Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1)

by Ann M. Noser

  “And now, the final touches.” Gus grabs another applicator, mixes pink, red, and purple powders, then dabs them in an expanding pattern on his skin. “Viola! A birthmark.”

  I touch his arm. “But it looks so real.”

  “Of course it does. I used to be quite good at this. Naturally, you have to modify your technique for something up close versus from the stage.”

  “I’m impressed. What else can you do?” Gus is amazing. So many hidden talents.

  “I could make you look ten or sixty. I could make you black, white, or any shade in between. I never got too good with reshaping noses, but—”

  “How about burns? Can you do burns?” The question bursts out before I can think about it.

  Gus flinches.

  “Come on. I’ve been here three years now. You never let me see the burn victims. You don’t have to keep protecting me like that. I want to know what it looks like.” I need to see it for myself, since that’s what happened to Dad. That would make his death more real because I need to believe he’s gone. A tiny part of me keeps hoping that, someday, he’ll come back. It doesn’t make any sense, but sometimes I feel like, instead of The New Order, it’s him who’s watching me.

  Gus pauses. “That’s a bit more difficult. Give me your hand.”

  I pull up my sleeve and rest my arm on the cool metal table. I don’t mind if Gus sees my scars. Instead, he concentrates on the transformation. After applying adhesive, he layers three sheets over my hand and wrist, scrunching them in spots and stretching them in others. He dips into the colors over and over again. Sweat beads on his brow as he labors. Fifteen minutes later, he sets down the last applicator.

  “Well, Silvia, what do you think?” he asks.

  I flex and extend my fingers. “It looks awful!” My skin appears raw, the fingers blackened and charred, the flesh pulling away from the bone. “This is amazing. It doesn’t look like makeup at all. It looks real. At least to me. Not that I’ve ever seen a burn victim up close before.”

  “Unfortunately, this is precisely what a burn victim looks like.” He sighs. “Now, you know why I don’t let you see them. Because that ten-year-old girl who lost her father is still alive inside you.”

  I hold up my hand in awe as flashes of my dad’s face and the layers of char on my flesh melt together in my mind. I move my fingers and images flicker in my head of all the workers who burned to death in the fiery explosion. After the accident, the news focused on the story for days, posting pictures of the victims smiling with their families. The whole city mourned their demise while my eyes remained dry. Painfully so. I couldn’t grieve because I couldn’t believe Dad was really gone. It took the therapists a long time to convince me of the truth.

  My shoulders slump. “I get your point.”

  The back door of Mortuary Sciences slams open. A Handler in full black uniform marches two steps into the room and halts. “The bodies have all been loaded. We’re ready to go.”

  “We’ll be there in five minutes,” Gus replies.

  The Handler exits by the same door. Gus tosses his makeup supplies into a side drawer.

  “How do I get this off?” I ask, still staring at my deformed hand.

  He gestures toward the sink. “It washes off, but you’ll have to use the industrial soap.”

  As I scrub in the sink, Gus rolls out a tall tool chest, double-checks the contents of the drawers, then turns to me. “When you’re done, grab those lunch sacks. And bring an extra sweater. The refrigerated car’s even chillier than this room.”

  The back door of Mortuary Sciences leads to an underground loading dock just big enough for the transport truck to pick up the bodies. We step into the dimly-lit area. Two Handlers wait on either side of the truck. We climb onto the back, and the door locks shut as we take our seats. Gus flips on the travel lights. Now it’s us and the bagged bodies. Everyone who died in the last month in the Northwest District rests on the rolling double stretchers before us, awaiting their group cremation. Each black bag is strapped down to a silver bed, one above and one below, like bunk beds for the dead.

  Gus hands me a sandwich. “The scenery isn’t great, but I guarantee the eats are good. Made them myself.”

  The metal floor shakes beneath our feet as the truck roars to life.

  “How long does it take to get there?” I ask before taking my first bite.

