Tainted

by A. E. Rought

  “I don’t remember this,” she says. “I don’t.”

  “We’ll figure it out, Em,” I promise.

  “How?” Confusion and fear make her voice loud in the sterile environment.

  “By taking you to Ascension Labs.” We will run a battery of blood tests. They will have to tell us something.

  “I’ve already been there.” She sounds so defeated it hurts my heart.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My new definition of awkward? Sitting to dinner with my grandparents and watching a news segment about the animal attacks the night before.

  With perfect diction, dark-haired Eliza Mennov tells the viewers, “Three people have died from their injuries, one a young girl from Shelley High. Her parents have asked for privacy.” Gran gasps and reaches for Grandpa’s hand. I know who it is. Marin Rhodes. I never believed in survivor’s guilt until now. I should’ve run quicker, thought less about the blond girl, done something, anything to help her. “The animals have been caught,” Eliza continues, “and are being tested. Preliminary lab reports suggest they were given a cocktail of drugs that caused their massive size, and rabid behavior. All the animals were microchipped, and owned by Ascension Labs.

  “What other horrors are hidden at Ascension Labs?” she continues, sober-faced and directly to the camera. “What costs are we paying for their medical advancements? All requests for an interview have been deni–”

  The screen goes black. When I look away from the silenced television, Grandpa holds the remote pointed at the box like an accusation. He leans to the side and slides the controller onto the counter. “I don’t know what mess you’ve got going on over there, Alex,” he says, eyes on me despite Gran’s concerned shushing. “But you had better get it sorted soon.”

  I don’t have a mess, I want to argue.

  That’s a lie. Emma needs the weekly injections now. Hailey’s going off the rails and trying to take me with her. Paul might be involved. With the news and police investigations, it’s going to be harder and harder to hide what my father did there. I’m tempted to shut the entire lab down, but we have contracts to fulfill, real, life-saving medicines to produce. I let out a long breath, meet Grandpa’s eyes and then drop my gaze to my plate.

  Renfield coils around my feet, waiting, I’m sure, for the hasty escape he must sense is coming. Breakfast from Mugz-n-Chugz has solidified in my gut, I do not want to add gravy on top. I lift a sheepish glance to Gran, and ask, “May I be excused?”

  “Yes,” she says. Then Grandpa adds, “From the table, but not from your responsibilities.”

  “Yessir.”

  Restrained conversation crops up between them the moment I leave the kitchen. The side of my head throbs, and helps drown out their terse words. Emma’s white cat sits beside my pillows when I push the door mostly closed. I’m already in pajama pants, so I collapse to the bed, and drag the feline close. On a normal day, he would leap away, and possibly bitch me out. Today, he nestles closer, his tail flicking, brushing the oversensitive skin of my forearm.

  I don’t bother looking at the puncture marks, or the little black stitches holding the bigger tears together. Friday morning, after my shot and power surge, the skin will crawl with regeneration. Creepy and cool – or maybe I’m just a little sick and enjoy it.

  Will Emma come to enjoy the surreal healing? How will she handle her first intentional serum injection and charge? Will she go willingly, or will she fight it?

  Are we safe to trust our lives to Paul?

  Renfield readjusts when I pull my cellphone close and open the messaging program. I click on the thread with Emma and type: The truth is, sometimes Bree reminds me of a poodle.

  I run my fingers down the cat’s fur, his rumbling purr the only sound in the room. He’s become such a constant, such a friend, I’m really going to miss him when he can finally go live with the Gentrys again. Maybe Gran and Grandpa will let me get a dog. More likely Gran will take pity on me and guilt-trip Grandpa into letting me have one. I can see where my mother got her spunk from.

  The side of my face feels hot when I prod it. Ache lives in the bones now. For a little while, at least. I’m luckier than the other victims. Before my thoughts can drift too far into the memory of seeing Marin taken down, my cellphone tells me Emma’s responded.

  LOL, the text reads. Bree is high energy, and definitely as sassy as a poodle. Give me more!

