“This action-packed, breakneck-paced novel featuring a duo of lovestruck teenaged protagonists is a wildly imaginative young-adult apocalyptic thriller that also utilizes elements of science fiction, fantasy, folklore, mythology and romance . . . the well-choreographed, thematically powerful conclusion, coupled with the deeply developed characters of Olivya and Mikah, make this a memorable read.”
~Kirkus Reviews
“The Apocalypse Gene is an unforgettable adventure that will take you from the virtual terrain of Cyber-Chicago to the edge of the galaxy in a struggle to save the world from a deadly plague. Olivya and Mikah, two extraordinary individuals full of passion and verve, live a bold legacy that inspires the imagination long after the last page is finished. A delightful read that integrates the best of science fiction and fantasy. Don’t miss it!”
-Karin Rita Gastreich, Author, “Eolyn”,
May 2011, Hadley Rille Books
“The Apocalypse Gene is fast paced, action packed, and laugh out loud funny, with vivid imagery, all set in a 'spanky', futuristic world. Innovative characters jump off the pages with such amazing clarity and snappy dialogue that it makes this a very enjoyable read. Olivya is definitely a character you can't help falling in love with. “
−Susan Stec, Author, “The Grateful Undead Series”,
January 2011, Black Matrix Publishing, LLC
“I loved this exciting, edge-of-the-seat adventure. The Apocalypse Gene carries you along, and the characters are amazing, especially Olivya, who is a rare combination of realistic, edgy, admirable, and interesting. I highly recommend this book!”
−Sheila Dalton, Author, “The Girl in the Box”,
April 2011, RendezVous Press
“The Apocalypse Gene is so imaginative and original that I couldn’t put it down! An extremely well-crafted tale set in a futuristic world that is nothing short of extraordinary. I fell in love with the sassy and incredibly clever Olivya, the most fascinating and hip young heroine to arrive on the scene in years. Buckle up for an unmatched thrill ride through a mystical realm where nothing is as it seems, and heart-stopping twists and turns lurk around every dark corner.”
−Erin Brown, former editor
HarperCollins and Thomas Dunne Books, a division of St. Martin’s Press
the
apocalypse
gene
by
Suki Michelle
and
Carlyle Clark
Moxie is an imprint of Parker Publishing Inc
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Suki Michelle and Carlyle Clark
Published by Parker Publishing Inc
12523 Limonite Avenue, Suite 440-438
Mira Loma, California 91752
www.parker-publishing.com
All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise - without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, events and incidents (in either a contemporary and/or historical setting) are products of the author’s imagination and are being used in an imaginative manner as a part of this work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, settings, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1600431029
First Edition
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover Design by Parker Publishing Inc
Dedication
Dedicated to our dearest Bree Nacsa. The influence of her charm, quirky intelligence, and nagamaki wit permeates these pages. Her astute edits made the story sing. Our pride in you is immeasurable.
Unending gratitude and love to our parents, Carl and Evangeline Clark and Leilani and Ivan Holmes for the power of their spirits, and to our colleagues, David Hunter, Susan Geyman, Karin Gastreich, Louise Saville, and Lori Bentley-Law, for sticking with us to the end.
Thank you to the lovely, logical and loyal Lisa Kodjavakian for being our steadfast friend and cheerleader; to Beryl Kelner Cook for her timelessness and sharp eyes; and to Caelin Jaz Gunther for his inspiring enthusiasm.
Chapter One
The Good as Dead
OLIVYA NEEDED TO escape death for just a few hours, feel free, be a normal fifteen-year-old kid for a change, if only for a few hours. Yeah, right. As if normal had ever been a word to describe her. She lay on the top bunk and stared at the cracked ceiling. She was trapped in this sick house, made worse by the memories it refused to give up, the home it had once been before Papa took the easy way out. Before Pandemic swept the world.
Of course, people needed a comfy place to die. The Wright-Ono Hospice filled the niche nicely. These days, the customer base could only grow. Mama had become quite the business woman, even seemed to enjoy the work. The Wright-Ono Hospice. Professional pain snuffers. Weavers of sunshiny hypno-dreams. Come die with us!
She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk and dropped to the floor, leaving her blanket and pillow in a jumbled mess. Mama's bunk was already neatly made, corners tucked. Just past dawn and Mama was already up bustling about, wiping foreheads, doling out generous portions of Narc, taking care of biz.
Olivya peered out the window. A few autumn leaves clung to the maple branches. A lone crow screeched, its hunched form backlit by the dawn sky. God, she wanted out. No way. Mama was tough, but she couldn’t run the hospice alone. Besides, the clients needed her. She crossed the room to the small closet, stepping around a box of syringes and a pile of sheets to be sterilized. Bleak as things were, they could be worse. At least Mama hadn't upgraded to euthanasia like so many others had in Hospice Row.
She passed the mirror, not bothering to look. Bending forward, she gave her long dreads a shake. A headache throbbed behind her eyes. The energy deep inside her brain, hummed, simmered, ready to burst. Stop it, she thought. Keep the aura sight tamped down. Stay as numb and peaceful as you can. A house filled with suffering was hard enough to take without all the psychic jazz to jack her up even more. The suppression exercises Papa taught her barely worked. More and more, the Sight had been activating on its own.
Pulling on some wrinkled gray scrubs, she padded down the hall, tearing down the useless air fresheners she'd taped to the walls the day before. Nice try, but there was no getting around the stench of bodily waste and industrial strength antiseptic. She passed the room that used to be her parents' bedroom, now the Ward where six Good-As-Deads lay side by side on narrow beds. The door was closed. Good. Best not to deal with them until she'd had a cup of strong coffee laced with plenty of sugar.
She found Mama in the kitchen perched on the tall stool, hunched over the countertop monitor, looking crisp in dark blue scrubs. Her bare feet gripped the lowest rung, toes curled. Mama's 'fro, black peppered with gray, would soon be hot-combed smooth. Her face, once round and puppyish, now appeared sunken, the jaw bone sharp. Mama had grown thin, but not frail, her limbs strong and wiry.
Dreary light filtered through the curtained window over the kitchen sink and settled over Mama's form. With just the slightest nudge of intention, Mama's aura would be visible, its colors revealing every nuance of her emotions. Olivya concentrated on not seeing it. She could read Mama well enough - eagerness in the rounded posture, determination in the bunched jaw muscles. Mama gripped the coffee mug, a little shaky, her knuckles sharp beneath tight dark skin.