  “Oh, about an hour. Not bad. But I’m afraid you won’t get to see much of your Plant Production facilities riding in back with me where there are no windows. You might get a glimpse of it once we get there. It will be dark out, of course, but it’s pretty lit up even at night.”

  “That’s all right. I’m actually more interested in what’s inside the Plant Production buildings, although I suppose I’ll never get to see that.”

  Gus gives me a sympathetic smile. “Your mom’s okay with me keeping you out so late?”

  I laugh. “As long as I don’t talk to her about working Human Disposal, especially while she’s trying to eat, she’s okay with it. She doesn’t find it a very appetizing topic of dinner conversation.”

  Gus chuckles. “I bet.”

  “I feel bad she’s eating alone tonight.”

  “Doesn’t she have anyone else?” His question hangs in the air.

  I pause before answering. “No. Just me. People try to set her up all the time, but she refuses.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that. Sometimes, trying to find someone new is ten times more lonely than accepting the fact that it’s over, and you’re on your own now.”

  “So, there’s been no one since Ben?” I ask, hoping I’m not getting too personal.

  He clears his throat. “Of course not.”

  “Then I have an idea. Why don’t you come over to our place for dinner sometime?” I would love this. Mom could get to know Gus better, and maybe, if he impressed her, she’d stop bugging me about my job. Plus, I’d like to give Mom something to do. She never invites anyone over anymore, and this might liven things up.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure your mother would approve? We might talk shop.”

  I laugh. “Yes, I think so. I’ll ask her first, of course. You’ve never seen our apartment, you know.”

  “Too bad I can’t see your old place. The way you describe it, it sounds heavenly, almost like an indoor arboretum with all those plants in there. No wonder you wanted to go into Botany Sciences.”

  “Yeah.” I pick at my sandwich, not because it isn’t good but because he’s hit on a touchy subject. “Our last place got way more sunlight. Once we moved, the plants started dying, one by one.”

  Gus nods. “I know it’s standard policy, but, sometimes, it seems like pouring salt into a wound to make a family move after their loved one dies.”

  “Did you have to move, too, when Ben died?”

  “Of course. Everyone does. I guess it makes sense, conserving resources and all. And, in fact, it might have been for the best. Ben died at home, and I cared for him at the end, so staying there might have been too hard.”

  “What about your things? Did you get to take all of it when you moved?”

  “Yes, of course.” He cocks his head to the side, watching me. “Even my La-Z-Boy. Man, that thing is ancient. I’ve re-covered it twice. It was my father’s. But why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know.” My memory of the day we moved is still so fuzzy. “It’s just… some of our belongings went missing when we moved. Mom swears she packed them. She thinks it’s my fault, that I misplaced the boxes or something. We still fight about it sometimes, but I swear I was as careful as she was and didn’t throw anything away. I wouldn’t.”

  Gus glances around as if someone besides the dead bodies can hear us in this noisy, bouncy truck. “What went missing?”

  “Mostly my dad’s stuff. So, it shouldn’t matter, but I’d like to have his things to remember him by.”

  “I bet you miss your dad quite a bit.”

  “I think about him every day.
”

  Gus frowns. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Isn’t it weird how everybody says they’re sorry? It’s not like they had anything to do with it. It’s not their fault. They’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

  He pats me on the back. “Well, I’m sorry just the same.”

  I stare at my hands. “My therapists told me Dad’s death made me grow up faster.”

  “You kids grow up too fast already. Full time jobs by fifteen—or highly specialized schooling.” He pauses. “That’s where you should be, you know.”

  “Where?”

  “Medical school. They need more students who are ‘empathetic.’ Plus, you’re whip-smart. You remember everything I tell you. I never have to explain things twice.”

  I frown, thinking of the real reason I’m not in medical school or at the Plant Production facility. The Suits and the therapists would never let me. Tears sting my eyes. “You’re the only one who says nice things like this to me… besides my mom, I mean. But she has to. I’m her daughter.”

