool over her hot cheeks and her utter fatigue brought a measure of calm as death approached. Considering all that she’d been through, it was probably the case that she’d been living on borrowed time anyway.
“Willa?” said Ellen, kneeling down in front of her.
Willa flinched, unsure how to react to the vampire child.
“I think your friend is still alive, but she’s unconscious.”
Willa searched the girl’s face. It lacked the animal intensity of her parents and her mouth bared no fangs. Confused, still panting for breath, she asked, “Where’s Jesper?”
“He’s over there.”
Willa grunted, but couldn’t bring her head around. “What’s he doing? Is he – is he coming?”
“No. He’s dead.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MACROPHAGE
A type of white blood cell and part of the immune system that consumes and digests foreign substances. From the Greek, big eater.
Everard explained the rules of the game again, then shuffled through the pack of cards until he located the Queen of Spades. He withdrew it from the deck and stuffed it back into the box.
“Why’d you take that one out, Everard?” asked Hali, who was eight.
“I told you. You gotta have an odd number of queens so whoever ends up with just the one lady is the Old Maid,” he answered, leaning back against the front of the couch. “Any other questions?”
“Yeah,” said Wren, sitting criss-cross on the stained carpet. “What does the winner get?”
“That’s how you do it! Gotta have a wager. Right then,” he said, washing his hands in the air. “What are we playing for?”
“Pizza!” exclaimed Sasha.
“Yes. Pizza!” Ryan added.
“Pizza?” asked Everard, underwhelmed by the stakes. “You could play for any-damn-thing in the world… uh, rocket ships or ponies, a trip to the storm on Jupiter, and all y’all want to play for is pizza?” He surveyed the circle. “Lynn? Wren? Isaiah? Got any suggestions more tantalizin’ than that?”
Clearly happy with the idea of pizza, they each shook their heads.
“A’ight, suit yourselfs.”
He dealt the cards around until they’d all been handed out. He fanned his own cards and evaluated them. “Now see,” he said, plucking some from the array, “I’ve got a pair here an’ I’m just gonna set that down.” The kids just watched. “Y’all do the same, now, g’head.”
The children went to work on their own cards. The youngest boy held up a pair of sixes.
“Yeah, just like that Wren. That’s a pair. Set that down.” He guided the boy’s hand to the ground, then waited until the rest had finished sorting their cards. “OK, see, now I offer my lot to Jack and he picks one,” he said, allowing the boy to select a card. “Good. Now, Jack, you offer yours to ’Sosh, nope – not face up, Jack. Cause see now she can just pick any card that helps her pair hers off, see?” He reached over and gently flipped Jack’s wrist so that his cards faced down. Sasha selected a card from Jack, pulled a newly formed pair from her stack, and presented her cards to Hali. Feeling like the kids were getting the hang of the game, Everard stuck a cigarette between his lips. He didn’t light it, though, on account his proximity to nascent lungs.
When the game finally ended with Everard deemed the Old Maid, he stepped out back while the children pretended to devour their imagined winnings. He took the cigarette in his fingers and gave it a sniff down its length. There was nothing like the smell of a fresh one just before you fired it up. He slapped the filter against the back of his hand, put it to his mouth and flicked the lighter.
That first hit. Lord it tasted good. That old Willa was anti-smoking along with the rest of the planet, but he’d be damned if he was ever gonna give it up. Smoking was great. One of the last things in this shitass world that made him happy. Well, that and the kiddos. A smile glowed in the ember’s light.
He leaned into the kitchen to check on the gang, careful to keep the smoldering butt outside the home. Having restarted a round of Old Maid without him, he felt his heart lift. Not just at their taking to the game so quickly, but because it might mean time for a second smoke.
He took a long draw and blew a ring skyward. The clouds were light and low against the early evening sky. A nip in the air seemed to warn of early snow. On the horizon a faint glow ebbed into being. He never wore his glasses – the prescription was decades out of date – but he wished for them now. He squinted, even set the smoke down on a rail so as to focus on seeing. Obscured by the clouds, the source grew brighter. Coming closer. A drone, no doubt. His pulse thumped in his ears. The color and hue of the glow shifted and altered with the changing density of the clouds through which it passed. Orange became amber became pink. A nervous dribble of sweat ran coldly from his armpit. He wished for purple as the pink began to darken. His mouth made the words. Purple purple purple. With the drone mere blocks away, the color shifted a final time, as hot pink faded not to purple, but to red. The color signature for Patriot drones. He took up the cigarette and did a few quick pulls.
