The double set of railroad tracks leads out of camp, into the city. I cross and pass the first of a tenement of rough hewn shacks. I should go back. I should call the cops, tell someone, do something. But I’m not that guy anymore, the one who goes charging in and does the right thing. Instead, I force a deep breath. I tuck my head low and merge into the crowd of tourists, eager to blend, disappear, be nothing.
I don’t make it far. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, I bend over, my hands on my knees. The sudden motion throws my pack forward and knocks me off balance. I land hard on my knees.
Brandon’s dead.
I’d been stuffing my face while he’d been lifeless behind me, guts and gore and missing parts. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Watch it, asshole,” a guy yells right behind me. I don’t need to see him to know he’s just another drunken frat boy tourist. “Homeless piece of shit,” he adds.
I tense, wait for the inevitable boot to the stomach but it doesn’t come. When I glance up, I see the pack of them staggering into one of the bars along the disarmingly quaint-looking main street. In the heat, even at night, the whole town smells like spilled liquor and vomit.
Brandon’s dead. I can’t go back to the boxcars. Never again. But I’ve already got a backup plan.
In the light of the cheap neon, I check myself for blood, first my hands, then my jeans, shoes. There’s a line of maroon up the side of one sneaker and I tap it into a puddle, trying not to think about what else is in the scummy water. When I scrape the shoe off on the curb, it comes clean easier than I would have thought. I tuck my shaking hands in my pockets.
You can do this, I think. Just play it cool. One angle left to work. I have to remind myself she’s just a place to crash, if I play my cards right. Don’t screw this up, I tell myself.
She’s just an angle.
Nothing more.
My shoe squelches water from the puddle as I head toward Allie’s.
Allie
The gas lanterns lining the road flicker, illuminating the cobblestones with the barest suggestion of a glow. Most Haunted Town In America! a metal street sign proclaims. I trudge by without a second glance.
The supernatural is what brings tourists to Fissure’s Whipp, each of them scrambling for a glimpse of ghosts and ghouls they don’t truly want to see, a sleepless night in a hotel they can take home as a souvenir. The town has a feeling, a campfire story brought to life no one dares smother away. The cobblestoned streets and lantern light only add to the mystique.
You’ll love it in Fissure’s Whipp, Sarah had declared three months ago when she’d handed me an ATM card and the keys to my new apartment. And I had. Right now though, I’m one thousand percent done with this whole town. I’d hoped the walk would calm me down. No such luck.
I’m well clear of the Chariot District before I decide it’s time to dial Sarah. I’ve given her time to get the inevitable phone call from the girl and convince her to call the police. We bring bodies back from the dead; we don’t handle disposals.
“Everything go okay?” Sarah says calmly once the line connects.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I seethe. “She didn’t call you? That kid was a corpse. He’d been dead at least six hours.”
My footsteps echo over the empty streets. The night air is heavy. A persistent mist of drizzle soaks into my clothes as I walk. It drips onto my shoulders from the Spanish moss laced over lower tree limbs. “Hope you got payment in advance because she definitely lied to you,” I add.
I want to tack on that the girl had been drunk. That she’d screwed up and called Sarah hoping for a bailout. Our talents aren’t something we use lightly. From the way Sarah pauses, I know I’ve gotten my point across, so I manage to keep my mouth shut.
“Obviously she confused some details,” she says. I roll my eyes to the gated storefronts.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “And obviously I had better things to do than wait around for those details to bite her in the ass.”
“We’ve talked about professionalism, Allie.” There’s a calculated pause. “I’ll call her and sort this out. Last time though. You need to learn to see the resurrection through.” As long as she’s paying my rent, I’m at her beck and call. A convenient puppet she’s held the strings to since I showed up on her doorstep at fifteen. And as always, Sarah knows exactly which strings to pull. “Unless you’ve put effort into finding a job? A normal job?”
She’s hoping I haven’t. We’d fought, bad, a month after I’d moved out here. Sarah had thought I could be her new go-to for any resurrectionist gigs for this area. I’d had other plans.
“Unfortunately, the booming economy of Fissure’s Whipp doesn’t seem to have room for one more,” I fire at her before I can stop myself.
“I’ll make another deposit to your account tomorrow. For your trouble,” she says.
I stop at a wrought iron gate, lift the latch. The path splits an overgrown rose garden, where it dead-ends at a house. “Allie, if you’re reconsidering...I want you to know that’s okay. Preferable.”
I don’t want your money, I want to say. I’ve watched Sarah extort people who couldn’t afford it more times than I can count. And sure, I’m guilty of reaping the benefits, just like every other carrier of the gene that gives us this ability. But I want to find another way. A better way. One that doesn’t leave me sick to my stomach.
Because I’ve seen what people can do when they’re trapped in a corner. It’s how I ended up living with Sarah in the first place.
Through a door at the back of the sagging house and up two flights of stairs is my miniscule apartment. A hundred years ago, my digs would have been maid’s quarters for a well to do family living on the floors below. Now, they’re a rental unit in a crumbling antique. But it’s a roof over my head and my bills are paid and I am being a total brat. Sarah and I don’t always know how to interact. She puts up with more than most people would if they got stuck with their sister’s kid to raise.
I soften my tone. “I’ll put in more applications tomorrow.”
It’s not the future I was expected to step into. Someday, Sarah will bow down as the point person for our cluster. I should be next in line. I should be living under her roof, learning how to run things. I’d told her I wanted to get more experience. Instead, I’d distanced myself. After a month, when she’d confronted me, I’d told her I couldn’t end up like my mother, my father. I’d told her I’d wanted out.
She’s still holding onto the hope I’ll come around. Tonight was the first time she’d insisted I take a case in the two months since.
So far though, my grand foray into this tightly leashed freedom has consisted mostly of aimless wandering around town, a couple all ages shows at a blues bar and movie nights on my couch. I never exactly mastered the art of living it up.
My parents had known from infancy that I carried the resurrectionist gene. Growing up, my free time had been spent on training, both in how to bring back the newly dead and how to protect myself from those after my blood.
My mind goes back to the mansion, the girl. The soles of my shoes, wet from the damp streets, squeak on the warped wooden stairs. I long for my bed. A shower. Blessed sleep. “She really didn’t call you? Isn’t that a little weird?” I ask. I figured once she saw I bolted, Sarah would be the first one she dialed. “You don’t think that was supposed to be a trap?”