Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1)

by Ann M. Noser

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “No.” Food is the last thing on my mind.

  “Good. Me neither.” He smiles. “Let’s walk around and pretend this is what the whole world looks like. Forget there’s row after row of identical gray apartment buildings outside the gates.”

  I smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  We head down the nearest trail. Franco points out which plants he’s researched—which is the vast majority of the fruit trees, herbs, and vegetables on display.

  “This one’s mine, too.” He points to an apple tree, heavy with immature fruit.

  I glance at the placard label stuck in the ground at the base of the tree. “Wow. Your name is listed on there.”

  He chuckles. “Did you think I was lying?”

  “No, but I guess I didn’t realize—“

  “Actually, if you’ll look, my name is on a lot of these signs.”

  I smirk. “Oh, I see. Now it’s braggity-bragster time.”

  He smiles. “Let’s just say I’m highly interested in the subject matter.”

  Franco raises his gaze to mine. I begin to drown in his eyes. People walk by, but I don’t see them. My heart races, and, yet, he doesn’t say a thing. He doesn’t step any closer, and I’m afraid to move. I don’t want to break this spell.

  My brief stint in wonderland gets interrupted by a small girl toppling over on her bike next to us on the path. She whimpers, hunched over on the ground.

  “Are you okay?” I bend down, noting her scraped knees and tear-stained face.

  “Marissa! Don’t go so fast.” A short man rushes toward us as I help the girl to her feet.

  She tentatively tries out both legs.

  “See, you’re okay,” I reassure her, and she rewards me with a smile.

  The guy finally reaches us, puffing hard.

  The little girl runs up to him. “Did you see me, Daddy? I was super fast.”

  “Yes. That’s the problem, dear. Daddy’s not super fast. Here, let me have a look at your legs. Oh, no. Your mom’s gonna kill me.”

  I stand up. “Oh, I think she’ll be fine. She’s a toughie. She barely cried.”

  The girl’s dad glances at me, worry etched all over his face, then pauses. “Wait, I know you. You’re Silvia, right? From Mortuary Science, Northwest sector… with Dr. Gus Andrews?”

  It takes me a moment to recognize the shorter Handler who drove back with me in the front of the truck through the fireworks-studded night on July 4th.

  “Yeah.” I smile. “Sorry I didn’t remember you at first. You look so different in street clothes.”

  “It’s Marissa’s birthday today,” he explains. “I got a work pass.”

  I wave at her. “Well, happy birthday, Marissa.”

  She grins. “Thanks.”

  “I’m here after work today myself,” I explain.

  We both turn to Franco, who appears to be intensely studying the tree he’d just pointed out.

  “Hey, aren’t you the guy who—” The Handler pauses, takes his daughter’s hand, and moves away. “Never mind. Have a nice evening, you two.”

  After they disappear around the next heavily mulched corner, I murmur, “I think he recognized you.”

  “Yep.” He chuckles. “Pretty sure he did.”

  “Why do you hate those guys so much, anyway? They’re just doing their job. If you really have an issue, you should go above them.”

  Franco avoids my gaze, still smiling to himself.

  “At least you didn’t go after him in front of his kid,” I continue. “In fact, that’s probably why he took off right away, so you wouldn’t freak her out.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Franco’s face turns serious. “Believe me.”

  “I don’t get you. Half the time, you seem so pissed off, and the rest of the time, like right now, you act like you’ve heard some joke I don’t understand.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Silvia.”

  I narrow my eyes. “It’s like you’re a chameleon or something.”

  Franco nods. “Let’s just say: I find it useful that no one really knows who I am.”

  e walk a bit further on the path before Franco halts, a cringe on his face. “Hey, don’t kill me or anything. But I just remembered that I’ve got to be somewhere else right now.”

  “What?” You’ve got to be kidding me.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a meeting tonight.”

  My stomach drops. “And you remembered this very moment?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll walk you back to the gates, and then I’ve got to go, okay?”

  My shoulders slump. Maybe Franco really doesn’t want to spend time with me. It’s also quite possible the guy is nuts. I shake my head as we approach the gates.

  Franco frowns. “I really am sorry, Sylvia.” Then he ditches me.

  Once he’s gone, I hurry through the gates before nearly sprinting across town. That counts as running, right? It shouldn’t matter whether or not Franco’s comfortable being alone with me. It shouldn’t matter whether or not he likes me. That’s what I tell myself with every step I take.

  “Mom, I’m home!” I call out once I reach the apartment.

  She greets me in the narrow front hallway. “I’m so glad you’re here. I see you have another appointment with Citizen Reproductive Services tomorrow morning.” She holds out a card. “They’re more concerned about the time you’re spending with boys your age than I am.”

  “Again?” I scan the writing. Silvia Wood, 6:30 a.m. “I’m so sick of that place. What do they want now?”

  The next morning, I wait on an exam room sofa in Reproductive Services, this time without my mother. A nurse types with lightning speed into the computer at the desk.

  “Pre-race jitters?” She glances over at me with a supportive smile.

