Vial Things (Resurrectionist #1) - Leah Clifford Page 0,1
the bag for one of the boxes inside. From it comes a syringe, sealed in plastic. Seeing it will make her think I’m injecting him with some sort of drugs instead of my own blood. For now, I leave the rubber strap I’ll use to tie off my arm inside the bag and out of her sight. “Can you help me?” I ask as I strip away the protective plastic layer on the syringe.
Usually, when I show up at a job, whoever found the body is frantic. This girl seems to be holding her own. Rich kids think their parent’s money is a bubble, protecting them from birth, sweeping problems under the rug for the servants to deal with. Still, it’s better to give her a job, something to focus on before she takes it upon herself to question me about my mother. “Can you get some blankets? He’ll need to be warmed up once I do my thing.”
I take my first good look at the body.
After death, there are certain reactions, flags to tell me it’s too late, that the victim is too far gone. The pale pallor is normal and expected. The dark coloring where his skin touches the concrete is not. Not yet anyway. Blood is liquid. When the heart stops pumping, that liquid starts settling half an hour after death, pooling at the points closest to the ground. From this angle though, his eyes already look deeply sunken. It must be shadows. A trick of the light.
If she was right about the time.
“You were having a party?” I ask. I turn in time to watch the color fade from her cheeks.
“My parents are out of town. Sarah promised she wouldn’t tell them.”
This close, I can smell the alcohol on her breath. Dread curls in my stomach. “When was the party?” I ask quietly.
“This afternoon?” Her chin trembles. “I passed out. Everyone was gone!” she says. She scoots closer to me, eyes anime-wide, wet and brimming. “I called as soon as I got him out of the pool. I promise. You can still save him, right?”
I reach forward for the boy’s arm and try to lift it. His muscles are locked, frozen in rigor mortis. Not a chance in hell, I think. Aside from the time limits, anyone at that party could have seen him die before they took off. If he shows up in town, a bunch of teenagers start whispering zombie or miracle. Either one draws too much attention to people like me. Our resurrections are regimented for a reason.
“I’ll pay extra,” she blurts, as if it were so simple. As if I can rewind time for a couple of extra twenties.
I fight the urge to scoff. “I would have thought Sarah tapped you out,” I mumble. Her friend’s toast. It’s everything I can do to keep the mask of confidence on my face as I raise my voice. “I’ll do what I can,” I lie.
Glancing around the yard, I spot a latched gate. Common sense suggests it’ll lead to the driveway.
It’s better to look like things are going according to plan. Right now, I’m this girl’s savior. When she realizes I can’t deliver...well, some people get violent when their miracle doesn’t come to pass after all. I’ve got a nice scar from a knife wound two years ago to prove it.
“Hey!” I say too brightly. “Let me get to work and you go get those blankets, okay?”
She bobbles her head in a relieved nod and smiles through her tears. “Of course. Anything. Thank you,” she murmurs as she starts toward the house. The genuine gratitude in her voice only ups my level of discomfort. “Thank you so, so much.”
She’s nearly at the door when I toss the syringe into the bag. It takes everything in me to wait until she’s inside before I scramble for the gate. In my rush I knock over a lawn chair. A dog barks. Inside the house, a light goes on upstairs.
I’m out the gate and running full tilt down the street long before she knows I’m gone.
Ploy
There’s a hole in my sneaker. Right in the sole, near my toes.
A few train cars back, I’d stepped in a puddle and now water squelches with every step I take. The shoes are held together mostly with duct tape anyway, but I don’t know when I’ll come across another pair. They’ve got to at least last me the rest of the summer.