Teen Frankenstein by Chandler Baker Read Free Book Online Page A

laceration that sliced down his rib cage looked dried out now, with cracked, shriveling edges. Wiry thread crisscrossed over the dark red gash where the edges of his flesh were sutured together. The other cuts and scrapes had also scabbed and turned colors. The whole of his torso was coated in angry red branches, like veins, spoking out from where the diathermy device had sat on his chest. I recognized these as the signs of high-level, direct electrocution, and my scalp tingled.
    I wrung my hands together. “Okay, I’m just going to say it: You’re not going to, like, kill us, are you? We don’t have a zombie situation on our hands?”
    He pursed his lips and sucked in his cheeks; his eyes were wide.
    Einstein resumed her deep, throaty growl. “Right. Sorry,” I said when he didn’t respond. “That was … insensitive.”
    I looked over my shoulder at Owen, who shrugged and waved me forward.
    There was a stillness about the boy in the way he stood that made me worried he’d endured some degree of rigor mortis.
    â€œLet’s start over,” I said. “Hi.” I waved.
    His face was no more expressive than a marble slab. “Who are you?” His voice was low and flat.
    â€œI—I—” I stammered, taking one step back without meaning to. “I … I’m Victoria.” I tried to steady the trembling in my fingers. “But, uh, people call me Tor.” Einstein waddled closer to me and took up residence behind my legs. Not much of a guard dog. “And that’s Owen.” I gestured over my shoulder.
    â€œHey.” Owen’s voice was hoarse.
    Dark hair was matted down over the boy’s forehead, and there was an almost imperceptible gray tint to his otherwise olive skin. “ Victoria .” He enunciated my name slowly, like he was trying it out for the first time and couldn’t quite decide if it sounded right. “Owen.” He dipped his head, nodding toward Owen. “And who am I?” Slowly, he raised his hand and placed it flat on his chest.
    This, I hadn’t expected. “Who are you?” I asked. “You mean you don’t know?”
    He shook his head, deliberately, gradually, revealing the two razor-thin incisions at each temple.
    This time I took several steps forward, walking over to the busted radio and tub of brine. I had to tilt my chin up to make eye contact. “What do you remember exactly?”
    â€œNothing.”
    I circled him, examining the crusts of dried blood. “A blank slate?” I stopped in front of him. “Where’re you from?”
    â€œI don’t know.” He knitted his eyebrows together. “Did you bring me here? I’m sorry. I don’t remember you. Victoria.” The way he said it was apologetic. Like one of those overly contrite British fellows from a Jane Austen novel, but without the accent.
    Owen and I had never thought to consider how re-instigating the brain patterns might affect thought, especially memory. Naturally, we’d expected there to be complications. We’d just expected those complications to be those of a rat, or in other words, relatively uncomplicated.
    Explaining the situation to a walking, talking corpse? Considerably more difficult. I took a deep breath. “Okay, then, there’s something I need to tell you.” I felt my mouth twisting to the side the way it did when I wanted to tell a lie. “Yesterday there was an accident.” I stopped. “I feel like you should be sitting down for this. Do you want to be sitting down? The reason people are usually asked to sit down before receiving bad news is that it lessens the distance to fall, you know, if you faint or something.” Like now was the time to play Human Encyclopedia. He didn’t move. Just stood there, arms pinned to his sides. “ Okay .” I hesitated over how to proceed. Owen, of course, was being no help. I could tell