“Brian picked you up, huh?” There was a strange catch in his voice, but I was too excited to want to stop and figure out why.
“Yeah, and damn, I’ve never ridden in an Escalade before,” I continued to babble. “Sweet ride!”
“I’ve never been in Brian’s Escalade,” he said. “I imagine it is.” He paused. “And he took you to the lab?”
“Sure did. Way out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.” I laughed. “I couldn’t find it again if my life depended on it.”
“I have no idea where it is either,” Marcus said. “So, it was interesting?”
“It really was,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t understand half of what Dr. Nikas was saying, but he was really awesome and didn’t talk down to me at all.” I grinned. “Maybe after I get my GED I can go take some college classes. I mean I really love the Biology stuff.”
“That’s not a bad idea at all.”
“And maybe I can even do some work with Dr. Nikas, help out at the lab or something. Marcus, he was sooo nice.”
“Um, yeah. Sure,” he said. “That would be great.” Except that it didn’t sound like he thought it would be great at all.
My smile slipped a bit. “Marcus? Is something wrong?”
He was silent for a few seconds—long enough for me to wonder if he had horrible news to share and was working up the courage to tell me—then said, “Angel, you can’t do that.”
“Do what?” I asked, baffled.
“You can’t call up Pietro with stuff like that,” he said to my utter shock. “I’m only telling you for your own good,” he continued while I listened in numb silence. “Pietro said he’d let you know about the heads, and he would have. Annoying him isn’t a good idea. And, well, taking up Dr. Nikas’s time for nothing…hell, I’ve never even been to the lab.”
Every speck of elation fled, and now I simply felt cold and a little sick. Had I misread everything about my conversation with Pietro and my talk with Dr. Nikas?
“I…but Pietro didn’t sound annoyed, Marcus,” I managed. “And he’s the one who suggested I come see the heads. I didn’t ask for that.”
“Look, babe, you could have called me first, talked about it,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Then I could have helped you with how to approach, or not approach it. I’ve known him a lot longer than you have.”
The cold feeling tightened into a knot in my gut. “Oh. I see,” I replied stiffly. “I obviously fucked it up even though Pietro seemed perfectly happy to talk to me and was the one to suggest that I come see the lab. But, y’know, this is me. So, yeah. I should check with you before I make a phone call.” I sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, wait, honey, I need to go take a shit. Should I wipe my ass or not? One ply or two ply? I know I desperately need your advice and guidance.”
“Damn it, Angel!” he retorted, raising his voice slightly. “You’re blowing this all out of proportion. We’re talking about my uncle, not your normal everyday life crap.”
“And you’re the one telling me I need to check with you before making a goddamn phone call,” I said, raising my voice right back at him. “I mean, Jesus Christ, Marcus. You’re jumping my ass for fucking something up that wasn’t fucked up!” At least I hoped it wasn’t fucked up. A sharp barb of worry went through me. “Did Pietro say something to you? Is that what this is all about?”
He hesitated. “No,” he finally said, exhaling. “I haven’t talked to him since I called him last night after your attack.”
“Uh huh. So once again this is you not trusting me to be able to handle myself.” My jaw tightened. “Marcus, this is bullshit.”
“You always jump to that conclusion, Angel!” he said, frustration and annoyance thick in his voice. “I’m giving you advice—damn good advice—on one thing I know a helluva lot more about than you do and suddenly I’m the bad guy. That’s bullshit.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I insisted, fighting back tears. “He wasn’t annoyed or mad or anything, and he wouldn’t have invited me to the lab if I was wasting his time, would he?” I took a deep breath as the old buried anger returned. “And, goddammit, even if I did annoy him it’s the least he could put up with after everything I went through.”
