by A. M. Geever
“Bad, but not third degree. You were lucky, but it’s going to hurt.” Ellen disappeared, then returned with two small pill bottles and a glass of water. “This is Percocet,” she said, handing Miranda a pill from one bottle. “Take one every four to six hours, two if you’re really hurting.”
Miranda took the proffered water glass and pill. Her mouth felt like a desert.
“This is an antibiotic,” Ellen continued. “One pill three times a day. Take it all and with food since you’re a puker.”
Ellen set both bottles on the coffee table and headed to the small kitchenette. Sensing action in the kitchen, Delilah trotted after her. Ellen’s kitchen reminded Miranda of the kind she had used in rented apartments in Europe: half-sized fridge, undersized stove, and a small sink with an even smaller counter. Ellen peered into the fridge.
“I’ve got some eggs and tomatoes. Are you up to eating something?”
Miranda nodded, which made her dizzy. When she stood up to go to the dining table, the dizziness got worse. She stopped and took a moment to look out the window.
Swig Hall had been the freshman dorm once upon a time and as such had no character whatsoever. Its eleven stories of ugly rectangle were a sizable exception to the elegant tan stucco and terra cotta tile roofs that characterized the rest of SCU’s campus. Swig did have one thing going for it in the aesthetics department, however: its view. The north side view was of campus, which was pretty even now. The southern side of the building looked out over the residential neighborhoods that were now part of SCU’s settlements.
The dorm had been remodeled from one-room dorms into one- and two-bedroom apartments. The apartments were small and the bathrooms communal. Swig was considered a nice, very safe place to live and as a consequence, getting an apartment in the building was difficult. Miranda had lived here once, even after the terrible experience of being trapped inside with Sam. She shuffled over to the small table and sat down.
“How long was I out?”
“We gave you something to help you sleep last night. It’s almost noon.”
“How are the kids?”
“The girl and younger boy are fine.” Ellen tumbled the eggs one final time around the frying pan while reaching for two plates from the dish rack. “The boy with the bite didn’t make it. Lost too much blood. We didn’t have time to get him to the city hospital.”
Miranda felt her spirits sag. “Dammit. I thought it would be better for him to get treated here.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. He would have been better off getting post-bite from us, but we don’t have enough to start anyone new.”
She turned from the stove, steaming plates in hand, and set one in front of Miranda as she sat down. Miranda looked at the food. Her appetite had vanished.
“Eat,” Ellen ordered.
Miranda took a bite of egg and tomato. Her appetite came roaring back.
“So the other two are staying here?”
“Yeah,” Ellen said with a nod. “You should have seen their faces when we explained how things work. Even with losing their friend, they think they’ve landed in Wonderland.”
The “wonderland” aspect of SCU for its newest residents was its vaccination program. SCU received preventative and post-bite vaccines under the terms of the Agreement with the City Council and GeneSys. They did not get enough to vaccinate everyone, not by a long shot, but dosers treated post-bite at SCU weren’t registered with the City. All Valley residents qualified for post-bite treatment but since City-run hospitals were the only places to receive sanctioned treatment, avoiding registration and a biohazard tattoo—and everything that came with it—was virtually impossible.
For those who lacked vaccine sponsorship, becoming a doser was their entry into highly regulated servitude. They were required to live in city-sponsored projects, submit to any testing the City deemed customary and necessary, and abide by curfews and strict schedules that curtailed all freedom of movement. The City could—and sometimes did—decide to deny treatment at any time, even for someone who had followed all the rules and received treatment for years. The restrictions on those with vaccine sponsorship were a little looser but a sponsor could withdraw their support for a long list of infractions, most of which were minor. Unless a person was well-connected or became infected when SCU could guarantee treatment, the zombie-bitten had no options. As a consequence, the City Council ruled the Valley and its frightened, dependent populace with an iron fist.
Circumventing post-bite registration by offering treatment off the books made SCU’s activities off-the-charts illegal. As far as the Jesuits were concerned, they answered to a higher authority. Officially the program didn’t exist. In reality, it was an open secret that the City Council chose, for the most part, to ignore. In addition to controlling the farms, the Jesuits’ network of missions imported vital raw materials essential to maintaining the Valley’s high standard of living. Occasionally a council member tried to make an issue of it, but when the supply of lithium from Nevada for solar panel batteries suddenly dried up, the matter was always dropped. A few dosers restricted to SCU-controlled areas escaping the clutches of City’s registry system were not worth the price the Jesuits could make the entire region pay.
“So,” Miranda said, “are you planning to talk to Doc about a psych consult for me?”
“The thought did cross my mind. Saving those kids is all well and good but taking on a bunch of Dashers in addition to a clutch of shamblers? If it was anyone else, I’d say they were stupid or suicidal. Or both.”
“I’m neither, so you don’t have to worry.”
“What’s that about, then?”
Ellen pointed to Miranda’s forearm, where a pink, newly-healed cut nestled among the cross-hatch of fine white scars along the inside of her arms. That cut had been an accident while working on the Range Rover. If Ellen bothered to look closely, she’d realize it wasn’t like the others because it was going the wrong direction. She also knew Ellen would never believe her.
