Pretty Much Dead Already, page 10
I write that down, but not everything. Some things I just remember.
“It was supposed to be a safe zone,” she adds. “Triple-layer security. We paid for it. Still went to shit.”
I nod. “It usually does.”
The words hit her. I see it in her jaw, the way her eyes harden. She wants to argue. To say, Not for people like me. But she doesn’t. She pulls the blanket tighter around her. Holds her knees to her chest like she’s trying to disappear without moving.
I ease my tone. “Do you remember how you got from the wedding to the city perimeter?”
She shakes her head. “Barely. I have flashes. A fence. A guy with a badge. He wasn’t supposed to be there.”
I nod slowly. Let that one settle. “What’s the first thing you remember clearly after that?”
“The intake.” Her voice is quieter now. “They sprayed us down. Took our temperatures. I remember the cold more than anything.”
She stops. Then flushes.
“Sorry. I’m not doing this right.”
I raise a hand gently. “There’s no right way. And for what it’s worth, you’re doing better than most.”
She doesn’t believe me. That’s fine. Truth doesn’t need to be believed to stay true.
I glance down at the notebook. Then back at her.
“Can I ask a personal question?”
She smirks. “That’s what these are, right?”
I smile, but keep my voice calm. Careful. “Why do you apologize every time you pause or hesitate?”
That freezes her.
“I—” She catches herself. “Sorry. Habit.”
Exactly my point.
“Were you always like that?” I ask, but gently. Like coaxing a bird to your hand.
A long beat. She almost lies. I see the impulse flicker across her face. Then she drops it.
“No,” she says. “It started after the first etiquette training. When I was ten. Omegas are supposed to be pleasant. Deflect, defer, always smile. If you didn’t, you got sent back for reprogramming. I got sent back a lot.”
My chest tightens, but I don’t show it. Instead, I close the notebook and set it on the chair between us.
“That’s not a you problem, Lira,” I say. “That’s a them problem.”
She huffs a bitter laugh. “Funny. That’s not how it felt.”
“I know,” I say. And I do. “But you’re not there anymore.”
That lands somewhere deep. I can tell. It doesn’t matter if she agrees. The wedge is in.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I lower my voice, almost playful.
She perks up. Just a little. I take that as a yes.
“After the first breach, I worked with survivors. Most didn’t get to talk. Everyone wanted them to ‘move on.’ The ones who did talk usually did better. The ones who didn’t…” I trail off.
She gets it. I don’t need to say the rest.
I notice her glance at the mug on the floor. I nudge it toward her with my foot.
“I’m not here to fix you,” I say. “I’m here to listen.”
She picks up the mug again. Sips this time. The bitter taste doesn’t make her flinch.
“Is that what you did before?” She asks. “Counseling?”
I nod. “School teacher actually. Then trauma work. It was that or a security detail. And I don’t have the hands for guns.” Or the stomach for it.
She laughs—a real one. That surprises us both.
“You have the hands for tea, though.” She looks at the tea sloshing around in the cup still in her hands.
I glance down, suddenly aware of the calluses, the old scars. I nod. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
We sit in quiet for a while. A rare kind. Not tense. Not guarded. Just… shared.
After a minute, she asks, “Do you like it? Helping people?”
I think for a second, then shrug. “I like that it matters.”
She nods slowly, chewing that over.
I check the time. Flip the notebook closed. “That’s it for today. Unless you’ve got some for me.”
She hesitates. Her voice is smaller now. “Why me?”
I tilt my head. “Why not you?”
She shakes her head. “You said I was more together than most. But I’m not. I’m just… good at following instructions.”
I lean forward. Elbows on my knees. “You survived, Lira. That counts for something.”
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t argue either. That’s something.
I rise, stretch my back, and glance down at her one last time.
“I’ll be back later. If you need anything, just ask the nurse.”
I reach the door, then pause. Something nags at me—unfinished.
I look back. Her eyes meet mine.
