Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1) (20 page)

He’s locking them down here.

A rush of anger thrums through me. I never signed on for hurting people, for trapping anyone in a cellar chained up.

Talia starts to struggle, but freezes when Jamison cocks the gun at her again. He darts his eyes at the shackles. “Put them on,” he says.

“I’ll kill you for this, I swear to God,” she says. She does what he says though. When she’s fastened her wrists, he runs a padlock through the hinged clasp of each manacle. My arm is around Allie’s waist. I can’t let him do this to her.

I
can’t do this to her.

Blood or power or money. I don’t care. But what am I supposed to do? Grab her and take off up the stairs and pray the bullets don’t hit us? Hope we get to the car? Fight him for the keys?

I could have stopped him, stopped this. Regret washes over me and cools the sweat breaking out on my neck. The air in the cellar is cold enough to pass for air conditioning. There must be some way to get them out of here without anyone hurt.

I fight to focus, use the moment to take stock of the room. Logs, the bark stripped from them a century ago, line the walls every five feet, holding up the house above. There isn’t much else—the three bare bulbs glowing on the ceiling, an old table made of rough leftover wood and a half dozen pockets carved into the dirt walls like shelves. On the shelves are dusty mason jars that look like they hold long forgotten vegetables. One nook has a set of rusted bolt cutters and a broken saw blade.

The locks he used on the girls have combinations. I can’t think of any reason he’d tell me what they were, not now. The bolt cutters might be their only way out of here. If they work. For now they’re not in reach. It’s better that way.

Jamison points at Allie. “Now you,” he says.

I can’t bring myself to watch. And then, I force myself to turn my head. Allie’s calm, collected to the point where I wonder if she’s in some sort of shock, but I saw this same murderous resolve in her at her aunt’s. I’d stopped her from killing Jamison then. Maybe I can talk him out of this. Diffuse things before they go further. Explain to him how the blood works, the immunity, make him believe.

Once Allie’s restrained, Jamison visibly relaxes. I try to catch Allie’s eye, give her some kind of clue that I’m on her side, that this is all going to be okay, but she won’t look. Jamison’s stare, however, burns into me. He’s gone silent.

“What now?” I ask. There’s a tremor in my voice. I don’t care. Let him think I’m the easily manipulated kid he’s been friends with all these years. Let him think I’m afraid.
You are afraid
, my mind whispers back.
You’re the same person you’ve always been. A sheep. A follower.

Jamison seems to be weighing my words, my loyalty. “I know you hate it down here,” he says finally. “Let’s go.”

M
etal scrapes against ceramic as Jamison pulls each of the cords to the lights in turn, making his way toward the stairs. He’s already taken both mine and Talia’s phones. As he climbs the stairs, I realize he’s seriously going to leave us down here in the dark. Alone.

Okay, don’t panic
, I think.
Alone is a good thing.
It’ll give us a chance to plan.
But as the door opens and reality sets in, I can’t help but look up. Ploy’s standing in the stairwell, just over Jamison’s shoulder. B
astard
, I think. I hate myself more for trusting him. How could I be so naïve? For just a second before the door slams shut and plunges us into darkness, his mouth opens, as if he means to say something. He’s cut off before he has a chance.

I concentrate on my breathing, slow it down as I wait for my eyes to adjust. The waiting does no good though. There’s no light for them to adjust to. Two sets of footsteps creak across the floorboards above us before I dare to move. Even then, it’s only because a sprinkle of dust drops into my eyes as I uselessly stare at the ceiling trying to track their path. The burning grit forces my eyes closed. I raise a hand, careful not to rub them. The chains rattle as I wiggle around. “Talia?”

“You really do have the worst taste in boys,” she sighs and despite everything, a chuff of a laugh pops out of me. I’m not debating. “This one though...” She trails off.

“Yeah, he’s a new level of fail.” Suddenly, I want to cry. My eyes are already tearing up from the dirt in them. “I’m sorry, Talia. I’m sorry I brought you into this.”

