Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (4 page)

“They’re called hearing aids, not mind readers, silly. And you’re in the right age group.”

He laughs. “How dare you throw my age in my face, you young sprite.” He waves a scalpel in the air over a dead body. “Now make yourself useful and get me another #10 blade. This one’s deadly dull.”

“Okay, Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I grab the handle and change out his scalpel blade. “What’re you doing?”

“This one died on those fancy docs upstairs, and now I’m supposed to tell them why.”

Gus reminds me of Einstein with an attitude. He’s got the crazy hair, he’s brilliant, and he works best with classic rock blasting in the background. He collects old CDs like others accumulate china or figurines. No wonder I love it here.

Grabbing protective eyewear and a breathing mask, I lean in for a better view as Gus reaches into the abdomen. When he palpates the liver lobes, they immediately fall apart in his hands.

I gasp. “The liver’s not supposed to do that!”

He nods, and his glasses slip down his nose. Since my gloves are still clean, I push them back up.

“No, it’s not.” He points across the room. “Get me some of those pathology jars. Let’s send in a couple biopsy samples. I think this poor devil had lymphoma eating up his insides. His ultrasound was reported as inconclusive, so they would’ve had to take him to surgery to figure that out upstairs.”

“I’ll bet you’re right.” I grab the vials, remove the lids, and help Gus drop in the samples. “You always are.”

“Of course I’m right. Except for the surgery part. I guess it wouldn’t matter if they knew he had cancer since they wouldn’t treat him anyway.”

“Why wouldn’t they treat him?”

“Check the chart.”

After I label the samples, I grab the clipboard chart and read aloud. “Prisoner. Limited Diagnostics. Restricted Treatment. What did he do?”

“It doesn’t say. Maybe he killed somebody. Maybe he stole something. Or maybe he just wouldn’t play by the rules.” Gus eyeballs me. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“What are you talking about?”

He smirks. “You rejected the doctors’ pills and therapies and
chose
yoga and running as treatment for your depression. Does any of this sound familiar?”

“Yes. And it worked. A lot better than anything else did.”

“I know. But the docs upstairs don’t like to be proven wrong. So you got labeled ‘uncooperative’ and ‘unstable.’”

“I did?” Stupid jerks.

“In bold letters across the resume they sent to me.”

My stomach clenches. Why is he telling me this
now
three years later? Did I do something wrong? “They told me I was labeled ‘empathetic.’”

“Oh, that was on there, too. Along with your Occupational Test scores.” He raises his bushy eyebrows. “And those three things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

I shake my head. “I can never tell if what’s coming out of your mouth is B.S. or the truth.”

He grins. “It’s all of the above.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s not meant to be.” Gus chuckles. “By the way, I got you a birthday present.”

I place the pathology samples in the correct tray. “That’s not funny. I told you not to—”

“Don’t interrupt. And don’t worry. I didn’t get you a Barbie or new pink running shoes.”

“Actually, I could use new run—”

“I told you not to interrupt!” He smiles, enjoying his little game. “And, anyway, this is
so
much better than that. It’s something you’ve wanted for a long while.”

I wait for his announcement, keeping my mouth shut this time. He hums a tune and closes the muscular abdominal wall using a continuous suture pattern without speaking another word.

I cut the ends of his sutures. “When are you gonna stop teasing me and tell me what’s going on?”

He laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet long. All right, Miss Impatient, I’ll tell you… But first you need to take out the garbage.”

I glare. “You’re impossible.”

“Okay, okay.” He zips up the bag over the patient’s head. “This has got to be the best birthday present anyone’s ever given you, Miss Silvia Wood. I’m taking you on a little field trip.”

“Where are we going?” My eyes fly open. This is awesome. I never go anywhere.

He drops his voice to a side-whisper. “You get to help me with the next body disposal.”

“Really?” I ask, breathless. “I’ve never even been to the edge of the city before. I’ve only seen pictures of it. It’s part of the reason why—” I stop and press my lips together. I don’t want to offend him or hurt his feelings.

“Yeah, I know Mortuary Science wasn’t the job you’ve always dreamed of. But you fit in so perfectly here. In fact, maybe sometime we’ll drive by Green Food Production when they’re in the middle of Natural Fertilization, so you’ll believe me that it smells worse there than it does in here.”

I grin at his pride. “Thanks, Gus.”

“You’re welcome. Think of it as a little vacation. You, me, three dozen dead bodies, and the Incinerator.”

“I can’t wait.” Funny thing is, I mean it.

y head buzzes with questions on my way to the Gym after work. What will I learn at the Incinerator? What will I get to do? And the biggest, most wonderful questions of all: What does the edge of the city look like? Will I finally get to see what’s beyond the fences?

I’ve wondered about the Dark Woods ever since I can remember. I’ve heard tales of endless forests filled with life-giving trees and life-taking monsters. My grade school Health and Safety book contained pictures of wolves feasting on human flesh, their teeth ripping and tearing muscle tissue right off the bone.