He fell quiet. “All right, Angel,” he said after a moment. “What’s done is done. You’ve seen the heads and satisfied that curiosity, so we can just move on from here. I can’t imagine that you’d have anything else to call him about, so it really is a moot point now.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Marcus, I’ve been really nice and respectful to your uncle, even after everything that happened.” I tried to keep my voice even and calm, but it still shook a bit despite my best efforts. “Pietro told me I could call him anytime I needed something, and y’know what? If I have another reason to call him, I fucking will.” My hand tightened on the phone. “I was locked in an animal cage because of him. Strip searched by McKinney while four men stood and watched. So if I want to call him for the goddamn time and weather, I fucking will, and I’m not gonna worry about annoying him.”
I heard him exhale. “I know,” he said. “You had a horrible experience, and a lot of it was Uncle Pietro’s fault. It’s still crazy to push it. But never mind, you don’t want my opinion, and this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
I was crying now. How could he still not understand? “No, it’s not getting us anywhere. And you don’t want to hear how bad it was. So forget it. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up before he could say anything else then buried my face in the couch pillow and gave in to a sob fest. For the first time I realized that I really didn’t have anyone I could talk to about what happened to me. I sure as hell couldn’t tell any non-zombie. Marcus had held me and listened to the whole story after my escape, but after that one time it was clear the subject upset him, and so I’d stopped saying anything about it.
My phone rang. It was Marcus, but I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. After a moment the ringing stopped and it dinged with the missed call alert. But he didn’t leave a voicemail, and I didn’t call him back.
Chapter 17
A sound woke me, a dull thumping, but without any particular rhythm or cadence. Early morning light filtered through the blinds, and I sat up, blinking away the remnants of uneasy sleep. The thumping sound repeated, and I looked down at the floor.
Water. Water everywhere. For a few precious seconds I thought that a water pipe had busted in the house. When I was about ten the pipe leading to the water heater had finally rotted through, and the entire back of the house ended up with an inch of water until my dad could shut it off.
But this was way more than an inch. At least a half foot of water covered the floor, lifting anything that could float. A shoebox rocked on its surface, bumping repeatedly into the dresser with a hollow thud.
Fear slashed through me as the implications sunk in. I jumped up out of bed and splashed through the ankle-deep water, then ran down the hall. “Dad! DAD!” Oh, please don’t let him be sleeping off a bender, I silently prayed. He’d be damn near impossible to wake up. “Dad!” I yelled. I shoved his door open, sending a wave rolling across the floor.
He jerked, blinked muzzily at me. “Wha…?”
“Wake up!” I slogged to the bed, grabbed his arm. “The house is flooding!” The water was halfway up my shin now.
He came fully awake in an instant, jerked upright. “Shit!”
“It’s rising fast,” I told him, still tugging at him. “Something must’ve happened to the spillway.”
“Hold on,” he said. “Keep your head together now. Go grab anything you can’t stand to lose.”
“That would be you,” I snarled.
He met my eyes, gaze clear and focused. Not sleeping off a bender at all, I realized. “I’m good, Angelkins.” He stood and began to paw through his nightstand. “Gimme a minute. I gotta get some stuff.”
I wanted to scream at him that we needed to go now, but I realized there was some stuff I needed to get, too
. I splashed back to my bedroom, water up to my knees and halfway up the side of the mini-fridge in my room. Willing my hands not to shake, I spun the lock and put the combination in. Dad had been cool the past few months, but after the one horrible experience of him destroying my stash, I’d kept a lock on the fridge, just in case. But, damn, I hated it now.
On the second try I got the damn thing open, grabbed the five bottles of brain smoothie and tossed them onto the bed. Still at least a foot to go before that was underwater. My cargo pants were in the top drawer of my dresser, thankfully. Trying to pull on wet pants would’ve been a nightmare, and I didn’t really want to try and escape the flood in my pink underwear. I snagged a pair of pants out of the drawer, jumped onto the bed to tug them on, then shoved two bottles into each side pocket and zipped them shut. The fifth I slugged down as fast as I could. Best place to store brains right now was inside of me. Shoes were a lost cause though. I always dropped them on the floor, so who the hell knew where they were now. And the water had risen another half-foot at least in the two minutes I’d spent getting pants and brains. My phone was on top of the dresser, to my relief. I dumped out the contents of a Walmart bag and wrapped my phone in it as best I could, then shoved it in a front pocket. Finally I pulled on a jacket and headed out into the hallway.