“It’s nothing. Has Delilah been out yet?”
Ellen sighed. How she managed to pack so much frustration into an exhale Miranda didn’t know.
“I took her out earlier,” Ellen said, collecting the dishes and putting them in the sink. “I have to go to work now but stay as long as you want.”
“I’m gonna head over to the Jesuit Residence. I was on my way here yesterday to see Father Walter.”
“I’d tell you to go back to bed, but I know all you’ll hear is ‘Bwah bwah bwah.’”
Miranda laughed and regretted it. Anything that shook or jostled her rib cage or shoulder hurt, even with the painkillers. She reached for the Percocet bottle and took another.
“Don’t visit too long. Get yourself home and rest.”
Miranda nodded. Ellen made a skeptical face before departing.
Miranda shuffled to Ellen’s bedroom. She pulled up the oversized t-shirt that just covered her bum and looked at her shoulder in the mirror. A crescent of bright-white bandages covered her right shoulder blade. The rest of her right side was the shade of a very bad sunburn. She thought about finding a long-sleeved shirt, then rejected the idea. Changing shirts would hurt too much. She found a pair of jeans and socks on the bed, presumably for her, and went about struggling into them. Getting into her combat boots was worse.
Delilah waited by the door, tail thumping against the jamb. Miranda rummaged in the tiny bathroom for a spare toothbrush. Ellen’s apartment was one of the few that had its own bathroom since it had housed a Resident Minister back in the day. She gave up and used a washcloth. She spied her expensive bra and panties washed and hung up to dry in the shower and sent a silent blessing in Ellen’s direction. She splashed some water on her face and smoothed her hair back.
“Okay, Ruff Ruff, let’s go.”
She exited the apartment and descended to the lobby in the empty elevator. Empty was perfect. SCU was a small place, and since gossip was still the universal human pastime, everyone would kn
ow of her adventure by now. She didn’t make it out of the lobby without having to recount the tale but managed to keep it brief and fend off well-intentioned hugs.
Once outside Delilah raced ahead, her joy at running fast just because she could evident, before looping back to fall in step beside Miranda. The bright sunshine set Miranda’s head pounding, matched only by her determination not to admit that maybe she was not up to this and should have listened to Ellen.
Between her slow pace and the near constant stops to answer inquiries about her well-being, what should have been a three-minute stroll took fifteen minutes. Mercifully, the Jesuit Residence was in sight. The Mediterranean-style building was the same cream and terra cotta tiles as the rest of campus, with two stories in certain sections that created a tiered effect pleasing to the eye.
Miranda felt woozy as she slid her Access Card through the reader to enter the building. She had not expected the walk to wear her out, nor the dizziness that accentuated the throbbing in her temples.
On the far side of the airy foyer, where floor-to-ceiling glass showcasing an interior courtyard met the hallway, she saw a ladder leaning against the wall. An old man had a light bulb in one hand and his foot on the ladder’s first rung. The shock of curly white hair could only mean Father Al. Apart from shrinking, the only concessions the elderly priest made to old age were hunched shoulders and a slight wobble in his hands. But at eighty-nine years old, no matter how spry, he had no business climbing a ladder.
“Hey, Father Al,” Miranda called out.
Father Al’s face lit up upon seeing her. His foot came off the ladder, too.
“Miranda!” The old man shooed Delilah out of the way as Miranda approached. He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’d give you a hug, but I heard you hurt your shoulder.”
“Nothing that won’t heal. See?” She moved her arm a little in demonstration and was surprised to find her shoulder did not hurt as much.
Father Al’s brow furrowed. “You don’t look well, Miranda.”
“I’ve got a headache, but I’ll live,” she said, waving off his concern. “Are you really planning to climb that ladder?”
“I’m old, not an invalid! I can manage, young lady.”
“Will you humor me? If you fall and break a hip when I could have helped, Father Walter will kill me.”
“Should you even be on a ladder at the moment?”
Miranda held out her hand. “Light bulb?”
“Oh, all right,” Father Al muttered, handing it over. He gripped the ladder with both hands. “You start with one foot, then use the other.”
“You’re a worse backseat climber than you are a backseat driver,” she teased but was pulled up short by another wave of dizziness. She leaned over, hands on her knees. “You’re right, Father Al. I’m not up to this.”
Even with her head down, the room still had a spinny feeling. Her body felt like it was disconnecting into constituent parts: joints detaching from the long bones of her legs, shoulder sockets loosening for arms to slip out, widening vertebral spaces making her spine feel malleable.
“You better sit down,” Father Al said, concerned.
Before she could acquiesce, voices echoed from the hallway, muddled with quick footsteps. Father Walter, his words indistinct but tone commanding. And another voice, almost forgotten.
Recognition hit Miranda like a gunshot. She straightened up too fast and the room lurched forward. Father Walter came into view, a dark silhouette against the sunshine from the courtyard. He stopped short and another person ran right into him. Disentangling himself, the second man stepped out from the courtyard’s bright glare.
The world tilted on its axis. Miranda gaped at the other man, her stomach sliding to her knees. His eyes were brown and wide. She could feel the suggestion of dark stubble that covered his jaw against her fingers, as if he’d shaved last night but not this morning. He almost smiled, and familiar dimples appeared.
