Love in an Undead Age, A.M. Geever [best contemporary novels txt] 📗

and post-bite vaccines under the terms of the Agreement with the City Council and GeneSys. They did not get enough to vaccinate everyone, not by a long shot, but dosers treated post-bite at SCU weren’t registered with the City. All Valley residents qualified for post-bite treatment but since City-run hospitals were the only places to receive sanctioned treatment, avoiding registration and a biohazard tattoo—and everything that came with it—was virtually impossible.

For those who lacked vaccine sponsorship, becoming a doser was their entry into highly regulated servitude. They were required to live in city-sponsored projects, submit to any testing the City deemed customary and necessary, and abide by curfews and strict schedules that curtailed all freedom of movement. The City could—and sometimes did—decide to deny treatment at any time, even for someone who had followed all the rules and received treatment for years. The restrictions on those with vaccine sponsorship were a little looser but a sponsor could withdraw their support for a long list of infractions, most of which were minor. Unless a person was well-connected or became infected when SCU could guarantee treatment, the zombie-bitten had no options. As a consequence, the City Council ruled the Valley and its frightened, dependent populace with an iron fist.

Circumventing post-bite registration by offering treatment off the books made SCU’s activities off-the-charts illegal. As far as the Jesuits were concerned, they answered to a higher authority. Officially the program didn’t exist. In reality, it was an open secret that the City Council chose, for the most part, to ignore. In addition to controlling the farms, the Jesuits’ network of missions imported vital raw materials essential to maintaining the Valley’s high standard of living. Occasionally a council member tried to make an issue of it, but when the supply of lithium from Nevada for solar panel batteries suddenly dried up, the matter was always dropped. A few dosers restricted to SCU-controlled areas escaping the clutches of City’s registry system were not worth the price the Jesuits could make the entire region pay.

“So,” Miranda said, “are you planning to talk to Doc about a psych consult for me?”

“The thought did cross my mind. Saving those kids is all well and good but taking on a bunch of Dashers in addition to a clutch of shamblers? If it was anyone else, I’d say they were stupid or suicidal. Or both.”

“I’m neither, so you don’t have to worry.”

“What’s that about, then?”

Ellen pointed to Miranda’s forearm, where a pink, newly-healed cut nestled among the cross-hatch of fine white scars along the inside of her arms. That cut had been an accident while working on the Range Rover. If Ellen bothered to look closely, she’d realize it wasn’t like the others because it was going the wrong direction. She also knew Ellen would never believe her.

“It’s nothing. Has Delilah been out yet?”

Ellen sighed. How she managed to pack so much frustration into an exhale Miranda didn’t know.

“I took her out earlier,” Ellen said, collecting the dishes and putting them in the sink. “I have to go to work now but stay as long as you want.”

“I’m gonna head over to the Jesuit Residence. I was on my way here yesterday to see Father Walter.”

“I’d tell you to go back to bed, but I know all you’ll hear is ‘Bwah bwah bwah.’”

Miranda laughed and regretted it. Anything that shook or jostled her rib cage or shoulder hurt, even with the painkillers. She reached for the Percocet bottle and took another.

“Don’t visit too long. Get yourself home and rest.”

Miranda nodded. Ellen made a skeptical face before departing.

Miranda shuffled to Ellen’s bedroom. She pulled up the oversized t-shirt that just covered her bum and looked at her shoulder in the mirror. A crescent of bright-white bandages covered her right shoulder blade. The rest of her right side was the shade of a very bad sunburn. She thought about finding a long-sleeved shirt, then rejected the idea. Changing shirts would hurt too much. She found a pair of jeans and socks on the bed, presumably for her, and went about struggling into them. Getting into her combat boots was worse.

Delilah waited by the door, tail thumping against the jamb. Miranda rummaged in the tiny bathroom for a spare toothbrush. Ellen’s apartment was one of the few that had its own bathroom since it had housed a Resident Minister back in the day. She gave up and used a washcloth. She spied her expensive bra and panties washed and hung up to dry in the shower and sent a silent blessing in Ellen’s direction. She splashed some water on her face and smoothed her hair back.

“Okay, Ruff Ruff, let’s go.”