  I knew that would make her smile. Closing my eyes, I can picture her lying on the bed in their guest room, knees bent with her slippers bouncing above the curve of her butt, and her blond hair spilling over her shoulders. Her freckles would scrunch on her nose.

  Rubbing the cat’s ears, I settle back on the pillows and type: The truth is, Jason’s been the best friend I’ve ever had. I’m going to miss him when he goes to college.

  Here on my bed, with the farmhouse finally quiet, I can hear a hint of buzzing in my right ear. I probably damaged the eardrum when I fell in the parking lot. Sleep drifts in on silent feet, the kind of spirit I welcome in this muddled living undead life.

  Before the phone screen fades to black, Emma texts again: At least he and Bree will be together at Grand Valley. That’s not too far to visit them. And he’ll be home on weekends.

  Since I woke up from resurrection, I haven’t thought of much besides Emma. In some ways, Daniel was more alive in me than I was – it was natural for me to follow where he led. The horrid theft my father committed was a blessing and a gift, because it brought me to a wonderful girlfriend and true, honest friends in Jason and Bree. I would never have thought of missing Trent when we attended Sadony Academy. Now, I think about the hole Jason will leave in my life and hate it.

  Send me another one, Emma demands.

  Of course I can’t say no to her.

  The truth is, I type, I like hot cocoa with vanilla and cinnamon, and I would love to share one with you.

  Drowsy, I nestle deeper into my bed, pull my phone charger cord close and plug it in. Sleep hovers over the bed now, wisps sweeping over my eyes, sinking into my bones.

  Emma sends one more message before I crash into the waiting black:

  We have our entire future to share – cocoa and everything else. I <3 you.

  Thursday afternoon, Emma and I are alike in the pasty pale department. Dark shadows smudge the skin beneath her eyes. The color contrast makes her irises a more vibrant blue. She smiles at me from across the Ransoms’ sunken family room.

  According to Bree, her parents had the addition put in, eating close to half their backyard, when she was twelve. Ruined her best tanning spot too, she added with a perturbed pinch to her eyebrows. The room extends from the dining room slider doors into the yard and along the left half of the house. Two walls are glass windows and French doors, one wall is brick, with shelves and a big screen TV. A big gas fire place takes up much of the last wall.

  The floor is sunken, with built-in padded benches lining the circumference.

  Now, the flames dance over the fake logs in the fireplace, Bree and Jason huddle around the computer desk wedged into the corner. Emma climbs down the steps, then wades through throw pillows to stand next to my legs. She stands a little over five feet above me, eyes shadowed and mysterious, her blond hair loose around her shoulders. In her ripped jeans, black hoodie and fingerless gloves Emma looks like a naughty angel. And I like it.

  I hold a hand up in invitation. “Com’ere.”

  With a tip of her hips, she steps one foot across my thighs, and then sinks to straddle my lap. Bree looks over from across the room, huffs a breath, then turns back to the computer. The room shrinks to fit the space occupied by me and Em when she slips her arms around me and cuddles down to my chest.

  “The fade looks good on you,” I say. I know I shouldn’t. Girls get all weird and offended when you talk about their looks.

  “The fade?” she echoes.

  “That’s what I call the symptoms of the formula wearing off. You’re tired, energy’s drained…”
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  “Yeah.” She unzips my sweatshirt and presses her cheek to my T-shirt. I can’t help but wonder if she hears my heart beating, or Daniel’s.

  “Emergizer’s not so Emergetic?” I tease. Poor taste, really, because I’m the one that bound her to an energy pulse once a week.

  “Ha ha, Alex. Very ha ha.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s OK. Better than the alternative, right?” Em catches cool fingers in my neckline, and pulls that down, too, and then buries her face in my bare neck. “And speaking of sorrys,” she adds, “I’m sorry about the animals.”

  “You didn’t let them out,” I argue. She has nothing to apologize for. “Someone else had to have done it.”

  “Not them,” she says, and bites my earlobe. Not hard, but enough to let me know I was on the wrong track. “The ones on your property.”

  “Oh.” Is it sad to appreciate the apology? They were nothing I should’ve had, nothing I should’ve held onto. Clinging to the undead animals made me feel less of a freak. But it was very wrong to do to them. Emma might have flipped personalities, but she was right in ending them. “They weren’t really alive,” I say. “Not like us.”

