Undead with Benefits (8 page)

“Too much,” I replied. “Like, enough to give me brain damage. I'm sorry about your brother.”

She slapped the laptop closed and tossed it to the end of the bed. “I want this to be over, Jake. I want it to be over so bad.”

“I know,” I replied. “Me too.”

“Do you?” she asked sharply. “Because sometimes it seems like you're just having fun. Like this is some road-trip vacation or whatever.”

I didn't say anything back. She was right—sometimes I was like that. Maybe too often, I don't know. Maybe I stretched Jake Day and similar moments of awesomeness too far. But the alternative, thinking about the horrible shit that was happening, like, every second? I'd go nuts.

After a minute, Amanda pushed her forehead into my chest. I lay back with her curled up against me, slowly stroking her hair.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly.

“It's okay.”

Before I could say anything else, a big chunk of her hair came loose in my hand, a rotten piece of scalp dangling from the roots.

“Oh shoot,” I said. “You're—”

Amanda snapped into a sitting position and grabbed the hair away from me. She looked mortified in more ways than one. Even in the dim light, I could see her skin had turned that congealed gray. Her eyes glistened with tears. She leapt off the bed, away from me.

“Goddamn it, I thought I could hold it off,” she said, covering her face and running for the bathroom.

“Not like I haven't seen it before,” I replied. “It's okay.”

“Stop saying that,” she snapped, her words slurring a little. She stopped in the bathroom doorway to shake the chunk of scalp and hair at me. “Nothing about this is okay, Jake!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to calm her down, not realizing that I was okaying totally on reflex. “Shit.”

Amanda let loose a frustrated zombie sound, then slammed and locked the bathroom door. I climbed out of bed and tried the doorknob, making sure she was locked inside.

“I'm going to get you something from the car,” I called through the door. “Stay in there, all right? No rampaging.”

She thumped something against the door in reply—maybe her hand, maybe her forehead—and then let out a throaty, sorrowful moan. Could be she'd already gone full zombie, but I didn't think so. That was thirty percent undead hunger and seventy percent human sadness locked behind that bathroom door.

I yanked on some clothes and hustled out of our room. The hallway was quiet. No guests poked their heads out, curious about the monster sounds from down the hall, so we had luck and good soundproofing on our side. The elevator doors hissed open a half second after I thumbed the button.

“Whoa!” I shouted, surprised, as I crashed into Cass getting off the elevator.

She looked stunned to see me. Or maybe just stunned in general, actually. She wobbled backward into the elevator, which, granting that I'm concealing a lot of muscle mass under this unassuming frame of mine, still seemed like an overreaction, like she was already woozy. I hadn't bumped her that hard. I instinctively touched her arm to steady her, and she gratefully clasped her free hand over mine, sighing.

That's when I noticed she had a wad of tissues stuffed up against her nose, bloodstained, and was a friendly ghost shade of pale.

“Jeez, what happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Cass replied, all nasally and distant. “Fine.”

“Um, really?” I still hadn't taken my hand off her arm. “Because you look all messed up, Cass.”

“Nope. All good,” she replied, almost like she was wasted. I wondered how much of that twelve-pack she'd plowed through downstairs. To illustrate how all good she was, Cass made an expansive gesture with her tissue-holding hand, inadvertently flicking some blood onto the elevator wall.

The elevator doors buzzed and tried to close. Cass jumped at the loud noise and at the same time some clarity returned to her eyes. She looked from me to the blood she'd splattered on the wall, her eyes widening in embarrassment.

“Oh no,” she said. “I just did that.”

“It's okay,” I replied, cringing at another use of what was apparently my phrase of the night. “It's not even the grossest thing I've seen in the last ten minutes.”

“Oh good,” Cass said, still a little loopy. “I'm gonna go now.”

Cass dropped her hand off mine and I let go of her arm. We did an awkward little spin-dance in the elevator, trading places. She peered down the hall like she was trying to figure out where to go next. I hit the button for the lobby, but held the doors open for another second.

“Hey, I just have to go down and get something real quick. Should I, like, check on you? Are you going to barf?”

Cass shook her head. A couple strands of hair ended up hanging suspended from her blood-sticky nostril.