Olivya held her breath, tiptoed in, and peered over Mama's shoulder. Lists of names scrolled up the screen. Mama tapped and highlighted a few entries then clicked to the next page. Why? No empty beds. They didn't need a new client, unless—
“Hey Mama,” Olivya asked. “Which one of them died?”
Mama spun, coffee sloshing. “You startled me, girl. You spyin' on me?”
“No. I just noticed you're scanning the lists, so I assume we have an empty bed. I mean, it's no big whoop, right? Someone's always dying around here. Was it Slim?”
“By 'Slim', I assume you mean Mr. Burton in Bed 3? No. No one died. I'm just checking the Agency databases.”
“Why? We don't have room for another GAD.”
“GAD? What are you talking about?”
“A Good-As-Dead. A goner.”
Mama sprang from the chair and thrust a finger in Olivya's face. “Now listen here. These people come for care and comfort in their last days. I won't have you disrespecting them with your cruel nicknames.”
“That was spikin' bitchy of me. Sorry.”
“Why do you say things like that, Livvie? Good-As Deads?”
“Maybe it helps if I don't think of them as actual people with actual names.” Olivya held Mama's gaze. A faint, dull yellow light pulsed in the space around Mama's head, the aura color associated with shame or guilt. Olivya knew she shouldn’t mention it, but the words flew out of her mouth anyway. “What are you feeling guilty about?”
“What? I'm not! Why would you say that?”
“Yeah. You are. I see it.”
After the usual moment of reluctant awe, Mama shook her head. “I'm in no mood for that hoo-doo nonsense, you hear me?”
“Why are you scanning the database?”
“Because we have three lingerers and three end-stagers right now, and—”
Again, that faint yellow flicker, this time with a brownish web of dread. Olivya tensed. “And what?”
“I need to upgrade the Hypno-Peace units and Narc stockpiles. I need more revenue.”
“So you're looking for a new client, even though there's no empty bed?”
“Yes. The new arrival will only need a temporary cot.”
“You mean—”
“Yes. I’m upgrading our services to Deliverance. And keep your hypersensitive self away from this one.”
“You swore you wouldn’t.”
“Livvie, please try and understand.”
“Yeah? That's what you said when you changed our home into a death house. That's what you always say. This time, I say no. I will never understand how you could actually murder someone.”
“Deliverance is a mercy and you know it.”
“Really? I think it's beyond horrible. Especially after what Papa did.”
“We have to go on living best we can 'til the Pandemic claims us too. Harsh words for harsh times, kiddo. Now go do your chores. School starts in less than an hour.”
Olivya stood straight and squared her shoulders. “I won't stick around while you do it.” Big talker, she thought. Who am I kidding? Relatives all dead. No money. No blood friends. Sleeping in the streets or warehoused in an overcrowded orphanage.
“You think you can survive out there on your own, Livvie? You think it's easy?”
“Easier than staying here while you kill someone.” Olivya squinted, trying hard not to see Mama's aura, which now rippled with sadness. “Please don’t upgrade.”
“I have to.”
“I'll leave.”
“Really? Where would you go?”
“Doesn’t matter. Maybe I'll run off with Mikah. Who cares?” Olivya squeezed her eyes shut, breathed deeply, forced her mind to be quiet and the aura sight to dim. When she opened them again, she tried to ignore Mama's pale, wispy colors. “I can hardly keep it down lately,” she said.
“Keep what down?”
“The aur . . . oh never mind. Let's face it. I'm just blowing smoke. I won't leave, but I don’t want anything to do with Deliverance.”
“Sorry, Livvie. Not an option. You'll have to assist. It's a two-person job.”
“No freakin' way! I refuse to be an accessory to murder!”
“Oh stop the drama. It's just a service.”
“A service? It's hideous. Horrible. Damn it, Mama. You lied to me.”
The slap came hard across Olivya's cheek. Her eyes filled with tears. She turned to leave, but Mama hooked her arm and spun her around. “I don't know what came over me. Please, Livvie. I need you. Now more than ever.”
“Save your remorse for the new client.” Olivya stomped out of the kitchen without a backward glance, rubbing her stinging cheek.
Olivya gripped the doorknob before going into the ward. “Push it down,” she whispered to herself. “No tears. No Sight. No choice.”
Shielded as best she could, she held her breath, stepped in, and braced herself for the dry, filtered air, the thinly masked stench of feces, and the tang of sick sweat. No getting past it, but she'd power through. She always did.
Six beds jutted into the room off the long windowless wall to the right, each with a vital sign monitor and Hypno-Peace unit on the attached bedside table. Shelves lined the wall to the left, packed with instruments, gauges, monitors, vials of gov-grade Narc - heroin, morphine, opiates, hypnotics, even aerosol canisters of the street drug, whiff, legal for hospice use only.
Directly across the room on the short front wall, heavy drapes hung on each side of the picture window overlooking the front yard. At the edge of the brown lawn stood an elm tree, limbs like blackened bones rattling in the breeze. Across the street, other home-based hospices huddled together. They lined the city blocks for miles in every direction. With most stores closed and hospitals overflowing, Hospice Row was the only place left in Chi-Town where business was still brisk.
A shaft of early sunlight found its way in. Olivya snapped the drapes closed. In the muted light, the air swirled with red-tinged eddies. She knew that vile reddish murk, that sneaky undertone - the auric hue of malignancy, a color charged with pain, despair, and death. She rubbed her eyes and breathed deeply, fighting the need to slap the tainted atmosphere off her skin.
She was only responsible for three GADs, the so-called lingerers, Half, Marigold, and Slim. Still conscious but gravely ill, they measured their remaining time in days, maybe weeks. The other three, end-stagers, were Mama's responsibility, fully coma-tranked, about to breathe their last at any moment.
The victims had one thing in common. Cells dividing out of control. Tumors in almost every organ. Olivya had searched the Net, but there was little solid information. All types of cancers had accelerated, seemingly overnight, morphing into one unstoppable super-cancer. The old therapies stopped working, and the world's greatest minds had no idea why. Olivya had long since given up the research.
She plucked the Med-Rec Pod off the wall hook and keyed up the checklist, cradling the Pod carefully. She'd already broken two of the valuable instruments, once by accident and once, back in the early days, when she heaved it against the wall in a rage. Mama, terrified her Hospice operating license would be suspended, had been furious, but with the need for qualified centers reaching critical mass, the Agency let it pass with a reprimand and a fine.
