Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

“Okay.” I fully intend to change the subject. Instead, I add, “I’m really glad he didn’t die.”

Milo blinks, then smiles. “Me, too.”

After finally leaving the hospital with a pain med prescription for Felix, we settle into a booth at a nearby greasy spoon called McHale’s and each order the biggest, greasiest burger on the menu. They come with heaps of fries, pickle spears, and free soda refills. It’s nice, pretending to be normal college-age kids for a while—even though we are anything but—and I love every moment of it.

It’s after nine o’clock before we unanimously agree it’s time for our trio to return to the Watchtower. We settle the bill and tumble into the street, walking slowly out of some unconscious need to make the trip home last as long as possible. The Explorer is parked a block away in a public lot.

We’re closer to downtown than to Mercy’s Lot, so I’m not actively looking for Dreg activity. It just seems to pop out of nowhere and ruin my night.

Four individuals at a bus stop catch my attention, and not in a good way. Two guys and two girls, all about our age, and all sporting telltale silver streaks in their hair. They hang off one another like couples in lust, but they’re hunting. Watching.

And about to board the bus pulling to a stop in front of the signpost.

“Fucking hell,” I say. “Halfies, two o’clock.”

Milo and Felix go instantly rigid, one word putting them on high alert. We’re only a quick sprint away, and Felix shocks me by taking off first. It’s an awkward gait, more limp than run, but Milo and I don’t catch him before he’s up the bus steps behind the Halfies. We climb on after him and dump change into the meter.

The Halfies have clustered near the back, standing in the crowded rear and hanging on to the ceiling bars. There are no empty seats in front, so we mirror them and stand. I angle so I can watch them without being obvious. A surge of adrenaline has my pulse pounding, my blood flowing.

I didn’t come out tonight looking for a fight, but by God, I’ll enjoy this.

Halfies aren’t like the other nonhumans. They don’t get equal consideration. They’re uncontrollable abominations, and they’re always considered “kill on sight.” Or in this particular instance, “kill when not in full view of a busload of people.”

Milo has his cell out and is texting someone. Probably Kismet, so she knows what’s happening. I catch Felix’s eye and mouth “Weapons?” He shakes his head no. Then he mouths, “In the car.”

Shit .

The bus rattles along to the next stop. Several people board and disembark, but the Halfies stay put.

Milo puts his phone away. “Kis says Marcus’s squad is nearby. He’s going to intercept and follow the bus until they exit. She says don’t engage unless necessary.”

Normally, an order like don’t engage will rile me up enough to do just the opposite. Only we’re sans weapons of any kind, and the Halfies have at least twenty other people to use as human shields if we get frisky. Human shields they could turn into more Halfies with one little bite.

At the next stop, several people get off. Felix sits in the closest empty seat. The route appears to be taking us into Mercy’s Lot.

Milo jumps, then fishes his cell out of his pocket. “They’re behind us, following,” he whispers as he puts it away again.

Two stops later, we’re down to eight civilians, plus the driver. Milo and I take seats across the aisle from each other, Milo just behind Felix. As the driver reaches to pull the door shut, a familiar face slips on board. Marcus doesn’t look at any of us as he drops his coins into the meter, then takes a seat near the rear, between us and the Halfies. The odds are a little more even, and Marcus has the added bonus of being Therian and immune to the vampire parasites that turn humans into raving Halfies. Not to mention that, according to Tybalt, Marcus can shift into a huge-ass jaguar.

We’re traveling north, into the outskirts of Mercy’s Lot, and the stops will likely become fewer and farther between. Getting off with the Halfies is going to look suspicious no matter what we do.

One of them, a stocky boy in a ratty denim jacket, breaks off and shuffles to the front of the bus. The girl he was hanging on steps closer to where Marcus is sitting, her too-red lipstick smeared across her lips like blood. My stomach knots. This isn’t going to be good.

Denim Jacket pulls a handgun out of his coat and presses it to the bus driver’s temple. I tense, heart hammering. Someone behind me gasps, then shrieks, catching the attention of the other passengers.

“Turn left up here,” Denim Jacket says.

The driver, an elderly man who’s probably seen it all and then some, merely nods. He won’t be playing hero today.

“Anyone who wants a bullet in their fuckin’ head,” Denim Jacket says to the entire bus, “please try and fuckin’ stop me.”

Someone begins sobbing rather loudly, but no one speaks up. DJ has the gun; DJ has the power. Too bad he doesn’t know who four of his hostages are and what we’re trained to do. We just need to get that gun away—

A peal of laughter from the rear of the bus drags my attention behind me. The other Halfie male has a second gun, and he seems far less stable than his buddy. It’s bizarre to see the quartet acting as if they’ve actually planned this.

The idea makes me ill.

I take stock of the eight civilians. All between twenty and thirty years old, give or take. All in relatively good shape, probably decent health. Are the Halfies hunting for food? Or something else entirely?

Old instincts have me turning to ask Wyatt his opinion—only he’s not here.

The driver follows directions, taking us off the bus route and into a partially abandoned part of the Lot. We pass a defunct Burger Palace building—I’ve been here, months ago. Road traffic is thin, foot traffic almost nonexistent. If the car with Marcus’s team is still following us, they turned their headlights off and are keeping a good distance.

“We should fucking do something,” a voice behind me whispers. Male, angry.

I turn around just far enough to give him a deadly glare and mouth “no” with as much emphasis as possible. He’s in his late teens, bulked up, probably a high school wrestler who thinks he can be badass against a couple of stoned punks and their girlfriends. And he looks just stupid enough to get us all killed.

Stupid wins—he lurches sideways at DJ’s girl. Hoping to get her into a headlock and threaten a man with a gun? I have no idea, and it doesn’t matter. Red Lipstick snarls and punches Stupid in the nose before he can rise halfway out of his seat. He drops back down, howling, clutching his bleeding nose.

At the head of the bus, DJ growls. Someone in the middle of the bus sobs.

“Looks like someone thinks he’s a hero,” DJ says, baring his fangs for the first time. Gasps rise from the other passengers. He levels his gun at Stupid. “I look forward to tasting you.”

Stupid grunts behind his hands.

DJ angles his wrist sideways and squeezes the trigger. His gun roars.

Milo cries out.

The bus driver jerks the wheel and hits the gas. I tumble out of my seat and into the aisle. Passengers are screaming, and then the entire bus tilts. Tumbles. I crash into someone, then a seat, a window. Metal shrieks. Maybe me, too, until everything comes to an abrupt, crunching halt.

Someone’s beneath me, or maybe they’re on top of me; I don’t know whether I’m upright or not. My jaw aches. I smell blood, rubber, gasoline—not good smells. The snarl of a large cat precedes a piercing shriek. Someone kicks my leg, and then the world seems to focus again.

The bus is on its door side, its passengers trapped in a dark maze of broken glass and bus seats. People are moving around, panicking. My first thought is for the Halfies and who they’re about to bite. My next is for my hands, pressing down on something warm—blood. Shit .