“For the record,” I say, voice low, “you can pause as long as you need. I’ll wait.”
And I mean it.
I leave before she can reply.
The hallway stinks like canned stew and old boots when I get back—same as every evening. People drift in from their shifts, some laughing too loud, others moving like they’re trying not to be seen. I ignore them all, my fingers wrapped around a mug that’s too hot and a folder that’s too familiar.
I open the door to the Omega dorm and step inside.
She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, still as stone, staring at the vent like it’s got something important to say. There’s a silence in the room that feels practiced. Tight. She doesn’t flinch when I come in, just watches me like she’s been waiting.
“Evening,” I say, setting the mug down and pulling out the chair. My jacket’s off, sleeves rolled—less formal, maybe. I didn’t plan it, but the layers started to feel like too much today.
“Evening,” she echoes, quiet, uncertain.
I catch the flicker in her expression as she smells the tea. It’s stronger this time, a sharper blend I keep for nights when I can’t sleep.
“I thought we’d do a quick orientation,” I say, nodding toward the folder. “Basic layout, meal schedule, stuff like that.”
“Okay.”
I slide a single sheet free. It’s a map—hand-drawn, a little smudged from use. Not official, but it works better than anything from Admin. I’ve kept this version for months. I tap the spot that marks the Omega dorm.
“Here’s us. Meals are here. Medical’s here.” I hesitate over the next bit. “Higher ups normally stay in their pretty tower.”
She gives me nothing but a nod, so I keep going.
“Curfew’s at nine. Mess hall opens three times a day, though that’s generous. Showers every other day unless we’re on lockdown. Armbands are color-coded: blue for Omegas, white for Betas, red for Alphas. Doesn’t matter much, everyone pitches in.”
I pause. She’s still quiet. Her hands are curled tight around the blanket like it’s the only solid thing in the room. I want her to ask something—anything—but she doesn’t. Just listens, silent and focused. My throat tightens.
“If you need anything,” I say, quieter now, “you can talk to the nurses. Or me. I’m around.”
She doesn’t say what I think she wants to say. I feel it in the air between us, something thick and fragile all at once.
I glance at her hands again, then her face. There’s tension coiled in her shoulders like a storm with no thunder.
“Do you have any questions?” I ask.
A beat. Then she shakes her head. “No. Thank you.” Flat. Polite.
It lands in my chest like a stone.
I stand, picking up the folder, sliding it under my arm. But I don’t leave. I linger with my hand on the door, unsure why I’m still standing there.
She looks up. Our eyes meet, and for a second, it feels like the room hums with something unnamed. Something sharp.
I should say something. I should tell her she’s not as alone as she feels. But I don’t.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” I say, quieter now. “Same time.”
I open the door, hesitating one last time.
She looks at me like she almost expects me to stay. Like maybe she wants me to. I want to. But instead, I nod—just once—and step out.
The door swings shut behind me. And I carry that silence with me down the hall.
Chapter Ten: Whispers of Threat
Lira
There are a hundred places to hide in Fort Hope, but only one I can stomach at sunrise: the garden, such as it is. A fenced rectangle choked with sour weeds and the ghosts of last year’s root vegetables, shaded at the corners by whatever trees survived the first season of hungry refugees. No one comes here this early except the chain-smoking guards and the Beta volunteers sentenced to “agriculture duty.” The guards are on rotation, the Betas are hungover, and me—I’m just avoiding breakfast.
The air is thin and cold, a spring bite still in it, but the sun fights through in ragged patches. I sink into a dry patch of mulch and watch the dirt steam. My knees crack like gunfire. There’s a pile of compost at my back and the sweet rot of worm tea in my nose. I let the silence eat my thoughts, the way Jace said I should. Five minutes. Ten. Maybe I’ll turn to mulch myself, if I sit still long enough.
I’m halfway to convincing myself I can disappear when I hear boots. Not guard boots—no, these scrape the ground with the lazy confidence of someone who isn’t paid by the hour.
