Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1)

by Ann M. Noser

  Gus hurries to my side and gathers up the chart. “What are you doing?”

  “Where is it?” I dig through the long bag, frantically searching. “Where is it?”

  Gus places a firm hand on my shoulder. “Silvia, calm down. Remember who’s watching.”

  “Where’s the baby?” I ask, jamming a hand into every empty corner of the bag.

  Gus glances at the chart. “You’ll never find the baby. It’s not here.”

  “You mean it’s alive?” I ask, hopeful.

  “Actually, it doesn’t say.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to see someone so young dead.”

  “That’s not all of it.” My hand pauses at the incision from the C-section. Black sutures stand at attention along the long scar. “Gus…”

  His gaze follows mine.

  “Doesn’t that chart say she died in childbirth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then can you explain why this incision is at least two weeks old?”

  ere’s what’s going to happen,” instructs Gus. “I need you to move around to this side of the table, so no one can read your lips. Have you got a grip on yourself now?”

  “No. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m actually kind of freaking out.”

  “Then can you fake it?”

  I gulp a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Gus pauses. “Now, explain to me why you’re so upset. Did you know this young lady from school?”

  “No. I recognized her from the street.” I try to calm my breathing, but I’m close to hyperventilating. Not good. I won’t be able to hide that from the cameras.

  “Silvia, you pass hundreds of people a day—”

  “I know, but this was different. On my birthday, my mom brought me to Genetic Counseling—”

  “Nice birthday present. If I’d known you were getting the day off for that, maybe I would’ve raised more of a fuss.”

  “That’s beside the point.” I take a deep breath. “She took me to the park afterward, so it was fine. But, on the way, there was a holdup in traffic because this girl was screaming and trying to get away when the Suits dragged her into Citizen Family Planning and Reproductive Services.”

  Gus tenses.

  I narrow my eyes. “You still haven’t answered my question about the scar.”

  He takes a deep breath. “That’s because I don’t know, and I’m afraid to guess.”

  “Maybe she was in a coma afterward, and the chart is incomplete,” I offer. “Maybe they used some advanced tissue adhesive I’ve never seen before, and it speeds healing. Maybe there was an accident…” I come up empty.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Gus stares at the chart. “Process her, and be done with it. I don’t want you getting into trouble over someone you didn’t even know, so don’t make a fuss. It’s too late for her now, no matter what happened.”

  Can Gus really be so cold inside?

  Breathing deeply, I pretend I’m in yoga class instead of Mortuary Sciences and pick up the scalpel. I incise the skin on each upper arm to release the microchip and birth control capsule, setting them both to the side. Then I clean away any traces of blood, smooth her hair, and zip the bag closed over her body. There’s nothing else to do for her.

  Except…

  Cupping the capsules in my hand, I cross the room to the tall, metal disposal chambers. Using the scanner, I record the microchip. As her personal information flashes across the screen, I commit the home address to memory. Then I crack open the birth control capsule, ready to sprinkle the contents in the containment chamber.

  But it’s empty.

  The red-haired girl’s name was Amelia Brown. She lived in the Southeast sector of the city. After work, I head straight to the gym, but that’s not where I intend to stay, no matter if Liam is there or not.

  It’s a relief when he’s a no show, so I don’t have to explain myself. I hurry to dress in the locker room, careful to wear all race appropriate clothing, including a white, training baseball cap with green stripes across the bill. The hat will keep the sun off my black hair, and the bill will hide the top half of my face from the cameras. On purpose, I leave the running watch in the small side pocket of my bag.

  I tighten my ponytail and approach the wall displaying the training-approved routes. I grab one of the fliers. There are several paths leading into the Southeast sector, but only one will take me within a half mile of Amelia’s home. The route is several miles longer than I should be running this close to the race, but I don’t care. I need to see that the baby is okay. It’s the least I can do.

