Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1) (9 page)

M
y eyelids are swollen, my face puffy from crying. “Ploy,” I croak out. Dawn has broken. Dim light streams into the shack. “Wake up. We have to go.”

I roll over. The spot next to me is empty.

He probably just went to the bathroom. Except his pack is gone. And now that I notice, mine is too.

The ladder already leans against the edge of the platform. As I ease onto it and start down, my eyes catch on a drop of blood. Then another smeared onto the ladder itself. I tap it gently with my fingertip. Still wet.

“Ploy!” I call, jumping the last steps to the floor and barreling toward the door. I throw it open. His pack is spilled, clothes and camping equipment scattered in a trail around the corner of the shack. And then I see his foot, see his shoe, tilted to one side. I can’t make out more than the ankle.

He’s dead.
Torn fabric lies beside the shoe, soaked in blood. It’s the shirt he wore last night.
Please
, I pray.
Not him, too. I need him.
It’s so much more than that, though. I care about him.
Not Ploy.
I can’t see him carved and empty.

The shoe moves.

“Ploy?” I gasp, forcing myself forward. He leans against the side of the shack. At the sound of my footsteps, he glances up. My pack sits beside him, open. A long strip of gauze winds around his leg.

I don’t even wait for him to get up to throw myself into his arms. He catches me with an ‘oof.’

“There was blood!” I stammer.

A long second passes before he hugs me back. “I got up to go to the bathroom and I caught my leg on a nail!” He pulls me off his shoulder. “I should have woken you up, but it was bleeding and—”

“Don’t you ever do that to me again! Understand?”

He stares at me in surprise.

“How bad is it?” I ask. “The cut.”

“Um, it’s...well...” He tips the gauze away from what’s left of the wound. It’s scabbed over, the edges already pink with healing scar tissue. “It’s because of what you did to me isn’t it?”

“My blood,” I say. “You’ve got a month of this, maybe less. Depends how long it takes your cells to fight mine off once yours are healthy again. Your immune system is going insane right now.” The words rush out of me until guilt closes my lips. We don’t tell people these things. We don’t invite questions. We’re not honest about any of it. And yet here I am spilling too much. I could blame grief or exhaustion, but the truth is, it feels good to trust someone. None of the kids I went to school with got far with me. I didn’t date. I never really bothered to try. Now, the more time I spend with Ploy, the more isolated I realize I’ve been. I don’t want to be that way anymore. “We get old,” I say quietly. “We live normal lives.”
When we make it that long...

“Even now though, before being able to heal myself goes away,” he says. “I can’t do it, too? Bring people back?”

“Nope.”

“But what if you gave me more—” he starts but cuts himself off when I give my head a shake.

“It’s an infection, Ploy. It jacks your system up healing-wise and then your body fights it off. If I resurrected you again in a year, in ten, you’d have those white blood cells and this time they’d be ready to go. To fight. It takes way more blood to work the second time.”

“What, like two of those syringes full?”

If only it was that little of a jump. “More like a pint. Maybe two. First time’s a syringe. Second is a transfusion.”

“And the third?” he asks.

It’d drain me dry, and even then... I hate when people fetishize what we can do. “The blood’s not some sort of constant miracle.” My fingers twist around the hem of the shirt he gave me last night. “It’s getting the people I love killed. Putting them in danger.”

It’s not until the words are out that I realize what they imply. But I didn’t mean him. He has to know that. When he doesn’t say anything, I glance at him. His fingers brush under my chin.

“When I woke up and you were gone,” I say quietly. “I thought you left me.” It hurts to say it out loud, let him hear how vulnerable he makes me feel. The effect he has. I hate it and yearn for it. I need it to stop. Because I can’t deny I feel something for him. And the way things are going, being with me is going to end up getting him killed in some way I won’t be able to fix. “It would have been for the best if you did leave, you know.”