Olivya approached Half. From forehead to toes, his black skin was dotted with blacker nodules. He'd requested to remain conscious and mobile for as long as possible. After just a week at the Wright-Ono Hospice, he was closing in on neither. She touched his shoulder gently. The right side of his mouth curled in a half-slung grin. He peered at her with one bright eye. The other wandered sideways. His weak arm hung limply over the edge of the bed. Olivya picked it up and tucked it into the sheet.
“There you go. Better?”
“Yuh,” Half said. “Vedder.”
With the pod stylus, she ticked off Half's morning data. Urine in the Foley bag, clear. Ostomy clean. Client AX539. Condition: Live. Mental Status: Conscious. Vital Signs: Stable.
Half gripped her sleeve with his good hand, a bony yellow claw. “Uhhh. Shtay phleeze, Libv Yuh.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, easing her arm away from Half's pincer-like grip. “I'll be back later to check on you. We'll hang out then, okay?”
Half nodded weakly and closed his eyes.
Two more to go. Hands slick on the pod, fingers aching from gripping the stylus, Olivya moved on to Marigold, who always smelled faintly of cherry cough drops. Hypno-Peace ear buds delivered delta waves deep inside her brain, lulling the frail woman into a blissful state with preprogrammed dreams. Marigold had chosen the Meadow Series for her module, which had inspired the nickname. Marigold would skip and prance happily to her death through green grass and flowers.
The Hypno-Peace panel lit up. The unit began a rapid beep. Marigold grimaced. Just as suddenly, the beeping stopped, and Marigold relaxed, peaceful once more. Olivya checked the program module. It looked all right. She picked up Marigold's quad cane that had fallen, leaned it against the bedside table, then ticked off the data, adding a note for Mama to check the Hypno-Peace unit.
Next came Slim. So thin he barely made a bump in the sheet, he slept on his side facing her, head half buried beneath the pillow, one arm slung over to keep the pillow in place. She swept a lock of thick gray hair off his hot forehead. She touched his hand. Cold. Dry. Easing the sheet back, she checked the colostomy. Empty and firm against his skin. She would make sure that Slim's last days were comfortable. No one deserved to suffer this way, least of all Slim, who never complained and was always kind.
She almost wished he were awake. Maybe he'd give her a sleepy wink or tell a lame joke. A picture of Slim's family sat on the bedside table in a heart-shaped mother-of-pearl frame, “The Burtons” engraved in script. Pretty young wife in jeans and a tank top. Lanky blonde kid, about Olivya's age, in a long blue leggings and heels. All lost to the pandemic.
As she keyed in Slim's data, his vital sign monitor blinked off. She reached up and tapped it. Nothing. Shook it. Nothing. Suddenly, it crackled and popped back on. She jumped and fumbled for the Pod, but it slipped from her hands and skittered across the floor, hit the metal foot of Slim's bed, and spilled its guts of blue and orange wires. Slim's heart rate tracing reappeared, rapid but steady.
Shaken, Olivya hurried from the Ward, relieved that Slim was still alive but her mind a jumble of apologies and explanations for yet another piece of broken hardware. Mama would flip, for sure.
The doorbell rang. Olivya pressed her back against the hallway wall.
“Come on in,” Mama said. “Park him here.”
Wheels clattered in the foyer. Already? It had only been a half hour since Mama brought up the lists on the kitchen computer. Her first Deliverance victim.
“Have a seat in the kitchen while I check him in,” Mama said, her voice crisp and professional. One minute a crying pissed-off wreck, the next, a confident take-charge kind of woman.
Olivya crept into the living room and sat on the edge of the overstuffed couch. She picked at the loose threads of worn blue corduroy, straining to listen, eyes fixed on the kitchen door.
“Thank you, Ma'am,” the deliveryman said. “Uh, it's kind of hot in here. His voice sounded reedy and thin, like air escaping a balloon. “May I have some water?”
The faucet ran. A glass plunked on the table.
“Let me see the consent forms and checklist,” Mama said.
“Here you go, Ma'am. Full Service. Deliverance.”
Olivya eyed the foyer and front door, which hung open revealing a sliver of sparkling autumn. She could just make out a gurney wheel and the corner of a white bedsheet. A flurry of dead leaves blew in and skittered across the foyer floor. The breeze found her and cooled her face.
She crossed the braided rag rug that Grandma Ono had made for her parents as a wedding present. Careful to step over the squeaky spots on the hardwood floor, she pressed her ear to the kitchen door. The keyboard chattered as Mama punched in the new arrival's admission data.
Deliverance. Olivya hated that slithery word, that thin euphemism. Why not call it what it was? Murder. Her legs tensed, straining to run through the front door, down the street, east to Lake Michigan, and keep on going, right into the cool deep waters. Instead, she crept to the foyer, careful to stay out of Mama's line of sight.
The new GAD lay mummy-bound in a pale blue blanket. This one had no intention of hanging out in a tranquilized coma or happily zoned on Hypno-Peace. He just wanted out. She wanted to look into the soul of this death-wisher. Did it take courage to broadcast that invitation to the Reaper? You are cordially invited to escort me to oblivion.
The sickly sweet stench of diseased flesh and stale urine wafted from the GAD. His sweat-soaked orange hair lay like worms on his forehead. Straps held his wrists to the side rails. His lips fluttered with each labored breath. She frowned. He looked just like all the others. Nothing special - shrunken, coma-tranked, and reeking. Was he a coward or a hero? The answer didn't show in his face, but she could find it in his aura.
A chill breeze rippled, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Maybe the old Reaper was already standing right there, ready to claim his prize. If she allowed herself to fully Sight, would she see Death's black robes, its bottomless eyes rimmed in bone? She wanted to curse it, spit in its hideous face. Like Papa, this newcomer had set out a welcome mat for Death.
Mama would be furious if she caught her gaping, disobeying orders to stay away. Olivya would have to hurry, but a moment was all she needed.
She closed her eyes, lifted her defenses and willed the Sight to come. Colors, shapes and lights swirled behind her lids. She compressed them into a single point of white-light deep inside her mind, then she opened her eyes.
The GAD's aura, at first vague and wavy, sharpened into view. Despite the drug-induced coma, misery rose from him in sluggish waves. The dull red of malignancy throbbed against a background of greenish-gray - similar to the other Good-As-Deads, but somehow weightier. Intuition told her to look more closely.
Faint hues darted behind that auric death-shroud, ghosts of the man's former emotions. A streak of robin's egg blue, shimmers of peach. An eerie feeling came over her. Something looked familiar about this combination of gentle pastels in this particular pattern.
