Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

Milo’s beneath me, clutching his abdomen. His eyes are open, wide, a little dazed, even in the faint light seeping in from outside the wrecked bus. He looks at me, then past me. His eyes widen.

I twist and bring my right arm up, driving my fist hard into DJ’s gut. He grunts and steps back, trips over someone (Felix, I realize), and lands on his ass. I grab a shard of glass and tackle DJ. Slam him flat on his back and drive the glass into his Adam’s apple. Blood spurts from his mouth and throat. It splashes my shirt and neck. I press deeper, aware of the glass slicing my palms, cutting halfway through DJ’s throat before he quits fighting.

“Evy!”

A body hits me from behind before I can figure out who shouted, and I fall forward into DJ. I shove against the weight on me, praying that my skin stays far away from anyone’s bare teeth, and twist. I may have survived an infection a few weeks ago, but I don’t want to go through that particular hell ever again, thank you. The screeching female on my back—Red Lipstick, I think—digs her fingernails into my chest.

I drive my head backward and am rewarded with a solid crunch of cartilage. They never protect their damned noses. Passengers are still screaming, trying to climb out the windows that are now our roof. Marcus is in the back of the bus, in jaguar form, battling the other pair of Halfies with swipes of massive paws and loud hisses.

Felix is on his feet, seeming unsure if he should help me, help Marcus, or help Milo. I pull Red Lipstick’s nails out of my skin and give her another head butt for good measure. The back of my skull aches and my chest stings, but the human-sized tick isn’t sucking my blood.

At least half the civilians are out.

Marcus throws his Halfie male halfway across the bus, knocking down several other freaking-out passengers like a hellish bowling ball down a lane of human pins. The Halfie lands and rolls, coming up next to Stupid, who’s helping a woman climb out a window. Halfie lurches at Stupid. Milo grabs the Halfie’s leg and yanks.

The Halfie growls and reaches for Milo. Felix tackles the Halfie with a shout, and the pair goes tumbling over a seat and out of sight.

Lacking other weapons, I select another large shard of glass and give Red Lipstick the same tracheotomy I gave her late boyfriend. The thick odor of blood sours my stomach. Gross.

Familiar voices shouting outside—our backup has arrived. Awesome.

Stupid once again tries to be a hero by jumping onto the back of the Halfie who’s fighting with Felix. He latches on like a monkey, arms around the Halfie’s throat, and the two tumble sideways onto the glass-strewn floor/side of the bus. All I can see of Felix are his legs.

Apparently finished with his Halfie, cat-Marcus lopes over and hisses in Stupid’s face. Stupid smartly lets go of his hostage. Marcus clamps bone-crushing jaws down on the Halfie’s throat, finger-thick teeth piercing skin. He snaps the Halfie’s neck with a jerk of his own.

I stumble over to Milo, who’s twisted halfway around trying to get a look at Felix. “Hold still and keep pressure on that,” I snap. The sound of my own voice startles me. It was a strangely silent battle, save the shrieks of the civilian passengers.

“Felix,” he says.

“I’ll check on him, just stay.” Adrenaline has me shaking. My heart’s pounding hard enough to crack a few ribs. I grab Stupid’s arm and yank him down. “Put your hands on that wound and don’t you fucking let go, you hear me?”

Stupid nods, and he puts enough pressure down to make Milo cry out. He’s losing blood, but not life-threatening amounts, and I want it to stay that way.

Marcus is making the rounds, sniffing the bodies. I’m positive that whoever’s outside is making sure none of the escaped passengers was bitten. I haul ass to my feet and pick my way over to Felix. He’s curled on his right side between the seats, arms tucked beneath his chin, eyes shut. His jaw muscles twitch, eyes moving beneath the lids. The pose sends a chill racing down my spine.

“Felix,” I say, shaking his ankle. “Felix, are you bitten?”

“Fuck.” The single word is as much an answer as a prayer. “Fuck, fuck, fuck …”

Bile scorches the back of my throat and I swallow it down, suppressing the rising tide of panic. Not again. I can’t watch someone else I care about turn into one of those fucking things. I won’t. “Let me see, Felix.”

“Evy?” Milo shouts. “Is he okay?”

“Felix, let me see,” I say, ignoring Milo.

The eye I can see rolls again, then the lid peels open. I don’t remember what color Felix’s eyes were, but they shouldn’t glimmer with an opalescent sheen. And it cements my greatest fear. My stomach flips and threatens to empty. Tears sting both of my eyes. Shit .

I choke. “Goddammit.”

“Evy! Is he—?”

Felix snarls and lunges.

Saturday, July 26

6:20 A.M.

Watchtower

Voices drew me out of a nice, quiet place, and I wanted to tell them to shut the hell up, only I couldn’t. My mouth felt dry, stuffed with cotton, and getting it moving took way too much effort. I considered going back to sleep for a while and ignoring whatever urgent crisis was likely unfolding around me, but someone squeezed my hand and said my name.

No one ever let me sleep.

I peeled one eye open, then the other, blinking up at Milo’s concerned face. He leaned down, staring so intently that I croaked out a “What?”

“Just checking,” he said.

“For?”

“You were, uh, drenched, Evy.” He blanched, a little green around the edges. This close, I saw the red lines webbing his eyes and their general puffiness. “We had to make sure it didn’t infect you.”

Drenched in what? I tried to sit up, only to find my wrists restrained. Panic hit like a cold slap, and I lunged, nearly clipping Milo’s chin with my head. I was on a cot somewhere, handcuffed to the frame, my clothes soaked, and I had no idea what … Felix. He exploded in our jail .

“Get these damned things off me,” I said.

“Calm down, I’ve got the key.” Milo unlocked my wrists, then scurried back away.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the cot. The room tilted. My head spun a little and I gripped it in both hands.

“Sorry, but we had to,” he said.

“I know.” My back ached, probably from being thrown by the explosion I only vaguely remembered. And I was moderately grateful that I’d been hosed down. I’d never seen a person explode from the inside out and did not want to see the gore left behind in the interrogation room.

We were in one of the infirmary patient rooms, and the sounds of nearby voices hadn’t diminished. People were talking, lots of them, but too far away and too many at once to distinguish individuals or actual words.

“Was anyone hurt?” I asked.

“You and Marcus took the brunt of it,” Milo said. His voice was cold, emotionless, like he was trying his damnedest to not lose his shit. “Dr. Vansis pulled some shrapnel out of your back, and Marcus took a big chunk in his left ankle.”

“Shrapnel?”

“Mostly wood from the chair. Some, uh, bone.”

I twisted my arm backward, poking at the source of the ache, and found a taped-down square of gauze. “Marcus is okay?”

“Stitched up and grumpy as ever. He saved your life.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him. How are you?”

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I was in the outer office. I wasn’t hit.”

“Not what I meant.”

His expression cracked and a flash of grief and horror made it through. Then he blinked, and a perfect mask of anger settled back into place. “A half-Blood exploded in front of me. Not an image I’ll soon forget, but we’ve got way worse problems now.”