“Dad!” I shoved my way through the now-thigh-high water. “We need to go!”
He was already by the door, pants on and also wearing a thin jacket. “C’mon,” he said, motioning me toward him and the door, urgency thick in his voice. “Maybe we can—”
“Dad,” I choked out, cutting him off, my eyes locked on the view out the window. He followed my gaze and sucked in a breath. The front yard and street beyond was a turbulent rush of water. If we went out there we’d be at the mercy of the vicious current. I was an okay swimmer and could most certainly survive drowning, but not my dad. No zombie parasite to get him through it, and he wasn’t a good swimmer at all.
I seized his hand. “Attic,” I told him, pulse racing a mile a minute. “We need to get to the roof.”
We shoved through the still-rising water, and then he had to boost me up to reach the broken cord for the attic access. The fold-down ladder was a scary and rickety thing, and, after a brief screaming match about who should go first, my dad made it almost to the top before it gave way on one side. He managed to get up the rest of the way, then I used a bit of zombie power to haul myself up the broken ladder and into the attic.
I expected it to be pitch dark up there, but my dad had a flashlight he now shone around.
“There was a flashlight up here?” I asked.
“Grabbed it from the kitchen,” he said. “Glad I did, but now I’m wishing I’d grabbed a crowbar or hatchet.”
“Only crowbar is in the shed out back,” I reminded him. Which was probably completely underwater at this point.
He scowled, but deep lines of worry framed his eyes. The water was still rising, steadily creeping up the ladder, and we both knew stories of people who’d drowned because they fled into their attics during Hurricane Katrina only to find themselves trapped. I knew people who lived in flood-prone areas who kept hatchets or axes in their attics so they could cut their way through the roof in a worst case scenario, but we’d never bothered to do anything like that. Why the hell would we? That sort of thing happened to other people. Not us.
Right.
My dad continued to sweep the flashlight beam around as if hoping a crowbar or hatchet would magically appear. “Damn flood coulda waited another couple of hours so I could get some damn sleep,” he grumbled.
I snorted in agreement, then moved to the slope of the roof and rapped my knuckles against the wood. The house was at least fifty years old, and hadn’t been reroofed within my memory, so maybe there was some nice convenient weak spot I could bust through.
I moved a bit farther down the attic, then flicked a quick glance back at my dad. He was crouched, pawing through boxes that had probably been up here for decades. While his back was turned, I took a deep breath, braced myself with a grip on a rafter, and kicked the plywood of the roof as hard as I could.
I felt a snap in my foot, and pain flared, but I managed to make a splintery dent in the plywood. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I kicked again, and succeeded in breaking through enough to see daylight, though I had to stop and take several deep breaths while I waited for the pain to dull. The third kick didn’t hurt nearly as much, though I felt something else break in my foot. Yet now a definite hole rewarded my efforts. I gave a feral smile of triumph and grabbed at the edge of the slight gap, pushing and ripping plywood and tar paper away. The sound of rushing water filtered through the hole, and a glance back at the attic entrance showed me that the water was almost to the top of the ladder.
It also showed my dad staring at me in shock. “Angel,” he said with a distinct tremor in his voice. “What the hell are you doing?”
For a brief moment I considered coming up with a lie. There was a hole in the roof already. Or It was a weak spot, super easy to get through. Aren’t we lucky? But instead I simply turned back to the hole. “Getting us out of here,” I said. I took hold of the edge of the plywood, ripped a long section away and tossed it aside. Light streamed into the attic, and now I saw blood smeared along the wood.
“Your hands,” he choked out.
I looked down. They were shredded and bleeding. A three-inch long splinter protruded from the edge of my left palm, and with a calm air I didn’t really feel, I pulled it out and dropped it to the attic floor while I tried to ignore the fact that it had been embedded well over an inch deep.