The face of a smiling man rose in her mind's eye, one who had always been patient with the friendless psychic girl. Mr. Gragg. Her Seventh Grade English teacher from the old brick and mortar. Could this be him? It looked nothing like him. Mr. Gragg had been thick-muscled and robust, his hair a riot of bright orange ringlets. Yes. That pastel aura was Mr. Gragg's. She recognized the colors of his unique, unflagging kindness. Why him? Then again, so many in the world had cancer. Why not him?
Olivya caught Mama's voice in the kitchen. “Any family?”
“Not any more,” the deliveryman said.
“All right. Thank you. I'll take it from here.”
Chair legs scraped the floor. Rubber soles squeaked toward the foyer. Olivya had to hide, but where? She scooted into the living room and pressed against a bookcase just off the foyer wall. The deliveryman strode from the kitchen, eyes locked straight ahead, and plunged through the front door, eager to be rid of his cargo, his aura trailing after him.
She wanted to stay with Mr. Gragg a little longer, do something for him, help him somehow. Papa always said her abilities made her special, that great things would happen because of her, but he'd been wrong. She couldn't heal, or give comfort, or keep people close. Seeing just brought knowledge no one was meant to have. People always sensed her intrusion and pulled away. No friends. Alone. Her psychic ability had always been as pointless as a GAD saving for retirement. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will the Sight away.
Mama stepped out of the kitchen. Olivya eased back to her hiding place.
“I can see you in the mirror,” Mama said.
Olivya yelped. “Oh I . . .I'm sorry Mama. I was just going to get some coffee, and then I saw Mr. Gra -, ah, the GAD, I mean the new client.”
Mama spread her feet, put one fist on her hip, and wagged her finger. “I thought I told you to stay away from this one.”
“I'm sorry. It's just that—”
“Give me the pod. I have work to do.”
Still there. Mama's swirling hues. Practical yellow, calculating gray, deep coral scribbles of frustration. A stray corkscrew curl sprang from the top of Mama's head. Olivya focused on it as she pushed the Sight to the background.
“Well?” Mama said. “Where is the Med-Rec pod?”
“I dropped it.”
“And?”
“It broke.”
Mama hung her head. “Dear Lord. You're driving me crazy.” She lifted her eyes and impaled Olivya with her gaze. “That's it. You're Zeroed.”
“What? Zeroed? I'm practically an adult. That's ridiculous!”
“At fifteen? Not even close. You may find it ridiculous, but it's a done deal. No Internet. No Cy-Chi. No chat. No interactive tech whatsoever. I'm converting your computer to workstation-only status. You can go to class and do homework, and that's it.”
“Mama. Be reasonable. I didn’t mean to break the damn pod. I didn’t mean to−”
“To what? Invade a client's privacy? Snoop into his very soul?”
“Ah, so you do believe it, huh?”
“Doesn’t matter. I told you to stay away from him. You didn’t. How am I going to replace that pod? If I lose this job, we lose our home. We'll be living in some abandoned house, hiding from Shivpacks and begging for food.”
“I'm really sorry. It won't happen again. I promise. I'll shut up. I'll deal.”
“I've heard that before. I can't afford trouble.”
“Calm down,” Olivya said. “I mean yeah, I get it. You're upset. I would be too if I had murder on my to-do list.” Olivya regretted the words the moment they left her lips. She stepped forward and held out a hand. Mama's colors flickered, a flash of hurt quickly fading to a dull, resigned yellow. A goddamn light show. Get a grip.
“Please, Mama. Don't Deliver Mr. Gragg! He was nice to me.”
“How do you know his name?”
“He was my Seventh Grade English teacher. Remember?”
“Dear God.”
“Look. I'll get a job. We can close the hospice. Live here like we used to. Just you and me. Okay? Please?”
“There are no jobs. No shops, no restaurants. Everything's gone cyber. You think I didn't try to find another way, back when we had less than nothing? Now I know. This isn't just a job, Livvie. It's a calling.”
“But his colors were beautiful.” Olivya's eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t.
“No more crazy talk,” Mama said.
The tears came anyway. Fine. Let them roll. “Mr. Gragg deserves to live, Mama. As long as he possibly can.”
Mama sighed, and rubbed her face. “He wants to die.”
Olivya hoped for some sign that she might change her mind about the Deliverance, take back the zeroing, but she saw no giving in. She stomped to her room and slammed the door.
Ten minutes to class. She sat at her desk, that enchanted space in the corner of her room, and ran a fingertip along the new paper-thin gel-coat monitor, so smooth it almost felt oily. A reward of Mama's success. Government-issue CPU, holo-capable, fully loaded. This was Olivya's portal to the vibrant cyber-world, the only world that mattered, soon to be taken away when Mama shut her down.
Olivya powered up the CPU and loaded the Cyber-Chicago program. Cy-Chi had its share of creeps, hypocrites, and judges, just like the old brick and mortar school, but in Cy-Chi, she didn't have to fight. At first, that was cool. Peaceful. Now, after a year hanging out with the dying day after day, drained from resisting her useless gift, an all-out kick-fest might be just the thing she needed to ease her freakin' jitters.
She jabbed the start icon on the screen. The monitor blinked on. The keypad floated up from the desktop footprint. She typed: Olivya Wright-Ono, FWP5252.
A spiral whirled onto the screen, took form, and solidified into her holo-sim, a perfect image of herself, about six inches tall. At the beginning of the school year, she'd tweaked that thing for hours until it resembled her exactly: Long, ropy dreadlocks. Dark almond Asian eyes, like Papa's only larger. Dark skin somewhere between Mama's ebony African complexion and Papa's Japanese paleness. Heart-shaped face, exactly right. When she directed the holo-sim to smile, it showed the slight overbite complete with a gap between the two front teeth. That had taken some doing, but Olivya loved the result. She clicked the wardrobe icon and dressed the holo-sim in an orange turtleneck, jeans, and a pair of combat boots then tapped it into wait-mode and booted up Virtual-School.
The marquee floated to the screen, Francis W. Parker Virtual High School, printed on its icon, a small white house with a pointed roof. A few of the student icons already glowed green, waiting to march their holo-sims to their desk-slots. She found Mikah's icon and nudged it, hoping he would log on early so she could tell him about the Zeroing. When would she be able to talk to him again outside of school? He didn't even have a cell phone.
