Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (21 page)

I grimace. “I hope he
doesn’t
see me. He hates what the Incinerator smoke does to his crops, and I’m the one delivering fuel for the fire.”

Liam laughs. “Well, he’d never yell at
you
.”

“Why not?”

He smiles. “Franco said he ‘thinks very highly’ of you.”

“What does that mean?” My mind whirls. Is that a compliment? Or just patronizing? “That makes me sound like I’m eighty, or a stuffy librarian, or something.”

“Go ask
Franco
what it means. I never know what he’s talking about.”

“Fine. I will.” Maybe. Maybe not. Guys are so confusing.

We reach the front door of my apartment. Impulsively, I ask Liam to come upstairs and meet Mom.

“Tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah. Well, you do smell better now than most nights after we work out.”

He shrugs. “Good point.”

We hike the six flights upstairs. As I put the key into the apartment door, Liam leans close.

“I’ll try my best to make a good impression,” he whispers.

“Good.” The key clicks in the lock.

“I figure it’s the least I can do—since you’re on birth control now because of me.”

“Very funny.” I walk inside. “Mom, I’m home. And I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

“Really?” She peeks around the corner.

“Yoshe Wood?” Liam steps forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Liam Harman. I’ve heard a lot about you from your daughter.”

Mom raises her eyebrows. “Ha. I
bet
you have.” She shakes his hand which I hope isn’t too sweaty. Mom hates that. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Silvia never introduces me to her friends.”

“You met Gus once,” I argue.

She heads back into the kitchen, waving at us to follow. “Gus is a
grandfather
figure. He’s not a friend.”

“That’s not true—”

Liam elbows me.

“You two must be thirsty.” Mom rattles bottles in the fridge. “You’re in luck. I got our rations today, and with Silvia training for that race, our allotment practically doubled.”

I pretend to grab Liam’s arm for support. “I think I’m going to faint. Mom, did you just say that I did something right, or am I hallucinating?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mom glares at me then pours two glasses of mixed fruit juice and hands them over.

“Thanks. I needed this.” Liam glances around the apartment. “You have a nice place.”

No, we don’t. Our apartment is bland and gray, but I get the impression Liam’s trying to be extra polite to my mom. Perhaps he feels the need to make up for my typical rudeness.

Franco’s right. Liam is a momma’s boy. But maybe it wouldn’t kill me to make an effort, too.

“Yes, Mom, thanks for the juice.”

I puzzle over the sudden brightness in her face. Maybe she needs to get out more. She’s happier around company. That’s right—I wanted to invite Gus over sometime. Maybe I should get on that.

“Okay, I can’t hold it back any longer.” Mom beams. “Silvia, I moved up to second chair today. The conductor says I’ll be first before the end of summer, but I have to be patient. That is, unless…”

“Unless what?” I ask. Mom always drags things out.

“Well…” Mom pauses, biting her lip. “He said something odd.”

“What did he say?” I wait to take another drink.

She shakes her head. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He was probably joking, but he said that if you win that Race for Citizen Glory…”

“Yes?”
Come on, Mom, out with it.

She takes a deep breath. “That I’d get into first chair
immediately.”

Liam lets out a low whistle. “No pressure or anything, Silvia.”

arly the next morning, I scurry through the foot traffic to get to work. Upon my arrival, the Mortuary is quiet. No rock music. It takes me a moment to find Gus hovering over the computer at his office desk, his white hair as unruly as a dandelion puff. Stacks of papers clutter his workspace. His hand trembles as he reaches for another form.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Something’s happened,” he whispers.

I point at the papers. “What are these?”

“There’s a new program we have to use to print out forms.” Gus’s eyes are wild. “And they changed the time of the delivery to late afternoon.”

“That’s strange. You’ve always gone at night before.”

“I don’t know what happened.” Gus gapes at the screen like a lost, scared child. “We’ve been so careful. Never a mistake. And now, all these changes. How will I manage?”

“Let me help you.” I pull up a chair.

“We have to convert over to the new system right away—today.” He points toward the Mortuary workroom. “Then we set the new forms on those triple-decker carts. Can you believe they’re cramming three bodies to a cart now instead of two? It’s disrespectful.”

“Gus”—I squeeze his hand—“it’ll be fine. We’ll get it done in time. Liam will have to train without me. I’ll call the gym later and leave him a message.”

It takes hours to make the necessary changes. We recheck each body. We’re just finishing up when the Handlers arrive. We’ve missed lunch, and now it’s late afternoon. I rub my grumbling stomach.

“I’m sorry, Silvia.” Gus sighs. “I don’t even have food for the ride out.”

Two Handlers enter the Mortuary, one short and the other tall. Both of them are strangers to me, but I’ve only done this once before. Gus stiffens but doesn’t say a word. I’m guessing he doesn’t know them, either.

“Ready to load?” barks the tall Handler.

“Yes.” Gus hands him the papers, his face pale.