The chains are looped around some sort of thick wooden post, with slack for us to move, though not far. Talia slides closer to me. She raises her hand to feel for my shoulder. Cold links of chain run across my arm and I shiver. Despite the heat outside, it’s freezing down here. “He unbuckled my seatbelt when we were getting out of the car. Allie, he said
dandelion
to me,” she says in my ear.

“Okay,” I say slowly, drawing out the word.

“Beckett and I. The code we use. Did you tell him about it?”

I flash back to the house last night, Talia waiting on the stairs to figure out if it was a trap and her cousin leaning over the railing to shout the same word Ploy had said to Talia. Dandelion and cobalt. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I told him it was how you guys told each other everything was okay.”

Metal clinks together as she leans against the post, her shoulder pressing against mine. “Well, I’m not saying we bet everything on him, but if we can’t find a way out of this, I wouldn’t count him out just yet.”

“Yeah,” I say, wrapping the slack of the chains around my wrists. “I’m not waiting around to see if that pans out. Does this thing we’re wrapped around have any give?” I lean forward until the chains are taunt. “If we both pull in the same direction, maybe we can knock it loose.”

A few seconds later, she’s in position, slightly behind me. “Ready?” she asks.

I count down from three and then yank for all I’m worth. Though I’m gripping the chain in my hands to keep the pressure off my wrists, I can feel the burn of the shackles rubbing as I struggle. The post doesn’t give. It doesn’t so much as shudder. “Harder!” I grunt, digging in with the balls of my feet.

“Allie, stop. This isn’t going to work,” Talia finally says, collapsing back to the trodden earth. “Let’s try kicking it.”

We count down. Our soles slam into the wood. “Again,” I command. We’re not near giving up. At this point, I’ll pick the damn thing apart splinter by splinter. We’re getting out of this basement.

On the second kick, my shoe slips and hits her ankle. She gives a short cry of pain. “You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she answers after a moment. “Watch it though. I don’t need to be hobbled.” She sighs in the darkness. “That thing’s not moving anyway.”

“Okay, what do we try next?” I grind out through clenched teeth. I’m not about to give up. In the quiet, my mind starts spinning. Spiders and bugs don’t exactly send me into hysterics, but in the pitch blackness, my imagination is playing tricks on me. The stiller I am, the more I’m sure things are crawling on me.

I have to cut the thoughts off before I start to panic. “He turned us in to Jamison, you know. He did do that.” I want the words to call up rage. Instead, they only make me confused. I hadn’t expected him to turn on us so quickly. I’d thought he was at least struggling. He could have told Jamison so much more on the phone in the woods than he did. He could have turned me in then. But he didn’t.

And though I wouldn’t ever admit it to anyone, when we’d been on the pullout couch last night, my kissing him didn’t have anything to do with making him believe me. Everything inside me burned for him and I was tired of fighting, tired of playing coy once I’d found out he knew Jamison, tired of resisting. It had nothing to do with trust or lies. It had to do with how many nights I’d spent sitting alone at my aunt’s, then at the apartment. I’d known it was going to come crashing down around me. Of course I did. But I’d wanted one good night. Hands on me that were gentle and needy and made me feel like I was special. Because I believed him. When he told me without using the words how he felt. I believed him.

“He didn’t really have a choice,” Talia says. “Not saying that puts him in the clear by any means. Just pointing it out. He might be making messed up decisions, but he’s torn, and we can use that to our advantage.”

Though she can’t see it, I tilt my head a bit. She’s right.

“He’s in love with you, Allie. That’s our weapon. It’s gonna help us much more than trying to break chains or kick down this damn thing,” she says and I hear what I assume to be knuckles crack into the post. “Ow,” Talia whispers a second later. “Hey, Allie?”

“Yeah?”

“If it’s us or him…” She hesitates. “You’re going to choose us, right?”

My pause is too long. “Yeah, of course,” I say anyway. Talia’s words warp through my mind, distort the hate down to other emotions—disappointment and uncertainty.