Mikah had joined V-class weeks ago, cute and adorably shy. His holo-sim showed more depth than the others, so finely designed it almost seemed like a living boy. With a boldness she'd never have in person, Olivya had directed her holo-sim to shoulder through the crowd of girlie-Sims that always surrounded Mikah's and invited him to meet her in the Cyber Lounge after school. His holo-sim smiled. So sweet, the even white teeth, the mysterious violet-colored eyes.
Their holo's chatted and flirted for hours that day, and every day after that. He told her how gorgeous she was. She returned the compliment - glad he couldn’t see how her breath quickened. Eventually, she told him about her aura sight, how the colors revealed people's deepest truths. Mikah passed the test. He didn’t join the legions of kids who considered her flaming crazy.
Yet he remained a mystery, never spoke of himself, not really. Didn’t have a cell phone. How odd is that? And now that she'd been Zeroed, she didn't know when she'd have a chance to get to know him better. She nudged his icon again and again as Mr. Gragg's ruined face rose in her mind's eye, his wrists lashed to the gurney rails, his sweet pastels, dim and sadly distant.
She tapped her foot. Chewed off a couple of fingernails. A minute passed. Two. Three. At last, Mikah's icon switched to green then flickered and morphed into his holo-sim. As always, her breath caught at its beauty. Jet-black hair tickling broad shoulders, smooth olive-toned skin, slanted-down violet eyes that hinted at its designer's soulfulness. If Mikah in person was half as fine looking, 'damn' was about all she could say. She nudged his holo with her blinking-heart cursor.
“Hi, Olivya,” Mikah's holo said.
She put her lips to the console mike. “Yeah, yeah, I gotta tell you something,” she whispered, wiggling the stylus over her holo's eyes to widen them for emphasis. “Another one came today.”
“Another what?”
“GAD. I knew him. My old English teacher, the only adult, hell, the only person, who was nice to me. In a few hours . . .oh God. My mother's going to kill him. I wish I could get out of here. I can't breathe. I'm so doom-chilled.”
“Do you have to stay there when she does it?”
“What choice do I have? On top of everything, she caught me Sighting Mr. Gragg when she'd warned me to stay away. She Zeroed me. I don't know for how long.”
“I'm so sorry. I . . . I wish I could, I dunno . . . hold you.”
“Yeah,” she said. She imagined herself in Mikah's arms. What would it feel like to be close enough to touch, not via holo-sim, but skin to actual skin? She guided her holo close to his. They leaned together, foreheads touching. It almost seemed real.
“Meet me tonight,” he whispered.
“I want to.”
“Then do.”
“I can't. Zeroed. She's jacking my cell phone, shutting me out of Cy-Chi.”
“I don’t mean the Cyber-Lounge, Olivya. I mean you. The real you. Tonight.”
“You mean go outside? No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the only time I go out is for supply runs, no more than a half-hour in broad daylight. Even then, I have to keep my GPS live. If my mom found out, she'd shoot me up with Sat-Link nano-chips. I'd never be able to leave.”
“Where would she have gotten those? I thought Sat-Link nano chips are just used for high-escape-risk criminals.”
“Pretty much. I used to get in a lot of fights. A couple of years ago I did some damage, broke a kid's jaw, a real A-hole. He deserved it, but you how that is right? Juvie slammed me with house arrest, but I kept sneaking out. That was before the pandemic hit, when sob stories still had an effect. Mama wore down the powers-that-be with her pitiful stories of maternal desperation and her wayward kid. It didn’t hurt that I had an uncle in the Chicago PD, dead now, of course. He gave her the nano chips.”
“Wow. That's crazy.”
“Yeah. She hasn’t used them, but she would if she had to. She figures she'd rather have me Sat-Linked than roaming the streets and getting myself killed.”
“Chicago is safe compared to other parts of the world. No bombings or riots, the murder rate, lowest in the nation. It's not so bad.”
“Maybe the murderers are too weak to work, but a Shivpack's a Shivpack, and where there are whiff heads, there are whiff dealers. Those dudes don't mess.”
“I know. But still, Olivya. I, uh, really want to see you face to face. I can sneak out. So can you.”
“Hold on a sec. Let me think.” She quick-tapped her holo-sim into wait mode. The screen clock started its five-minute countdown to the bell. Could she?
She bit her lip and gazed out the window. At the edge of the weed-infested back lawn, the willow tree swayed. She used to train out there with Papa each morning before he went to teach at the dojo, their Japanese nagamaki swords slicing the air. She shook off the memory. Soon she'd be helping Mama set up the IV, loading the bag with poison, and sending an old friend down Toxic River. Half, Marigold, Slim, good as dead, like everyone else. Damn it. She had to live while she could, while her conscience was still intact. She tapped back live.
“Mikah. Can you score a phone?”
“No. Phones are, um, not allowed. Please. Just come.”
“Weird, but okay. On one condition. No dodging my questions. Tonight you're going to tell me everything I want to know about you. No more mystery.”
Mikah's holo-sim's expression switched from hopeful to grim. “Olivya,” it said, “that's exactly what I want. Meet me at the stone bench behind the Monkey House at the abandoned zoo. One a.m.”
Chapter Two
Mikah
MIKAH COULD HARDLY believe Olivya had agreed to meet him that night. The Kindred would be gone, and this might be the only opportunity he'd ever have to leave the Complex unnoticed. His fingers drummed the desk. Beautiful Olivya. Real. Alive. Warm.
No one in the Kindred clan would understand, least of all Changarai. What would he do if he found out about her? The Kindred had secrets, all of them dark, and they meant to keep them secret. Well, now Mikah had a secret too, but he'd have to be careful. Very careful. It was worth the risk, to feel this way for the first time in his solitary life, this emotion, so unfamiliar he hardly recognized it. Happiness.
When the bell for V-school rang, Mikah guided his holo-sim as close to Olivya's as he could, unable to take his eyes off it. The rich, café mocha skin, wild dreadlocks gathered in a thick ponytail, the quirky intelligence in those exotic Asian eyes. He loved how the living girl directed her holo-sim to smile when it caught his holo's eye.
The Teach-holo zipped to the front of the classroom grid to announce the Friday lesson plan. History. Science. Math. Simple things Mikah had learned years ago from his Kindred tutors, but from an Indig point of view. Fascinating. Still, it was hard to pay attention, knowing this would be his last day at V-school.
