Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

She eyed me. “Yeah, you’re a regular zombie Sherlock Holmes.”

“No, I’ve got proof! A recording of Turgeon confessing. Booth hears it, even he’ll know I didn’t kill Lenore. If it got into the press that a chak caught a serial killer, it could help things for a change . . . a little.”

As I spoke I used my free hand to rifle through my pockets. Two had been torn off by the feral. Another had my wallet, some change, and . . . that was it. Where was the recorder? I scanned the ground. I got down on my knees and looked under the bins. Nothing. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere. I had a vague memory of something tugging free from my pocket while I struggled with Turgeon.

“I dropped the recorder in the hospital. I’ve got to go back.”

Misty’s face twisted so harshly she looked like a ghoul. She leaped in front of me and shoved me back. “Are you crazy? We just ran out because there’s a bomb in there!”

“I have to! That recorder’s the only proof I have. No one’s going to sift through twenty million tons of debris to find a bunch of severed heads!”

“I won’t let you go, Hess.”

I tried to step around her. “Didn’t you just say there was no point? That they’re going to lock me up anyway?”

She jumped in front of me again. “And two seconds ago you said we were in this together!”

“I have to go! It’s not just about me; it’s about every life that sick bastard fucked up. If I don’t go back and find that recorder, no one will ever know.”

“ You’ll know. I’ll know.”

I didn’t have time to be nice about it. Every word was another second down on the timer. I made a big show, like I was thinking about giving in. Then I knelt, grabbed her legs, and stood, lifting her against the bin. Before she finished gasping, a little twist of my hips sent her in. I slammed the lid and slid the bolt shut.

She pounded against the metal. “Bastard! Bastard! Filthy freaking liar!”

“Watch the screams, Misty. They attract ferals. Any luck and I’ll be back soon.”

She was right. I had lied. It wasn’t about Turgeon’s victims. Anyone else who might care was either dead or the next-best thing, except maybe Booth, and I wasn’t going to risk my dry ass for that fuck. It was about me solving my wife’s murder, chasing a shadow of what I used to be.

In case more of the riot decided to head my way, I stuck close to the walls. At the entrance, I caught a final, brief glimpse of the mad, mad world. Any shape to the chaos was gone. The was no composition to the scene, no choreography to the violence, no orchestral score rising and falling. Ferals chased livebloods; livebloods chased chakz. Cars were flipped, windows smashed, bones broken, skin flayed. Things burned.

My existence was just as pointless. The recording wouldn’t change a thing. Hell, the MRI magnets probably erased the whole thing anyway. But I’d been going through the motions for so long, I had to finish the dance. If I didn’t make it, just as well. If I survived, instead of my being D-capped by a psycho, the authorities would do it, or I’d be carted off to some chak camp. I didn’t have the heart to tell Misty that if I were in a pen, keeping her off crack wouldn’t be enough to keep me going. If I could prove I was innocent, then at least I’d have a story to tell myself in the dark.

I went through the entrance, down the hall, scanning the floor. Just as I stumbled past the radiology sign near the MRI room, the floor shook. I heard a sound like an enormous bubble bursting deep in the belly of the earth.

The bomb had gone off.

I tried to run, but cement floor cracked beneath me. The walls folded in like cards. Support beams shattered. Holes opened. Everything moved in on itself. Nothing under me anymore, I fell. As I spun in midair, the stench of something thick and burning hit my nose. I think I saw a fireball, a huge blossoming flower, but my eyes might have already been closed.

It went dark. The crashing and moving continued for what felt like hours. When it settled at last, I was still there. Things hurt, but I couldn’t be sure if what hurt was even part of me anymore. Lost limbs still hurt amputees. They call it phantom pain. Hell, I had a whole phantom life.

I was in some air pocket, some crappy little corner; I’d be here forever. I’d go feral, I’d lose my mind, but I’d still feel , still see and hear. Same nightmare as being a head. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized what a bad idea this was. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And the recorder was gone forever. For some reason, it didn’t depress me, not yet, anyway. It struck me as funny, but I couldn’t laugh.

I was lying on my side, legs stretched out beneath me, right arm stretched in front of me, my head cradled on my shoulder blade. I felt like I was lying in a narrow ship bunk on a jagged, concrete mattress. Head turned down, I opened my eyes. I didn’t expect to see anything, but I did. There was mist in the air, dripping water. Past my feet, far off as a star, a security light swayed and flickered.

The hallway I’d been standing in had been shoved into a space a quarter of its original size. I wasn’t completely flat. I was at an angle. There was a space above me, maybe a foot or two, narrower spaces right and left. Ahead, past my hand, I thought I saw daylight.

Then I heard something rattle deep below. The hospital wasn’t finished dying yet.

I thought I should try for the daylight before my little hollow collapsed, but I couldn’t talk my body into it. Trying to get motivated, I told myself Misty would be pissed if I didn’t get out. Nothing. I imagined being stuck here for good. Still nothing. Then I told myself it would mean Turgeon had won. All his victims would be gone. That did it.

With my right hand, I grabbed at the debris, trying to snag something heavy enough to pull myself along. I moved an inch or two. There was another rattle. I tried to move faster, but it felt as if the ceiling were closing in on me. I closed my eyes to better concentrate, but when I did all I saw was Turgeon’s leering face. It made me angry, but I still couldn’t move faster. So I kept my eyes open, even when the dust fell into them.

All of a sudden it got dark. Ahead, something had blocked my little view of sunlight. Had the way out collapsed ? Was it over? No, the light returned. A shadow was wavering in front of it. It looked like a drape, its wispy shape created by the breeze. Then it got thicker, longer, larger.

Something was moving toward me.

Some one . Too big for a head. Chak or liveblood? Couldn’t tell. It came near as it could and knelt right in front of me but I still couldn’t make it out. It vanished again, but a few seconds later it reappeared and shoved the back end of a fire hose at me.

“Take it,” a rough voice said.

Someone was saving me. Had Misty gotten out of the bin?

I wasn’t going to complain. I grabbed hold. Whoever was at the other end pulled. I pushed with my good leg until I passed into a larger hollow. There I got up on my elbows to get a look at my benefactor.

It wasn’t Misty, but it was a woman. At least, it was shaped like one. I stared, trying to focus. When I recognized the pale skin, black hair, and green eyes, I was startled and confused.

“You came back?” I whispered, pushing myself up on my knees.

It was Nell Parker, silhouetted in the gloom.

She took a step back as if I were a dog that might bite. “I was hiding when I saw you run back in. I heard the blast. I couldn’t leave you in here. Not after you . . . after you . . .”

Turns out maybe some of the dead do have feelings.

34

Ididn’t have the recorder, but I had something else, maybe something better. Nell wasn’t like Misty. She was definitely lighter, despite the remains of dancer’s muscles. She was hesitant, too, unsure if she wanted to touch me. But side by side, we staggered into a smoky day.