Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

more steps and fell to his knees. His stomach was churning and his throat trembled with the promise of impending vomit. Something burned at the back of his mouth.

The dead people closed in around him. They dragged their feet. Fingertips brushed his shoulders. They gnashed their teeth and the click-clack-click-clack of ivory hit a rhythm with the pounding in his skull.

He tried to get up but the nausea had crippled him. He bent over, his throat convulsed, and something hot forced its way into his mouth. It felt like wet smoke and acid streaming out between his teeth.

“Jesus,” said someone. “You okay, guy?”

George managed a deep breath and opened his eyes. He’d retched nothing onto the pavement. His nausea and headache had vanished like a light being turned off.

He looked up. A man in a suit and a campus security guard stood over him. “You looked pretty bad there for a moment,” said the suit. He was bald and wore square eyeglasses.

A ring of people surrounded George. Most were a polite yard or two away. Several watched from nearby tables.

George stood up. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to freak anyone out. Just a … a bad migraine.”

Half the crowd sighed and strolled off, their hopes for a serious incident dashed. A few lingered to be sure they weren’t going to miss anything. “You okay now?” the suit asked.

“I’ve got some Advil,” said a woman in the dwindling crowd. She slung her backpack off her shoulder and rooted through a side pouch. “I get killer ones now and then.”

George waved her off. “I’m good, thanks.”

The suit—probably a doctor of some kind—helped George onto a bench and checked his eyes and pulse. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him. The suit squeezed George’s shoulder, told him to get some rest, and headed off across the plaza. Most of the bystanders vanished with him.

The security officer waited until the suit was gone. “You been drinking?” he murmured. The name on his silver tag was Crosby.

“What?” George shook his head. “No.”

Crosby’s eyes dropped to George’s ID badge. “If you’ve been drinking I need to report it,” he said. “You know that.”

“I haven’t been drinking. Honest.”

The security officer nodded. “Okay, then. Take care of yourself. Don’t let it happen again.” He walked off with an air of confident superiority and left George on the science court. A few last people glanced at him, and then they wandered away, too.

He waited two minutes to see if the headache returned. When it didn’t, he retraced his steps. Aside from a random coffee cup and an overflowing trash can, the court was pristine. No weeds. No cracks. The dozens of windows around the plaza were all whole and clean.

He found his phone sitting in the short-cut grass next to the window-cleaning supplies. He’d almost dropped it in his squeegee bucket. According to the log, twenty minutes had passed since his call with Barry Burke ended. He didn’t remember hanging up. He wondered if the other man had stayed on the line. Had he heard anything?

George was staring at the phone when it chirped. “George,” it said, “y’out there or what?”

“Yeah, I’m here, Jarvis.”

“I been trying to get you for five minutes now.”

“Dropped my phone in the grass. Sorry.”

“Those windows done?”

He looked up at the building and sighed. “Got to be honest,” he said, “I’m about half an hour or so behind.”

Jarvis was silent for a moment. George could picture the salt-and-pepper man cursing back at the office. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

George looked back at the Court of Sciences. “I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t feel too hot.”

“Don’t mess with me, George.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’ve been having killer headaches. I almost threw up a few minutes ago.”

Another silence from the phone. “If it was anyone else,” said Jarvis’s twang, “I’d tell ’em to suck it up.”

“Sorry.”

“You need to go get checked out?”

He considered that option for a few moments. “No. I think I just need to get some rest.”

“Yeah,” agreed Jarvis. “You’ve been looking a little ragged. I’ll punch you out. Go home and sleep. Don’t be sick tomorrow or I’ll fire your ass.”

George couldn’t remember Madelyn’s phone number or dorm, but he remembered where he’d flipped the couch into the dumpster. The unusually light couch. He found a good central position between a few of the buildings and waited.

His stomach grumbled. It was lunchtime. He considered hitting one of the vending machines, but he didn’t want to miss the girl. It crossed his mind she might be down at the dining commons looking for him, but he didn’t want to lose time second-guessing himself.

Two guys crossed the courtyard reciting British comedy to each other. “I discovered,” said one, “the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it had been nailed there.”

“Well, of course it was nailed there,” said the other. “If I hadn’t nailed that bird down, it would have nuzzled up to those bars, bent ’em apart with its little pecker, and … voom!” They walked off, amusing themselves with their performances.

He was there for an hour when he saw Madelyn coming up the path. Her palms ran along the hand rims and moved the wheelchair at a decent pace. She didn’t have any trouble keeping up with some of the other walkers.

She was a dozen yards away when she saw him. A flutter of emotions crossed her face. She slowed down. It took her two minutes to cross the last thirty feet.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she said.

“I’ve been thinking about some of the stuff you told me.”

“Yeah?”

“I called the guy in New Mexico. Barry Burke.”

Her face lit up. “Zap!” she said. She buzzed the Z against the roof of her mouth so it stretched out, like she was saying it in French or something.

“I still don’t remember him,” said George. “He seemed to know me, but …”

“But?”

“But that’s it.”

She crossed her arms and stared up at him. “That’s it?”

“He asked if