Blood Day (38 page)

“Slack,” she said. “They’re drugged. This isn’t blood. It’s practically clear.”

“They’re deviants. Arrested by Movers. This would have been your fate, had you been one of them.”

“You are arrested for using the drug, and then pumped full of the same drug to sedate you,” said Sia.
 

“It’s not about the drug,” said Joshua. “They only want the blood. It’s a commodity.”

Sia pulled the needles out of a bearded and stinking man’s arm. He stirred, his eyelid flickering.

“You don’t want to kill them?” said Joshua, raising an eyebrow.

“I would never drink such filth,” said Sia.

“You don’t have to drink them to offer them death.”

The man made a gurgling noise. He lurched in the cot, his eyes opening, rolling up into his head. He arched his back, a trail of drool running into his beard.
 

“His mind is gone,” said Sia. “His body is alive, but he is dead.”

“They’re all gone,” said Joshua.

Sia looked over the ward, beds barely far enough apart to allow the staff to change the bags of drugs and blood.
 

“They’re not alive,” said Sia.
 

“They’re hollow,” said Joshua, pulling the needles out of filthy young woman’s arm. Her back arched in a seizure, just like the first. Sia looked down at the bearded man.

“He’s dead,” she said.
 

“This is disgusting,” said Joshua, curling his lip in derision as he looked at what was left of the so-called convicts. Arrested and taken here without a trial, without any sort of judgment. Young and old filled the beds, and every walk of life.
 

Sia walked down the rows, pulling out the needles, throwing bags of clear fluid against the wall where they burst, peeling away the paint.
 

“What are you doing?” said Joshua, curious.

“Ending their misery,” said Sia.
 

“Why?”

“Because it is unnecessary. They have suffered enough.”

Joshua nodded, understanding. Watching her as though she were the most curious creature he had ever seen. Sia continued her progress.

“We must go, Sia,” he said after a time.
 

“I am so hungry,” she said, pausing and looking at him.
 

“Yes,” said Joshua. He smiled as a nurse opened the door. A man in scrubs with a cart of IV bags piled high. A female followed, bumping into her coworker as he froze, staring at Sia, naked and covered in blood. Sia recognized her. The younger version of Evelyn Hauser with her sweater just so, and her hair neat and tidy.
 

“Nothing wrong with her blood,” Joshua said.

“Wait,” said Sia.

She stepped toward the woman, remembering her name.

“Christine,” she said. “Christine Avery. You were in my room.”

The woman caught her breath, her eyes darting from Sia to Joshua and back again.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come to work tonight?” said Sia.

“Yes,” the girl breathed. Her heart was beating like a hummingbird. Sia could feel it.

“You should have listened,” said Sia, stepping toward the three. They were shaking, all of them, so full of fear. Sia smiled.

As one, Joshua and Sia changed, their faces smoothing, their teeth growing. In the end, Christine was the one who screamed what Joshua wanted to know.
 

“Ambrose Conrad is still here,” said Joshua, wiping blood from his lips. “You are not the only one who will be avenged this night, Sia.”

“He took your life from you,” said Sia. “What about the children? Will they be safe?”

“They will be our children by the time the sun rises,” he said. He kissed her and the blood on both of their tongues mingled. Sia sucked the blood from his lips. “We’ll keep them safe together,” Joshua crooned.

“And Ambrose Conrad will die,” said Sia. “I can see it. And I know it to be true.”

“Then so it shall be,” he said. “Before dawn.”

“Before dawn,” she repeated.

She could not tell Joshua that she also saw his face, obscured by branches, suffocated by vines. She looked at Joshua. He was so strong, stronger than her. But as she blinked back the vision, she gasped at the face driving the stake into Joshua’s heart. It wasn’t Ambrose Conrad, or the journalist or the woman doctor who had poisoned the Revs.

The face in her vision killing Joshua Flynn was her own.

Thirty-Eight

Mike woke slowly, his head aching. He rolled onto his hand and screamed, the remembering more horrible than the physical pain. He’d lost his fingers, but that wasn’t enough. He had to find Viv before something horrible happened. He recalled watching her in a morphine haze. She’d been talking to someone through the door. And then the goddamn president had sauntered in and taken her away. She’d been sobbing. And Conrad had looked
human.