  “Well, you deserve it.” His voice is kind. “And everything I said is true.”

  I shake my head. “My therapists didn’t think so. That’s why I turned to running and yoga to fix myself because they make me feel better. Therapy only ever made me feel worse. All my therapists told me I was too emotionally unstable for higher learning and that no one would bother teaching me.”

  Gus shakes his head. “They’re wrong. I’d be happy to teach you anything I know. And, as you well know, I am a genius.”

  I smile weakly. “I’ve learned a lot from you already, more than my mom would probably like.” I rub the scars on my wrists. They itch every time I think about my first suicide attempt.

  A shadow crosses Gus’s face.

  “You know, when I tried to kill myself, sometimes I think the only reason I didn’t succeed was because I didn’t know how to.” I trace a line down my veins. “Now I do.”

  us covers my scarred wrists with his two large hands. “Silvia, have you talked to your mother about this?”

  “Argued is more like it.”

  He clears his throat. “What I mean is: did you tell her what the therapists said to you?”

  I turn away as if to examine the metal racks housing the dead. “No, I didn’t. She had enough troubles, anyway, with work and dealing with her own grief, but things should get better now that she’s playing again.”

  Gus is still watching me when I turn back. “It will look good for your family to have her perform again. People loved to hear her play. You might have been too young to know this, but Yoshe Wood was a famous name in performance music in her day.”

  “Once, when I was alone in the apartment, I found an old recording of one of her concerts in The Archives. You should’ve seen her face when she got home. She looked so sad and begged me to turn it off, but maybe, now that she’s back in the orchestra, things will be different.”

  “If I’m cooking something special, I always play one of those government-sponsored programs in the background.” Gus grins. “Makes me feel real high class. When The New Order rebuilt after the last war, they put a heavy emphasis on the arts.”

  “Why? It seems like they’d have so many more important things to do.”

  He shrugs. “That’s a valid point. The Five Cities initially formed to feed, house, and protect all the war survivors. Rebuilding was endless after all the destruction—windmills, solar panels, and greenhouses all over the place. It was a remarkable time.”

  “What was it like? Living through The War, I mean.”

  Gus’ shoulders slump. “Be thankful we have peace now. You have no idea what it was like, always being at war—and with so many countries at once. Everyone throwing bombs at everyone else. After the nuclear fallout, everyone rushed to the nearest radiation treatment center. My family came here, but everyone died except for me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gus.” I shudder, imagining what war would look like, remembering the pictures I’d seen in school. Flattened homes. Burned bodies. “Did you get sick, too?”

  “No, but remember that was forty years ago. I was a robust young man in my twenties. One of the doctors did say that Ben’s cancer might have come on due to after effects. We’ll never know for sure, of course. People got cancer before the war, too.”

  “How many people died really?” I want to know if what Gus says jives with what I learned in school.

  “Before World War III, I’d guess America had a population of about 400 million. And now, it’s a tenth of that. Millions died instantly in the direct nuclear attack. Millions more died shortly thereafter with horrible, incurable ailments. So many people dying with no way to treat them. No way to stop their pain.”

  I shiver, imagining a long hallway crowded with stretchers and dying patients crying out in agony. “Were you in medical school then?”

  “No, I was still studying theater. But there was a real shortage of medical workers. After I watched my three sisters fade away, one after the other, I switched from theater to medicine and never looked back.”

  I bite my lip. “Gus, I’m so sorry about your sisters. That would be awful to watch someone you love die.”

  “Thanks, but everyone lost people they loved. Back before The War, everyone worried about population control. Now, it’s the opposite problem. There’s so much infertility. The miscarriage rate is three out of every four pregnancies when it used to be one out of three.”

  I nod. “Mom used to light candles for her miscarriages when we celebrated my birthday.”

  Gus releases a long breath. “No wonder you don’t like your birthday.”

