Kathy Reichs - Virals

Nope.

So there I sat, being bombed by a monkey.

Finally, I spotted my assailant. A big female with gray-brown fur and one notched ear. The tattoo on her chest said Y-7 .

Y-7 wasn’t happy. Restlessly shuffling from branch to branch, she paused now and then to lunge in our direction. Fear and anger drew her lips back in a full-toothed grin.

Y-7 let fly again. Retreated.

Good aim! I rubbed my shoulder. Good arm, too. I scooted behind the tree, taking cover.

“Looks like you have another fan.”

“Shut up, Hi.” I peered around the trunk, trying to locate my attacker. “I’ve never seen this behavior in a female.” Air whooshed as a missile zipped past my ear. “What the hell? Is her baby nearby? I don’t see one.”

I peeked again. Another projectile drove me back.

“She’s pretty agitated.” My warning to Hi was an understatement.

“Great call, Captain Obvious.” Hi hadn’t moved. Not smart. Whack! He took a direct shot from on high.

Cursing, Hi rolled from the line of fire. “Agitated? That monkey’s rabid. Out for blood. She went for my bad knee.” He snatched a spiked gumball fruit that had fallen from the tree. “This means war.”

Hi stood, took aim. “Payback! Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

Y-7 easily dodged Hi’s weak throw. Returned fire.

Hi ducked back, panting. “I’m overmatched. Call for backup.”

Flit.

There it was again! A quick burst of light.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Hi crouched beside me, gazing upward. “I think Donkey Kong has something on her wrist.”

Overhead, Y-7 sprang with outstretched arms, went airborne, landed. A threatening branch-shake completed the display.

I saw another flash.

It clicked. “She’s got something in her paw. Something reflective.”

“Yep,” Hi agreed. “It’s metal. Maybe glass.”

We were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder behind the trunk of a live oak. It wasn’t big enough to shield us both. Sardines in hiding. Sitting ducks.

Suddenly, our adversary leaped into the branches directly above our heads. Hanging low, she drew her lips back and screeched.

Alarmed, I fell backward and curled into a ball. Monkey bites are not pretty.

Y-7 hurled what was in her hand.

Branches swished.

Quiet.

I sat up and unwrapped my arms from my head. Dirt coated my shirt. Twigs adorned my hair. Nice.

“Hi, next time you want to throw something at a monkey, don’t.”

“It was only a gumball.”

Hi had rolled to the bottom of a slight incline. He righted himself and glanced at an elbow scrape. “Man, this is not my day.”

Curious, I scooped up Y-7’s projectile.

“What are you fools doing?” Shelton called. The trailbreakers were back, having missed our brief firefight.

“Monkey attack.” Hi slogged back up the grade. “The enemy had air superiority, but we survived.” He swatted Ben on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I sent a message. They won’t dare return.”

“Guys, check this out.” I rubbed Y-7’s missile with my finger, trying to clear gunk from the surface. Thin and flat, the thing weighed maybe an ounce. A tiny hole punctured one end.

Shelton joined me. Hi was busy explaining to Ben how many punches he’d absorbed before body-slamming the primate gang leader. His audience looked dubious.

Y-7’s weapon of choice was about two inches long and one inch wide. Though a hardened crust covered 90 percent of its surface, one outside edge glinted in the afternoon sunlight.

“Definitely metal,” I pronounced.

Shelton nodded. “It’s practically fossilized. I’ll bet it was buried at some point.”

Nose close, I gave the thing a careful inspection. It smelled of rust and embedded dirt.

“It’s pretty banged up, but I can make out indentations,” I said. “Lettering, maybe?”

Shelton smiled. “Come on, girl. Think! A metal rectangle with symbols punched in?” Smug. He knew what it was.

“A strike pad?” I hate guessing. It’s so inexact. “Like for a stamp or something? Or a stapler?”

Shelton’s grin widened. “Use your brain. Who prints things on small pieces of steel?”

Of course! And the hole. Duh.

I met his eye. My grin mirrored his.

“You got it!” Fist bump. He turned to the others. “Guess what we found, ya’ll.”

“It’s a dog tag,” I blurted, stealing his thunder. “A military ID.”

Shelton nodded. “No doubt about it.”

“What’s it doing out here?” Ben asked. “More Civil War stuff?”

“Crazy talk,” Shelton scoffed. “Metal dog tags first came out in World War I. Standard issue ones, anyway. It’s at least from this century.”

I handed Shelton the tag. His show now.

“If we knew what was printed on it, we could date it,” he said. “The type of info that was stamped changed over time.” Another thought. “The material used to make them changed too.”

I frowned. “But Loggerhead was empty for decades before the university bought it. It’s been vacant most of this century.”

“Sure,” Hi said. “Officially. You think people didn’t cruise out here looking for some action?”

Good point.

“Waste of time,” Ben said. “You’ll never be able to read it. The lettering’s too far gone.” He checked his watch. “We should head out. I found the way back.”

“ We found it.” Shelton shrugged and tossed the tag.

The boys moved off.

I stared at Y-7’s prize resting in the leaves.

Why not try to clean it? It’s not that different from a seashell.

The tag held someone’s name. Not trying to decipher it? Crazy. I scooped it up and hurried after the others.

Man.

If I hadn’t done that, everything would have been different. Everything .

That whim changed my life.

Opened the door for what came.

Paved my path to monsterhood.

CHAPTER 9

At home, disaster lurked.

Terror. Horror.

Her.

The conversation was always the same. Bombast. Then reproach. Followed by thoughtlessness. Always draped in tones as syrupy as molasses.

And she was off and running.

“Why, Tory, look at you! You’re gettin’ to be so lovely! Angel eyes!”

Oh God.

“But, dear thing, why not a sundress? Girl as pretty as you shouldn’t slum around in T-shirts and shorts.”

Stop.

“I cannot wait to take you for a proper haircut. My girl Da’Nae will know exactly what to do with that tangle.”

Kill me. Kill me now.

Dinner plans had taken a dreadful turn. Kit’s “lady friend” had been added to the guest list. I was not consulted, perhaps because my feelings on the issue of Whitney are clear.

I stared full bore at Kit. He kept his eyes on his plate.

Thanks for the heads-up, jerk .

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Whitney Rose Dubois.

“Have you thought about what I said last time, sugar?” Whitney feigned nonchalance. Failed.

“Yes, Whitney, I did.” I tried to be diplomatic. “I don’t think it’s me.”

“Not you?” Mascara-laden lashes fluttered. Bleached hair swished. “Not you!” A manicured hand fluttered to rest on jacked-up boobs. “But of course it’s you!” Saucer eyes conveyed total lack of understanding.

Swing and a miss. How to put this delicately?

“The whole idea is ridiculous. Stupid.”

There. Oprah would be proud.

“Tory!” Kit said. “That’s enough.”

I resisted an impulse to sigh theatrically. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m just not into the whole ‘deb’ thing.”

For a month, Whitney had worked to convince me to make my debut as a lady. I had zero interest. White dresses. Satin gloves. Being displayed like cattle. No thanks. I’m just not that into you.