Kelly Meding - As Lie the Dead

“Don’t inhale,” I said unhelpfully. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I have to get you out of here.” Sweat formed a bright sheen over his bare skin.

“I’m stuck.”

“You need to teleport.”

No shit, Sherlock . “Was gonna try that.” Air seized in my lungs, and I coughed until I heaved. Nothing came up. Bile scorched my already damaged throat. Tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with sweat and pooling in my ears.

“How far can you teleport?”

“Dunno.”

“Three hundred yards?”

I blinked, not understanding. My head was fuzzy. I couldn’t get his words to compute into an actual distance.

“Three football fields?” he tried again.

“Maybe.”

He pursed his thin lips, nostrils flaring, pale even in the stifling heat. “You know the perimeter fence near the entrance? The empty lot across the street?”

“Yeah. Seen it.”

“I have a VW bus parked in that lot. It looks like a relic, no one will bother it.”

“Can’t. Haven’t seen it.” If I didn’t know where the bus was, exactly, I’d never hit the mark. Would I?

“You don’t have a choice. The back of it is empty, no seats. Can you picture it in your head?”

I tried, drumming up images of those buses from movies and television. Long and narrow, lots of windows. Sometimes curtains blocking the interior from prying eyes. Open space. So far away. “Think so,” I said.

“I need you to try for there, Evy, please. When I shift back, count to ten and then go. I’ll meet you there.”

“What if I miss?” The only time I’d ever teleported so blindly was immediately after Wyatt’s death at Olsmill. I was lucky we hadn’t landed in a tree then. I’d be lucky if I didn’t land in the bus’s engine now.

“Don’t miss.” He smiled. In it, I saw hope and comfort and an iron will. More will than I possessed at the moment, and I was glad. Glad to have someone else nearby who could be strong for me. I didn’t think I could do it, but Phin believed in me. It was enough.

“Okay.”

He wasted no time in morphing back, and then he was gone. I counted to ten, still sure I’d imagined him. No van existed. I’d end up … seven … six … inside of a Dumpster or stuck to the pavement. Didn’t matter. I was sick of coughing and sweating and … four … three … not feeling my legs. At least it would be over.

… two … one .

Ready or not, here I come .

I held my breath and slipped into the Break. Agony tore me to pieces. The horrific sounds of screeching metal pressed into me, around me, on top of me. I moved through the agony, drifting toward the image of the van. Ripped apart as I passed through so much solid steel. And fire.

Intent on a van that didn’t exist.

Blood was in my mouth, my nose, my eyes. The taste of it was on my tongue and the smell of it in my nose, and the blood and agony followed me into oblivion.

Six Weeks Ago

An awful smell draws me out of a restless, dream-filled sleep. Not rotting-meat awful. More like vinegar-tang awful. God, please don’t let Ash be making that Korean sauerkraut mess . Jesse eats it, but not me. Especially not when I’m five days into a never-ending bout of the flu, haven’t eaten anything thicker than mashed potatoes in four, and am tempted to just chop my own head off at the neck so my mucus can drain out faster.

I peek one eye open. I’m facing the wall and its familiar stained wallpaper—what was once white and yellow daisies. Not even close to my taste, but I’m never home enough to care. Not until lately.

My head feels like dead weight as I roll to my other side. A fresh glass of orange juice is on the bedside table—or rather the old orange crate that serves as one. I like the simplicity of it. Next to the juice is a half-empty box of tissues. I reach for one and pull. The damned thing snags and sends the entire box tumbling to the floor.

“Fuck,” I croak.

I scoot closer to the edge of the bed and peek down. It’s tumbled pretty far away, too far to reach. My nose is starting to drip. I need a tissue. I just can’t make my dead-weight body get up and retrieve them. Frustration makes me growl, which tickles deep in my clogged chest. The ensuing coughs wrack my entire body and leave my throat raw, aching.

Just kill me now .

A tissue dangles in front of me. I follow the hand that holds it to a wrist, up an arm, until I’m looking at Wyatt through bleary eyes.

“You dropped these,” he says.

I grunt, take it, and blow. Hard enough to make me dizzy. I slump back against the pillow. The damp tissue falls away. I close my eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. I can’t sleep with it spinning like this.

The mattress sinks. A cool hand presses against my steaming forehead. Feels good.

“Ash says you haven’t eaten all day.”

“Hurts.”

“You need to eat, Evy.”

“No.”

“If you don’t eat, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”

I snap my eyes open. I hate the hospital. Despise it. I’d rather stitch my own wounds, and I usually do. He’s holding two red pills in his palm. I eye them. More medicine. I hate pills, too, and he knows it. He’s pushing again, like he’s been pushing me all month. Harder than usual all spring, actually.

I once asked Jesse if I’d done something to piss off Wyatt, but Jesse said he didn’t think so. Wyatt was just in a mood. Monthlong man PMS, I guess.

If those red pills make my head stop feeling like a bowling ball, I’ll forgive him his bad mood. I open my mouth. He pops them in, then holds the juice while I sip enough to get the pills down. The juice stings my throat and sits cool in my stomach. I flop against the pillow and close my eyes, hoping he’s satisfied.

“Ash is making some gelatin,” he says, patting my forehead with a tissue. “You’re going to eat it.”

“Gross.”

“It’s cherry.”

“Grosser.”

“Evy, I’m serious. Eat it, or I’m driving you to the hospital myself.”

I crack one eye open. Peer under my lashes at him. His mouth is set, lips pressed thin. I know that look. He’s dead serious. And I don’t have the strength to fight him. “Fine.”

With the battle won, I expect him to leave. He stays.

He stays through another coughing fit. He hands me tissue after tissue, until I’m sure my head can’t expel any more snot without turning itself inside out. He holds a basin while I throw up half the gelatin I’m forced to eat. I curse at him because he’s convenient, and he continues to chatter about nonsensical things.

More juice and gelatin, a few saltine crackers, and lots of monologuing later, my fever breaks sometime during the night. Wyatt stays with me through it, holding my hand and always ready with a tissue. A constant, comforting presence.

He’s gone when I wake the next morning from a dreamless sleep.

I stare at the faded wallpaper, more able to think now, and wonder if I dreamed him. After four years and dozens of injuries, this is the first time he’s kept vigil at my bedside. For the flu, of all things—not even a life-threatening wound. It seems silly, and yet there it is.

Something has changed, and I’m helpless to understand it. So I’ll just ignore it. Pretend it never happened. Pretend nothing’s changed.

Even though we both know something has.

Later …

I was on fire. Every inch of my body ached and burned—back and shoulders that lay on something soft, face caressed by external force, legs surrounded by support. Nothing was left untouched. Even my insides hurt, as though taken out, smashed to a pulp, and then tossed back in.