He’s crouched in the far corner, back to me. Long curly black hair, half-tamed by a greasy bandanna, and hands stained up to the wrists in soil. He’s talking to the plants. Not a monologue—more like a series of threats and bribes. “No, you ugly bastard, you stay down. Don’t you dare go to seed.” His voice is low, wrecked, but almost musical in its rhythm.
I try to slip away, but he’s already clocked me. He straightens, wipes dirt on his jeans, and grins. There’s a chunk of red clay in his teeth, a slash of pale skin on his cheek like an old burn.
“You Vale?” He calls across the garden, like he’s heard the story and wants to know if I match the legend.
“Depends,” I say, “is it worth points if I lie?”
He laughs, loud enough to wake the crows. “Depends if you can sell it.”
He wipes his hands on his jacket—black, leather, older than the apocalypse by the look of it—and saunters over. I try not to stare, but there’s something about the way he moves, a built-in fuck-you to the concept of posture.
“Cass,” he says, offering a hand. “Like the space program, not the alcoholic beverage.”
I shake it, expecting a squeeze or a trick. Instead, he just lets our palms touch, then withdraws like he’s allergic to sincerity.
He flops onto the mulch next to me, arms loose around his knees. “You hiding from the feeding frenzy?” He asks, nodding at the main hall. “Can’t blame you. Some of those old Alphas eat like they’re still at the Four Seasons.”
“I’m just…not hungry,” I say, which is true in all the ways that matter.
He narrows his eyes, as if trying to gauge how much of my answer is chemical, how much is trauma, and how much is bullshit. “Suit yourself. But they dock your ticket if you skip.”
I know this, but I don’t care. There’s something about sitting here that feels necessary, like if I breathe deep enough, I might remember what it means to feel human.
He scratches his neck, then digs in his jacket pocket. Produces a crumpled packet of seeds—no label, just a guess. “Want to help me bury some strangers?” He asks. “They’re supposed to be radishes. Or maybe poppies. Might be fun to watch ‘em fight it out.”
I almost say no, but the word catches. Instead I take the packet. The seeds are like dust, almost weightless. I pinch some between thumb and finger, then freeze. I have no idea how to plant anything.
He notices, leans in. His scent is all leather and wood smoke, with something sharper underneath—turpentine, maybe, or motor oil. He guides my hand, palm-up. “You’re doing great,” he says, not quite sarcastic, but not not sarcastic. “Here, watch.”
He scoops a mound of soil, pokes a hole with his pinky, then drops three seeds in. Covers it with a careful flick. “You don’t need to baby them,” he says, “But a little ceremony never hurts.” He does another, and another, working his way down the row.
I try, imitating his method. My hands shake less than I expect. Cass watches, arms folded, a crooked smile on his face. “Look at that,” he says. “Instant green thumb.”
“Doubtful,” I say, “My mother killed every houseplant she ever owned.”
He snorts. “My mother killed my father, so at least your family’s consistent.”
It’s such a blunt, stupid joke, I can’t help but laugh. Cass grins, proud. “See? The trick is to never let the world decide what’s funny. Or what’s beautiful.”
He takes the seed packet back, then gestures at my hands. “You ever think about tattooing those scars?” He asks, eyes flicking to my wrist.
I go cold. “Why would I?”
He shrugs. “So you don’t have to explain them every time. Or maybe just because you can.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I just dig my nails into the dirt and pretend to care about radishes.
We work in silence for a while. Cass whistles, off-key, some song I almost remember from before. He’s methodical, but not precise—never does the same thing twice. After the last seed, he flops onto his back and stares up at the clouds.
“Dare you to name something you miss,” he says.
I lie back, let the mulch catch in my hair. “Toothpaste. Real toothpaste.”
He laughs, then closes his eyes. “I miss karaoke,” he says. “But only when I’m drunk. Which used to be always.”
