Two hours! I manage to get up onto my elbows. My arms are weak, my head pounds. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’m actually surprised how much the EM blast affected me, given that my body rejected my implant. The thing is still working inside of me, but it’s not connected to my brain anymore. Eric once told me that a direct hit with an EM blast can still knock you out, even if you don’t have an implant. I’m just glad it wasn’t fully connected or else this would’ve been much worse.
“Where…Shin…ji?”
“Don’t know. I remember hearing him barking right before I blacked out. He’s not here.”
“Help me up,” I whisper. At least my lips seem to be starting to work.
Micah stumbles to his feet. He puts his hands under my arms and half lifts, half drags me to the bed. “Not sure I can do this,” he says, but he grunts and lifts. At the same time I straighten my legs and try to throw myself onto the bed. I end up partially on it, and there I stay, perched precariously as Micah angrily stomps across the room. I don’t move. It’s not very comfortable, the way I’m laying, but at least it’s not the floor.
“Door?” I ask. I tense the muscles in my side to keep from slipping, but it doesn’t seem to help.
“Locked.”
Of course.
The windows are barred, too. Not that it matters. We’re on the second floor, and from what I remember seeing from the outside, it’s a straight shot to the ground twenty-five or thirty feet down.
“They better not hurt him.”
“They don’t want him. It’s us they’re not sure about.” He paces, shaking off the last of the numbness in his hands. His feet scuff the floor, sounding loud in my ears. I try to reposition myself, but I’m still too weak.
“Why would they do that?” he says, gesturing angrily. “Why shoot us with an EM blast?”
Because you wouldn’t give them your backpack, I want to say, though I don’t. It won’t help and, besides, I know he’s just venting. I would be too, if I could. Besides, I’m too twisted around and too numb to speak. I try and relax, but all I end up doing is rolling off the bed. Micah turns only when he hears me thump to the floor. My cheek hits the bedpost and pain flares inside my head.
“Shit, Jess. I’m sorry!”
He hurries over but I wave him drunkenly away and instead try to prop myself up against the mattress.
“This is all my fault, like you said,” he tells me. “But they have no right—”
“Micah!” I cough weakly. “Shut up for a minute, will you?”
His face twists for a moment, a mixture of anger and anguish and embarrassment.
I watch him flit through the gloom. He ends up over by the window, lifting a hand to draw the curtains apart to look outside.
“Sun’s starting to go down.”
“See anything?”
“People? None living. Plenty Undead just standing around. But I heard voices earlier downstairs. No, wait… There’s someone walking up the road, coming toward the house.” He watches for a few seconds, then curses under his breath.
“What?”
“He just walked right past an IU that was looking right at him. Watching him, even. Just walked right past and the thing never even went for him.”
I try to push myself up, but Micah stops me. “Don’t bother. He’s gone, out of sight.”
“Sure you didn’t just see another IU? Or a CU?”
“Definitely not an IU.” He shrugs. “Could’ve been a CU. Moving pretty smooth for one, though…”
I wipe the sticky strands of hair from my face. “So much for getting washed up and changed.”
“There are a couple basins of water over there. A pitcher, too.” He walks over to the dresser and picks something up, then he just stands there for a moment without speaking.
“What is it?”
He turns and holds up it for me to see. “You ever think you’d be so happy to see a toothbrush?”
“Toothpaste?”
He nods. “That, too.”
This time I manage to get to my feet. “Now that’s worth getting up for. My teeth feel like I’ve been chewing on cow crap.”
He tosses me a bar of soap, saying, “You smell like cow crap.” It bounces off my hip and skitters across the floor. My reaction time is still screwed.
“Fuck you,” I tell him, but I’m smiling.
At least, I think I am. I still can’t feel my face.
† † †
The cold, clean water feels good on my skin. It invigorates me and in less than ten minutes I’m fully recovered from the EM blast. But the resentment still roils inside of me. I’m unsure who exactly I should be directing it to. The request to search our packs had come more as a surprise than an indignity. I’d do the same if I were them, though they could have warned us.
Even so, Micah shouldn’t have argued. He should’ve known better. In fact, it really surprises me that he protested. We don’t have anything to hide, not from these people. Regardless, I wouldn’t go around intentionally antagonizing them, not when we’re here to ask for their help.
After washing, we change into some ill-fitting clothing. It’s stiff, as if line-dried, but smells wonderfully fresh.
Micah keeps pacing across the floor, his footsteps clop-clopping like a horse’s. It’s driving me batty, so I tell him to sit down. “It won’t be long now,” I say, hopefully. But he gestures angrily at the door and mutters something about being treated like we’re criminals. He walks over and pounds on it.
“Hey, assholes! Let us out!”
“Micah!” I pull him away. “What the fuck are you doing?” I whisper. “Do not piss these people off anymore, okay?”
He gives me an incredulous look, then caves. “You’re right. I’m not sure what came over me. I guess I’m a little on edge.”
“Are you feeling all right? That EM shock didn’t, like, kill the rest of your few remaining brain cells, did it?”
He gives me a sharp look, then quickly looks away. “No. I’m cool. Just…stressed is all.”