  “She doesn’t do that anymore. My first therapist made her stop.”

  He raises his bushy eyebrows. “At least one good thing came of your therapy.”

  I smile. “I actually liked that therapist. She was nice. But, after a month, they replaced her with some jerk. All he ever wanted to do was talk about my father which is ironic, really, since I was supposed to be moving on, you know. Not constantly dwelling on the past.”

  Gus stares at me, an unreadable expression on his face. “What did that therapist ask, exactly?”

  “Everything. What my dad ate for breakfast, what his childhood was like, who were his friends. It was stupid.” How I hated that man. My hands sweat as I remember the way he’d lean in close, asking his questions louder and louder when I’d refuse to answer.

  Gus shakes his head. “I don’t know much about psychotherapy, so this isn’t what you would call an educated opinion, but that doesn’t seem very helpful to me.”

  I shake off the uncomfortable memory and pat Gus on the shoulder. “Pretty much everything you say is an ‘educated opinion.’ Admit it: you’ve probably read tons on the subject already.”

  “It’s possible.” He smirks. “Would you like some grapes?”

  “Yes, please.” Time to focus on the present.

  He hands them over. “I’m glad you’re better now. I’d like to congratulate myself on being part of the reason, but I pretty much think you did all the hard work yourself.”

  The armored truck jerks up and down, and I almost drop my fruit.

  Gus glances at the ceiling where the overhead light flickers. “We must be getting close. These roads near the periphery get a bit bumpy.” He reaches into a cooler bag. “Care for some milk? I’ve got both soy and rice. Which would you like?”

  “Rice.”

  He passes the bottle. “You know what I miss from before The War? Besides my family, of course? I miss cows. You know, you never got a chance to eat real ice cream, Silvia, and that’s a shame. Tastes a whole lot different now.”

  “I still like it. Not that we eat it often.”

  “That’s because you don’t know any better. You’ve never even seen a cow, except maybe in a picture, which is ironic since you were born here in the Midwest—in what used to be known as dairy country.”

  I take a sip of milk. “What else do you miss? Besides cows, I
mean?”

  He gazes off into the distance. “I miss a lot of things: hiking in state parks, real hamburgers—also made from cows—and phones.”

  “We still have phones.”

  “Public phones, yes. But no personal lines. No portable cell phones like the one I used to carry around in my pocket. Everyone had them before the bombs destroyed all the communication towers.”

  The truck hits a pothole that almost launches me from my seat. “No wonder you have to strap down the bodies so well.” I grip the bench below me to keep from falling off.

  “Less than five straps per body results in quite the mess.” Gus pushes his falling glasses back up. “I forgot to inform you that our field trip included a free loosening of your teeth. But don’t worry—we should be there shortly.”

  The vehicle squeals to a stop. Incoherent voices yell to each other outside. I stand up for a second then fall back onto the seat as the truck turns around and backs up. Soon, the lock slides with a sharp clank and the doors swing open. The truck fills with blinding light.

  “We’re here at last.” Gus jumps up. He’s very limber for a sixty-year-old man. “You stay here for a minute while I talk to the Overseer. I’ll be right back.”

  He hops to the ground and disappears from view. At first, my legs feel shaky as I stand and gingerly move about. I peer out the opening. The truck backed up to a black metal ramp. That should make it easy to move the racks of bodies into the building. I crane my neck to view the sandy grounds surrounding the Incinerator. The lot is vast and empty.

  Gus hops into the truck again, rubbing his hands together. “We’re all set. They’ve got the records. We’ll move the bodies, starting with these two.”

  We roll the first double stretcher up the ramp.

  “Okay.” Gus pants. “The rest of the way is flat, so breathe easy.”

  “How did you do this by yourself all these years?” I ask, working up a sweat as we push uphill.

  “I had to ask the Handlers for help, but one: you’re a better conversationalist. And two: I got the impression they thought this was beneath them. Needless to say, I’m glad you’re here.”