Read Online Vial Things (A Resurrectionist Novel Book 1) by Leah Clifford - Free Book Online
Authors: Leah Clifford
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forehead. He fights to raise himself off the floor with shaking arms.
“Relax,” I say but he doesn’t seem to hear me anymore. Pushing his shoulder, I force him down again. “No, you have to stay still.” If he moves too much, he could rip the stitches and bleed out again. It would mean hours more of unconsciousness while his body starts the recovery process all over. Hours we can’t afford.
He stutters a sound. His vocal cords have started to work. “He cut...”
The smile on my lips feels fake. “You’re safe. You’re going to be fine, I promise.” No use overwhelming him with the details just yet. “But you need to listen to me now, okay? Who cut you?” This consciousness isn’t going to last. It never does--some combination of the brain and body being utterly overwhelmed with all those cells and systems reanimating at once. I have maybe a minute at most. “Please. Tell me.”
Eyes wild, he gropes madly until his fingers catch mine. “Allie,” he pleads. “I don’t wanna die.”
I squeeze his hand. “Tell me what happened.” His eyes slip shut. “Was it someone you know? From the boxcars? Did you go there?” I demand, leaning closer. His eyes roll back in his head even as he fights to stay conscious. He needs time. The blood needs to do its work.
I tap my palm against his cheek anyway and he rouses, barely. “What happened?” I press.
My name slurs out of him as his breathing evens, unconsciousness stealing him away before I can get the answers I need.
Chapter 9
Ploy
T he pain squeezes through my veins like marbles covered in glass shards. And then it hits me; if it hurts this bad, I have to be alive.
I’m alive.
Adrenaline spikes my heart rate, drives the blood through me faster as agony grates across my bones. I can’t help my shocked gasp.
“Are you awake?” Allie’s voice pulls me from the fog. I hear springs squeak. Her moving on the couch nearby. An odd clarity washes over me as the early afternoon floods back and right on its heels, dread. There’s no way she healed me. Not if I’m in this much pain. “Ploy?” she whispers.
My eyes crack open. I’m on the floor, a pillow under my head. She’s draped a sheet over me, the one I normally use when I sleep here. When I look down, the tips of my duct taped shoes poke out from the bottom.
She slides off the couch and lands in a heap beside me. Her phone is clutched in her hand. She must have called an ambulance.
“Hey roomie,” I say. Exhaustion stretches the words like taffy. “Bad form to show up like this on the first day, huh?” I grip my side where the wound is and wince. “You’ve seen? It’s deep?” She opens her mouth to answer and then stalls. I glance around the room. “I passed out, didn’t I?”
“How’re you feeling?” she asks, avoiding the questions. The clench of pain’s released for the most part.
I blink slowly. “Sore.”
“You will be for awhile.”
“I’ve had worse.” I’m pretty sure it’s a lie. I nod to the phone clutched in her hand. “Are they on their way? The paramedics,” I clarify when she gives me a blank look. I swallow hard. My throat clicks, parched, and Allie leaps to her feet.
“I can give you a little water if you want. You can’t have more than a few sips at a time. Not for twelve hours. Like after a surgery. You’ve already slept through three of them though,” she says, the words streaming out of her in a babble.
She let me sleep for three hours? I think as she hurries to the kitchen. The sink turns on, then off, but a long minute ticks past before Allie returns.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says. She holds the glass to my lips. The water barely wets them before she pulls it away and sets it on the floor beside us. “Tell me what happened.”
I need a story, something convincing. I reach for the glass to buy time but before I can grab it, my fingers curl, claw-like. “Damn it,” I whisper. To my surprise, she takes the hand and
“Relax,” I say but he doesn’t seem to hear me anymore. Pushing his shoulder, I force him down again. “No, you have to stay still.” If he moves too much, he could rip the stitches and bleed out again. It would mean hours more of unconsciousness while his body starts the recovery process all over. Hours we can’t afford.
He stutters a sound. His vocal cords have started to work. “He cut...”
The smile on my lips feels fake. “You’re safe. You’re going to be fine, I promise.” No use overwhelming him with the details just yet. “But you need to listen to me now, okay? Who cut you?” This consciousness isn’t going to last. It never does--some combination of the brain and body being utterly overwhelmed with all those cells and systems reanimating at once. I have maybe a minute at most. “Please. Tell me.”
Eyes wild, he gropes madly until his fingers catch mine. “Allie,” he pleads. “I don’t wanna die.”
I squeeze his hand. “Tell me what happened.” His eyes slip shut. “Was it someone you know? From the boxcars? Did you go there?” I demand, leaning closer. His eyes roll back in his head even as he fights to stay conscious. He needs time. The blood needs to do its work.
I tap my palm against his cheek anyway and he rouses, barely. “What happened?” I press.
My name slurs out of him as his breathing evens, unconsciousness stealing him away before I can get the answers I need.
Chapter 9
Ploy
T he pain squeezes through my veins like marbles covered in glass shards. And then it hits me; if it hurts this bad, I have to be alive.
I’m alive.
Adrenaline spikes my heart rate, drives the blood through me faster as agony grates across my bones. I can’t help my shocked gasp.
“Are you awake?” Allie’s voice pulls me from the fog. I hear springs squeak. Her moving on the couch nearby. An odd clarity washes over me as the early afternoon floods back and right on its heels, dread. There’s no way she healed me. Not if I’m in this much pain. “Ploy?” she whispers.
My eyes crack open. I’m on the floor, a pillow under my head. She’s draped a sheet over me, the one I normally use when I sleep here. When I look down, the tips of my duct taped shoes poke out from the bottom.
She slides off the couch and lands in a heap beside me. Her phone is clutched in her hand. She must have called an ambulance.
“Hey roomie,” I say. Exhaustion stretches the words like taffy. “Bad form to show up like this on the first day, huh?” I grip my side where the wound is and wince. “You’ve seen? It’s deep?” She opens her mouth to answer and then stalls. I glance around the room. “I passed out, didn’t I?”
“How’re you feeling?” she asks, avoiding the questions. The clench of pain’s released for the most part.
I blink slowly. “Sore.”
“You will be for awhile.”
“I’ve had worse.” I’m pretty sure it’s a lie. I nod to the phone clutched in her hand. “Are they on their way? The paramedics,” I clarify when she gives me a blank look. I swallow hard. My throat clicks, parched, and Allie leaps to her feet.
“I can give you a little water if you want. You can’t have more than a few sips at a time. Not for twelve hours. Like after a surgery. You’ve already slept through three of them though,” she says, the words streaming out of her in a babble.
She let me sleep for three hours? I think as she hurries to the kitchen. The sink turns on, then off, but a long minute ticks past before Allie returns.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says. She holds the glass to my lips. The water barely wets them before she pulls it away and sets it on the floor beside us. “Tell me what happened.”
I need a story, something convincing. I reach for the glass to buy time but before I can grab it, my fingers curl, claw-like. “Damn it,” I whisper. To my surprise, she takes the hand and
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