“What the hell’s going on, Angel?” he asked me, eyes meeting mine, silently pleading for a reasonable, sensible answer. Too bad I didn’t have one for him.
“It’s sort of a medical condition,” I said. That was almost the truth, right? I unzipped a side pocket of my pants and pulled a bottle out, slugged the contents down. I didn’t look at my dad, but I felt his eyes on me, watching, wary.
“That’s the shit you keep locked up in your room,” he stated. “What is it? Some kinda steroids?”
I tossed the empty bottle aside, then looked down at my hands. “I guess you could say it’s a nutritional supplement,” I said quietly, watching as the cuts closed up and the flesh became whole again.
My dad’s flashlight clattered to the floor of the attic. “I…what…?” He stared at me, confusion and shock battling it out on his face.
I gave him a sad look. “It’s tough to explain.” The fresh influx of brains sang within me. I reached for the plywood, ripped a large piece away as easily as tearing paper. “Come on,” I said, hearing the catch in my voice. “We need to get out onto the roof.”
“Christ,” he breathed. He shot a look back at the attic opening and the rising water, then swallowed hard and moved toward me. I held a hand out to him. He paused before taking it, eyes on the blood that still clung to my hand even though the wounds were healed. Uncertainty filled his eyes as he lifted them to mine.
“Are you still…my Angelkins?”
I gave him an exasperated look. “Who the hell else would put up with your whiny bullshit?” I thrust my hand toward him. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get on the damn roof already!”
To my intense relief, he reached out and took hold of my hand. I gave his a squeeze, flashed him as reassuring a smile as I could manage, then clambered out the hole I’d made and onto the roof. I used the grip on my dad’s hand to steady him as much as myself as we scrabbled up to the peak of the roof and sat, straddling it.
For the first time I got a good look around. Water littered with plastic bottles, trash bags, branches, and other debris swirled a foot below the eaves. The familiar landscape of trees and houses and roads had been replaced by a seething unknown torrent.
I dug my fingers into the shingles. “Dad, we need to tie ourselves together somehow.”
He stared, aghast, at the ongoing destruction. “All I got is my belt.”
“Don’t know how much good that’ll do,” I said. No way his belt was long enough to go around both of us. I fumbled another bottle of brains out of my pants pocket, gulped it down while I struggled to come up with a solution to our current situation. Whatever happened, I knew staying tanked up was a good idea.
“What are we gonna do?” he asked. “Current’s too strong for us to do much of anything.”
I took an unsteady breath and fought for calm. “Wait for help as long as we can.” I abruptly sucked in a breath and slapped my hand over my front pocket. My phone! I pulled it out, carefully unwrapping it from the plastic. It appeared to be still dry, and miracle of miracles, I even had a signal.
I quickly dialed 911, then did my best to not sound as if I was completely freaked out and panicked, as I told the dispatcher that my dad and I were trapped on the roof of our house in the Sweet Bayou area.
“Rescue boats are being mobilized, ma’am,” the woman told me, sounding frazzled. I had no doubt I wasn’t the first person to beg for rescue. “They’re having trouble with the current, though. The spillway collapsed, and I don’t know how long it will take for them to get to you.” I heard the apology in her voice, the knowledge that there was nothing more she could do for us. She was our lifeline, and all she could do was tell us to hold on and hope for the best. I almost felt sorry for her.
Numb, I thanked her, clinging to the niceties out of habit even as I clung to the roof, and then hung up and stared down at the phone. Now what? There were no boats in sight, no imminent rescue on the horizon. I should call Marcus. Especially after how our conversation ended last night. But then I looked over at my dad. His arms trembled as he gripped the shingles along the rooftop. As much as a make up call with my not-quite boyfriend might help my emotional state, Marcus wasn’t the one who had the best chance of sending the help my dad needed.
“What did they say?” My dad asked.
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