After the Handlers head for the loading dock, I turn to Gus. “There’s something wrong with the Handlers, too, isn’t there?” I murmur in his ear.

He silences me with a motion of his hand. I follow him to the truck. The Handlers make quick work of loading the bodies, and then we’re off.

As soon as the engine starts, Gus jumps to his feet and jerks open the drawers of his rolling tool box with a loud bang. He pulls out a screwdriver and a Kelly forceps.

“What are you doing?” I whisper from my seat.

He puts a finger to his lips then leans close. “They could be listening to us, right now. Don’t say anything you don’t want the whole world to hear. Keep your eyes peeled for any signs of a camera.”

I begin to babble as Gus traces his fingers along every inch of the truck interior. Getting to my feet, I take the opposite wall. As we search, I talk about the books Gus lent me, the eye surgery we watched together the day before, and how much I’m enjoying the summer weather.

“That must make training for the race more pleasant,” he replies absentmindedly.

I pause to stare at Gus as he digs again in his rolling cart. The air seems to press in from all sides. He raises his gaze to mine and gestures that I should keep talking.

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. “Actually, you wouldn’t believe how hard training for this race is.”

“Oh?” Gus grabs parts from the drawer and fits them together. The resulting contraption looks very much like a baby monitor. He fiddles with the knobs, the device crackles, and he holds it up in the air.

I back out of his way. “Mom doesn’t like all the sweaty laundry, but she’s really happy about the extra food rations we get because I’m training.”

Gus squeezes through the racks of bodies to wave the device in slow circles around every surface.

“I really hope I do well in this race.” I hug myself for warmth against a sudden chill. “It would mean so much to my mom.”

Inch by inch, Gus scans the interior of the truck while I talk utter nonsense. In the two years we’ve worked together, I’ve never seen Gus upset before. He’s always been the calm in
my
storm. Now, the roles appear to be reversed. He’s more scared than I am, and I don’t understand why. But I’m sure I can help him, just like I saved my mother. Only, with her, I knew what we were fighting. Here, I’m not so sure. There are a million questions to ask: Why is Gus so scared about these changes? Why does he carry a bug scanner with him out to the Incinerator? What’s he worried the New Order will find?

Truck tires stutter beneath my feet.

“We must be getting close,” I warn. “Remember the potholes?”

Gus dismantles his bug-detecting contraption with lightning speed, all the while mumbling under his breath. “I think it’s clean, but… something’s not right. I’m not sure who or what tipped them off.”

I help Gus sort the pieces into the drawers. “You know I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Gus wipes sweat off his brow. “Yes, I know. And let’s keep it that way. At least until I can be sure you’ll be safe—’safe’ being a somewhat relative term, of course.”

I grab the key to lock the tool cabinet, and Gus waves my hand away.

“I’m not done yet.” He digs in the drawers again. “Not by a long shot. I may be old, but I’m not dead… yet.”

Grasping a handful of tools, he kneels next to the nearest body transport cart and fiddles with the wheel. After a moment, he laughs. “Typical. These carts are junk, made on the cheap. This will be so easy; it’s almost beneath me.”

“Anything I can do?” I watch him work, wondering what the heck he’s doing.

“Yeah.” He points at the bodies. “Loosen the identification papers here and there. Not all of them. Just more than half. Make it so they come flying off as soon as the bodies are lifted.”

Feeling through the metal grate, I slip the papers to one side. Meanwhile, Gus adjusts screws and applies grease, sabotaging the wheels of the brand new transport carts.

After another fifteen minutes, he stands up, satisfied. “This will make them reconsider changing a system that wasn’t broken.”

The truck bounces through a series of ruts, dislodging one of the identity papers to the floor. I reach for it, and Gus stops me.

“Leave it. Let’s just rest.” He dumps his gear into the tool chest, locks the doors, then leans back into the side bench and closes his eyes as if taking a nap.

“How can you look so calm?” I ask.

He smiles and opens his eyes enough to wink. “Years of practice.”

In less than five minutes, the truck makes a sharp turn, dislodging more papers, then backs up and parks.

Gus leans close. “Follow my lead.”

I nod.

The doors clang open behind us.

Gus busts out the open doors, shaking his head. “Either you guys drive crazier than the previous Handlers, or these transport carts are worthless.”

The Handler standing closest to the door frowns. “Oh, great. Another complainer.”

Gus gives my back a little push. I jump up, dashing around after the loose papers on the floor.

“Just look at this mess!” he continues. “We worked so hard filling out these new forms, and now they’re not even attached to the bodies. Using tags worked so much better.”

Once I get out of sight behind a cart, I step on top of a couple sheets, making sure to leave footprints to mar the fresh printing.

The Handlers begin unloading the bodies. Within minutes, they’re arguing with each other.

“Get out of my way!”

“I can’t. The dang cart got stuck on the ramp.”

“What the Hell is up with the front wheel?”

Gus rolls out his perfectly normal tool cart and gestures for me to follow. As we steer it up the steep ramp, he glances toward the Northern sky.