Bad Hair Day (9 page)

I choked back hysterical laughter. “Dump the bag. I’m going to open an airway; you’ve got to hand me the right equipment. Please, Rocky. I need you to believe in me, because I’m scared shitless.”

She took in a shuddering breath. “Okay. What am I looking for?”

“Alcohol wipes, the pink scalpel case, and a pen. Ballpoint, not Sharpie.”

She upended the pack onto the ground. Good. I turned back to Bryan. It looked like I was going to get to do a little surgery this week after all. Funny how things worked out.

Rocky shoved the pen at me with one hand, still raking through the scattered mess with the other. I pulled it apart, removing the ink cartridge. Then I tilted Bryan’s head back and put the extra gauze underneath his neck to brace it.

His neck was so lumpy that it took me a minute to figure out which lump was the Adam’s apple. I hoped I was doing this right;
I’d practiced this procedure on my Cabbage Patch Kids, but it wasn’t exactly the same.

I tore open a scalpel. It would have felt so cool if it hadn’t been for the fact that my hand was shaking like I was a crackhead with a tremor. And when it was time to make the incision, I froze. I was a high school student, for god’s sake. I didn’t care how big a med geek I was; I should not have been doing makeshift surgery on my best friend’s boyfriend. If I killed him, I would never be able to face Rocky again.

But he’d die if I did nothing.

That did it. I made the cut decisively, forcing my hands to remain steady. Then I wormed the pen tube into his neck. There wasn’t much resistance; this whole process was a lot easier than I’d expected. Of course, I’d probably jinxed myself by thinking that. I said a quick prayer and puffed into the exposed end of the pen. His chest rose and fell as the air filled his lungs. Hallelujah.

I settled down next to him on my knees, the end of my braid skimming the pool of blood on his face. It was twenty kinds of gross, but I would have hated myself if I’d let worry about my stupid hair get in the way of my job, and my hands were so gory that I’d only make it worse if I tried to pull my braid out of the way.

Between puffs, I asked for some gauze. Rocky stared at me like I was speaking Swahili. Frankly, I was surprised she’d held together as long as she had. I groped around for the gauze myself.

The stupid car alarm was still going off, but no one came to investigate. I thought someone ought to make a car alarm that
repeatedly shouted, “Free beer!” I bet loads of people would come for that.

I mopped the blood off Bryan’s face with one hand, held the pen steady with the other, and periodically breathed into it until he started respirating on his own again.

I felt like a total rock star.

T
he EMTs arrived after what felt like an eternity. The ambulance was too wide to fit through the gate, so they had to park at Legs and Eggs. If I’d been in charge, I would have driven monster truck–style right over the stupid fence, but I obviously had different priorities than most of the world’s population.

Besides, I couldn’t complain. Bryan seemed stable; Rocky was content to hold his hand and repeatedly brush the hair from his forehead, and the slight delay gave me a little time to investigate. I was more determined than ever to find the person or thing that had done this. And then I’d kick its butt.

I kept a steady grip on the pen so it didn’t go all wonky on me while I looked around for evidence. Bryan had a bloody knife gripped in his hand; I nearly stabbed myself in the thigh when I
leaned over him. I made a mental note to search the attack victim for pointy objects the next time something like this happened.

He must have done some serious damage with that knife if the blood pool was any indication. I had no idea how the bad guy could have gotten over the fence after sustaining such a massive injury, but it didn’t matter how far he ran. He wasn’t getting away from me, damn it. He should have known better than to mess with the science geek.

I groped around in the scattered med supplies for a spare specimen vial. I’d started carrying them around with me after the almost-zombocalypse. EDTA tubes would have been handy, because they keep blood from clotting, but there was geekery and then there was obsessive-compulsive straitjacket territory. A dangerous line, but I toed it well.

A quick flick of my thumb and the vial popped open. I let the knife drip into it. A clump of something wiry stuck on the edge of the vial. When I tried to remove it, it stuck to the side of my red-streaked finger. Great.