“No,” she said quickly. “Just bed now. See you in the morning.”

“Are you su—?”

She cut me off. “I can get you in tomorrow, Jake. Into Iowa. For sure.”

“Yeah, that's the plan,” I replied.

“No, no, I was lying before, but now I can do it for real. Promise.” She smiled at me. There was a little blood in her teeth. “Good night, cute boy.”

“Uh, good night.”

I let the elevator doors close.

So much for the quiet moments.

CASS

THE SOUND OF AN AIR HORN GOING OFF RIGHT AGAINST my ear woke me up, blaring and sharp, so loud it made my teeth grit. My eyes felt welded shut, so I blindly waved my hands around, trying to ward off the noise the same way I would a swarm of hornets. The cacophony stopped for two seconds of sweet, merciful silence, and then resumed, pummeling my head with sharp, jangly noise.

It was the bedside phone ringing.

I managed to crack my eyes open. My room was dark, the curtains drawn, and yet what little light made it through stabbed my retinas like hot pokers, digging into my brain, all the way to the base of my skull. Huge black floaters sailed across my vision. I felt like I might faint, but fought it back. Tried to focus.

I backhanded the phone off the hook. Managed to pick it up with both trembling hands. I had to work some moisture into my mouth, tasting blood and sandpaper.

“What,” I managed to gurgle into the phone.

“THIS IS THE FRONT DESK. CHECKOUT WAS OVER AN HOUR AGO.”

I held the phone away from my ear and sobbed. “Please stop yelling.”

“WE NEED TO CLEAN THE ROOM.”

“Ten minutes,” I croaked. I wasn't going anywhere in ten minutes. I just needed the loudspeaker on the phone to shut up.

I dropped the phone and took a deep breath. I glanced back at my pillow, unsurprised to find it dark with dried blood. I groaned as I swung my legs out of bed. Everything felt brittle, like my body was made of dry twigs that might crumble apart from a strong gust of hotel air-conditioning. Except for my head—that was swollen like I'd snorted wet cement. I couldn't stand just yet, was afraid I might collapse under the weight of this headache.

I needed Tom. He should've been there, with an orange juice at the ready, checking me for brain-hemorrhage symptoms.

No. I was on my own. And I had to get moving.

After about five minutes of gently massaging circles into my temples, I managed to get my legs under me. I stumbled toward the bathroom, noticing on my way that a note had been slipped under my door. I detoured with some effort and snatched it up.

 

Hey, Cass—We'll be waiting downstairs when you wake up. Or maybe at that protest. Hope you're not dead in there! Your friend, Jake Stephens

 

Jake. I bumped into him last night, didn't I? Things got majorly foggy after what happened in the hotel lobby. I didn't even remember coming to bed, although I was proud that in my delirium I'd remembered to put out the do-not-disturb sign and chain the door.

I made it to the bathroom and turned the shower up to extrahot. As the room filled with steam, I braced myself on the sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Pale, face crusty with dried blood, eyes practically swallowed up by dark circles.

This is what Alastaire did to me.

 

Two minutes after I'd hung it up, the pay phone in the hotel lobby started to ring. I'd spent those two minutes staring at it and willing myself to wake up from what had to be a nightmare.

On the fourth ring, the night clerk clicked her tongue at me, annoyed. “I'm assuming it's for you, sweetheart.”

I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. I could still hear the living-room TV on the other end of the line. My living room. I didn't say anything—couldn't—and after a moment of waiting, probably enjoying the sound of my shaky breathing, Alastaire sighed.

“Come on, Cassandra. Let's get the histrionics out of the way.”

The words came in a flood then, like the sound of his voice had punctured my hatred reservoir. I cupped my free hand around the receiver so the night clerk wouldn't hear every forcefully hissed syllable.

“What the
hell
are you doing there? What did you do to my mom? You sick freak, you should've bled to death when you had the chance.”

Alastaire didn't lose his cool. “To answer your first question, I'm convalescing. As you're aware, I lost more than a little blood back at that farmhouse.”

I remembered Amanda's zombie ex-boyfriend Chazz chewing through Alastaire's arm. I'd set that in motion. I won't lie—it wasn't weighing very heavily on my conscience.