“Is that what you want?” he asks. His eyes lock on mine. And then, soft and slow, he kisses me again.  Before I can stop myself, I return it, my mouth opening to him.

Don’t do this
, a voice inside me warns.
Don’t get close to him.
Why couldn’t he have just chalked last night up to a mistake?

I break away, stand and take a step as if the distance will help any. My stomach’s jumping. My lips tingle as I speak. “If whoever was at Sarah’s is here in the woods, the cabin’s easier to spot in daylight.”

He shoots me a quizzical look. “Yeah. We should go.”

Crouching, I pick up the camping items from the ground and set them near his pack before heading into the shack. My hands shake as I roll up the sleeping bag. In my stomach, butterflies have morphed into something more evil, stinging and twisting my insides.
You should leave him once you get out of the woods.
I want the thoughts to shut off. I worked so hard at not getting close to anyone after my parents died, holding even Sarah at arms’ length. Kissing him has complicated everything.
Really, the kissing?
I think fiercely.
More like bringing him back to life when it would have made so much more sense to let him go.
But I know, even then, it’d already been too late.

Ploy comes into the cabin. He doesn’t venture past the doorway. “So what’s the plan?” he asks. There’s carefulness to his voice. He doesn’t know where he stands any more than I do.

I dig the address book out of my bag and hold it up. “Find someone in here who lives close. Tell them what I know. Hope they’ll help.”

As far as plans go, it’s weak. I was never a strategist. Still, I’m not about to sit here and let Ploy and I both get killed.

“Here,” Ploy says. He sets a handful of the beans from my aunt’s garden on the lower sleeping platform. It’s not until I see them that I realize I’m starving. I edge closer and grab a few, munching them down. “This plan,” he says. “Does it include me?”

I stop chewing and swallow hard—flash back to the apartment, the way he’d made coffee and gotten us breakfast before he asked if he could stay. If I were braver, I’d tell him no, he’s not included, without this hesitation. Remind him not to go near the Boxcar Camp and hope he heads for some other state where he’ll be safe. He’s good at surviving on the run.

Maybe this will be easier than I thought.

“You’re free to go. I would if I were you.” I fiddle with one of the beans before popping it into my mouth.

“These people who are after us—”

“After me,” I correct.

“Us,” he says again, and I know he’s right. Even if his abilities are going to fade, I’m not naïve enough to believe it’ll matter. He’s involved. I’m responsible for that. I tilt my head to acknowledge him the point. “If they’re tracking us both down, you know what to watch for, Allie, I don’t. They already killed my friend. I want to stay alive. I need you to do that.” There’s a long pause where I take in what he’s said. “You need me, too!” he adds, his voice pitching up in desperation before going fierce. “I know Fissure’s Whipp. I know the camps, where to hide us.”

“I might not even go back there,” I say and shrug.

“Even still.” He points to the sleeping bag at my feet. “Where would you be if I hadn’t had that? If I hadn’t grabbed the beans you’re eating? If I hadn’t seen this place?” His eyes search mine. “I’m useful.”

Does he really think I see him as anything else? I work to keep the emotion off my face. “Fine, if you want to come, come,” I say as I grab a few more beans and finish packing my now dry clothes.

He’s close. He could reach for me if he wanted.

I zip the bag up. “How’s your stab wound? Any pain when you carry your backpack? Because if you need me to—”

“I don’t,” he says and then quickly adds, “You must have done a good job on those stitches.”

“Yeah, I’ve had practice,” I mumble and head out the door. He follows a few steps behind and then speeds up to walk beside me. As we head into the woods, I swing my pack around and take out the book. Flipping through the pages, I scan for a familiar name, a note that will tip me off as to whom I can trust. Of course, it’s not that easy. I find one person listed in the town we’re in. “Here,” I say pointing. “Jason Jourdain. He’ll have a phone. I can call my friend, Talia. She can help us figure things out.” I make a mental map of my aunt’s house, the woods we’re in now edging into a swamp at the center, the roads skirting the edge. As long as we keep heading West, we should be okay. Once I’ve got my bearings, I start walking again. “This way. It shouldn’t be far.”