He couldn’t let anything happen to Viv. Not her.
 

Mike sat up and carefully got up off the cot. He avoided the sick on the floor and made his way to the door. His hand hurt like a bitch, but it didn’t seem to be infected any longer. The pain was borderline unbearable, but at least his head was clear. He was weak. He needed food and water. Mike got to the door and blinked at it. It had been left ajar.

“Must be a trick,” Mike muttered. They wouldn’t just let him escape, unless they figured he would die. Or they didn’t care what happened to him. Mike closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. He had to help Viv. She was the only one that mattered right now. He pulled open the door and walked out into the hall.
 

The air was frigid as the lamps on the wall guttered. Revs and their penchant for old-timey shit, he thought: Even their dungeon was gas powered. Mike tried the double doors, but they were locked solid. He turned and headed the other way, towards a glow at the other end of the hall. He walked by other cells, the smells unbearable. He was sure one of them contained a decomposing corpse, but it was too dark to see. Weak moans came from another. Mike ignored his toes going numb on the cold concrete and stayed on his path. He walked purposefully toward the glow, which as he approached recognized as the light streaming from a desk lamp. He heard static as he approached, coming from a radio fastened to the wall above the desk. It was just like every other radio in every public workstation, but this time, it wasn’t broadcasting. No droning voices, no recut versions of Ambrose Conrad’s speeches. Nothing.
 

Mike reached out with his good hand and fiddled with the dial. There was nothing but static. He was about to give up when he found a voice that came in loud and clear. And it wasn’t a monster speaking in a gentleman’s voice, urging the listeners to remain calm. It wasn’t Ambrose Conrad trying to sound human.
 

“Mike Novak,” the voice said.
 

Mike froze, watching the green light on the radio. He shook his head. He was hearing things. Auditory hallucinations. He was probably still lying in that cot in a cell. Maybe Viv had never come. Maybe none of this was real. Joshua Flynn, Sia, Dez. Maybe he’d dreamed all of it.

But the stones under his feet were cold. And he could smell decay coming from the cells behind him. He couldn’t recall ever dreaming something that vivid. He frowned at the radio.

There was static again, and then a droning, monotonous tone that seemed to go on forever. Mike was sure he had imagined the voice. He looked down at the guard. He kept expecting him to wake up and force Mike back into the cell, but he was unnaturally still. Then the smell of blood wafted up and Mike knew. The guard wouldn't ever be waking up again. He raised the man’s head and saw the wound on his throat, his unseeing eyes. Ambrose Conrad had gotten hungry before he took Viv. He set the dead man’s head down gently on the desk

A shrill voice came across the radio, but was gone again in an instant, as it returned to static. Mike opened the drawers in the desk, looking for clothes, cradling his injured hand to his chest. He found a first aid kit and opened it up to find a bottle of codeine. He swallowed three without water, feeling them scrape their way down his throat. In another drawer he found a fresh ham sandwich, which he practically inhaled. He stared at the guard, his beard stubble standing out even more prominently on his gray face. Something was wrapped around the bottom of the chair the dead man sat on and Mike slid a duffel bag out from under the desk. He opened it and tossed out several empty liquor bottles. Mike pulled out a pair of dirty jeans and a sweatshirt that had seen better days. He put them on, being careful with his bad hand. The jeans were loose, but seemed to stay put.
 

Mike looked at the guard’s feet and sighed.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. He crouched and untied the boots, loosening the laces and slipping them off the dead man’s feet before putting them on his own. He couldn’t tie them one-handed, so he tucked the laces and stood to stare at the gun again. The codeine was starting to kick in, taking the edge off the pain. It was a relief and Mike felt himself able to think.

“Okay, Viv,” said Mike. “I’m coming.” He picked up a large ring of keys and was about to leave when he heard the static end abruptly on the radio.
 

He turned slowly as he heard the voice again. It was male.

“Mike Novak. Mike Novak. Mike Novak. Mike Novak.” A robotic drone, over and over. Something recorded and repeated again and again and again. Mike stared at the radio. The voice came again.
 