A crow lands on the fence, cocks its head. Cass stares at it like it’s a rival. “If you were a bird,” he says, “Which would you be?”
“Pigeon,” I say, without thinking. “Unkillable. Aggressively uncute.”
He laughs, rolling onto his side. “You’re an Omega, right?” He says. “Why’d you pick pigeon?”
I don’t know, so I just shrug. “I guess I don’t like being beautiful for other people.”
Cass’s eyes get sharp, then soft again. “Cheers to that,” he says, and offers an invisible toast.
We lie there, side by side, until my hip goes numb. When I sit up, he follows, brushing soil from his elbows. For a second, he looks at me like he wants to say something real, but then he just smirks and stands.
“I’ll save you some carrot tops,” he says. “If you want to sneak out and feed the rabbits.”
He heads for the gate, then stops, turns back. “You can hide here whenever you want,” he says. “Nobody rats out the gardeners.”
And then he’s gone, whistling, seeds rattling in his pocket.
Ishake off the morning and drag myself to the medical wing, clutching a box of bandages they said to deliver. The main hallway is a parade of the injured: a kid with his arm in a sling, a woman pushing a friend in a wheelchair jerry-rigged from office chairs. The air is antiseptic, but beneath it, a raw metallic scent—old blood, never quite gone.
The blue curtains are mostly open, beds half-full with the unlucky. I find Dr. Mare in the back, hunched over a clipboard, glasses perched at the edge of his nose. He’s counting bottles of pills, lips moving in silent math.
I clear my throat.
He looks up, surprised, then relaxes. “Ms. Vale. You’re up early.” He glances at the clock. “Or is it late, technically?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, holding out the box. “For you.”
He takes it, then sets it aside, motioning me closer. “You look less like you’re about to pass out than the last time, I saw you” he says. “Which is promising.”
I want to joke, but his eyes are tired, and there’s a subtle quiver in the way he holds his pen.
“Can I sit?” I ask.
He gestures to the only free chair, his attention toggling between me and the chart.
“How’s the wrist?” He asks, nodding to my left hand.
I unwind the gauze. The wound is mostly closed, angry red but clean.
“Nice work,” he says. “You might have missed your calling.”
He roots through a drawer, finds a small tube. “This is real antibiotic ointment,” he says, holding it up like a rare jewel. “Not the herbal stuff from the Beta tent.” He applies it with a cotton swab, careful and precise.
He glances at me over the glasses. “Any fever? Chills?”
“No,” I say.
He nods, but keeps my hand a second longer than necessary. “If you feel off, even for an hour, you come back. There’s some… variability in the new cases. Not every infection is textbook.”
I swallow, uneasy. “Has anyone—?”
He shakes his head. “No crossovers from Omega yet. Just Alpha and a few Beta. But the incubation keeps changing. All we can do is watch.”
He tapes fresh gauze to my wrist, then leans back, exhaling like it’s his first breath all day.
He’s about to say something, then stops himself, fidgeting with the pen.
“Have you made any friends here?” He asks, voice so soft I almost miss it.
“Define ‘friend,’” I say.
He smiles, faint and a little sad. “Anyone you’d risk a ration for.”
I think of Cass. Rhett with his grump scowl. The way Jace brings tea and says nothing about the nightmares. “Maybe,” I say.
Dr. Mare smiles, more for himself than for me. “Good. That’s…good.” He rolls his chair closer, then props his elbows on the table. “You’re a quick study. You don’t miss things. I like that about you.”
There’s something urgent in his face, like he’s fighting an impulse to say more. Instead, he turns back to the clipboard and scribbles a note.
“You’re not on quarantine,” He says. “If you want to walk around the compound, you can. The fresh air will do you good. Just stay inside the fences.”
I nod, and stand.
He hesitates, then reaches for my hand—not the injured one, the other one. His grip is gentle, almost clinical. “If anything feels wrong, tell someone. Even if you’re not sure. Promise me.”