A pair of female holo-sims slunk into class late, the ones Olivya referred to as Holo-Hos, whatever that meant. The Teach-holo gave an impatient blink, and the detention counter beside the girls' names clicked up. Still, they lingered near Mikah's desk with goofy big-toothed smiles. Beyond silly. He ignored them. Olivya's holo-sim was so different from the rest. Mikah remembered that first day when it pushed through the crowd of vacant girl-holos and introduced itself. Such confidence. Such depth.
Olivya's holo-sim, startlingly real, was almost as lifelike as his own. He'd fiddled with his for hours to ward off boredom, poured his psychic energy into the thing until it seemed nearly alive. Olivya's showed similar realism, amazing how well she'd unconsciously enlivened it with her psychic energy. Obviously highly gifted, which made meeting her face-to-face risky. How far inside his soul would her talent allow her to see? Would his aura colors show how rotten he truly was? Did a killer's aura have a special tint?
He sensed someone coming and focused his mind. The psychic signature was easy to recognize, great power, coiled and ready. Changarai, the Kindred Eldest.
Mikah tapped his holo-sim into standby and switched off the monitor. Why would Changarai come to his rooms now? He had no lessons scheduled until the afternoon. The Kindred Eldest wouldn’t bother checking to make sure he'd quit V-school. He simply expected his orders to be obeyed. If they weren’t, punishment would be swift and painful, a brutal beating in the guise of a sparring session, or maybe a psionic thrashing with Changarai whipping white-hot bolts of psionic energy to the core of Mikah's brain until he fell to his knees. Given a choice, Mikah preferred the beating.
Changarai stopped outside the door, not even bothering to knock or try the handle. He expected Mikah to know he was standing there, waiting. Even when asleep, Mikah had been trained to keep his telempathy awake.
“Coming,” Mikah said. “I just woke up.” He pulled a robe on over his boxers and T-shirt, crossed the plush Persian carpet, kicked a skateboard and one of his dumbbells out of the way, and slid open the double doors. “Lesson at three today, right?”
“No lesson today,” Changarai said as he strode in. Tall, narrow, and black-skinned, Changarai looked like a modern-day African king, bald head gleaming like black marble, finely shaped nose, a bit crooked, sculpted cheekbones, and the gleaming dark eyes of a wizard. Changarai wore a tailored charcoal gray suit, white linen shirt, and cerulean blue silk tie with the ever-present jeweled dragon tiepin. Mikah sensed that Changarai's liking for fashionable clothes might be the result of his inconceivably old age and the need to redefine himself age after age. Centuries ago he wore robes and a turban. In another time, a ruffle-collared shirt and hose. Today, Armani.
By habit, Mikah used his psionic talent to get a read on Changarai's mood. No harm in trying. Of course, the Kindred Eldest's mind was closed tight, and Mikah picked up only slight vibrations. Changarai was feeling what? Excited? Tense? It was so easy to read the emotions of Indigs, not Kindred, and especially not Changarai.
“I thought we were going into the city today so I could practice my telempathy on Indigs,” Mikah said.
“Canceled. There is a special meeting tonight. A Gathering. You are ordered to stay in your rooms.”
Of course, Mikah already knew of the Gathering. The Neo-Twins, Kaiman and Ash, made sure of that. They never missed an opportunity to rub it in that he would never be one of them. They meant to hurt him, taunt him with the fact that he was unwelcome. This time, they'd given him an opening instead - the chance to see Olivya.
“A Gathering?” Mikah asked, faking ignorance. “About what?”
“Not your concern. It is only for the Initiated.”
“Then everyone but me, huh?” He shrugged. “Why'd you come up here?”
“Angry?” Changarai said. “Why?”
“Never mind.”
“Lower your psionic shield and let me see for myself.”
The last thing Mikah needed was Changarai poking around in his mind, learning that he planned to sneak out. There would be severe consequences, not just for him, but for Olivya. He could survive another thrashing, but he couldn’t let Olivya suffer because of him.
“No need to probe, Changarai. I'll just tell you. Yes. I'm angry. I want to stay in V-school. I don't understand why you've forbidden it.”
“Any longer, and you might start making friends. Personal relationships with Indigs are not only pointless, they are forbidden. Yes, we work among them, speak to them when we must, but we are not the same species.”
Changarai's expression and subtle vibes hinted at something. Mikah probed and poked at Changarai's psionic shield, but as always, the Kindred Eldest's thoughts and feelings were as shielded as the plutonium core of a nuclear reactor. Mikah hoped his own were as well protected. “Then why'd you let me join V-school in the first place?” he said. “I don’t get it.”
“To show you what you're not missing. The material is irrelevant and juvenile as are the minds of your virtual classmates.”
Mikah pushed a bit more energy into his shield, just to make sure the Kindred Eldest stayed the hell out. No good could come of his knowing he'd struck up a friendship with an Indig.
“Mikah,” Changarai continued, “you have no right to be angry. You have computers, books, your own gym, games, puzzles, gourmet food. You live like a prince, surrounded by the finest art of the ancient world.” He swept an arm toward the shelves above Mikah's bed, to the ivory goddess figurines, wooden totems, Grecian pots, copper knives from ancient Peru, cedar carvings from King Solomon's temple.
“A fancy prison is still a prison,” Mikah said.
“Perhaps these things might spark a sense of wonder. They are not archeological finds but items once held in Prime's own hands, when they were new.”
“Prime had hands? Not flippers or fleshy knobs? How could you know?”
Changarai's expression never changed, but Mikah cringed inside. Here he was, laying on the sarcasm to the Kindred Eldest who, in all his millennia of life, had fought a thousand battles. He wouldn’t hesitate to crack Mikah's skull with a single blow and leave him there, in pain for hours, as the wound healed.
The Kindred Eldest, formal, unbearably dignified, sometimes cruel and always mysterious, was different than the other Kindred in just one way. He spoke to Mikah on occasion. Still, as bad as Changarai was, he was far better than the demon that dwelled in the sub-basement, the monstrosity known as Prime.
Mikah didn’t like the thoughtful way Changarai was looking at him. It was important that the Eldest remain focused on the Gathering, not on what Mikah would be doing after the Kindred left. Mikah had already figured out how to beat the security system. He didn't need Changarai adding extra measures because he was suspicious.
“I apologize, Changarai,” he said, forcing as much remorse into his voice as he could.
Changarai peered at him, lips a straight, unyielding line. “Accepted. Hard and glorious times are upon us, Mikah. You want something useful to do? Hone your telempathy skills. Continue to train your mind and body.”
“How can my telempathy grow if I'm never challenged?”
