Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

“Shadow puppets.”

“I’m amazed you’re still sane, Mr. Truman.”

“You could count the number of cement blocks that make up your back wall. I’ve done it twice.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Strangely, my count was off by one the second time.”

Once again, his delivery was perfectly deadpan. “I’d only start worrying if it’s off the third time, too.”

“Want to count with me?”

“I’d rather go around my cell and test every single bar for a weakness I might be able to exploit.”

“I tried that, but good luck.”

“Have fun counting.”

The jail cells were old, probably hadn’t been in regular use for fifty years, but they were still solid. Not a single bar jiggled or shimmied, and the lock on the door was sturdy. No scraps of metal to pick it with; nothing but a bucket waiting to be pissed in. My diligence paid off in exhaustion and an hour of time wasted.

Wyatt lounged on his back in the middle of his cell, staring at his cement wall. Probably counting the blocks, as he’d said. I couldn’t tell and didn’t much care. I was geared up, and nudging inches closer to claustrophobia. I couldn’t stand being caged. Tied up was one thing, but walled in was quite another. Just enough room to move around, but not enough to truly stretch my legs.

Metal clanged nearby. Wyatt scrambled to his feet, and we moved to the front of our respective cells. At the far left of the corridor, the cells ended with a steel door. It had a handle on our side, but no lock or window.

More noise from the same direction.

“Someone’s coming,” Wyatt said.

A lock clicked back. I winced at the tight squeal of rusty metal. The door swung inward, casting a rectangle of yellow light onto the bare cement floor. Three figures entered the room.

The two standing upright were Halfies, easy enough to recognize. True vampires look like Isleen: tall, willowy, white-blond, with pronounced fangs and lavender eyes. The process of infection cannot change a person’s height or build, but it does change hair and eye color. Halfies end up with mottled hair, like a peroxide job gone bad, and opalescent eyes that look purple from one direction and their natural shade from another. Half of two worlds, but welcome in neither.

Between them, they supported Alex by his arms. His head hung low, and his bare feet dragged along the floor. He’d been stripped down to his boxers. Bruises, welts, and dozens of shallow cuts covered his torso and legs. There was little blood. I imagined the Halfies didn’t waste a drop.

A guttural snarl tore from my throat. This seemed to startle the Halfies. They paused and exchanged a look. Teenagers, I’d guess, with less than a week’s experience in their new lifestyle. They looked better suited for a homecoming football game than doing interrogation dirty work. Fury hit me so hard that my stomach ached. I clenched the bars until my knuckles cracked. If I could have escaped my prison, I would have gleefully ground their faces into the floor.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” My voice bounced around the narrow corridor and reverberated off the metal bars. One of them—the larger of the pair—winced.

They dragged Alex into the cell next to mine and let him go. His head cracked off the hard floor. I bolted to the shared wall of bars, reaching through for one solid swipe at one of those arrogant assholes, but missed. They knew enough to stay out of arm’s reach.

Tall Jock, the more skittish of the pair, squared his shoulders and looked me up and down. A noticeable bulge grew in the front of his tight jeans. Definitely a high school student who strayed to the wrong side of the city at night. He whispered to his friend, and Short Jock offered me the same visual appraisal.

I didn’t turn around, but could imagine the poisonous glare on Wyatt’s face. I couldn’t take my gaze off Alex. His ribs moved a fraction of an inch. He was breathing—small comfort. He was still unconscious, at the mercy of the Halfies and their infectious bites.

“Shoulda turned her,” Short Jock said, eyeballing me.

My stomach dropped down to my feet. Blood rushed from my face and set my heart racing. The Halfies laughed as they left the cell. I didn’t look at them. I eyed every cut, every scrape on Alex’s visible skin, looking for a bite. All it took was one. Their combined laughter was cut off abruptly by the door slamming shut.

I slid to my knees and reached through the bars. He was too far, by at least a foot. He was facedown, half his body hidden from my inspection. He couldn’t be bitten. They’d said that to goad me, piss me off.

“Alex.” I pressed against the cold barrier until my shoulder ached. “Alex!”

“Evy, is he alive?” Wyatt asked.

“I think so. I can’t see!”

He didn’t have to ask what I couldn’t see. I tugged at the bars, as if I could pull them apart like putty. I tried the other arm, stretching and bruising it in vain. I screamed Alex’s name over and over, but he didn’t stir. Wyatt didn’t interrupt my mininervous breakdown, remaining quiet in his corner, watching.

Minutes later—or an hour, it no longer mattered—Alex’s left hand twitched. I went completely still. Then he groaned, low and muffled. I held my breath, afraid to break the spell. Another groan, another twitch. His head tilted … the wrong way.

“Alex,” I said.

After a moment’s pause—and probably some superior effort on his part—Alex turned his head in my direction. Both of his eyes were puffy, swollen half-shut. Red tinged both nostrils. A fresh cut decorated his forehead from his tumble to the floor. His old gunshot graze was unbandaged and oozing. He blinked bleary eyes that remained at half-mast, hidden from my desperate need to see their color.

“I’m here, Alex. It’s Evy.”

His nostrils flared. He squinted. His lips moved, tried to form words. No sound came out, but I recognized the shape. It was a name. I bit the inside of my cheek, crouched down, then reached through the bars.

“It’s Chalice,” I said. “Take my hand, Alex, I’m here.”

A pained smile ghosted across his lips. His left hand inched toward mine, dragged there by fingers missing their nails. I swallowed back a small scream, but he didn’t seem to notice. His attention was fixed on my hand. One small task. One centimeter at a time. He closed the gap.

My fingers brushed his. He stopped, satisfied with his progress. Panting hard, his cheeks flushed bright red against a deathly pallor, he gazed at me with shadowed eyes.

“Alex, did they bite you?” I asked.

He squinted, but didn’t seem to understand the question. “Asked me,” he managed, each word a single, wheezing breath. “Don’t know … anything.”

“I’m so sorry, Alex. So sorry.”

“Guess won’t … bury … you after all.”

I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. They scorched my eyes and throat, burning with the sorrow in my heart. I had taken a gentle soul, thrust him into my violent world, and he was dying. Dying because I didn’t stay dead the first time.

“You’re fine,” I said, choking on the words. They stank of lies. I forced them out anyway. “We’re going to get out of here, and we’ll get you to a hospital. They’ll take care of you. All of the junk food you can eat while you get better.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Ice cream?”

“Any flavor.”

“Strawberry.”

“That’s the best you can do? Strawberry? What about chocolate chip?”

“Gross.”

I laughed and lost it inside of a sob. My fingers stroked his, light enough to let him feel me, but not hard enough to cause him more pain. “Fine, strawberry it is. Lots of it, with strawberry sauce and whipped cream. You just have to hold on, okay? You can’t have it if you die on me.”