  “I still feel bad.” She’s so close she could be another part of me. Her personal pain makes us very separate. “I remember that deer when she was alive. I would’ve loved to see her living.”

  “Me, too.” Her arms constrict around my ribs, and I press my lips to the top of her head. She and the deer have been inexplicably bound in my head, and I think maybe on some level, Emma feels the same. In her pain, Em has offered me insight into something I can do to make her happy again.

  Vibrations from my phone buzz up through my side, and possibly Emma’s thigh where it’s pressed to me. Since the afternoon in the hospital, we all dread the ring of a cell phone. Emma drops off my lap to the side like the phone stung her. We share a glance then look to Bree and Jason, oblivious with their faces in the computer screen. So, whatever the call is, it’s just for me.

  Silence reigns for a minute or two, long enough to relax before the phone rings again.

  “Answer it,” Em says. She’s trying to be tough, but I hear the tremor of fear in her voice.

  The phone comes from my pocket with the display screen lit and announcing the caller is Paul Stanton.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Are the Ransoms there?” No greeting, no wasting time.

  “Actually, no, Bree’s parents are out. Why?”

  “I think your idea of a portable kit and blood draw there is a good idea,” Paul says. Random noises come through the phone, what sounds like the rustle of a jacket, the short zip of a blood draw kit. “Now is the best time to get base readings on Emma,” he continues. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He disconnects the call, leaving me a little stunned. And worried. Is he operating on an agenda to help Em and me, or hurt us?

  “What was that about?” Emma asks.

  “Paul.” I stuff my phone back in my pocket. “We discussed running some blood tests to see if we can determine what’s causing your…” psychotic mood swings “…blackouts. And since your mom has been calling at random times and we don’t want her angry, Paul’s decided to come here.”

  “Good,” she says. Then her tough façade crumbles. “I can’t keep going on like this, wondering if it’s going to happen, wondering why it did.”

  Paul arrives about thirty minutes later. He looks incredibly out of place in a regular house. Science, medicine, sterile environments suit Paul much better than carpet, gas fireplaces and throw pillows.

  “Hi, Emma,” he says. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Hopefully these samples will help us figure out what’s going on.”

  The four of us follow him to the spotless, fussy dining room, where he has Em sit at the table, with her arm propped on the tabletop. The blood draw kit opens to display rubber gloves, alcohol wipes, a compression strap, four unmarked vials, bandages and a Vacutainer, the large needle meant to accommodate the blood vial.

  Quiet, and complacent, Emma does exactly as Paul instructs, and then, when he’s packing the vials into secure compartments, she says, “My uncle was in the Army for years. His favorite saying was ‘hope is not a method’.”

  Paul tapes a bandage over the needle site on her arm. He covers her hand with his and holds her gaze. “Your uncle,” he says, “was a very smart man. I swear I will I solve this riddle.”

  How can I doubt him when he treats my girlfriend like this? He’s real and here and caring.

  Blond hair slides forward when she nods. “Thank you.”

  Bree flicks a look at the wall clock. “My parents will be home soon,” she tells Paul.

  “Understood,” he says. He hands the kit full of blood vials to me while he shoves his arms in his jacket.

  “I’ll come to Ascension,” I offer when I give it back. “I can help you run the tests.” And make sure he doesn’t alter them, or anything else.

  “Not necessary.” Paul rests a hand on my shoulder for a moment, then zips his jacket over his lab coat. “I don’t trust the lab anymore. I haven’t figured out how, or who for sure, but Ascension has been compromised. I will be dropping these off at an independent lab that I’ve hired. They are precise, thorough, and no one owns them. They are also discreet.”

  And I will be unable to monitor what they do, or where they send the results.

  Smooth skin and knitted yarn envelopes my hand when Emma winds her fingers in mine. She doesn’t bother to disguise her fear when she asks, “What about tomorrow?”

  “I will be there,” Paul promises. “I will run diagnostics on all the equipment and the formula beforehand. Nothing will go wrong.”