“Mike Novak. Mike Novak. Mike Novak. Mike Novak.” There was a series of beeps and then another voice came on. This time a woman’s. She spoke slowly and articulated each word, so as to be understood.
 

“Mike Novak, if you are listening, pay attention. We are the Fallen and we have succeeded. We have retaken Philadelphia. It’s only one city, but we have connections in New York, Miami, Los Angeles, and our numbers are growing. Worldwide. We received word that the world leaders, the Rev leaders would attend an event earlier tonight. We decided to take action.”

Mike looked around him, having the odd sense that someone was screwing with his head. Was he hallucinating?

“You started this movement with your underground newspaper's call to action, Mr. Novak. Some of us worked with you before the outpost was raided, and we helped you start the rebellion. When you disappeared, many of us searched tirelessly for you, using the same contacts to try to find you as we used to get our stories for the paper. We have word that you are being held at Munson. If you can hear us, Mr. Novak, stay where you are.”

Mike shook his head. None of this made sense.
 

“He said to tell you, Mr. Novak, Joshua Flynn sent us. I’m told that means something to you. We are coming, Mr. Novak. Stay where you are, stay safe, we’re coming to find you. You are important and we are coming.”

“What the hell is going on?” said Mike.

“You saved us, Mr. Novak,” said the voice. “You saved us from hopelessness, from fear, from an inability to act. You saved us, Mr. Novak. Now let us save you. We are coming. We are the Fallen, and we are coming for you.”

Static came on again and Mike closed his mouth, which was hanging open.

The message played on a loop and he stood there listening three times. It was the newspaper. The newspaper had given them hope, just like that bastard Flynn said it would. Mike felt tears come to his eyes. They were fighting now. The world was fighting. Philadelphia, and maybe a lot more places, if the voice was telling the truth.
 

Mike smiled as the radio went to static again. He turned and unlocked all the cells. The moaning stopped and Mike looked to see that the man inside had died. Someone cut his foot off and his leg had rotted. Mike turned quickly so he wouldn’t throw up. The other occupied cell was indeed a dead man, the smell so bad that Mike closed the cell door again quickly. This is where they brought them to die. The sick, or tortured, all those not deemed worthy to bleed. They brought him here too. This is where he was supposed to die.

But he wasn't dead, yet. And now he knew that his newspaper had helped launch a resistance.

He walked through the doors at the end of the hall in boots too tight. He breathed in the air, and felt the pain in his hand subside as the codeine kicked in. He had not been able to save Kyra, but now he had saved the world, and next he would save Viv. In the process, he would get another piece of himself back.

“Hold on, Viv, I’m coming.”

But as Mike found the double doors that had been left open, it wasn’t Viv he found.

Thirty-Nine

Viv couldn’t think straight. Something was wrong with her head. She followed Ambrose Conrad as he made his way through the snow. She touched the trees with her fingers as they walked through the strange forest in the courtyard. She could feel some of the trees screaming, but that couldn't be right either. She must have lost her mind, because she remembered killing Margaret Watts. Why would she do that? And why would she enjoy it?

Viv looked down at her elongated hands and saw her fingernails pointed and rigid on the ends, like talons. She reached up with her nightmare hands and felt her nightmare teeth, her face that wasn’t hers any longer. She stopped, looking at the blood on her fingers, blood that had been dripping from her teeth.
 

She had killed Margaret Watts and had sucked every ounce of blood out of the woman’s body.
 

“Oh, Jesus,” she said, her words sounding strange around the teeth.

“He’s not here,” said Conrad, suddenly holding her from behind, gripping her upper arms tightly. He bent his head and whispered in her ear. “There’s only me, Genevieve.”

Viv shuddered and tried to pull away, but Conrad held her tight. He smelled of sandalwood and worms.

“Learn to accept it, sweet doctor,” said Conrad. “You’re mine now. I made you. I can unmake you.”

“Please, do it,” said Viv. “Kill me. I can’t be…this.”

Conrad laughed. “You can because I say you will. Now stand up and walk.”