  After a few active stretches, far less than I usually do, I’m on my way, carrying a printed map in my pocket in case I get turned around. But, somehow, my feet seem to know right where they’re headed. Alone in the car lane, which has temporarily been approved for race training, I forge ahead. Ten minutes in, I spot two other runners far ahead of me. I speed up.

  As I pass them, the girl calls out, “Hey, don’t you know you’re supposed to be tapering?”

  I don’t respond. Even though the walking and biking lanes are full, all I can hear is the sound of my own breath and the slap of my shoes on the pavement. The world spins around me, but I’m the only one here.

  When it feels like I’ve run about three miles, I search for an overhead camera. Once I’m positioned right, I glance down at my wrist then fake that I’m upset I forgot my watch. I only do this for a second because I don’t want to overplay the ruse.

  Approximately six miles in, I spot 35th Avenue Southeast and hang a right. Now, I need a drinking fountain. I scan both sides of the street then slow to a stop when I spot one. There’s another camera overhead.

  I stretch and drink, massage my left calf muscles then rotate the ankle on that side. Now, I’m walking. As soon as possible, I melt into the crowd. A half mile later, I turn onto Amelia’s street and pause. What should I do? I need to find that baby.

  The sound of children playing attracts me to a small park a half block down. Kids scamper around, kicking balls, jumping rope, all within the confines of a tall fence. Half the park is pavement; the other half grass with very few trees.

  I see brown hair, blond, and black. But no red. Amelia Brown’s survivor list included two younger sisters, a mother, and a dad. Maybe they’re eating supper.

  I pass the park and keep walking, all the way up to the front door of their apartment building. I stop. What could I possibly say to these people? I stare at the entrance until I have to step aside for another occupant hurrying home with rations.

  Biting my lip, I turn away, retreating slowly until I reach the busy park. All at once, my legs feel too tired to go on. I enter the park and approach the nearest bench with a good view of Amelia’s apartment. Before sitting, I stretch my legs which are starting to ache.

  An older woman rests on a bench across from me, a red balloon tied around her wrist. Her watery eyes don’t seem to focus on anything.

  “Is it time for bed?” she asks.

  I’m not sure if she’s talking to herself or me, but I answer, “It’s more like supper time, really.”

  “Why aren’t you eating?” She shakes her head. “You’re too skinny. Girls are too skinny nowadays.”

  A woman rushes over, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Don’t pay any attention to her. Please don’t be offended. She’ll say anything to anyone. Her mind the way it is, but she doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “It’s fine,” I assure her. “She isn’t bothering me.”

  The woman rubs the elderly lady’s hand. “I wanted to bring her to the park today. It’s her birthday. But my hands are already full with my granddaughter.” She points at a young girl digging in a sandbox.

  The little girl picks up a shovel and begins to spoon dirt into her mouth.

  “Oh, no.” The woman sprints back to her. “Spit that out, Claudia. You know better than to eat dirt.”

  “Looks like you have your hands full,” I call after her,
crossing the walking path to sit down by the elderly woman. “Happy birthday.”

  “Life and death,” she replies.

  “What about life and death?” I ask.

  “Everyone thinks they’re enemies, but they’re not. They’re friends. They walk hand in hand.”

  I nod.

  “Such lovely hair.” She touches my long, black ponytail.

  “Thank you.”

  “Be glad it’s not red. Red is bad luck color.” She scowls at the balloon tied to her wrist and shakes her hand as if to be rid of it. “Black is good luck. Such good luck.”

  “My father had red hair.”

  She frowns, tugging on the balloon. “Then he’s dead.”

  I tense. “Yes, he died eight years ago. But how could you know—”

  “They’re all dead. Girl. Baby. All dead.”

  Does she know what’s she talking about? Or is she just crazy?

  Her bony fingers grip my shoulder. “Don’t trust anyone. They’ll kill you and cut you to pieces.”

  The daughter rushes back. “Oh, dear. I better get her home. I’m so sorry. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Her mind goes in and out like a worn-out light bulb.”

