Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1)

by Ann M. Noser

  She throws up her hands. “The only person you work with is a sixty-year old man!”

  “Mom, Gus is the smartest person I’ve ever met. I’m learning so much from him. Why is his age such an issue for you?”

  She frowns. “I just wish there were other kids your age working in Mortuary Sciences so you could make some new friends.”

  I shrug. “Gus says that his interns don’t last there very long.”

  “Oh, hearing that really puts my mind at ease.”

  “I don’t understand why everybody else leaves. I think the human body is fascinating.”

  She shudders. “Even when it’s cold and dead?”

  “Yes. A live body can hide so many secrets, but a dead body never lies.” At least, that’s what Gus says.

  Mom shakes her head as we cross another street. “But how can you take seeing all the blood and broken limbs and everything, day after day? It must be so awful!”

  I smile as the tall, black, metal garden gates come into view. “That’s why you’re the artist, and I’m the clean up crew. You’re the sensitive type, and I’m hard as stone… or so I’ve been told.”

  “That’s awful!” Her eyes widen. “Who said that?”

  “My doctors. They all said I wasn’t their typical suicide patient.” I smirk. “I took that as a compliment.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t joke about it.”

  “What happened to ‘laughter is the best medicine?’ Besides, I only tried twice, and the last time was six years ago.”

  “On your birthday,” Mom whispers.

  “Don’t you mean on the anniversary of Dad’s death?” I tug on my sleeves, making sure the scars remain hidden.

  Mom averts her eyes. “I want today to be special. Can’t we please focus on the future and forget about the past?”

  “That would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?”

  We reach the front garden gate and hand our park passes to the attendant who scans our microchips. As soon as I step inside, the scent of fragrant lilacs hides the smell of the street. The lovely lavender and white blossoms make me forget, at least for the moment, how ugly everything else can be.

  Mom grins. “See, I knew this would be the best present of all.”

  “You’re right. I love it here.” I can’t help but smile. Whoever discovered how to use genetics to make lilacs bloom all summer is my personal hero. It’s my favorite smell in the world.

  “So, wouldn’t you rather work here than down in that dark—”

  I freeze in place. “Can we please stop arguing about this?”

  She sighs. “Okay. Let’s preorder lunch and then hike the paths.” She checks her watch. “We’ve got an hour and a half before I have to… Well, let’s just say I’ve got more than one big surprise today.”

  “Really?” I ask. Mom is usually much more predictable than this.

  We peruse the simple menu then each select one fruit, one vegetable, and one grain-based carbohydrate from the available choices. We leave the short, brown park buildings behind and follow the gravel paths into the lush gardens. The mulched flowerbeds overflow with plant life, the taller exotics and fruit trees filtering the sun for the underlying hostas and ferns. So much green and so little brown. Each one is labeled with its common name, scientific name, and how it helps support humanity. If a particular plant isn’t used as food or medicine, it’s described as an “air-purifier and oxygen producer.”

  We stroll past the waterfall and across the bridge, so busy enjoying the lush displays that we don’t speak. It’s the best end to an argument we’ve had in some time. The warmth of the sun on my head and shoulders soothes away all my irritations. I spend most days in the chilled basement of the hospital. Getting to work involves a walking commute through streets shadowed by tall buildings. The windows of our small apartment face north, so there’s little direct sunlight in my life. I welcome the rays today with an upturned face and sleeves pushed up to the elbows. No one’s looking at me anyway. They’re here for the flowers.

  Too soon, the hour and a half is over. With a secret smile, Mom points me in the right direction. After a few twists and turns, we approach the outdoor stage. The shiny, silver acoustic shell projects high above us. Orchestra musicians adjust music stands, position chairs, and tune instruments. Colored lights twinkle above them in rainbow arcs.

  “Wait a minute… Mom, isn’t this your orchestra?” I pause. “I mean… the one you used to play for?”

  She smiles. “This is the second big surprise. I’m playing again. This is my first concert. It’s Morning Music in the Park.”

