Vial Things (Resurrectionist #1) - Leah Clifford Page 0,3

enough, though, he’ll spill them. Part of getting people to tell you what you want to know is convincing them you don’t give a damn.

When there’s no noise from the general area of Brandon’s bedroll, I go back to digging in my pack. My fingers snag the headlamp. I click it on, hold it in my mouth by the strap and grab the sandwich. The scent of fresh French bread wafts through the car before I can even peel the paper away. My stomach rolls, greedy. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

Transferring the headlamp to a hand, I shove the food into my mouth, take an enormous bite of bread, shrimp and lettuce. My moan’s pleasure-filled enough that it would be embarrassing if I could be bothered to care. The only worry I have now is getting the sandwich into my stomach fast enough that I won’t feel guilty when Brandon shows up and there’s nothing left. I dry-swallow the bread and go in for a second bite, the paper wrapper crinkling loudly. Almost as an afterthought, I flick the light around the corrugated inside of the car.

Brand’s curled up in his bedroll.

I chew once more, and then slip the light around my neck to free up a hand. There’s no way he didn’t hear me talking to him. Not only that, but he’s not in the normal spot. Instead, he’s in the back corner, pressed against the wall. My spot.

My fingers drift across the handle of my knife. He’s not even between the blanket and sheet. They’re both draped over top of him. I creep closer, the sandwich clutched in my hand. Nights like this, the blanket’s only cushion; it’s far too hot for him to be using it. The headlamp swings with each step, casting cold bluish light to deepen the shadows inside the car.

In a single move, I drop the sandwich and grab for the blanket and sheet, rip them aside.

“Jesus.” The word comes out a breath. He’s on his side, turned toward the wall. I move to roll him over and my foot crunches down on a layer of congealed blood and lettuce. Gore is puddled beneath his body. The skin that should be covering his stomach drapes to each side in ragged flaps. He’s carved out. Hollowed.

Whoever killed him took his guts with them.

I grab my bag and jump from the car, the sandwich forgotten, the body uncovered. I’ve already passed half the boxcars before I can stop my hands from wiping furiously against my jeans.

The double set of railroad tracks leads out of camp, into the city. I cross and pass the first of a tenement of rough hewn shacks. I should go back. I should call the cops, tell someone, do something. But I’m not that guy anymore, the one who goes charging in and does the right thing. Instead, I force a deep breath. I tuck my head low and merge into the crowd of tourists, eager to blend, disappear, be nothing.

I don’t make it far. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, I bend over, my hands on my knees. The sudden motion throws my pack forward and knocks me off balance. I land hard on my knees.

Brandon’s dead.

I’d been stuffing my face while he’d been lifeless behind me, guts and gore and missing parts. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the plan.

“Watch it, asshole,” a guy yells right behind me. I don’t need to see him to know he’s just another drunken frat boy tourist. “Homeless piece of shit,” he adds.

I tense, wait for the inevitable boot to the stomach but it doesn’t come. When I glance up, I see the pack of them staggering into one of the bars along the disarmingly quaint-looking main street. In the heat, even at night, the whole town smells like spilled liquor and vomit.

Brandon’s dead. I can’t go back to the boxcars. Never again. But I’ve already got a backup plan.

In the light of the cheap neon, I check myself for blood, first my hands, then my jeans, shoes. There’s a line of maroon up the side of one sneaker and I tap it into a puddle, trying not to think about what else is in the scummy water. When I scrape the shoe off on the curb, it comes clean easier than I would have thought. I tuck my shaking hands in my pockets.

You can do this, I think. Just play it cool. One angle left to