  If he’s not involved.

  Bree fidgets. Jason shoves a hand through his hair. A delicate shudder ripples through Emma. She’s scared. I can read it in her expression, taste it in the air between us. She knows what will happen, though, without the formula and electric charge. The fade will accelerate until my victory over death is undone, and so is she. Em nods to Paul and offers him a weak glimmer of a smile.

  “Then we’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and cinch Emma tight to my side.

  Cold air rushes in when he pulls open the front door, then Paul sweeps out and leave us.

  “Well,” says Bree, “He’s not as weird as I thought he’d be.”

  “Weirdness is subjective.” Jason says. “The guy kind of reminds me of an undertaker.”

  Emma’s grip on my hand tightens, and she sways where she stands. Instead of letting me slip an arm around her, she tightens her hold, stands straighter and tilts her jaw up. Death might’ve beaten her once, but my brave sweet Emma is not letting the fade win. A shiver runs through her, though her body feels warm like it does when she’s tired.

  Bree, a barometer to Emma’s emotional and physical state, glances our way. Her eyes take Emma’s locked stance and Bree’s bottom lip turns down. She says, “After dinner, we are going to bed early.”

  Relief washes over Emma’s face in a visible wave.

  “So,” Bree continues, “I think it’s time for you boys to get moving. We’ll go with the standby ‘shopping’ excuse tomorrow.”

  “Need a ride?” I ask Jason, and hug Emma to me. “I didn’t see the Bronco out there.”

  “Yeah.” Jason shrugs into his Carhartt coat. “I’m not sure that damn Ford will ever run well again.”

  Emma may be tired, she might be worried about her sanity, but the girl knows where my pockets are and how to get my blood pumping by putting her hand in one. She slides her fingers in, slight pressure on my leg, fingers sweeping closer to the inside seam the deeper they go. Then she hooks my key ring and pulls the keys out. She tosses them to Jason, who snorts a breath and says, “Some things will never change.”

  “This won’t,” Em breathes, her words brushing my lips.

  She pulls me to her mouth, gives me a sweet kiss, then flings both arms around me and clings
to me like I might disappear. I exhale, and she sucks in my breath. I would breathe for her if I could. She breaks off the kiss and I agree, “This will never change.”

  Even if I always feel guilt for what I made her into.

  Even if part of me will always feel unwanted because she cried out for Daniel.

  Even if it hurts us both, I love her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Snow flits through the icy air despite the clear, polar blue skies of Friday morning.

  “Record freezing temperatures,” Grandpa said this morning, jabbing his finger at today’s page in his almanac. “Better leave the faucets dripping today, Judy. We don’t want the pipes to freeze.”

  Gran’s only response was to twist the faucet handle on the kitchen sink, opening the tap enough for the water to stay moving through the pipe.

  “Says here this next week will be a doozy,” Grandpa continues. He lifts a gaze full of warning from the page to me. “Blizzard of the century, possibly worse than the Winter of ’78.”

  His words, the expression in his eyes, stick with me on my way to Ascension Labs. The blue skies make Grandpa’s worries seem like lies, until you open a door and step out into biting air. Even with my skewed temperature senses, it’s damn cold. Poor Emma must be freezing. I would take her away somewhere warm, but her mother would simultaneously birth kittens and let loose the dogs of war if I tried.

  Fine snow dusts Ascension’s gates. They glitter in the hard sun, jaws opens and waiting. Only Paul’s car is in the parking lot when I pull in. To save the lab’s sensitive equipment, we’re doing my procedure in the morning, Emma’s in the afternoon.

  The power company must love us.

  A knife of apprehension stabs into me. I want to trust Paul, need to right now. I bury my face in my collar when I step from the Acura. Snow makes crunchy, squeaking noises beneath my shoes. Breath fogs in front of my face. Frigid air slithers through every crack, nips at my nose. The building blocks the wind, a brief respite from one misery leads to another. Despite the good this lab produces, its evil leeches out from its core. Paul said, after my father died, that I was being groomed as the public face of Ascension and had been kept from the darkest truths. I don’t know the worst of it – I don’t think I ever want to.