From above us, there’s a hard thump and then a dragging sound. Dust rains down into my hair. There’s another drag across the floorboards above, the thud of heavy footsteps.

“What do you think they’re doing up there?” she asks.

The boards creak and shift, but no light leaks through. “Getting rid of Jamison’s
last
problem,” I say.

T
he stench is unbelievable. I’m wearing a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves Jamison handed me when we got upstairs. I keep flashing back to Brandon in the train car. How I thought he was sleeping until I peeled away the sleeping bag.

There’s no chance Jamison’s dad will ever pass for sleeping.

Sores have opened up on his skin, weeping yellow fluid. There’s a puddle of it under the wooden rocking chair he died in.
Was killed in
, I think. Because he’s not going to pass for sleeping any easier than this would pass for a natural death. Half his skull is splattered on the wall behind him.

“I know it looks bad,” Jamison says. “Trust me, he deserved it.”

I don’t have it in me to argue. Possibly because, even though I hate violence, hate this side of Jamison, I know exactly where he got it. My dad beat me and I curled up and took it. Jamison’s dad beat him and he used every punch like a sharpening strap against a straight razor. Made himself lethal. For years now, I’d been the sheath, talking him down, keeping him calm, reining him in.

Brandon in the boxcar. Allie’s aunt in her living room. Jamison, the weapon that killed them both. And in front of me is the dead body of the man who made that weapon. “He deserved it,” I say finally, and Jamison’s sigh sounds almost relieved as he fetches a tarp from the couch.

He spreads the plastic in front of the chair. “We’ll tip it,” he says. “He’ll fall off and we can drag him outside.” He couldn’t have done this part without me.

“And then what?” I ask. Someone’s going to come looking for him. I’m not saying it’ll happen soon. His dad never was one for holding down a job long, making friends. But it will happen.

“And then we wheelbarrow him behind the barn,” he says, straightening after the tarp is aligned. “I already dug a hole.”

It’s sick, but one of those not-so-clever sayings pops to mind. Friends help you move. Real friends help you move a body.

Jamison’s standing behind the rocking chair. “Ready?” he asks. The back of his shirt brushes the wall. The gore there is dried—his dad’s been dead a few days at least—but I can’t help the shiver of revulsion that passes through me. “I need your help,” he says, and starts to push the chair.

It slides forward, screeching across the floorboards. I give it a hard shove and pull my hands off as quickly as I can.

The body spills over, crumpling mostly onto the tarp. Flies launch into the air. The stomach moves and for a second I have a delusional thought that he’s alive somehow until I see maggots wriggling out of a tear in his skin. The abdomen slowly deflates as a horrendous smell fills the room.

Jamison gags once and then takes off across the room. He pukes into the fireplace, chunks of whatever he’d eaten earlier spattering against the grate and onto the bricks. Nausea turns my stomach. For the first time, I’m glad I’ve gone hungry, barely ate the breakfast I cooked. It’s the only thing keeping me from following his lead. He wipes his mouth on the back of his arm and then brushes the arm against his jeans. His face is pale when he glances up at me.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Instead of coming over, he leans, palms on his knees. “He was a bastard, but I never thought I’d be tossing him in a hole to rot,” he says and I suddenly have a furious hope it’s not the smell that got to him. That the old Jamison, the one I trust with my life because he saved it, the one I’d do anything for, is in there.

“What happened?” I ask carefully. I don’t want to shut him down. If I work this right, maybe I can make him see how messed up all of this is.

“Allie and you. Figured things would go bad sooner or later. So, we were going to have to hold her until we figured things out. My apartment’s a shithole. Thin walls. I thought maybe the barn here would work. I don’t know,” he says. He stands straight and laces his fingers together before running them over his shaved head, the rubber of the yellow gloves squeaking against his sweaty scalp. “Once I got here it just seemed easier to kill him.”

My mouth opens automatically to spit out some answer he’ll want to hear. It’s the same thing I’ve been doing for years. This time though, nothing comes.