  I stand and move away. “I’m afraid she doesn’t like her balloon. Something about the color red bothers her.”

  “Yeah. Ever since our neighbors—that poor family—lost their daughter in childbirth.”

  “That’s so sad.” Part of me knows it’s wrong to keep pushing. “What about the baby?”

  “The baby died, too. Poor little thing.” She helps the old lady to her feet.

  I drag over the walker standing nearby.

  “Oh, thank you,” she says. “You’ll have to excuse me. Claudia, we’re leaving. I said right now, Claudia.”

  I let them pass, empty inside. If the baby is dead, then where is it? Why didn’t it get sent to the Incinerator like all the others?

  Glancing at a nearby overhead clock, I realize I’d better head home if I don’t want to get in trouble with Mom. I’ve got a long way to go and not much in the way of answers. My feet swiftly carry me along the route I’d taken to get here.

  This time of evening, most people pass me with end-of-the-day exhausted work faces. I hurry along the inner edge of the walk lane, ready to jump back into the designated race-approved car lane as soon as I reach it. I hurry onward, trying to focus on my form. Force myself to lift my legs higher, use my glutes more, utilize my core—anything to take my mind away from my thoughts. What does a stupid race matter, now? Why does everyone always have to die?

  Miles churn by, and it’s all a blur. I make my way back to the 37th Street Gym without even trying. I go to my locker, grab my gym bag, and speed home without changing. I just want to be alone. In the shower. In my bed. Somewhere where I can cry, and nobody has to know about it.

  It’s a relief to find our apartment empty although it’s odd for Mom to be out this late. I shower and go immediately to bed without eating or stretching. I don’t care about all that tonight.

  I wake up stiff and sore the next morning—not good, considering the race is only a couple days away. The apartment is empty again, but by the dishes in the sink, I can tell Mom had hot cereal for breakfast. One teacup sits upside down on the countertop. She’ll be back later, alone, as usual. I hurry to work, rush downstairs, and fly through the open doors of Mortuary Sciences.

  The gurneys shake with the beat.

  Gus points to the speakers. “You’re just in time for another classic—‘November Rain’ by Guns and Roses. Make sure you pay special attention to the ending. It’s important.”

  I position myself alongside him, pretending to examine the body he’s processing, my back to the cameras. “I gotta talk to you.”

  “What’s up?”

  My eyes well. I’m not sure why. I don’t even know these people. “The baby’s dead.”

  “Yes… but how do you know this?” He frowns. “I hope you didn’t look it up. They can trace that, you know.”

  I shake my head. “No. I went there.”

  He leans closer. “You went where, exactly?”

  “To where they live, and I talked to some crazy lady in the park.”

  Gus hands me a suture scissor. “Make yourself useful. You need to focus. Now, keep talking.”

  My hands shake, clenching the scissor. “The lady was really old. She said she liked my hair. That black was lucky and red was dangerous. That everyone with red hair dies.”

  Gus purses his lips. “Silvia, she wasn’t talking about your dad.”

  “She could’ve been. Then her daughter rushed up and, with some prompting on my part, told me about Amelia’s family.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t have done that.” Gus finishes his continuous line of suture then leans back for me to cut the ends. “You don’t want anyone to accuse you of invasion of privacy and terminate your position here.”

  “I had to do it. I needed to know.”

  “You could’ve asked me.”

  “I did. You didn’t say anything.”

  “Goodness, girl. You have to give me a little time. If you’d been patient, I was going to tell you today that the baby’s body was processed in the Southeast Sector two weeks ago.”

  “So, it did die during childbirth. But what about the mother? Why were they processed two weeks apart?”

  “That question I can’t answer with a simple computer search.”

  I cock my head. “Wait a minute—I thought you said not to look it up in case it gets traced.”

  “They can’t trace me. Not the way I do it.”

  us sends me home early from work, promising to watch me race tomorrow. The walk home should relax me, but my legs are so tired from my long run yesterday that all I do is worry that I’ve ruined my chances at racing well.