Everard felt his body go tight, each sinew being drawn up and battened. Surely it wasn’t coming for Seychelles. And if it was, surely it was only because Lock had hijacked it. She did stuff like that all the time, though she’d never shown up with an actual Patriot model. He stood paralyzed on the stoop; cigarette stuck idle in the corner of his mouth. Praying wasn’t a thing he really did, but with so many souls under his care, well. He shut his eyes and pled with the Almighty to make the drone pass harmlessly overhead, to make it bound for some other destination. He opened his eyes just as it broke from the clouds.
He flicked the cigarette and screamed into the house. “EVAC!”
&n
bsp; The children dropped the game and leapt into action as they’d been schooled to do at the mention of the word. Shoes went on, jackets were donned and zipped tight, the younger bundled and readied by the older. They ran to the cabinets under the sink, pulling out small backpacks filled with snacks, extra clothing, and water.
Everard turned back to the sky. The drone’s vector was straight for them. Now the only hope, and a thin one at that, was that it’d been stolen and flown there by Lock and Willa. Maybe they’d commandeered a drone from that Jesper Olden. Right before it set down, he glanced back inside to see the children lined up at the front door just as they’d been taught.
The drone landed and doors opened on either side. A graphite and gold helmet broached the threshold. Everard retreated inside, locked the door, and blasted to the front of the house. He did a quick headcount as he undid the bolts on the front door and swung it open just as men smashed in through the back. “To your places!” he yelled, pushing the children out toward the street, hoping they’d remember their hiding spots throughout the neighborhood. A new soldier appeared out front, nabbing two of the children and striking out for the others. Some got past, some ran back into the house, pounding the floorboards and diving into any cranny that might conceal them.
He whirled inside only to find another soldier behind him. Everard leapt up, coiling his arm around the back of the man’s head, locking his forearm across his neck and face. The helmet popped off. He lifted his feet and drew down with all of his weight. The man spun, striking Everard’s tailbone against the door frame. Pain exploded up his spine just as the man’s teeth sank into the meat of his arm. He released and dropped to the floor, then rolled to avoid a strike. Springing to his feet, he cracked the man’s skull with the helmet, and followed with a flurry of punches. At the same time, soldiers flooded the home, collecting the children and dragging them away. Fire in his veins, he pummeled the man in a trancelike fury, registering half consciously the distant sound of his own voice coming through, a continuous stream of vitriol and hatred and anger and fear. The soldier’s face became a bloody pulp and Everard felt a blip of pride at his skill in single combat after so many years of resting his mitts. Grabbing a handful of the man’s uniform, Everard smashed a fist to his teeth just as he felt something clip his neck just below the ear.
He slapped his hand to the wound and crumbled to the floor against the wall. Time slowed to a crawl as he struggled to stand, only to feel the crush of a boot on his chest, pressing the air from his lungs. The home he’d protected was a blur of tiny bodies and wiggling limbs and fearful screeches – children facing new trauma in lives built from it. A backpack cartwheeled across the carpet, its contents tumbling out. A doll. A bag of crackers. Everard moaned with the sorrow of a parent who had lost, and tears spilled freely from eyes that could no longer see.
And as the room went black, they called for him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ANASTOMOSIS
A surgical connection made between two structures.
“Dead?” asked Willa.
The girl glanced over Willa’s shoulder. “Yes.”
Willa strained against the vault and Ellen quickly stood, said, “Refrigerator, show Ellen’s shelves.” The racks of blood withdrew into the back wall and the interior chamber began to ascend back into place. Willa cried as her arm appeared, still partly in the crisper, her inner bicep torn and bleeding. It came free and she spun to the ground against the vault. Her eyes found Lock. And Olden.
Lock rolled to her side, coughing. Olden lay next to her, face down, the ornamental sword from the mantle lodged in the back of his head, its tip jutting out from under his chin. A runnel of black cherry followed the blade’s edge to the floor.
“Lock,” Willa groaned, “are you OK?”
Lock wheezed, “I’m–” coughing, “right as a – trivet.”
Willa steadied as she regained her composure, shuffled on her knees toward where Lock lay. “How did you–”
“The girl,” came Lock’s rasping voice. “She did it.”
Willa spun to Ellen. “You–”
The girl stood rigid as a soldier might. “They’re not my parents.”
“Not anymore, anyways.” Lock said, caressing her throat.
“What are you talking about, Ellen? What do you mean they’re not your parents?”
“He’s not my dad, she’s not my mom,” she answered, rummaging through a purple backpack on a stool. “My name is Kathy and I’m from B Minus in Riversfork. We have to go now.”
Willa heaved herself up and wrapped a kitchen towel around her arm. She took the ends up with her good hand. “Can you tie this for me?” Kathy nodded and snapped a crisp knot, pulling it down tightly on Willa’s wounds. Watching the girl work, she said, “Riversfork is a thousand miles away. Why do you live here?”