“You’re stressed?” I mutter. I glance out the window again and wince. The sun is low on the horizon, hovering just above the tree line, an orange ball wavering with the heat. It’s too late to leave now, even if we could get the treatment right this minute. I reach into the pocket of my jeans, which I’d flung over a chair after changing, thinking I’ll ping Kelly, but of course my Link isn’t there. The other pockets are empty, too, and I realize with horror that they’ve taken the photos, despite Brother Walter saying I could keep them. To be honest, it’s not the photos that worry me, it’s what was with them.
“What’s the matter?” Micah asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just… I feel naked without my Link.”
He nods, then goes back over to the window and looks down. “They’re starting to come out now.”
He makes room for me, so I go over and look down. The shadows have deepened, and sure enough, the IUs are starting to appear. I see their dark figures materializing from the wood and out of shadows, and I give an involuntary shiver, not so much out of mortal fear—we’re protected inside this house—but because of the pure spookiness of it all. I’ll never get used to it.
“No CUs,” he comments. He sighs and moves away, his face falling into shadow. I can see his restlessness, the growing feeling of being caged in. Another night in Long Island’s forbidden zone, when the Infected Undead come out to play.
Olly olly oxen free.
Stuck in a house surround by a bunch of people who might hold the key to our survival.
Or who might just be crazy.
Then the doubts really begin to settle in. I think about the scar on Matthew’s shoulder. It’s clearly a bite, but he never conceded that it was from an Infected.
Micah picks up a matchbook and studies it. Even though the room is quickly descending into darkness, we still haven’t lit any candles. It would mean closing the shutters, and that would mean completely shutting ourselves off from the w
orld, even if that world is full of the Undead.
“What the hell are they waiting for?” he sputters. He flicks a match across the starter and it flares to life as it flies across the room. It lands on the floor and goes out. “When are they coming back for us?” He flicks another match.
I shake my head, and tell him to knock off with the matches before he burns the house down. He prepares to flick another, but then footsteps sound outside the room. He throws the matches on the table and we both hurry to the door.
There’s a knock and a warning: “Step back. Behave yourselves. We’re opening up.”
Behave? Micah mouths. His face glows red. I give him a quick shake of the head.
A key jangles, then slips into the lock and turns. The door opens. We stand back as the flickering light of a candle spills in. Brother Matthew stands in the hallway, his features accentuated by the glow.
Micah steps forward and starts to protest, but I put a hand on his chest and gently push him back.
“When can we see Father Heall?”
“Now.” He gestures to Micah and says, “You first.”
“No. Wait!” I cry, but another man steps forward to block me.
“Just relax, sweetie.” And I realize it’s not a man, but a woman with a square, rugged face.
“Who are you? And why—”
“My name is Sister Jane. Please, just calm down. We’re not going to hurt you.”
She holds up a hand and nods toward the two other men I can now see standing in the hallway. One of them steps forward and hands over a battered cardboard box while Micah steps out into the hallway, Brother Matthew’s hand gently but firmly on his arm. A heavenly aroma wafts from inside the carton.
Sister Jane tilts her head at me. “You’re hungry. Eat. I’ll try and answer your questions while you wait to see the father.”
Chapter 18
“Where are they taking Micah?”
Sister Jane goes over and closes the blinds before lighting the candles and patiently setting the food out on a small table beside the room’s only chair. She lifts my filthy jeans by a belt loop and dumps them into the corner by the door. “We’ll get those washed for you, if you wish to keep them.” She studies the clothes I have on and raises a disproving eyebrow and tsks. “Men. I’m sure we can find something a bit more appropriate for you.”
I find this strangely amusing, coming from a woman who looks a lot like a man herself. I repeat my question: “Where is Micah going?”
“To speak with Father Heall.”
“When can I see him?”
“Soon.” She clucks to herself. “You’ll get your chance as soon as he’s finished with your friend.”
Finished? I don’t like the sound of that.
“What about my dog?”
“He’s fine. We’ve fed him and bathed him. He was covered in fleas.”
“You have medicine for that?”
“More than we know what to do with. If it’s still good, that is.” She shrugs. “Not many pets around here anymore.”
“Were they eaten?” I ask, dreading her answer. Do IUs eat animals?
“Gone feral,” she replies. “And speaking of eating, you should. It’s getting cold.”
Despite my anxiety, my stomach grumbles and the smell of the warm food makes me lightheaded. I hesitate.
“Don’t worry, it’s okay. There’s nothing in it.” She takes a slice of apple from the plate and pops it into her mouth and chews.
“Not really inclined to trust right now,” I grumble.
“I know, honey, but we don’t know a thing about you. We have to be extremely cautious.”
“Arc?” I ask as I sit down and gaze at the food. I can’t decide what to eat first—the apple or the spaghetti or the roll. I try the apple, since I know that’s safe.
“They don’t exactly want us here. They really don’t favor what we’re doing.”
“And what exactly are you doing?”
“Surviving.”