The boggy ground under our shoes is pungent, the scent of decaying plants and stagnant water heavy in the thick air. We head to drier ground so we don’t leave such an obvious path. My ankles burn with the pinprick welts of dozens of chigger bites.

Two hours later, the trees finally break. We stay off the road, hiking in the woods until we’re near the address. It’s the only house around. We cut through to the back yard to scope it out.

“I remember this place,” I say in wonder. There’s a spot as we creep across the lawn, a bald double scar of dirt. Even the back of the house looks familiar from this angle. “I’ve been here. There used to be a…” I fade.

“The picnic table,” Ploy says. He points near the spot I’m looking. I look at him in shock. “From your picture, right?” he says. “And you can see where the swing set used to be.”

The long rectangle of yard stretches before us, ending in a cabin. The back porch is made of the same logs as the house. It’s cluttered with junk, old wood, some crates loaded with soggy newspapers, a single rocking chair. We edge closer. Strung over the rafters, a strange array of items hangs. A pair of bird wings twists in a lazy twirl next to drying herbs. On one railing is an alligator skull, bleached white by the sun.

“I thought you didn’t know who lived here,” Ploy says. There’s doubt in his eyes. “You didn’t recognize his name in the book?” I can only shake my head.

“I was five when that picture was taken,” I say. That day is at best, hazy. Swinging on the swing set. A picnic at the table. Suddenly, something does come to me. “They gave me a peanut butter sandwich. I didn’t want to eat it.” I close my eyes, hoping for more, but nothing comes.

“Should we go around front and see if the Cutlass is here?”

I climb the stairs slowly. “No. They’d only have one spare tire, and I slashed two.” My foot pauses on the stair. “They might have taken my aunt’s Jeep before we got there though.” I double back. Ploy follows me around to the front. Here, there’s barely a yard before the forest encroaches. There’s no garage. No black Jeep. What passes for a driveway is crumbling away, the wilderness swallowing it bit by bit. “They don’t leave often,” I say. Walking over the boards, I make my way to the front door. I must have known whoever lives here. My aunt clearly did.

“What if they’re already dead?” Ploy asks.

“They’ll still have a phone.” I raise my knuckles and knock.

After ten seconds, I rap harder. A bird screams from a nearby tree. My eyes swing around, but I can’t find it in the foliage. I wonder if the place is abandoned.

I surprise myself by turning the knob. Even a few days ago, I wouldn’t have just waltzed into someone’s house uninvited. Things have changed. I’m not naïve enough to think I’ll find someone bleeding. Anyone injured inside will be a lot worse off than a stab wound or two. I need to know though. One of these times, I’m going to make it. Save someone. Help.

The door is unlocked. I swing it open without stepping inside.

From what I can see, the place is remarkably neat. There’s a rocking chair, a match to the one on the back porch. Beside it is a small table with an unlit lantern on it. The living room is sparse—no television, no lamps even. I hadn’t noticed any wiring coming in. Maybe this Jason person’s living off the grid. I have to believe he’ll have some way to connect with the outside world.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I say. Moving my shoe forward, I slide my foot across the threshold like it’s some sort of invisible barrier. I take another step, then another until I’m in the middle of the room. “Hello?” I yell. The word leaves my mouth and I realize I probably should have done that before I entered. Ploy’s on the porch, watching, leery. I wave him in. “Come on. No one’s here.”

I run my hand over a knitted blanket slung across the curved back of the rocking chair and survey the place. There’s a door at one end of the living room that I assume leads to a bedroom, and the doorway to the kitchen is in front of us. My stomach gurgles. We haven’t eaten more than a handful of vegetables since yesterday.

“I second the motion,” Ploy says, and heads toward the cupboards. “Even if someone does live here, he won’t mind if we take a bit, right? I mean, you guys go way back.”