The In-Betweener (Between Life and Death) (S) by Ann Christy Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m pushing things.
    “Dammit,” I grumble to my friend, the truck bumper. Before I can think any more about it, I drop everything except my rifle, get to my feet, and sprint across the road and into the big grassy area that fronts the complex.
    The paper flutters with more energy as the breeze picks up momentarily and I lose it behind the big sign that tells visitors the name of the complex. I pass by the in-betweener without giving him a direct look, but out of the corner of my eye I see him lose focus and snap his jaws in in-betweener mode again.
    That makes me put my head down and push my legs harder. I’m not used to this sort of full-on effort anymore. I spend my time being quiet and careful, which generally also means slow. This kind of running is almost alien to my body after all this time. It feels good, even though I’m terrified.
    I catch sight of the paper again as it scoots along the overgrown grass and veer so I’ll intersect its path. The grass is taller farther into the green space, coming up to my knees and matted with last year’s dead stems. I almost take a header into it when I risk a glance backward just to make sure the in-betweener is still on his side of the fence. He is, but he’s agitated and I can tell it won’t be long until he makes a move. My running is just exciting him.
    Then I’ll have to stop and kill him again. I just hope the paper has all the information I need if it comes to that.
    The paper almost gets away from me one more time, but I finally grab it when it dips into some tall grass. As soon as I’m sure I have it, I drop down and use that same tall grass as cover. The in-betweener seems to be battling himself at the moment, walking in circles and hitting himself in the head. Some of the deaders sense the disturbance and pause in their fence licking, while the rest continue on as before, oblivious.
    Slinging the rifle onto my lap so that it’s in just the right position to pick up and fire, I greedily open the note. It’s spattered with brown drops of dried blood, and some that seem fresher, but the writing is legible. Some part of me is filled with excitement at the very idea of opening a paper written by another hand, even while the rest of me fears what I’ll read, and how that might change the trajectory of my career in professional caution.
    The handwriting is young, busy with big looping letters and circles instead of dots over the letters that need such. I run my hand over it before I can even read it, the indirect touch of another person almost overwhelming me for a second or two. One more look at the in-betweener and I read:
     
Hello! The man with this note is Sam and he won’t hurt you if you are careful. He was a teacher and he takes care of us, but then he got shot by accident. I timed it and he was gone for three minutes so he’s not as bad as most. But he is not doing well and we sent him to find you before something bad happens. He watched you but we didn’t get a chance to come to where you are. There are five of us but Penny and Jon are little and I can only carry one of them. Please come and find us. He can bring you but if not, here is our address. Love, Veronica
 
P.S. If you feed him animals he isn’t as dangerous.
     
    Below that, the girl had drawn a row of hearts and noted their address. An address I don’t know at all. An address I know I will find.
     

Four Years Ago - A Life Saved Is a Future Saved
    “Death from sudden heart attack may be a thing of the past!” the newscaster announces with a wide grin that speaks to me of a love of cheeseburgers. So I say that out loud.
    My mother snorts and taps at her tablet, immersed in some bit of work that’s followed her home. Her fingernail makes a series of rapid clicks against the glass of the tablet, and then she makes a little noise of satisfaction. Another problem solved.
    What my mother does in the military has nothing to do with fighting—at least I don’t think so—and everything to