  I catch my breath. She hasn’t performed since Dad died. And she never practices anymore, at least not at home. “Are you sure this is a good…” My voice trails off.

  “I’ve been working very hard, but I didn’t want to tell you until I was positive I’d recovered from my… troubles. I’m not first chair yet, but I’ll be there before the year ends. Trust me.”

  “Oh, Mom. That’s so wonderful!” I hug her tight, almost light-headed with shock, and we stand still in time. Strangers pass by, but it’s as if no one else exists. I don’t know what to say. I’m so happy for her… and for me. Because this means maybe we can live again. If music has come back into her life, then maybe everything else long forgotten will come with it—happiness, laughter, and perhaps a bigger apartment? I’d love for the present to mean more than the past, but is that asking too much?

  Finally, she breaks it off. “I’ve got to get ready.” She dashes away. Her face shines with excitement and happiness, just like it did in the old days. She’s missed her music as much as I have.

  The musicians warm up. The violinists pluck strings and tighten their bows. The conductor raises her baton, and the cymbals crash. Like a child, I’m enraptured by the waves of notes surrounding me, dashing back and forth, up and down. Fast and slow, proud then mournful, every instrument at once then a single violin.

  The solo violinist should be my mother. But Mom sits three seats down, watching the soloist nod his head as his bow sweeps out the poignant melody.

  I flash back to a warm summer evening eight years ago—the concert I attended a week before Dad died. He looked so handsome in a suit he’d made for himself with leftovers from work. It wasn’t considered a proper use of materials, but he said the risk was worth the pride in our eyes when he burst out of my parents’ bedroom, singing old show tunes, his red hair slicked back like a gangster in a movie. Later at the concert, he stood by my side in this same park, watching my mother in first chair.

  I rub my hands on my jeans, remembering the soft, red fabric of the dress he’d made special for me out of somebody else’s scraps. He told me he’d have to return the dress along with his suit the next day, so I should really enjoy it for that one special night. How I loved the feel of it, the swish against my legs, the surprised looks in other people’s eyes that I was dressed like royalty when everyone around me was plain.

  As the hour grew late, I leaned against Dad’s side.

  He put his arm around my shoulders and winked. “Don’t fall asleep yet, hon, the next song is Mom’s favorite. It’s her big solo.”

  As stars sparkled overhead, Mom stood straight and proud, the overhead lights shining on her straight black hair, her face a study of concentration. With the graceful movements of her hand on the bow, she could make the listener feel the warmth of the sun on their face, make their heart soar in happiness, or make that same heart break like all hope was gone.

  How I longed for Mom to play for me after Dad’s death, but she refused, saying she didn’t have it in her anymore. That she had nothing left to give to anyone once he was gone.

  But now, she’s playing again.

  As the sweet melody ends, I glance next to me, half-expecting Dad to be there. The sharp pain in my chest reminds me he’s still gone. In the applause that follows, I walk away from the mid-day crowd, away from the present, away from Mom in fourth chair.

  If only I could have one
more day of living in our old apartment, the one filled with sunlight, music, and beautiful plants—a mini version of this park. A home filled with happiness, love, and laughter.

  Dad took all that when he left.

  And, sometimes, I blame him for everything that happened afterward.

  he next morning when I pull on my teal medical scrubs, I know they’re on for keeps. Vacation Day is over. But I don’t mind. Gus needs me. There’s a lot of work to do, and I’ve got so much to learn. I fasten my smooth black hair in a twist then hurry into the kitchen for breakfast.

  Mom’s nowhere to be found. I scan the counter and find a lone Japanese teacup perched upside down on its saucer: Mom already left for the day, and when she returns she won’t bring any guests. It will be only her. Alone. Like every other day since Dad died.

  I pick up the teacup and place it next to the others on the shelf. My family has never left notes for each other. Anything set out of place always means something. Together, we invented our own elaborate set of symbols. Dad made it a game to make things interesting and save on paper. He also taught me to notice where cameras were in public places and how to remain just out of view.