The EMTs shoved their gurney onto the gravel; it bounced and rattled over the uneven ground, but they were still closing in on us fast. I needed to hide my samples pronto, or I’d lose them. For some reason, medical professionals get all crazy about high school students taking medical samples from a crime scene.

I squinted at the wiry stuff in the dim light. It was hair. Lots of hair. Little clumps of it were scattered around the blood pool. Bryan had a bunch in his hand. There was no way it was his; he
had a buzz cut. So it had to be from his attacker. My overactive imagination treated me to a great visual of Bryan, stabbing wildly with the knife as his attacker throttled him, blood and hair spattering down on his face. Ick. I had to concentrate on the positives.

That hair was like trace evidence from the gods.

I’d probably just saved Bryan’s life, so the cops wouldn’t begrudge me a sample of that too. Or at least, they wouldn’t if I didn’t tell them I took it.

Out came another vial, and I shoved a few strands of hair into it. When I stuffed the samples in my pocket, my hand left a streak of gore down the front of my favorite jeans. The things I sacrificed in the name of medicine.

The two EMTs finally made it over to us, dashing over and evaluating Bryan at lightning speed. One of them, an older guy with about three strands of hair left, looked up and said, “Which one of you is Kate?”

I raised a freezing, red streaked hand. “That would be me.”

“Don’t go anywhere. We need to talk to you once we’re done.”

He was looking at me like I’d done something wrong, and that kind of ticked me off. What did a girl have to do to earn a thank-you around here? Save the world?

Oh, wait. I’d already done that.

“Fine,” I huffed. “But I’m going inside to wash my hands first.”

I didn’t wait for permission. I stalked back into the restaurant with my gory hands held up in front of my face. The hostess took one look at me and shrieked at the top of her lungs.

“Quit screaming and open the bathroom door for me,” I said.
“I just conducted impromptu surgery in your back lot, and I don’t want to drip on your floor.”

My matter-of-fact tone snapped her out of it.

“Ohmigod,” she said. “Of course. Right this way, Miss Grable.”

Some guy in a corner booth took out his cell and snapped a picture. It was so tempting to flip him off, but I reminded myself that I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at the hairball who’d nearly killed one of my friends.

The hostess opened the bathroom door for me and turned on the hot water. After I scalded my hands for about ten minutes, they finally started to warm up. I’d been really lucky that we were in a relatively warm snap and the temperature hadn’t dipped below freezing. Blood gets really cold after it’s been drying on your hands for about a half hour.

In the time it took me to scrub the blood out from under my fingernails, the entire waitstaff had congregated outside the bathroom, and they pounced as soon as I opened the door. Anyone close enough to touch me did—they patted my shoulder and shook my hand and thanked whatever deity happened to be listening that I’d been in the right place at the right time. Someone started applauding, and the noise quickly spread through the restaurant. I endured it with flaming cheeks and attempted to teleport somewhere else. Anywhere that didn’t have tons of people simultaneously trying to climb into my lap. It didn’t work.

“Here,” said our waitress from earlier, wrapping her arm around me and thrusting a to-go cup in my hands. “Black coffee, extra strong. Just the way you like it.”

“Thanks. Would it be too much trouble to get another one for my friend? Her boyfriend is the one who got attacked.”

“You hold on for a second.”

That was how I found myself treating the entire crew of assorted civil servants to coffee and fresh pastries. I walked back outside trailed by a little parade of girls, winter coats pulled on over their skimpy outfits, bearing hot food. One of the EMTs nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw us coming.

I thanked the Leg and Eggers again and made a beeline for Rocky with a hot cup of caffeinated goodness. “Thanks,” she said, huddling over the steam but not once removing her eyes from Bryan’s face. He was already strapped onto the stretcher. I’d give these guys one thing—they worked fast.

“We’re heading out now, miss,” the near-tongue-swallower said to Rocky. “Did you get in touch with his mother?”