He’s quiet for a long time before a smile spreads slowly across his lips. “You and me,” he says. “You’re the only one I could ever count on. I got you out of your dad’s house. You know the police took me in for questioning? Never told them where you were,” he says, a bounce to his voice. I was the only one he could count on, but the examples he’s bringing up are things he did for me. I’m not sure if he’s doing it on purpose. If I’m supposed to get defensive.

“I never knew that,” I say, my voice deadpan, carefully void of emotion.

“Yup,” he says lightly. He rubs his hands once more over his head and then drops them to his sides. “Twice, but I didn’t break. You should have seen him at the station, your dad. Eye all bashed up where I hit him with the bat. I knew if he found you again, he’d kill you. Hell, for a bit there, I thought he was gonna kill
me.
”

My throat tightens. I don’t want to think about it.

“When I got my apartment, I saw him in the parking lot a couple times, just watching. That’s why I never said you could stay at my place.”

The words run through me like cold water. Some nights, Jamison had visited me at the boxcars. He’d told me about his apartment in an offhanded comment but never once invited me over. He brought me food. Gave me money to keep me in the basics. But he never offered me so much as floor space.

I followed him once. Peered in his windows feeling like some sort of messed up creeper, sure the cops would pull up any second. His place isn’t exactly in the kind of neighborhood where people bother calling the police, but I crouched in the shadows, shaking anyway, watching him inside where it was warm. He’d had a girl over, some brown haired girl he never introduced me to or mentioned. From what I saw through the window though, they were close. I left after that.

“Hey,” he says, snapping me back to the living room, the dead body and the tarp. “This is just a snag. We’ll sort it out, right? I mean, we always do.”

He’s asking me, needing reassurance. Maybe with the right words, the right tone, I can get him to let Allie go, Talia, me, without anyone else ending up a pussing mess on a tarp. But something in his eyes makes me hesitate. He’s watching me as if taking in every detail, every shudder of faith in him, and weighing it out. “Fuck,” I say at the last minute. “I just want to get this done and eat something. I’m starving.”

For a second he looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which is saying something, and then he starts to laugh. “You’re messed up,” he says as he strides toward the body. “How can you think about food with this asshole in front of us?” He draws back his foot, sends it sailing forward into the ribcage. There’s a crack buried under the wet gelatinous smack. He shakes his shoe off and something slimy drips to the floor. “Dick,” he mutters.

I hesitate and then move forward, grip Jamison’s shoulder. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I know it’s over. Maybe I’m saying goodbye. He closes his eyes for a beat and then shrugs my hand off. “Whatever,” he says as he bends down to flop the arms onto the tarp. He grabs two corners of the plastic and glances up at me. “Ready for the heavy lifting?”

We drag the body in stages, tugging for a few stumbling steps before we stop to regain our balance. The tarp mostly keeps the fluids in, but every time we pause, Jamison drops his side and a trickle seeps onto the floor. The second time it happens, I point. “You know we’re going to have to clean that up, right? That, the walls, the floor. I don’t know if we can get those stains out enough to make it look like this never happened.”

Jamison’s brow pinches. “Oh,” he says, deep in thought. “I wasn’t really counting on clean up. I figured I’d just torch the place when I was done.”

Done with what?
I want to ask. Moving the body or figuring out somewhere else to take the girls. But he must mean the second one. He needs them alive. If they’re dead, he can’t have what he wants. Speaking of, he hasn’t talked much about that, the power. I can’t figure out why he didn’t want me to inject him right away.

Jamison switches places with me and pulls the plastic through the kitchen, almost to the side door we came in through. “Tell me about Allie,” he says.

“Um, sure. What about her?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Anything.”

“She’s...” I know I should be spilling everything I can think of, anything. But I don’t know what direction he wants me to go. Does he want to know about
her
or about the things I know he could use to break her. There’s not much.

“Relax,” Jamison says. Something in the tarp bangs against the doorframe and he juts his chin at me to pull the tarp and readjust. “There’s not a right answer. You like her.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” I admit. I jerk back until he has the clearance he needs. “I didn’t mean—”

A burst of air escapes him. “If things hadn’t gone how they went, we wouldn’t be where we are,” he says. He shoots me a smile. “And we’re doing pretty good. So you like her. What do you like about her?”