  “Not really.” She’s caught me off guard. How does she know about the race?

  “That’s why you’re here, of course. You knew that, right? Every female contestant must have a pregnancy screening, among other things, before the race. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

  “But I just had a pregnancy test not that long ago.”

  She holds out a cup. “We have to be sure. It won’t take long, I promise. And our newest tests are so sensitive; they can detect a pregnancy only seven days along.”

  “But, last I heard, a person actually has to have sex before they can get pregnant.”

  She holds the cup closer. “Just pee in the cup. It will only take ten minutes, I swear.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “No pee. No race.”

  I grab the cup. “Boys get off so easy.”

  “Well, usually I’d agree with you, but they have to provide samples, too—not checking for pregnancy, of course. We just have to check to make sure no one cheats during the race.”

  “How can you cheat in the race? Not that I intend to do it. I’m just curious.”

  “There are ways. Certain drugs or blood doping. The New Order wants this contest to be clean.”

  “Fine, I’ll go pee.” What a total waste of time.

  Twenty minutes later, instead of the promised ten, the nurse comes back into the room.

  “Guess what?” she says with yet another smile. “You’re not pregnant.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I mutter.

  The nurse eyes me. “Don’t forget about all the benefits you receive for your participation in this race. It’s not that hard to comply with the few rules and regulations that go along with it.”

  “I guess not, but since I’m not even sexually active, and you’ve already shot me up with this long-acting form of birth control”—I point to my upper arm—“whether or not it’s ‘standard procedure,’ this appointment still seems pointless. Can I go now?”

  “Of course.” She turns back to her computer, her smile gone. “Good luck at the race.”

  I’m still grumbling about the pregnancy
test when I get to work. My duties today include processing all the implants—meaning a lot of tedious entering of names into the computer while the noisy machine grinds the hormone capsules to bits. Then I get the joyous task of dismantling all the microchips into pieces for recycling. Usually, I don’t mind either of these jobs, but, today, everything grates on my nerves.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gus asks. “You’re wearing the ugly scowl of an old, German woman, and I don’t like it one bit.”

  I sigh. “I can’t believe how many times a virgin has to have a pregnancy test in order to run this damn race.”

  He chuckles. “Which part is it that you’re mad about?”

  I flush. “Good grief, Gus. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “It’s a fair question, I think.” Gus smiles. “You’ve got to declare yourself a homosexual if you want to get Reproductive Services off your back. Well, that’s not exactly true, either.”

  “At least I wouldn’t have to keep peeing in a cup.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. There’s still lots of tests they want to put you through to determine if you’re genetically sound or, perhaps, even superior.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m guessing you were deemed ‘superior?’”

  “You have to understand: with the fertility rates so low, sometimes Reproductive Services has to run tests to determine if someone’s egg or sperm is a better match or more viable.”

  “Did you have to donate?” I ask. Now I’m the one getting overly personal.

  He makes a face. “Sometimes, I wish you’d just take the hint without getting so inquisitive about things.”

  “So, you have kids? You never mentioned any.”

  “That’s because they weren’t ours to raise. You have to get permission to have children, whatever your preference, and, I guess, we never got around to it. I did wish afterward that we’d thought more on the subject, but then Ben got sick, and it was too late.”

  “I’m sorry, Gus.” I touch his arm. “You would’ve been a great dad. And I’m sorry I never met Ben. Franco totally idolized him.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” Gus clears his throat. “Are you still spending so much time with that boy? You know he’s too old for you.”

  I turn back to entering in names, the machine growling and grinding next to me. “Yeah. Mom thinks so, too. But she adores Liam.”

  “Everyone always has.” Gus turns away.

  “Really? You think so, too? Franco says everyone always prefers Liam over him.”

  “Then, for once, I agree with the man.”

  I enter the gym through the sliding glass doors, dreading the thought of working out alone.

  “Silvia Wood?” The front desk worker waves me down as I enter the sliding glass doors. “Liam Harman left a message for you.”

  She turns the monitor toward me. I lean over the computer screen.

  Hey, Silvia. Sorry I can’t train with you today. The good news is: I can walk now but with a cane (you were right). I came in earlier for an ice bath and some physical therapy. Not sure when I’ll be running again, but even if I have to limp along the sidelines, I’ll still cheer you on.

  I smile and leave my electronic signature to prove I received his message.

  “That poor guy,” the front desk worker clucks. “I hope they figure out whoever ran him over.”

  “You’d think that with all the cameras—” I freeze and slam my mouth closed. Should not have said that.

  She leans forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard that none of the cameras caught it. He’s like a ghost who can’t be seen on tape.”

  I bite back the words that want to spill out about hiding from view, darting around cameras—everything my dad taught me. Instead, I go with, “I hope Liam gets better in time to run the race. It won’t be as fun without him.”

  “Fun?” She shakes her head, laughing. “I’m sorry. I admire you all, but running 13.1 miles is not my idea of fun.”