“Is that all?” I stuff a piece of the bread into my mouth and nearly die of pleasure. It’s a day old and dry, and there’s no butter in sight, but after a couple weeks of processed, bottled and canned food, it tastes like heaven. I shove a forkful of spaghetti in next.
“Pasta’s twelve years old, but the sauce is fresh from the garden.”
“It’s delicious.”
She watches me carefully for a moment, but if my poor manners manage to convey anything it must be that I don’t pose an immediate threat to her. She visibly relaxes, and so I do too, thinking how amusing it is that they’d leave only her in here to watch over me. I could probably take her out in an instant. But then she catches me glancing at the door and she asks, “Nowhere to go,” and my guard goes right back up.
“We came because we need your help,” I tell her, forcing the words past a mouthful of pasta. “That’s it. We don’t even know who you people are.”
“We’re the survivors of the people our government left behind.” For a split second, I can hear the bitterness in her voice. She looks away and adds, “We don’t blame you kids, of course, but we’re naturally a little distrusting, especially with all the new people arriving lately.”
“New people?” It’s the first I’ve heard of the island becoming repopulated. “What new people? Or are you talking about Players—I mean, Deceivers?”
“Not them. They’re bad enough, but they go straight into the arcade. No, I’m talking about the living. Sinners, we call them.” She laughs, covering her mouth, as if she suddenly realizes what she must sound like. “Sorry, but that’s what we call them. There haven’t been very many, just a few dozen over the past several weeks. But the numbers keep getting larger. We keep watch over them, try to figure out what they’re doing and planning. They all enter the arcade. It’s not right what they’re doing in there.”
I frown, confused.
“An abomination,” she mutters.
“I think they’d call it entertainment.”
She glares at me, pursing her lips in disapproval.
“Look, I…”
I pause. My feelings about Gameland have changed over the past several days. How could they not? Just a month ago I’d have given anything for a chance to play The Game. But now…
“I actually happen to agree with you,” I tell her. “What Arc is doing in there isn’t right. What they did to me and my friends.”
She doesn’t ask me to explain, much to my surprise. Instead, she urges me to finish my meal.
“You said you’d answer any questions I might have.”
“I said I’d try.” But she nods. “What do you want to know?”
“The treatment,” I say, now hesitating. The moment of truth, or close to it, and here I am unwilling to face it. “Is it for real? Is there really a way to stop the infection from killing my friends and reanimating them?”
She purses her lips for a moment before standing up. For a moment I believe she’s going to leave, but she steps in front of me and pulls up the bottom of her tee shirt. She has no bra on and I catch a brief glimpse of her small, sagging breasts. But it’s her back she shows me now, the scar that runs in ragged tracks down it. I gasp and reach up a shaky hand and run my fingers over that landscape of horror. She doesn’t move. She only waits for me to finish, and when I do, she drops her shirt and settles back down on the bed.
“The treatment is a countermeasure,” she says. “And I warn you, it’s a rather unorthodox one at that. It isn’t a cure. I’ve been bitten, so I’m infected. The treatment keeps me from turning.” She bends down until her face is just inches from mine. “I’m infected, and I will always be. And so will your friends. If they survive.”
Chapter 19
Twenty minutes pass after I finish the meal before the others return with Micah. He’s got his backpack with him and he looks no worse for the wear.
“Did you eat?” I ask.
He nods. There’s a spaghetti stain on his shirt, so I guess he has.
> “What did they ask you?”
“Just be honest with them,” he says, though his eyes flash for a moment. “Answer the questions. They just want to be sure we’re not with Arc. Or associated with them, which we’re not.”
I throw a look over my shoulder as I’m swept out into the hallway, no time to ask any more questions. Now I regret that we hadn’t agreed on what to say about Stephen.
Just be honest with them, Micah had said to me. But does that include telling them we killed Heall’s son? What did Micah tell them about what happened back there, when Stephen attacked me and tried to choke me to death?
Brother Matthew locks the door before following me and Sister Jane down the hallway.
“Watch your step,” an unnamed man tells me, and he leads us down the darkened stairs.
Sister Jane keeps a hand on my elbow, more for steadiness, I’m sure, than for security. There are three of them, and I could probably overpower them all if I wanted to. They’re completely vulnerable: a shove to the back of the man ahead of me on the stairs followed by flipping Sister Jane over the railing and finishing by tripping Brother Matthew and throwing him down the staircase. I envision all this is the space of a blink of an eye, and yet the moment of opportunity comes and lingers without me acting on it. I choose instead to follow them down without giving any indication of what thoughts I might be entertaining. I realize I have no intention of carrying out an attack. What good would it do me? To try and leave now, to risk going out into that wilderness outside, now with the sun about to fully set, would be suicide. Like Sister Jane said: there’s nowhere to go.
Plus, it would be irresponsible. At this point, to deny any offer of assistance, no matter how small or unorthodox, as Sister Janes says, would be suicide.
The terrible image of her back comes to me again, the puckered scars, the darkened crater beneath her shoulder, evidence that the IU who bit her left with a mouthful of her flesh. I can only imagine how painful it might’ve been. And yet these people still revere the Infected, calling them Elders. Why?
S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND, Season One Omnibus Page 70
