Reanimated Readz by Rusty Fischer Read Free Book Online Page A

water tower. There’s a patch of oak trees across the street, and I’ve been sitting in one for about two hours when she finally rides up on a rusty blue bike that I can hear squeaking for two city blocks.
    She locks it to the gate outside her front door, then goes inside. She’s still in her uniform from work, and the ride home in that polyester can’t have been too comfortable. The kitchen window is open, and I hear her laugh at something her mother says. Her mom’s at the sink, washing a pan from dinner, and I can see a fresh beer bottle on the windowsill. By my count, it’s number three of the evening.
    They sit at a little table in the dining room, which also seems to function as the living room, since a flickering TV is not three or four feet away on an end table, and the mom watches while Brandy eats some type of yellow casserole with potato chips crumbled on top. She washes it down with iced tea, and I’d bet my spiffy new three hundred-dollar bills it’s sweet versus un-sweet.
    They both disappear from view for a minute, then Mom goes to the fridge for beer number four, and Brandy pops up in a bedroom window upstairs. It’s dark now, the lights are on, and I watch as Brandy slips out of her uniform. She wears a black bra and pink panties and is pretty much spilling out of both. Hubba-hubba.
    There’s no window in the bathroom—not that I would have watched her anyway. Seriously. For real. I mean it. Come on—but when she comes back into her bedroom, her hair is up in a towel, and she’s wearing a ratty yellow robe you know she’s had since three Christmases ago.
    I keep waiting for Brock to show up and take her out. It’s Saturday, after all, but when she slips into a pink baby-doll T-shirt that says “It’s all about me” and a pair of sweatpants cut off at the knees, I figure she’s in for the night.
    So what are those cars I hear approaching?
    Sure, it’s not exactly four in the morning but it’s a little late for pickup truck traffic on this side of town. As far as I can tell, there’s not much near the water tower but this apartment complex, a scruffy public park, and a body shop that’s closed for the night. I turn in my tree, leaves scattering in my wake, and spot a familiar four-wheeler complete with spotlights on the roof. They shine right into my eyes.
    I raise a hand to cover them and lose my grip on the branch, falling onto the hood of the car that’s just pulled up to the tree, blocking any easy escape. I land with a thud, denting the shiny blue hood, and tumble over—and off—onto the ground. It doesn’t hurt, but it looks stupid and…what the hell?
    “Get him, Ryan!” Brock shouts from his truck, pretty face turned pretty ugly as his beady eyes narrow and his full lips grow thin.
    “I am, Brock! Hold on a sec!”
    Ryan Fletcher steps out of his car in a rent-a-cop uniform. I’m still sitting on the ground and I notice the magnetic signs on his door panel. Official Representative of the Reanimation Patrol .
    Yeah, very official.
    “Get up, Randall,” he says, his voice at once recognizable yet strange. There is a look in his eyes, the same look Brock gave me in my office earlier that day. It’s a look I’ve seen pretty much daily since I got infected last year: fear mixed with anger mixed with rage, plus a little sadness and familiarity thrown in as well. But more with the anger and the rage.
    “Fine, fine, Ryan, but…you have no reason to arrest me.”
    “Sure, he does.” Brock spits, getting out of his truck. “You were out here, peeping on my girlfriend. Look, you still have the binoculars around your throat.”
    “Because you paid me to!” I say. “I’ve got your money in my back pocket, fingerprints all over it.”
    Brock doesn’t even miss a beat. It’s as if he’s had this planned all along. “Yeah, creep. I admit it: I paid you to stay away from her.”
    I look from Brock to Ryan, waiting for one of them to crack a smile, help me up, and buy me a