Wait a minute. Human Disposal always happens at night, so everything will be dark. I won’t be able to see anything anyway. Shoot. That sucks.

I step into the shade of the 37
^th
Northwest Street Gym. After swiping my I.D. card through the scanner, I enter and hustle up the stairs. The third floor is packed like never before. I pass by a crowd of people gawking at the electronic bulletin boards. There must be a new class or something, but I’m not interested. I’ve reserved a treadmill for an hour, and I intend to use it. In the locker room, I approach the uniform counter to place my order.

“Running shorts and tank top, please,” I tell the skinny, ponytailed attendant.

“Are you in training?” she asks.

“For what?”

“The Race for Citizen Glory. Didn’t you see the notice up on the boards? Everybody’s doing it because of all the awards.”

I shake my head. “I’m not interested in any race. I just run for me.”

“Okay, then.” She hands over a worn pair of black and white shorts and a faded pink tank top.

On my left, a young woman pushes her way to the counter. “I need running clothes. If I’m going to compete in that big race, I’d better get in shape. It’s only two months away.”

The same attendant hands her a brand new pair of shorts and bright green T-shirt sporting the slogan:
In Training for Citizen Glory.
The young woman struts off. Her legs don’t have any muscle tone. I could
so
beat her.

I turn to the attendant. “Did she get nicer shorts than me because she’s training for that race?”

“Of course. It’s a big deal. Why aren’t you doing it? You’re here all the time anyway.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll think about it,” I tell her, but that’s a lie. I run for myself and no one else.

I wander into the changing area and switch into my government-issue workout clothes. I check my watch. There’s five minutes left before my treadmill reservation, so I march up to the electronic bulletin board. Words flash across the screen of the muted video announcements. The reel starts over every few minutes, showing old footage of runners, all in the same uniform, racing the streets of the Panopticus. Two lanes have been blocked off for the race. Yellow words slide across the bottom of the screen:

Accept the Citizen Challenge to run 13.1 miles. Win prizes and improve your fitness profile. Receive increased food and equipment allowances. Don’t miss out on this great opportunity. After the last Race for Citizen Glory, three of the top ten finishers were Chosen for Highest Level Citizen Employment.

Although I’ve been running a few years now, I’ve never raced—except for secretly battling the people on either side of me in the long row of treadmills. In fact, I’ve never run anywhere except in this very room, because it’s not allowed. The streets are too dangerous.

I glance at my watch again. It’s time to get started. Using the provided spray bottle and towel, I wipe down my machine then climb on and set my pace. Visions of runners racing through the city streets flash through my brain. My legs go faster and faster. The room disappears as I imagine I’m leading the race.

“Hey. It’s busy in here today, isn’t it?” A deep voice on my right disrupts my dreams of glory.

“What?” I hate when people try to talk to me at the gym. My mind wanders when I run, and I don’t like my fanciful imaginings to be interrupted. For a moment, it always makes me feel like someone else can see inside my head. I don’t like that. We’re watched enough as it is.

I sigh and turn to the guy on the treadmill next to mine. He’s blond. Fit. And gorgeous, his chin held at a jaunty, confident angle. Like half the other jocks at the gym, he’s so full of himself that there’s no room for anything else. And, apparently, he won’t stop talking to me.

“Everybody here thinks they’re going to win that race.” He smiles like he knows the overhead lights will glisten off his pearly whites. “But they’re wrong.
I am
.” Naturally, he’s sporting new shorts and an
In Training for Citizen Glory
T-shirt.

“Oh, are you?” I ramp up my settings. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’m the best.” He chuckles.

I remember that his name is Liam. At least, that’s what the girls clamoring for his attention every night at the gym call him. I roll my eyes and catch him staring at my shorts. My cheeks flush and not just from my pace. “Were you checking out my butt?”

“Of course I was.” He laughs, not even embarrassed.

I cover my backside with my hands. “Well, stop it.”

He shakes his head. “Most girls like that.”

“I don’t.” My nostrils flare.

“Don’t get so huffy. I’m not even hitting on you.”

My cheeks burn even hotter. “I didn’t say you were.”

“Okay then.” He turns back to his machine. “Cause you’d know if I were interested.”

“Just so we’re clear: I’m only here to run.” I reset the treadmill controls. This conversation is over.

He clears his throat. “I’m simply wondering why you aren’t training for the race.”

I sigh. He’s taking over my hour of peace. “I never race.”

“Why not? You’re the fastest girl here. I see you running all the time. Your legs fly. You could probably place. You might even get Chosen.”

Chosen. The greatest honor bestowed on any member of the city. Mom would be so proud of me. So happy. And, finally, she’d be satisfied.

I turn to glance at Liam, the golden boy. He’s conceited. He’s full of himself.

And he’s right.

“Maybe.” This could be exactly what I need. Or at least what Mom needs.

Liam grins. “That’s the spirit!”