“What did you do to my mom?” I repeated. “Did you hurt her?”

“Of course not. She's very sweet,” Alastaire replied, sounding almost affronted. “It was all in the emancipation agreement she signed when you joined the NCD. In cases where an asset—that's you—violates her confidentiality pledge or becomes otherwise problematic, a certain amount of psychic damage control is allowable.”

“There's no way that's in there.”

“No one ever reads the fine print.”

“You—you made her forget me?” I kept my voice down, but wanted to scream. My grip on the phone was white-knuckle tight. “You
erased
me?”

“Temporarily,” Alastaire replied dismissively. “I needed to get your attention. I have a mission for you.”

I scoffed. “You are bonkers, crazy-pants nuts if you think I'd do anything for you.”

“My dear, I'm holding your mother hostage. We can skip the bravado phase. You'll do what I ask.”

I didn't reply. Alastaire was right. If he'd told me to march back to NCD headquarters right then and there, I would have.

“In regards to methods of communication, this talking-on-the-phone business is quite primitive for people like us,” Alastaire said, totally changing gears on me. “I've looked for you on the astral plane, but you're so closed off. I couldn't make contact.”

“That's probably because you're a mind rapist,” I replied. I actually didn't have any idea what he was talking about—communicating on the astral plane. From his smug tone of voice, I think Alastaire sensed my ignorance. He was still trying to be my psychic mentor and it grossed me out.

“I want you to reach out to my mind, the same way you would track a zombie,” he said, patiently lecturing.

“Just like with a zombie, huh? When I find you, will someone shoot you in the face for me?”

He ignored me. “It shouldn't be difficult. Our minds have been in contact before, and you know where my physical body is located. Picture it. Feel me there. Reach out to me like—”

“Shut up, shut up. You're going to make me barf.” I glanced over at the desk attendant. She wasn't the nosy type and had already gone back to reading her novel. Still holding the phone for show, I sat down on a nearby bench, closed my eyes, and slipped onto the astral plane.

 

The shower helped loosen up the vise clamped to my brain. The migraine wasn't going anywhere, but it'd at least subsided to the point where I could turn my head without sailing into a bout of vertigo.

I put on some fresh clothes and dumped yesterday's in the trash. Between that and the pillows, housekeeping was going to be really weirded out. Oh well.

I plucked a bottle of water from the mini fridge and pressed it to my forehead. Then I crossed to the window and pushed open the curtains, the sunlight stinging my eyes. At least it was tolerable now, unlike when I first woke up.

The sidewalks on both sides of the street were jam-packed with people marching, waving signs, and chanting. They looked young mostly, but there were a few older folks sprinkled in. The police were out in force, trying to make sure the marchers didn't spill into the street, although traffic had nonetheless slowed to a crawl. Now that I was close to the window, I could make out the rhythmic hum of their raised voices. “WE WANT THE TRUTH! FREE IOWA NOW!”

I wasn't looking forward to going out there. Kudos on your sense of civic responsibility, guys. Way to ask our screwed-up government the tough questions. But could we maybe keep the chants down to a whisper? Not like anyone in Washington was going to listen anyway.

I grabbed my things, which pretty much amounted to a few changes of clothes stuffed into a shopping bag and a cowboy hat, steeled myself, and left the room. I ducked my head under the frosty glare from the annoyed maid waiting outside and made it to the elevator.

Something had happened here last night. A hazy memory I somehow knew I should be embarrassed about. I'd talked with Jake. Oh god, did I call him cute? To his face?

They were waiting for me in the lobby. Amanda stood by the front window, watching the protesters stream past. Jake was sprawled out on one of the couches, face hidden behind a newspaper. The headline read: GRIZZLY BEAR BLAMED FOR 13 DEAD IN SALT LAKE GROCERY STORE. That one had the stink of NCD cover-up all over it. The incidents were really piling up.

“Hey,” I said, standing in front of Jake, hands in my pockets. He lowered the paper and smiled at me, although his eyes widened a fraction at the sight of my face. Obviously, I'd washed off all the blood, but there wasn't anything to be done about the dark circles and general paleness.