“They took me from my district. Adopted me.”
By now, Lock was standing and she limped over to pick up the rifle.
“What?” asked Willa.
“They can’t have kids,” Kathy continued, stepping into the slick of blood that had already taken on the appearance of wet sawdust.
“I don’t understand,” Willa said. “You mean, they literally can’t reproduce?”
“Not like humans,” Kathy answered, taking hold of the sword’s handle. “They steal us from the blood districts in other cities, then adopt us.” She placed a foot on Olden’s neck and leveraged the blade from his skull. Willa grimaced as the man’s face caved in. Lock grinned.
Kathy found the scabbard nearby, sheathed the sword and pushed it into the backpack up to the hilt. “Hey,” she said, throwing open a kitchen drawer. “I need your help.” She set a rectangular butcher’s knife onto the counter.
Now Lock was grimacing. “Help with what?”
The girl set a cookbook face down and drew it to the edge of the counter. She stretched her right ring finger over the book cover and held the knife out toward Willa with her left. “You have to cut it off.”
Willa was dumbstruck. “Cut what off?”
“My beacon,” she said. “It’s in the second joint.”
She handed the blade to Willa. “Right there,” she said, pointing to the finger’s middle segment. “It’s fused to the bone.”
“Cut your finger off?” Willa said as she gripped and regripped the knife. “I don’t know if I can–”
“You have to. And now.”
Kathy ripped a dish towel from its rod and gripped it with her left hand. “Go,” she said, steeling herself. “Please.”
“There’s no other way?” asked Willa, swallowing hard.
Kathy’s face was no longer that of a child. “I keep my finger and they find me. They find you. Do it.”
“Gimmie that,” said Lock, going for the blade.
“No!” exclaimed Willa. “No. I’ll do it.”
Willa went to the range installed on the island, lit a burner, and sterilized the blade. She came back around to Kathy’s right side. Lock set her hands on the girl’s left shoulder.
Willa pointed to the finger. “There’s a little divot right here between the joints. I’m going to try and hit it.” She set the edge of the blade on the spot and hefted a large cookbook binding-down so as to concentrate the greatest amount of force in the smallest area. Not completing the cut would be worse than missing.
Kathy gritted her teeth and blinked her eyes in agreement.
Willa made a face at Lock. Taking the cue, Lock said, “Hey Kathy, you have any pets?”
Kathy turned to Lock, “Wha–?” And Willa hammered the knife.
Kathy collapsed to the floor, howling. Lock wrapped the towel tightly over the bleeding stump and pulled the girl’s face to her chest. “OK, OK.”
Willa didn’t know whether to join in comforting the child or keep things clinical. “I’ll dress it properly when we’re back home,” she said. She looked to the tiny finger laying on the cookbook. It seemed suddenly unreal, like it had never been attached to any
thing – a movie prop. Even the blood leaking onto the marble seemed fake. People don’t just go around having their fingers chopped off.
Kathy growled to suppress the pain and began pushing slowly upward. “We. Have. To. Go.”
“Whoa, hold a sec, kid,” said Lock, giving her a gentle push back to the ground. She dug into one of her skirt’s utility pockets and withdrew a small canister. “Open. This will help.”
Kathy obeyed. Lock uncapped the lid from over a nozzle and spritzed the girl’s mouth.
“What is that?” asked Willa.
“My own secret recipe. Little of this, little of that. NSAIDS, maybe some synthopiates, microamphetamines.”
“Opiates?”
“It’ll take a few minutes to kick in, but when it does, she’ll be better than new. And stronger.” Lock ran into the living room and called back to them, “Nobody else here we need to rescue?”
“No,” answered Kathy.
Lock returned to the kitchen and scanned about the room. She pointed to several empty boxes folded against the wall. “Use those. Get the blood from the vault and I’ll sort Llydia.”
Willa brought the boxes over to the refrigeration vault.
“Refrigerator: open Mom and Dad’s blood drawer,” said Kathy, shuffling over.
“Kathy? Are you sure you should be standing?”
“Mmhmm. Fine,” she mumbled.
Willa scowled at Lock, who headed toward the front.
“I didn’t give her a big dose,” said Lock, elbowing the door. “She’ll be fine.”
Willa gathered bags one handed from the top racks as Kathy used her one good hand to pull from the lower.
Willa was bursting with questions, but she knew she had to go easy given Kathy’s state. “So, where are your real parents?”
Kathy’s lips tightened and she began working faster.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me,” Willa added.
“Dead probably.”
“What makes you think that?”
Kathy shrugged. “That’s just how things go in the districts.”
The Phlebotomist Page 14
