Jeremy Chikalto and the Demon Trace (Book III of The Hazy Souls) by T.S. DeBrosse Page B

brush?” Maren attempted to run a
hand through her hair to demonstrate the severity of her problem.
“Ren?!”
    Tina motioned for Ren to step forward. The
trusty young guard bowed to Maren, daughter of the family he'd
served all those years.
    “Oh my God, look at you!” Tina smacked Ren
on the shoulder, interrupting his chivalry.
    “How are you here?” asked Maren. “What
happened to you?!”
    “My parents and I went to
sleep that night before we were to escape
together — and
then, well I came here. Not here, but close by. We were looking for
you, and instead we found some soldiers who knew your names.
Anyway, we were led to this compound.”
    “Well I'm glad to see you again!” Maren
embraced Ren.
    “See you later, Ren!” said Tina. She nudged
him away. “Go see someone downstairs and they'll get you situated.
Maren, shut up and talk to me!” Tina pulled Maren into her bedroom
and slammed the door. “Who is that handsome man, tell me all about
him and I want to eat dinner with him.”
    Maren crinkled her nose. “Get me a brush,
first.”
     
    An hour later, and Maren was turning in
front of the mirror. “Awesome,” said Maren, stretching the purple
zebra-print leotard down over her butt.
    Tina clapped and laughed. “You're a good
sport, Maren! You'll get your clothes back soon enough. You stink,
girl.”
    Maren sighed and slipped her backpack on.
They left Tina's room, walked down the winding Victorian stairs,
and headed outside. They made their way to the back of the
property, where there was a wooden bathhouse painted sky blue.
Maren imagined that it must have been peaceful to wash here after a
long day at the beach, but now, in times of Apocalypse, it had
become a madhouse.
    “Outta my way!” shouted Tina. “General's
daughter coming through! Important business here.” She yanked Maren
forward. “You're going next. Just bring your clothes in the shower
with you. I'll hang on to this.”
    “Oh, I can wait,” said Maren sheepishly, but
Tina was already unzipping the zebra printed leotard.
    “Don't gawk at my girl,” snapped Tina at a
man behind her. “So does Ren like brunettes? Or is my hair black?
More like dark brown.”
    Maren let out a little yelp and then Tina
pushed her into the shower stall and pulled the curtains taut. The
shower's previous occupant stumbled out, naked and confused.
    “I don't know.” Maren showered quickly. Tina
helped her back into the leotard, much to Maren's annoyance. Wet,
clean clothes in hand, the two set off back to the house.
    The General's second in command, Thomas
Blakely, halted Maren and Tina at the front door of the Victorian.
He was an older man, and looked more business than military. Tina
nudged Maren. “He's my father's CFO,” she grumbled.
    “We've set up a work chart,” said the man
sternly. “Your father will be posting it by the gazebo, but I have
a copy here.” He held out a stack of papers and a digital camera to
Tina. “We haven't gotten a proper census yet, and I think that will
help things move along.”
    Tina rolled her eyes. “My dad is an OCD
control freak.”
    “Tina, your father wants you to get pictures
and background information from every resident. In addition to the
background information, we want a first-hand description of every
resident's personality. Don't take notes until after you've spoken
with them, we don't want to arouse suspicion.” He turned to Maren.
“Tina's told us you have quite the memory, so use it.”
    “Well, our job sounds fun anyway!” Tina fist
pumped.
     
    An hour later, and Maren and Tina were in
the barracks photographing residents. The barracks were rows of
trailer homes, with wooden ramps and decks. Cots lined the walls of
the trailers and room dividers provided minimal privacy.
    “Name,” said Tina flatly, already bored with
her special job.
    “Frederick Alister,” replied a man whose
thin black hair was parted purposefully to the side to suggest
thickness.
    “Here,” Tina handed him