Unkillable by Patrick E. McLean Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patrick E. McLean
girl. I looked around for a place to hide. Sure, there was the drawer, but I wasn’t sure I could get out of there again. I checked the scratch the rat had left on my arm. More than a third of it was black. I didn’t understand the deadline, but if I lost anymore time lying around club morgue, it would become a factor.
I hobbled around my leg brace in a little circle, swearing. Then I hid beneath a table that was covered by a long white sheet.
The door opened and Detective Marsten poked his head and a bouquet of flowers through. “Hello. I’ve got flowers for the warm-blooded,” he said. What a jackass. But when he saw the open drawer and the girl sprawled out on the cold tile, his demeanor changed completely.
The flowers disappeared. In their place, a gun filled his hand. He moved through the door quickly and with surprising grace for a big man, he scanned the room. Only after he had cleared the room did he walk to the girl and check for a pulse. Then he slid the ugly weight back into its holster and cradled the girl in his arms.
“Amanda. Amanda. Wake up,” he said shaking her gently. She came to slowly.
“Whu--”
“Amanda, who did this to you?”
“AHHH!” She screamed, thinking back on what had happened to her.
“I’m really starting to think you don’t like me,” said Marsten. She buried her head in his chest and made a muffled noise. Then she pushed away and struggled to get to her feet. Marsten tried to help her get up, but she pushed his arms away.
“I’m okay. I’m okay. I just got a little spooked. No really, just–.” Marsten stopped trying to help her and she landed on the ground, sitting Indian style. “Have it your way,” he said. He stood and leaned against the meat locker. He smiled down at her. Some of the color came back into Amanda’s face, and she recovered herself enough to get angry.
“Fine,” she said, “Gimmie your hand.”
Marsten helped her up. If I had squinted, I might have confused him with a gentleman.
“Hey, everybody needs a little…” It was another sentence that I would never hear the end of, because when Amanda got to her feet, she turned and looked in the drawer. When she saw it was empty, the screaming started. It wasn’t the funny kind of scared. Not the kind of scared that someone gets when you jump out and say “BOO!” to them. No, she was scared shitless. Her knees buckled, her torso folded in on itself and she kept looking around as if she expected me to jump out and try and eat her brains or something.
Marsten got a hold of her. This time she didn’t push him away. Theoretically, it was touching, but I didn’t have time for this. They were distracted, so I just walked out.
If I had been alive, simply walking out wouldn’t have worked. But I’ve learned a couple of things about being dead. And one of them is that it makes you very, very sneaky. You don’t have to breathe. You’re not nervous or jumpy. Even when you stare at people, they never seem to feel it. So yeah, I just walked out.
Besides, when she told that detective that a corpse had woken up and spoken to her, he wouldn’t have believed her. But he would have looked around anyway, just because it might increase his chance of getting her into bed. It’s what I would have done.
On the other side of the door was a hallway. It was painted a particularly industrial shade of light green that was made worse by the lightly buzzing fluorescents. The kind of lights that when moths die and go to hell, they spend eternity slamming against. From the other room, I could hear the detective repeating, “Look at me. Look at me. I’m right here. I’m right here,” over and over again.
By walking on the ball of my foot and the thick rubber stopper on the edge of the leg brace, I was able to move down the hallway silently. At the end of the hallway was a T-intersection. To my right was a set of stairs, to the left, more hallway. More lights. I tried to listen for sounds of people. But
I hobbled around my leg brace in a little circle, swearing. Then I hid beneath a table that was covered by a long white sheet.
The door opened and Detective Marsten poked his head and a bouquet of flowers through. “Hello. I’ve got flowers for the warm-blooded,” he said. What a jackass. But when he saw the open drawer and the girl sprawled out on the cold tile, his demeanor changed completely.
The flowers disappeared. In their place, a gun filled his hand. He moved through the door quickly and with surprising grace for a big man, he scanned the room. Only after he had cleared the room did he walk to the girl and check for a pulse. Then he slid the ugly weight back into its holster and cradled the girl in his arms.
“Amanda. Amanda. Wake up,” he said shaking her gently. She came to slowly.
“Whu--”
“Amanda, who did this to you?”
“AHHH!” She screamed, thinking back on what had happened to her.
“I’m really starting to think you don’t like me,” said Marsten. She buried her head in his chest and made a muffled noise. Then she pushed away and struggled to get to her feet. Marsten tried to help her get up, but she pushed his arms away.
“I’m okay. I’m okay. I just got a little spooked. No really, just–.” Marsten stopped trying to help her and she landed on the ground, sitting Indian style. “Have it your way,” he said. He stood and leaned against the meat locker. He smiled down at her. Some of the color came back into Amanda’s face, and she recovered herself enough to get angry.
“Fine,” she said, “Gimmie your hand.”
Marsten helped her up. If I had squinted, I might have confused him with a gentleman.
“Hey, everybody needs a little…” It was another sentence that I would never hear the end of, because when Amanda got to her feet, she turned and looked in the drawer. When she saw it was empty, the screaming started. It wasn’t the funny kind of scared. Not the kind of scared that someone gets when you jump out and say “BOO!” to them. No, she was scared shitless. Her knees buckled, her torso folded in on itself and she kept looking around as if she expected me to jump out and try and eat her brains or something.
Marsten got a hold of her. This time she didn’t push him away. Theoretically, it was touching, but I didn’t have time for this. They were distracted, so I just walked out.
If I had been alive, simply walking out wouldn’t have worked. But I’ve learned a couple of things about being dead. And one of them is that it makes you very, very sneaky. You don’t have to breathe. You’re not nervous or jumpy. Even when you stare at people, they never seem to feel it. So yeah, I just walked out.
Besides, when she told that detective that a corpse had woken up and spoken to her, he wouldn’t have believed her. But he would have looked around anyway, just because it might increase his chance of getting her into bed. It’s what I would have done.
On the other side of the door was a hallway. It was painted a particularly industrial shade of light green that was made worse by the lightly buzzing fluorescents. The kind of lights that when moths die and go to hell, they spend eternity slamming against. From the other room, I could hear the detective repeating, “Look at me. Look at me. I’m right here. I’m right here,” over and over again.
By walking on the ball of my foot and the thick rubber stopper on the edge of the leg brace, I was able to move down the hallway silently. At the end of the hallway was a T-intersection. To my right was a set of stairs, to the left, more hallway. More lights. I tried to listen for sounds of people. But