  The next three days spin by on robotic pilot: work, gym, home. Work, gym, home. Treadmill-racing those running next to me even though I’m supposed to be tapering, but running hard usually calms my mind. That and an hour of yoga after each run.

  And yet, no matter how fast I push my legs or how long I hold each pose, my mind still jumps about like a bouncing ball.

  On day four, I enter the gym to find Liam leaning against the front counter, chatting up the front desk worker.

  “How was your ice bath?” I ask.

  “Torture.” He scowls. “I hate them, but today was my last time. Look, my knee is back to normal size.”

  “Bend it,” I command.

  He winces as he bends his knee.

  “You’ve got pretty good range of motion, but it obviously still hurts.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got to be. I’ll just rest up a few more days then join you on a few shorter, easy runs. You’re tapering already, aren’t you?”

  Crap. I’m so busted. “Uh. Not exactly.”

  “Are you kidding? What are you waiting for?”

  I grimace.

  “Lost without me, huh?” He smiles, and the front desk worker giggles.

  “No,” I say. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, but you’re right. I’ll start tapering now.”

  “Good. Oh, and one more thing: you’re invited over to my house the night before the race to carbo load.”

  “Whose idea is this?” I cross my arms. I don’t like the idea of his mom glaring at me all night across the table.

  “What’s the matter with you?” He laughs. “Hey, Franco told me Mom kind of freaked you out, but don’t worry about that. She tends to rub new people the wrong way. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Yeah. You Harmans keep saying that.”

  “You have to come,” he wheedles. “We’re having pasta. And bring your mom.”

  “Are you sure your mom wants us invading your privacy?”

  “She insisted. She’s forcing Franco to come, too. He didn’t want to, at first, because he wants me to drop out of the race altogether. But she told Franco he had no choice in the matter.”

  “Then how can I refuse?”

  he next day at work, everything appears back to normal. Gus’s office is organized in its usual untidy fashion, his maps on the wall and a picture of him and Ben resting on the desk. In that way, Gus and I are the same. We always want our loved ones with us, no matter how much it hurts to remember the past. I wipe a speck of dust off the top edge of the silver frame then head back out into the main workspace.

  Gus gestures toward the speakers. “You’ll like this song. ‘Respect’ by Aretha Franklin. Man, she had a great voice.”

  I listen a moment. “I do like it.”

  “I knew you would.” Gus points to a bagged body across the room. “And I haven’t had a chance to check out that poor soul over there, yet. Do you mind?”

  “Sure, but… first I have a question for you.” I position myself so the cameras can’t read my lips.

  Gus pauses mid-suture to peer over his glasses. “Okay, then. Shoot. And don’t worry; I’ve already upped the volume with my handy-duty remote so the only words they hear are Aretha’s.”

  “Okay, good. I need to know what you want me to do about the race.”

  Gus shakes his head. “I can’t believe how many people have entered that stupid race. Did you know there were so many?”

  “Yes, Liam told me—750 runners.”

  He raises his brows. “And you’re sure you can beat all of them?”

  I shrug. “I don’t have any idea.”

  He sighs. “So, here’s the deal. I’ve asked around, and no one seems to know anything about you leaving this position. So, I think we’re safe. I’m not sure Dr. Edwina even looked at your chart. It might’ve just been a ruse. She has a sick mind, that one.”

  I place a hand on the cool table. “Okay, so, what do you want me to do?”

  He frowns. “Maybe the more important question is: what do y
ou want to do?”

  I picture Liam running beside me on the treadmill, on the potholed roads, and downward-dogging next to me during yoga. My mind fills with memories of Franco biking alongside us, watching me stretch on the monorail, and making fun of Liam.

  I know what I want.

  “To run.”

  “Okay,” Gus replies. “Then you should.”

  I take a deep breath. “And I want to win it.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “May I ask why?”

  “It sounds horrible, I know, but I want to be better than everyone else for at least one moment in my life.”

  Gus snorts. “How egotistical of you.”

  “Yes, I know it is.”

  “Well, even if you’re fast enough to be in the top ten, all the fastest runners attend the Championship Ball afterwards. You can meet all the Representatives. Would you like that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I’d like that, either.” Gus turns back to suturing. “Meanwhile, that body over there is getting cold, so to speak.”

  “Right. I’m on it.” I cross the room and grab the file.

  Female, White European Descent, nineteen-years-old, died in childbirth. Simple processing requested. No diagnostics required.

  That’s odd.

  “Hey, Gus. What do you think of this? This girl’s only a year older than me and died in childbirth. Isn’t that strange? I mean, nobody gets pregnant that young anymore, and I’ve never heard of anyone dying during childbirth.”

  I unzip the black bag, starting at the feet then up the pale white legs, past the purplish C-section incision, over the chest and shoulders. A long red curl falls out.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  In a fast, fluid motion I peel off the rest of the bag.

  Red hair.

  Lying before me, dead, is the same girl the Suits dragged into Reproductive Services on my birthday.

  The metal clipboard clatters to the ground.

  “I won’t do it!” she had screamed as they dragged her away.

  And now look what happened.