  I hate that we’re always being watched.

  At the old apartment, I’d hurry home after school and scour the front hallway for clues. Mom’s shoe on the floor meant chocolate for dessert. Dad’s shoe meant there was spaghetti for dinner—a real treat. There used to be more glass trinkets and shiny stones. Each one had its own special meaning. But now, only three teacups remain. We lost so many things in the move. I don’t even know how it happened. We had to pack in such a rush, I was taking meds, and I felt so tired all the time.

  But I’m awake now.

  One glance at the clock tells me to stop dilly-dallying. Soon, I’m out the door, speed walking to the hospital. Two miles later, the Medical Facilities Northwest towers above me, all twenty-five floors casting long shadows over the shorter buildings surrounding it.

  I slide my I.D. card through the scanner. The side door opens, and I slip inside. My feet hammer down the stairs into the basement. The temperature drops with each step. With a low hiss, the heavy glass doors swish open. A guitar riff shakes my eardrums as I enter Mortuary & Autopsy Services which takes up most of the bottom underground floor.

  Gus glances up from an autopsy and yells over the beating drums. “You made it!”

  I cup my hands around my mouth to be heard over the music. “Yes, sir. As my least favorite Psych Doc used to say, ‘Silvia, you’ve survived another birthday.’”

  Gus peers over his glasses. “You have such a charming way with words.” Despite the option of free government dentistry, his two front teeth remain crooked, giving a rakish look to his grin. “No wonder you drive your lovely mother nuts.”

  I laugh, turn down the volume, and pull on gloves. “You wouldn’t think she was so lovely if you knew she wanted me to get a different job.”

  “And what makes you think I’d miss you?” His blue eyes twinkle. “And turn Led Zeppelin back up. The dead don’t mind. This kind of work requires a heavy dose of rock ‘n’ roll.”

  “If you insist.” Drumbeats shake the metal gurneys. “Maybe you need hearing aids. Your music obsession is probably damaging my youthful eardrums.”

  “You’re not twisting any of those little devices into my ears.” He shakes his finger at me. “I can hear just fine. And I don’t need anyone listening to my thoughts.”

  “They’re called hearing aids, not mind readers, silly. And you’re in the right age group.”

  He laughs. “How dare you throw my age in my face, you young sprite.” He waves a scalpel in the air over a dead body. “Now make yourself useful and get me another #10 blade. This one’s deadly dull.”

  “Okay, Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I grab the handle and change out his scalpel blade. “What’re you doing?”

  “This one died on those fancy docs upstairs, and now I’m supposed to tell them why.”

  Gus reminds me of Einstein with an attitude. He’s got the crazy hair, he’s brilliant, and he works best with classic rock blasting in the background. He collects old CDs like others accumulate china or figurines. No wonder I love it here.

  Grabbing protective eyewear and a breathing mask, I lean in for a better view as Gus reaches into the abdomen. When he palpates the liver lobes, they immediately fall apart in his hands.

  I gasp. “The liver’s not supposed to do that!”

  He nods, and his glasses slip down his nose. Since my gloves are still clean, I push them back up.

  “No, it’s not.” He points across the room. “Get me some of those pathology jars. Let’s send in a couple biopsy samples. I think this poor devil had lymphoma eating up his insides. His ultrasound was reported as inconclusive, so they would’ve had to take him to surgery to figure that out upstairs.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right.” I grab the vials, remove the lids, and help Gus drop in the samples. “You always are.”

  “Of course I’m right. Except for the surgery part. I guess it wouldn’t matter if they knew he had cancer since they wouldn’t treat him anyway.”

  “Why wouldn’t they treat him?”

  “Check the chart.”

  After I label the samples, I grab the clipboard chart and read aloud. “Prisoner. Limited Diagnostics. Restricted Treatment. What did he do?”

