leaned against the windowsill and Ben sprawled on the bed closest to the door. Dumbo stood up. Ben sat up. And I spoke up: “
Where’s Teacup?
”
Dumbo pointed at the bed next to Ben’s. “Right here.” Giving me a look like
This crazy chick’s lost it.
I went to the bed and whipped aside the mound of covers. Ben cursed and Dumbo backed up against the wall, his face turning red.
“I swear to God she was just there!”
“I saw her,” I told Ben. “Outside—”
“Outside?” He rolled his legs off the side of the bed, grunting with the effort.
“On the highway.”
Then he understood. “Ringer. She’s going after Ringer.” He slapped his open hand on the mattress. “Damn it!”
“I’ll go,” Dumbo said.
Ben held up his hand. “Poundcake!” he hollered. You could hear the big kid coming. The floor protested his passage. He stuck his head in the room, and Ben said, “Teacup took off. After Ringer. Go grab her little butt and bring it back here so I can whale on it.”
Poundcake lumbered off and the floor went
Thanks a lot!
Ben was strapping on his holster. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Taking Poundcake’s post until he gets back with that little shit. You stay with Nugget. I mean, Sam. Whoever. We need to pick one name and stick to it.”
His fingers were shaking. Fever. Fear. A little of both.
Dumbo’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Ben noticed. “At ease, Bo. Not your bad.”
“I’ll take the hall,” Dumbo said. “You stay here, Sarge. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”
He rushed from the room before Ben could stop him. Ben, now looking at me with sparkly eyes, fever bright. “I don’t think I told you,” he said. “After we went rogue in Dayton, Vosch dispatched two squads to hunt us down. If they were still in the field when the camp blew . . .”
He didn’t finish the thought. Either he thought he didn’t need to or he couldn’t. He stood up. Staggered. I went to him and he threw his arm around my shoulders without embarrassment. There’s no nice way to say this: Ben Parish smelled sick. The sour odor of infection and old sweat. For the first time since I realized he wasn’t a corpse, I thought he might be one soon.
“Get back in bed,” I told him. He shook his head, then his hand loosed on my shoulder and he fell back, hitting the edge of the mattress with his butt and sliding down to the floor.
“Dizzy,” he murmured. “Go get Nugget and bring him in here with us.”
“Sam. Can we go with Sam?” Whenever I heard
Nugget,
I thought of the McDonald’s drive-thru and hot French fries and strawberry-banana smoothies and McCafé Frappé Mochas topped with whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate.
Ben smiled. And it broke my heart, that luminous smile on that wasted face. “We’ll go with it,” he said.
Sam barely sighed when I pulled him from the bed and carried him into Ben’s room. I laid him in Teacup’s vacated bed, tucked him in, touched his cheek with the back of my hand, an old habit left over from the plague days. Ben was still sitting on the floor, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling. I started toward him, and he waved me back.
“Window,” he gasped. “Now we’re blind on one side. Thanks a lot, Teacup.”
“Why would she take off like—?”
“Ever since Dayton, she’s been latched on to Ringer like a pilot fish.”
“All I ever saw them do is fight.” Thinking of the chess brawl, the coin smacking Teacup in the head, and
I hate your fucking guts!
Ben chuckled. “It’s a thin line.”
I glanced down at the parking lot. The asphalt shone like onyx.
Latched on to her like a pilot fish.
I thought of Evan lurking behind doors and around corners. I thought of the unblemished thing, the thing that lasts, and I thought the only thing with the power to save us also had the power to slay us.
“You really shouldn’t be on the floor like that,” I scolded him. “It’s warmer up on the bed.”
“A
Where’s Teacup?
”
Dumbo pointed at the bed next to Ben’s. “Right here.” Giving me a look like
This crazy chick’s lost it.
I went to the bed and whipped aside the mound of covers. Ben cursed and Dumbo backed up against the wall, his face turning red.
“I swear to God she was just there!”
“I saw her,” I told Ben. “Outside—”
“Outside?” He rolled his legs off the side of the bed, grunting with the effort.
“On the highway.”
Then he understood. “Ringer. She’s going after Ringer.” He slapped his open hand on the mattress. “Damn it!”
“I’ll go,” Dumbo said.
Ben held up his hand. “Poundcake!” he hollered. You could hear the big kid coming. The floor protested his passage. He stuck his head in the room, and Ben said, “Teacup took off. After Ringer. Go grab her little butt and bring it back here so I can whale on it.”
Poundcake lumbered off and the floor went
Thanks a lot!
Ben was strapping on his holster. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Taking Poundcake’s post until he gets back with that little shit. You stay with Nugget. I mean, Sam. Whoever. We need to pick one name and stick to it.”
His fingers were shaking. Fever. Fear. A little of both.
Dumbo’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Ben noticed. “At ease, Bo. Not your bad.”
“I’ll take the hall,” Dumbo said. “You stay here, Sarge. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”
He rushed from the room before Ben could stop him. Ben, now looking at me with sparkly eyes, fever bright. “I don’t think I told you,” he said. “After we went rogue in Dayton, Vosch dispatched two squads to hunt us down. If they were still in the field when the camp blew . . .”
He didn’t finish the thought. Either he thought he didn’t need to or he couldn’t. He stood up. Staggered. I went to him and he threw his arm around my shoulders without embarrassment. There’s no nice way to say this: Ben Parish smelled sick. The sour odor of infection and old sweat. For the first time since I realized he wasn’t a corpse, I thought he might be one soon.
“Get back in bed,” I told him. He shook his head, then his hand loosed on my shoulder and he fell back, hitting the edge of the mattress with his butt and sliding down to the floor.
“Dizzy,” he murmured. “Go get Nugget and bring him in here with us.”
“Sam. Can we go with Sam?” Whenever I heard
Nugget,
I thought of the McDonald’s drive-thru and hot French fries and strawberry-banana smoothies and McCafé Frappé Mochas topped with whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate.
Ben smiled. And it broke my heart, that luminous smile on that wasted face. “We’ll go with it,” he said.
Sam barely sighed when I pulled him from the bed and carried him into Ben’s room. I laid him in Teacup’s vacated bed, tucked him in, touched his cheek with the back of my hand, an old habit left over from the plague days. Ben was still sitting on the floor, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling. I started toward him, and he waved me back.
“Window,” he gasped. “Now we’re blind on one side. Thanks a lot, Teacup.”
“Why would she take off like—?”
“Ever since Dayton, she’s been latched on to Ringer like a pilot fish.”
“All I ever saw them do is fight.” Thinking of the chess brawl, the coin smacking Teacup in the head, and
I hate your fucking guts!
Ben chuckled. “It’s a thin line.”
I glanced down at the parking lot. The asphalt shone like onyx.
Latched on to her like a pilot fish.
I thought of Evan lurking behind doors and around corners. I thought of the unblemished thing, the thing that lasts, and I thought the only thing with the power to save us also had the power to slay us.
“You really shouldn’t be on the floor like that,” I scolded him. “It’s warmer up on the bed.”
“A
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