She exited the apartment and descended to the lobby in the empty elevator. Empty was perfect. SCU was a small place, and since gossip was still the universal human pastime, everyone would know of her adventure by now. She didn’t make it out of the lobby without having to recount the tale but managed to keep it brief and fend off well-intentioned hugs.

Once outside Delilah raced ahead, her joy at running fast just because she could evident, before looping back to fall in step beside Miranda. The bright sunshine set Miranda’s head pounding, matched only by her determination not to admit that maybe she was not up to this and should have listened to Ellen.

Between her slow pace and the near constant stops to answer inquiries about her well-being, what should have been a three-minute stroll took fifteen minutes. Mercifully, the Jesuit Residence was in sight. The Mediterranean-style building was the same cream and terra cotta tiles as the rest of campus, with two stories in certain sections that created a tiered effect pleasing to the eye.

Miranda felt woozy as she slid her Access Card through the reader to enter the building. She had not expected the walk to wear her out, nor the dizziness that accentuated the throbbing in her temples.

On the far side of the airy foyer, where floor-to-ceiling glass showcasing an interior courtyard met the hallway, she saw a ladder leaning against the wall. An old man had a light bulb in one hand and his foot on the ladder’s first rung. The shock of curly white hair could only mean Father Al. Apart from shrinking, the only concessions the elderly priest made to old age were hunched shoulders and a slight wobble in his hands. But at eighty-nine years old, no matter how spry, he had no business climbing a ladder.

“Hey, Father Al,” Miranda called out.

Father Al’s face lit up upon seeing her. His foot came off the ladder, too.

“Miranda!” The old man shooed Delilah out of the way as Miranda approached. He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’d give you a hug, but I heard you hurt your shoulder.”

“Nothing that won’t heal. See?” She moved her arm a little in demonstration and was surprised to find her shoulder did not hurt as much.

Father Al’s brow furrowed. “You don’t look well, Miranda.”

“I’ve got a headache, but I’ll live,” she said, waving off his concern. “Are you really planning to climb that ladder?”

“I’m old, not an invalid! I can manage, young lady.”

“Will you humor me? If you fall and break a hip when I could have helped, Father Walter will kill me.”

“Should you even be on a ladder at the moment?”

Miranda held out her hand. “Light bulb?”

“Oh, all right,” Father Al muttered, handing it over. He gripped the ladder with both hands. “You start with one foot, then use the other.”

“You’re a worse backseat climber than you are a backseat driver,” she teased but was pulled up short by another wave of dizziness. She leaned over, hands on her knees. “You’re right, Father Al. I’m not up to this.”

Even with her head down, the room still had a spinny feeling. Her body felt like it was disconnecting into constituent parts: joints detaching from the long bones of her legs, shoulder sockets loosening for arms to slip out, widening vertebral spaces making her spine feel malleable.

“You better sit down,” Father Al said, concerned.

Before she could acquiesce, voices echoed from the hallway, muddled with quick footsteps. Father Walter, his words indistinct but tone commanding. And another voice, almost forgotten.

Recognition hit Miranda like a gunshot. She straightened up too fast and the room lurched forward. Father Walter came into view, a dark silhouette against the sunshine from the courtyard. He stopped short and another person ran right into him. Disentangling himself, the second man stepped out from the courtyard’s bright glare.

The world tilted on its axis. Miranda gaped at the other man, her stomach sliding to her knees. His eyes were brown and wide. She could feel the suggestion of dark stubble that covered his jaw against her fingers, as if he’d shaved last night but not this morning. He almost smiled, and familiar dimples appeared.

Her brain could not compute what her eyes were seeing.

Weren’t seeing.

Were making up.

“Miranda,” he whispered hoarsely, as if all the air had been sucked from the room.

The foyer had become miserably hot. She struggled to interpret this apparition through the haze of vertiginous, sweat-slicked confusion, because that was what it had to be. He could not be real.

“This isn’t possible,” she whispered.

Miranda clung to Father Al’s arm as the spin of the room accelerated. Acrid vomit burned her throat and a low roar filled her ears. Her vision narrowed as if the visor of a knight’s helmet had snapped over her eyes.

I’m gonna pass out, she thought, and slipped into the black.