  “It doesn’t say. Maybe he killed somebody. Maybe he stole something. Or maybe he just wouldn’t play by the rules.” Gus eyeballs me. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He smirks. “You rejected the doctors’ pills and therapies and chose yoga and running as treatment for your depression. Does any of this sound familiar?”

  “Yes. And it worked. A lot better than anything else did.”

  “I know. But the docs upstairs don’t like to be proven wrong. So you got labeled ‘uncooperative’ and ‘unstable.’”

  “I did?” Stupid jerks.

  “In bold letters across the resume they sent to me.”

  My stomach clenches. Why is he telling me this now three years later? Did I do something wrong? “They told me I was labeled ‘empathetic.’”

  “Oh, that was on there, too. Along with your Occupational Test scores.” He raises his bushy eyebrows. “And those three things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

  I shake my head. “I can never tell if what’s coming out of your mouth is B.S. or the truth.”

  He grins. “It’s all of the above.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “It’s not meant to be.” Gus chuckles. “By the way, I got you a birthday present.”

  I place the pathology samples in the correct tray. “That’s not funny. I told you not to—”

  “Don’t interrupt. And don’t worry. I didn’t get you a Barbie or new pink running shoes.”

  “Actually, I could use new run—”

  “I told you not to interrupt!” He smiles, enjoying his little game. “And, anyway, this is so much better than that. It’s something you’ve wanted for a long while.”

  I wait for his announcement, keeping my mouth shut this time. He hums a tune and closes the muscular abdominal wall using a continuous suture pattern without speaking another word.

  I cut the ends of his sutures. “When are you gonna stop teasing me and tell me what’s going on?”

  He laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet long. All right, Miss Impatient, I’ll tell you… But first you need to take out the garbage.”

  I glare. “You’re impossible.”

  “Okay, okay.” He zips up the bag over the patient’s head. “This has got to be the best birthday present anyone’s ever given you, Miss Silvia Wood. I’m taking you on a little field trip.”

  “Where are we going?” My eyes fly open. This is awesome. I never go anywhere.

  He drops his voice to a side-whisper. “You get to help me with the next body dispos
al.”

  “Really?” I ask, breathless. “I’ve never even been to the edge of the city before. I’ve only seen pictures of it. It’s part of the reason why—” I stop and press my lips together. I don’t want to offend him or hurt his feelings.

  “Yeah, I know Mortuary Science wasn’t the job you’ve always dreamed of. But you fit in so perfectly here. In fact, maybe sometime we’ll drive by Green Food Production when they’re in the middle of Natural Fertilization, so you’ll believe me that it smells worse there than it does in here.”

  I grin at his pride. “Thanks, Gus.”

  “You’re welcome. Think of it as a little vacation. You, me, three dozen dead bodies, and the Incinerator.”

  “I can’t wait.” Funny thing is, I mean it.

  y head buzzes with questions on my way to the Gym after work. What will I learn at the Incinerator? What will I get to do? And the biggest, most wonderful questions of all: What does the edge of the city look like? Will I finally get to see what’s beyond the fences?

  I’ve wondered about the Dark Woods ever since I can remember. I’ve heard tales of endless forests filled with life-giving trees and life-taking monsters. My grade school Health and Safety book contained pictures of wolves feasting on human flesh, their teeth ripping and tearing muscle tissue right off the bone.

  Wait a minute. Human Disposal always happens at night, so everything will be dark. I won’t be able to see anything anyway. Shoot. That sucks.

  I step into the shade of the 37th Northwest Street Gym. After swiping my I.D. card through the scanner, I enter and hustle up the stairs. The third floor is packed like never before. I pass by a crowd of people gawking at the electronic bulletin boards. There must be a new class or something, but I’m not interested. I’ve reserved a treadmill for an hour, and I intend to use it. In the locker room, I approach the uniform counter to place my order.

  “Running shorts and tank top, please,” I tell the skinny, ponytailed attendant.

  “Are you in training?” she asks.

  “For what?”