People don’t talk like this. At least, Jamison and I don’t. I know he’s fishing for something, but I can’t figure out what to give him, what he wants. If I can make him see her as a person, maybe I can keep him under control, keep him from hurting her. “She’s...She’s strong,” I say finally, because it’s the truest thing. She’s beautiful and nice and before everything got all complicated she used to be funny. We used to laugh together. I frown. “She does what she has to. She’s a survivor. At any cost.”

“So she’s like me,” Jamison says.

I scoff before I can help it. “No, she’s not like you. She’s not at all like you.”

He feigns hurt and then holds out his gloved fingers, pressing them down one by one. “She does what she has to. Me. She’s a survivor. Me. At any cost. Me.” He makes a face as if waiting for me to agree. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Allie’s nothing like him. He draws a breath to go on. This time the words come slower. “You can count on her.” He ticks off another finger. “You listen to her. Even if it means hurting people.”

I narrow my eyes. “Allie would never ask me to hurt people.”

We’re on the back porch now. It’s just as hot outside as in. I wipe a sweaty arm across my forehead but it doesn’t do much. My shirt’s almost soaked through.

“She asked you to hurt
me
, didn’t she?”

“No,” I say quickly.

“No?” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the side of the house. “After she saw her aunt, she wasn’t out for my blood?”

“That’s not—”

“We were going after this together,” he says, holding out a hand to cut me off. “And I depended on you. Trusted you. You almost screwed me over, you know that, right? Never thought you’d turn on me for some girl.”

“I didn’t turn on you, though, did I?”

“No, but you thought about it.” Jamison stares at me, waiting me out.

“I thought about it,” I admit. “Is that what you want to hear? I thought there was a chance you’d both come out of this alive.” Everything inside me feels like it’s crumbling.

“You don’t think there’s a chance of that anymore, then?” he asks.

“Nope.” There are wooden benches along one side of the porch. I drop onto one.

Jamison moves to sit beside me. “You’re wrong.” He sounds like he actually believes it. “I’m not going to hurt her. As long as she cooperates, she’ll be fine. I need her,” he says. “She told you the second time she uses the blood on someone it takes way more right?”

Uncertain, I nod.

Jamison slaps his gloved hands against his thighs. “Okay. We’re not doing that then. It’s bad business.”

“Bad business?”

He tilts his head as if he’s sure I’m messing with him. “For us. We’ll take the blood, a syringe at a time, and sell it. They heal.” He grins like he’s watching me finally put together the puzzle pieces he solved long ago. “We’ll bleed them dry and they’ll fill right up again! Same plan we originally had, just adjusted a bit.”

“That’s not the same plan. That’s torture.” He has to know that. “She’s supposed to be cool with being locked up the rest of her life?”

He gives his head the slightest shake. “You think I like what we’re doing to her? Chaining her up like some sort of animal?”

We. What we’re doing to her. I could have fought him at Talia’s. I could have done something. I could do something now. But I don’t. It only makes me hate myself more.

Whatever Jamison plans to do with the powers he gains, I know it’ll make him unstoppable. I have to end this before he gets her blood. He’ll listen to me. He always does. Every time he’s done something crazy, it’s been because I wasn’t there. I can keep him under control. “Maybe,” I say. “Maybe we should let them go?”

He clomps a hand on my back. “I don’t think you want that.”

I can’t help the glare I give him.

He frowns. “Look, you’re trying to do what’s right for everyone. Me included, even though I don’t deserve it. I’m fucked up. We both know that,” he says when I start to protest. “But I promised you money. More than enough to get you out of that fucking junkie haven you’ve been living in. Enough to get you shoes. Two pairs,” he adds, smiling as if he’s proud to have remembered my pathetic dreams. “I need to know you’re in this.” He tips his head up to glance at me through the glare of the sun. “Are you in?”