  I collapse into bed, scrubs still on, staring across the room at Dad’s picture.

  Hours later, Mom shakes me awake. “Hurry up, Silvia. We haven’t got much time to get ready.”

  I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes. “For what?”

  “Dinner at Liam’s.”

  Oh, yeah. I sit up in a flash.

  Without thinking much about it, I change out of my scrubs and slip on jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. I don’t want Linda to see my scars. She dislikes me enough as it is. Or, at least, it sure seems that way.

  “Let me fix your hair.” Mom pushes me into the bathroom and positions me in front of the mirror. She pulls out my ponytail, rubs in some styling cream, and brushes my long black hair down over my shoulders.

  As I face my reflection, I realize I’m wearing the same outfit I wore on my birthday. I hope that’s not a bad omen.

  “There. You’re perfect.” Mom smiles at me in the mirror.

  “You always could work my hair better than I could,” I answer.

  She pats my shoulder. “Time to go.”

  We rush downstairs and into the street. Masses of people trot along with us. I try to keep my eyes averted so I won’t see anyone with red hair, but it doesn’t work. A tall man with short red hair hovers at my right side.

  “Why are you so jumpy tonight?” asks Mom. “Pre-race jitters?”

  My stomach is clenched, my back is stiff, and my legs are sore. I’m doomed. But it’s not the race that bothers me. The red haired man matches my footsteps, his arms swinging back and forth. I slow my pace in hopes he’ll pass by.

  “Come on, Silvia,” Mom urges. “We don’t want to be late.”

  I don’t lose sight of the red haired stranger until we make the last turn to Liam’s apartment building. My hands tremble, but at least he’s gone now.

  Mom and I enter the complex. She fidgets as we wait in the hallway outside Liam’s apartment door. Why is she so nervous tonight?

  Linda opens the door, an unreadable expression on her face. “Yoshe Wood. I’ve heard you play. You’re a magnificent violinist. Please, come in.”

  Mom enters ahead of me. Nobody seems to n
otice that I don’t receive the same warm welcome. Liam sits on the floor of the small living room, both of his younger sisters vying for his attention. Lydia is nine, and Lucy is eleven. I’ll bet neither of them really remembers their father.

  A comforting fragrance of tomato and basil fills the air. Franco stands next to the stove, stirring the pot. He says something I can’t hear over the wild living room banter, so I step closer.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” I ask.

  He smiles. “I was merely informing you there aren’t any gelatin-based protein cubes on the menu this evening.”

  “Thank goodness.” I grimace. “I hate those things.”

  His smile grows. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Experimental alternative sources of protein, then?”

  “Perhaps.” He chuckles and gestures toward his cousin. “You might be interested to know that Liam over there has already assured us of your double victory tomorrow.”

  “Oh, has he?” I glance at the three siblings, laughing together. They seem so happy.

  “That is… unless you can convince him not to race.” Franco’s tone is jovial, but forced. “He won’t listen to me, of course.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “I don’t think I can help you. He’s pretty determined.”

  “I know, but it was worth a try.” Franco sighs. “So, how are you feeling about the big race?”

  I shrug. “I’m not so sure, I guess.” Instead of focusing on the race plan Liam and I devised weeks ago, I’m obsessed with the death of Amelia Brown. I can’t escape her red hair and pale skin. The image of her cold body lying on the mortuary table blends with the portrait hanging in my room of my father. Back and forth, the pictures flicker and fuse until the two become one. It’s not like they’re the only people in the Panopticus with red hair, but their deaths have bonded them together in my mind.

  I’m starting to hate red hair.

  Franco tests a noodle with a fork and announces, “I hope you all are hungry because it’s time to eat.”

  We gather around the table, the two younger girls chattering non-stop on either side of Liam. Franco serves, Linda bustles around, handing out plates and drinks, and my mom keeps asking if she can help.