Changarai fiddled with his dragon tiepin with one hand, and placed the other on Mikah's shoulder, his fingers hard and cold as rock as they dug into Mikah's flesh. “Your potential is limitless, but power without the skill to wield it is simply another form of weakness. You must keep training. One day, you will understand. There are many things you can do to challenge yourself.”
“How about I practice my telempathy on one of the Kindred? How about you, Changarai? Let down your shield. Let me read you.”
Changarai stared at Mikah, a slight frown at his lips. Was he actually considering it? Would he lower his shield and give Mikah a glimpse?
With a slow head shake, Changarai said, “Not allowed.”
“I know,” Mikah said. “I've heard it a thousand times. 'It is forbidden for the Initiated to allow the un-Initiated access to one's thoughts.' Since I'm the only one who hasn’t been Initiated, that makes it a pretty specific disqualifier, wouldn't you say?”
“Prime will bring you into the fold when he feels the time is right. Not before.”
Mikah shuddered, glad for the millionth time that no one could read his thoughts. What would the Kindred think if they knew that the last thing Mikah wanted was Initiation? Though he burned to know the truths that Initiation would reveal, the consequences would be horrible. Initiation would twist him, like it had the others. Warp his psionics, turn him into one of them.
The Kindred sucked in human suffering, gorged on the misery the Pandemic brought. The last thing he wanted was to be a psychic vampire with an appetite for pain. He had to find a way to avoid that fate.
They called themselves a clan, but each was an isolated being, hungrily drinking in more and more misery as they hid in their suites or wandered about the twenty-story Complex, never socializing or celebrating, no laughter, no friendly chatter, always alone.
The Complex had once been an ordinary apartment building with hundreds of individual units. When the Kindred bought it decades ago, walls came down and rooms were joined to give each a vast, private space to wallow in. Changarai lived with his mate, Diamanta. The Neo-Twins, Kaiman and Ash, also shared living quarters. The rest of the twenty-odd Kindred lived alone, each with an entire floor.
Communal areas took up the bottom floors, with sitting parlors, rarely used, cold chrome and glass tables, black leather sofas, and the kitchen where the Kindred chef clinked his knives and glowered. Changarai's administrative suites were at the lower level, the walls hung with rich tapestries of dragons, obsidian dragon statuettes on tables and shelves, and a pony-sized dragon statue in the plush carpeted hallway. Also on the lower level was the Sanctorum Incunabula, where texts and scrolls, both Kindred and Indig, ancient and modern, were stored.
Mikah studied Changarai's face. Hard to tell if he was in a receptive mood, but Mikah needed information, and barring Initiation, there was only one place he might get it. “Um, Changarai. Since you're blocking V-school, how about giving me full access to the Sanctorum?”
“Granted.”
“Thank you, Changarai.”
What luck! With full access, he could finally get his hands on the Codex Spawnicus, the book that supposedly held many of the secrets of Kindred history.
“Spend the day with the Codex, Mikah. Learn as much as you can. The information might be useful for the events to come, after the Gathering.”
Mikah stared at Changarai, throat tightening, stomach heavy as a brick. The main purpose of the Codex was to fill in the knowledge gaps, if there were any, after Initiation. If Changarai wanted him to start on the Codex, could that mean that Initiation was coming soon?
It wasn't just the thought of Initiation and what it might do to him that made him sick with dread. It was the fact that he'd have to be alone with Prime, close to the monster's twisted energy and constantly morphing shape, that hideous creature near enough to touch. He hated thinking about that cellar-dwelling thing, yet his presence permeated the Complex. Prime. The Ancient One. Vile. Disgusting.
Sometimes at night, Mikah would gaze out his bay window, dreaming about what it might be like to plunge through the glass and ride the gravity express straight down to eternal nothingness. He'd catch a glimpse of a lurching form among the trees, a darker dark in the shadows, oozing through the expanse of park-like grounds that joined the Complex with the shores of Lake Michigan. He’d spy Prime, the monster, slipping along the beach in random directions, as if lost.
That shape sometimes caught the moonlight, a pale glow darting among the perfectly manicured hedges at the Complex boundaries. Prime. No boogieman. Real. He'd haunted Mikah's nightmares since he was a little kid. Lately, the changes had accelerated. Prime was growing restless, leaving the Complex more and more often, capering and shrieking about the grounds.
Just a week ago, Mikah caught a rare sight of Prime inside the Complex, slinking past an open door in one of the first floor parlors. He looked thick and clumsy. Then yesterday, Mikah saw the beast again. He'd changed, become taller, oddly flexible, and lighter on his feet. Only Prime's brown, shapeless robes stayed the same, and the absurdly long black patent leather dress shoes sticking out beneath his hems.
“You should not put your attention on him,” Changarai said.
“My shield is up. How did you know I was thinking of Prime?”
“You wear the same expression you did as a toddler when Prime was near. One doesn't need psionic ability to recognize fear.”
“Yeah, well. It's just another thing that separates me from all of you. I fear him. You worship him.”
“You will too,” Changarai said. “Soon.”
No way would Mikah stay alone with that shambling horror while they're at the Gathering. Then he relaxed. He wouldn't be alone tonight. He'll be with Olivya.
Just then, the clicks and chings of Prime’s freight elevator at the back of the high-rise drew his attention toward the corner closet where his workout equipment, punching bags, and yoga mat were stored. The machinery behind the walls creaked and shuddered as it rose, then thunked to a stop, sending a vibration through the room.
Mikah's suite was just beneath the rooftop aviary and solarium. He snuck up there once . . . only once. The enormous glass-walled room was filled with songbirds, scarlet tanagers, yellow warblers, indigo buntings, and many more, some caged, some flying free. The atmosphere drove him away, the chaos of birdsong, the oppressive heat and humidity.
The elevator doors squeaked as they slid open. Prime's shuffling footsteps dragged across the ceiling. He could hear, through the ceiling, the songbirds' trills and warbles and hundreds of wings fluttering like wind through reeds as Prime walked among them.
“He's been visiting the songbirds often,” Mikah said. “He goes up there at night. I hear him wailing.”
“He is suffering,” Changarai said. “The birds soothe him. Now. You are to stay in your rooms until tomorrow. The kitchen staff will bring your meals. And try not to think about Prime.”
“You mean he isn't going to the Gathering?”
“I don't know. Prime follows his own whims. Wherever he is, he might feel your thoughts, so keep your mind on your studies. Do nothing to upset the psionic energy in the Complex, for tonight our powers will increase.”