Her brain could not compute what her eyes were seeing.
Weren’t seeing.
Were making up.
“Miranda,” he whispered hoarsely, as if all the air had been sucked from the room.
The foyer had become miserably hot. She struggled to interpret this apparition through the haze of vertiginous, sweat-slicked confusion, because that was what it had to be. He could not be real.
“This isn’t possible,” she whispered.
Miranda clung to Father Al’s arm as the spin of the room accelerated. Acrid vomit burned her throat and a low roar filled her ears. Her vision narrowed as if the visor of a knight’s helmet had snapped over her eyes.
I’m gonna pass out, she thought, and slipped into the black.
9
She woke to anxious faces and silence. Miranda could see the mouths of the people around her, but voices did not accompany the moving lips and worried expressions. An orange haze obscured her vision, as if translucent-colored tissue paper covered her eyes. Her skin felt clammy, hot and cold at once. Father Walter held her left hand and Connor—if that really was Connor—held her right. Someone thrust an ice pack in front of Connor, who started to put it against her head.
“Don’t,” she said as her hearing returned and her vision cleared. The babble of agitated, apprehensive voices was not soothing. She snatched her hand and then the ice pack away from Connor and gingerly explored her skull. She found a tender spot that would be a beauty of a lump in a few hours and eased the ice pack against it.
“Jesus, Miri, you scared me half to death!”
Miranda tried to focus her bleary eyes. “Nice to see you too, Connor. I’m glad you’re not dead.”
Connor opened his mouth, but Father Walter cut him off. “Just be quiet, the pair of you. Everyone back up and give her some room.”
Miranda closed her eyes but sensed people withdrawing. She peeked to find only Father Walter beside her, which felt a lot more manageable.
“Do you know what day it is, Miranda? Do you know where you are?”
Miranda knew what Walter was doing. He would be the first of many who would ask her the same two questions for the rest of the day.
“A shitty-passing-out day after yesterday’s shitty-almost-get-killed-by-zombies day, with a bunch of priests thrown in for shits and giggles,” she muttered. “How bad does that make the brain damage?”
Walter rolled his eyes and snorted. “Not any worse than it was already,” he replied. “Just stay still until Doc comes. I’m sure he’ll be along any minute.”
She turned her head toward Connor. “It’s really you.”
Taking her statement as permission to come closer, he knelt down beside her, a hesitant smile on his lips. His eyes were full of worry and something else. Something that looked very much like hunger.
“Yeah. It’s really me.”
She smiled and let go of a breath she had not known she was holding. She switched hands with the ice pack so she could reach out to touch him, even though lifting her arm made her wince. She traced her chilled fingers along the side of his warm face. He turned into her hand like a cat.
“I figured you were dead after so long,” she half whispered.
“Almost, a few times.”
“Me too.”
Miranda kept her hand on Connor’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. He was older, of course. His thick, dark hair was just long enough that it didn’t stick up too much. She remembered how he kept it longer in front when they were younger. It always looked as if an avalanche of hair was cascading across his face. His dark-brown eyes were full of warmth, his smile perfectly symmetrical.
And then she remembered. She blinked a few times, trying to reconcile the newly remembered knowledge with the jumble of feelings the sight of him stirred. She had been so angry with him the last time they spoke. Now here he was, risen like Lazarus, and she’d almost forgotten—had forgotten—if only for a moment. She pulled her hand away.
“I guess it’s Father Connor these days.”
H
e stiffened. For a split second his expression contracted and his smile became strained. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would have missed it.
“It’s just Connor.”
“Oh.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. She tried again, but Doc Owen bustled through the door, shooing everyone but Father Walter out of the way.
Her mind felt like it was spinning away from her body. First from seeing Connor, then from the meds and whacking her head. He wasn’t a priest? When had that happened? Thrown by Connor’s revelation, her usual smart-ass answers abandoned her and at first Doc thought she was seriously injured. He eventually settled on a mild concussion—and stoned—while muttering about having a death wish. He let her sit up and move to one of the foyer chairs, leaving only after issuing dire warnings of exactly what he’d do if she did not rest and avoid injury for at least twenty-four hours… Something about restraints and the psych ward.
“All right then, Miranda,” Father Walter said, “we’ll get you to one of the guest rooms.”
Movement made her head throb again. The weird, disconnected feeling between her body and brain intensified. Connor moved as if to help her up but stepped back after a preemptory glare from Walter. Miranda leaned on Father Walter’s arm and they set off down the hallway. She looked back to see Connor watching them. He looked as if he had just realized that nothing would play out as he had imagined.
The filmy light of twilight seeped in around the edges of the window when Miranda woke from her short, fitful nap. The blind blocked the afternoon sun, leaving the room deep in shadow. The guest room Miranda occupied was small but comfortable. The single bed pushed into the corner by the window accentuated the narrowness of the room. A crocheted afghan, the kind made from granny squares that old ladies produce in abundance, lay over her, and her head rested on a positively decadent pillow. A plain wool rug offered warm feet a respite from the chilly tile floor.