“Yeah. She’s on her way to the hospital now.”

“Good.” He patted her on the shoulder. “I know the cops want to talk to you, but you come on over once you’ve cleared things up with them. He’s gonna be okay.”

She rubbed her red-rimmed eyes. “Thanks.”

I hugged her then, and she’d just started to cry it out when those tactless idiot police decided this was an ideal time to start interrogating us. They split us up and made us stand out there in the cold for almost an hour. I told the story about how we found Bryan. The cops made me go through it twice because they thought it might jog my memory. And then Despain showed up, and I told her too.

“I’ve got to tell you, girlie,” she said, briskly rubbing her glove-less hands together, “it’s awfully coincidental that you keep showing up at these attacks.”

Oh my god. She thought I was a murderer. Maybe she sensed my residual guilt over the samples; I wanted to confess that I’d taken them. And one time they accidentally gave me two hamburgers at McDonald’s, and I didn’t go back to pay for the extra one. I felt like I should spill it all just to make her stop looking at me like that.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you’re not telling me?” she asked, looking at me closely.

I shook my head vigorously. “No, ma’am. I’m just a magnet for weird stuff. That’s all. Actually, that’s a lie; I’m also a closet stalker of medical professionals.”

I sounded like a wackjob. Frankly, I was resigned to wackjob city. I was pretty much a permanent resident by this point.

Despain grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know. Listen, I’ll be in touch once I know more. If you figure something out, you call me. Understand? No going off on your own to save the day again. I’ll believe whatever you’ve got to say, no matter how weird. Deal?”

“Deal.”

She walked away, and then Rocky practically knocked me over. I assumed it was supposed to be a hug, but it felt more like a tackle. I barely managed to maintain my balance. Of course, I was highly motivated, since we’d be toppling over into the pool of blood if we fell.

“Thank you, Kate. You’re a life saver.” Her damp cheek pressed against mine.

“It’s what I’m here for,” I said, but my face still flushed with the praise. “Have you heard anything about Bryan yet?”

“They said he’s going to be okay, thanks to you.”

If she didn’t stop complimenting me soon, my head would explode. With all the gore around here, probably no one would notice.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Rocky, I can find a ride. I bet Despain would take me home once she’s done here. Go see Bryan.”

“I’m driving you home so you can figure out who did this.” She grabbed my arms and hissed, keeping her voice low so the cops didn’t hear. “You find the bastard and nail his testes to the wall, you hear me?”

I pulled the vials out of my pocket, hunching over them so no one would see. “I intend to. And I’m hoping these will help me do it.”

“Good.”

Our eyes met. She looked as mad as I felt.

At home, I stopped by the study to tell my dad why I was late. He was watching something on SyFy; from his surprised expression, my lateness hadn’t even registered. Probably because he’d been watching TV with his eyes closed again.

I fortified myself with caffeine and then went downstairs. Our basement was Geek Central. The stairs opened right into Jonah’s
domain; it was dominated by a large computer desk strewn with random electronic thingies and empty Mountain Dew cans. The rest of the floor space was covered in foam mats so he and his friends could pretend to be elven gladiators without hurting themselves.

The people who’d owned our house before us had had a bedroom in the basement, and I’d converted it into a lab. After I’d neutralized the zombie infestation, the school gave me all my chemistry teacher’s old lab equipment. They didn’t have the space to store it or the know-how to use it, and she was serving jail time, so she didn’t exactly need it either. So the former bedroom was stuffed with lab geekery: a microscope, a centrifuge, a lab bench, and even a fume hood, although I couldn’t figure out how to hook up the ventilation, so that was pretty much for show.

Jonah stood in the middle of the mats, waving around a sword covered in pink foam. My brother’s brand of geekery had become increasingly popular since we’d fought off the zombies with his pseudoswords. The swords were really just PVC pipe wrapped with foam and duct tape, but he was delusional enough to insist that we refer to them as swords.