“Why?”
“Patience.” Without another glance, Changarai strode out the door.
Go then, Mikah thought, as he pulled the doors closed. He wished that Changarai had forbidden V-school sooner, before he’d had a chance to feel like a regular kid. Before he'd met Olivya.
Hot with fury, he slammed the wall with his fist, hardly noticing the pain of torn knuckles. They'd heal in minutes anyway. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He strode across the room and shoved the computer monitor to the floor, swept his arm across the shelves, scattered artifacts, books, graphic novels, laser discs, puzzles. Prime. That cold hearted ghoul. That monster and his freakin' songbirds.
“Damn you, Prime,” Mikah said out loud, glaring at the ceiling. “Damn you to hell.”
Ironic, wasn’t it? Cursing a demon to hell? He wanted to wrap his fingers around Prime's stalk-like neck – if it hadn't already morphed into some other nauseating configuration – and choke the life out of that lumbering nightmare.
Prime's shuffling footsteps above stopped. The birds went silent. Mikah froze. Not two minutes ago, Changarai had reminded him that Prime might hear his thoughts. Had he heard Mikah speak his name? Felt the disgust in his words?
Mikah licked his lips. Prime was listening. He just knew it. A minute crept by. The ceiling didn't creak. Mikah was sure that Prime could sense waves of loathing coming from below. He was up there probing Mikah's mind, tasting his hatred.
Okay. Stay calm. Rein it in. Control yourself. Mikah sat on his bed and began to recite the litany he'd learned as a child, the names of Prime and his five Storied Siblings. Maybe Prime would think it was a fluke, that he'd heard Mikah say his name as part of a memorized lesson. Maybe he'd think Mikah was showing diligence to his studies.
“Prime,” Mikah said, loud enough to be heard. “Tiamat Draconus, Kali Medusa, Scylla Kraken, Phoenix Roc, Sphinx.” Breathe. Breathe. He began again at the beginning, “Prime, Phoenix Roc, Tiamat Draconus, Kali Medusa, Scylla Kraken, Sphinx.”
He looked up at the ceiling, said it again, even louder. “Prime, Phoenix Roc, Tiamat Draconus, Kali Medusa, Scylla Kraken, Sphinx.”
After the sixth time through, Prime's footsteps began again. Scrape. Clunk. Scrape. Clunk. Scrape. Clunk. Different than the shuffling gait from before. Had Prime morphed again? Maybe he hadn't heard Mikah say his name at all, but stopped walking as his body jerked and twisted with yet another change. And what was making that clunking sound? Had one of Prime's legs suddenly become heavy, the other weak?
Mikah paced the room, glancing at the ceiling with every turn. Adrenaline pumped through his bloodstream. At last, the elevator doors squeaked open, and the monster began his descent to his sub-cellar lair. The freight elevator creaked and shuddered. When it reached the level of Mikah's room, waves of psionic power rolled from behind the walls, jagged and hot. Prime's laughter.
Mikah held his breath, gripped the edge of his desk, shut his eyes as the elevator passed.
Olivya. Soon.
Chapter Three
That Familiar Malevolence
AT MIDNIGHT, OLIVYA slipped off her bunk and tiptoed to the closet. On one side hung Mama's scrubs, neatly ironed grays, blues, and whites. The other held Olivya's hoodies, sweaters, T-shirts and jeans. She pulled on a pair of washed out denims, which hung loose. Nope. Not right. A pair of skinny black jeans hung in the corner. Perfect, the way they hugged her hips. She tried on several tops and settled on a vintage tie-dyed T-shirt in purple and rose, took down her ponytail, and shook her dreads free.
She couldn't wait to find out more about Mikah. Grab this tiny freedom before the boredom of Zeroing set in. Damn. Hard to imagine life without Cy-Chi. Computer-generated people had no auras. They never confused her with the colors of emotion that so often contradicted the words and actions of flesh and blood kids. A holo-sim displayed no inner crap, no fear, happiness, or sorrow. In Cy-Chi, unable to perceive truths or lies, Olivya didn't feel like a freak.
She took a moment to watch Mama sleep in the pinkish glow from the bedside monitor panel, her breathing deep and calm after her usual evening cup of Sleep-Smack tea. Would Mama be too tranked to wake up if a GAD needed her? Probably not. Besides, they usually stayed quiet enough through the night after the lights-out Narc boost Mama pumped into them.
For a moment, Olivya thought she saw dull red streaks twisting and twirling in the gloom around Mama's form, like those in Mr. Gragg's sick aura. She rubbed her eyes. No. Mama wasn't sick. She couldn't be. Just dust moats in the moonlight, a trick of darkness.
The window cast a trapezoid of pale light on the worn carpet. Outside, the night was alive with squealing wheels and sirens. A flock of Doom Criers marched up and down Hospice Row, proclaiming the global Pandemic to be a sign of the mythical Star's return. Utter nonsense, but in a way, she envied their belief in fairy tales. At least they had faith to cling to.
Dangerous as it was, the rest of the world had it worse. Chicagoland seemed to be the last place on earth where people even ventured outside. Maybe she'd be lucky and not run into any Shivpacks or whiff dealers. She had no fear of wandering GADs. Sure they looked like zombies, but they had no taste for human flesh.
Mama had taken away her cell phone. It'd be stupid to go out into the night without some way to get help if she got in trouble. Easing Mama's purse off the desk, she rummaged for the keys. Careful not to jingle, she unlocked the desk drawer, retrieved her cell phone and tucked it behind her ear. She returned the keys and put on her high-topped sneakers.
The bedroom door squeaked as she stepped into the hallway. Stopping at the Ward, she peeked inside. Half, deeply drugged and snoring, didn’t move. She couldn't make out Slim's form in his tangled mass of sheets, but his monitor had gone blank again, evidently still on the fritz.
Just then, Marigold popped upright, bedsprings creaking, then slumped back down. Even with the Hypno-Peace unit at full tilt, Marigold couldn't rest, poor thing, and her quad cane had fallen again. Olivya stepped in and placed it where Marigold could reach it.
Mr. Gragg's cot had been shoved against the wall. Tubes snaked from his arm to a plastic bag of Narc cocktail on an IV pole. Maybe he'd wake up and not know where he was. What if he changed his mind and couldn't speak? Maybe he'll need me. Maybe I shouldn’t go. Tomorrow I'll be killing him. She choked down a lump of dread and backed out of the Ward.