Harlow slid down the rough face of the tree until she sat on the ground again; she shrank back against the bark and closed her eyes, wishing she could wake up from this terrible, terrible dream.
Harlow sat there for several moments, too overwhelmed to move. She finally forced herself to look over at the haggard building. A group of supernaturals milled around outside, glancing anxiously at the upper windows as if expecting a hideous beast to leap out in an explosion of glass and wood.
A metallic clicking sound from the branches above grabbed her attention, made her look up; a flash of silver and red light caught her eyes just before disappearing around the trunk to the other side. She scrambled to her feet and walked around the tree, craning her neck for a sign of whatever she'd heard, but she saw only bare branches, gray and brown, forking out like skeleton fingers—and looking just as alive.
"That was a roamer," someone said.
Harlow turned to her right to see a kid standing nearby, short and pudgy, staring at her. He was young—probably the youngest of any in the group she'd seen so far, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. His short brown hair was u kempt and dirty. Blue eyes shone through an otherwise pitiful face, flabby and flushed.
Harlow nodded at him. "A roam, what?"
"A Roamer," the boy said, pointing to the top of the tree.
"Won't hurt ya unless you're stupid enough to touch one of them." He paused.
Another scream, this one long and nerve-grinding, tore through the air and Harlow's heart lurched. The fear was like icy dew on her skin.
"What's going on over there?" she asked, pointing at the building.
"Don't know," the chubby boy replied; his voice still carried the high pitch of childhood.
"Brent is in there, sicker than a dog. They got him."
"They?" Harlow didn't like the malicious way the boy had said the word.
"Yeah."
"Who are They?"
"Better hope you never find out," the kid answered, looking far too comfortable for the situation.
He held out his hand. "My name's Clint. I was the newest paranormal here, until you showed up."
It wasn't cold but once again a chill crept up her back. She couldn't shake her extreme discomfort, and now annoyance crept in as well. Nothing made sense; her head hurt.
Another scream came from the house, a sound like a starving animal being tortured.
"How can you be laughing?" Harlow asked, horrified by the noise. "It sounds like someone's dying in there."
"He'll be okay. No one dies if they make it back in time to get the Serum. It's all or nothing. Dead or not dead. Just hurts a lot."
This gave Harlow pause. "What hurts a lot?"
Clint's eyes wandered as if he wasn't sure what to say. "Um, gettin' bit by a Zombic."
"Zombic?" Harlow was only getting more and more confused. Bit. Zombic. The words had a heavy weight of dread to them, and she suddenly wasn't so sure she wanted to know what Clint was talking about.
Clint shrugged, then looked away, eyes rolling.
Harlow sighed in frustration and leaned back against the tree.
"Looks like you barely know more than I do," she said, but she knew it wasn't true. Her memory loss was strange. She mostly remembered the workings of the world—but emptied of specifics, faces, names. Like a book completely intact but missing one word in every dozen, making it a miserable and confusing read. She didn't even know her age.
"Clint, how … old do you think I am?"
The boy scanned her up and down. "I'd say you're seventeen. And in case you were wondering, five foot eight … red hair.
Harlow was so stunned she'd barely heard the last part.
Seventeen?
She was seventeen?
She felt much older than that.
"Are you serious?" she paused, searching for words. "How …" she didn't even know what to ask.
"Don't worry. You'll feel drunk for a few days, but then you'll get used to this place. I have.
We live here, this is it. Better than living on the streets." He squinted, maybe anticipating Harlow's question.
Harlow looked at Clint, unable to believe she was having this conversation. "I see." was all she could manage.
She stood up and walked past Clint toward the old building; shack was a better word for the place. It looked three or four stories high and about to fall down at any minute—a crazy assortment of logs and boards and thick twine and windows seemingly thrown together at random, the massive, ivy-strewn walls rising up behind it.
As she moved across the courtyard, the distinct smell of firewood and some kind of meat cooking made her stomach grumble. Knowing now that it was just a sick supernatural doing the screaming made Harlow feel better. Until she thought about what had caused it …
"What's your name?" Clint asked from behind, running to catch up.
"What?"
"Your name? You still haven't told us—and I know you remember that much."
"Harlow." she barely heard herself say it—her thoughts had spun in a new direction. If Clint was right, she'd just discovered a link to the rest of the supernaturals. A common pattern to their memory losses.
They all remembered their names.
Why not their parents' names? Why not a friend's name? Why not their last names?
"Nice to meet you, Harlow," Clint said. "Don't you worry, I'll take care of you. I've been here a whole month, and I know the place inside and out. You can count on me, okay?"
Harlow had almost reached the front door of the shack and the small group of supernaturals congregating there when she was hit by a sudden and surprise rush of anger. She turned to face Clint.
"You can't even tell me anything. I wouldn't call that taking care of me." she turned back toward the door, intent on going inside to find some answers. Where this sudden courage and resolve came from, she had no idea.
Clint shrugged. "Nothin' I say'll do you any good," he said. "I'm basically still a Newbie, too.
But I can be your friend—"
"I don't need friends," Harlow interrupted.
She'd reached the door, an ugly slab of sun-faded wood, and she pulled it open to see several stoicfaced paranormals standing at the foot of a crooked staircase, the steps and railings twisted and angled in all directions. Dark wallpaper covered the walls of the foyer and hallway, half of it peeling off.
The only decorations in sight were a dusty vase on a three-legged table and a black-and-white picture of an ancient woman dressed in an old-fashioned white dress.
It reminded Harlow of a haunted house from a movie or something. There were even planks of wood missing from the floor.
The place reeked of dust and mildew—a big contrast to the pleasant smells outside. Flickering fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling.
She hadn't thought of it yet, but she had to wonder where the electricity came from inside the dome. She stared at the old woman in the picture. Had she lived here once? Taken care of these people?
"Hey, look, it's the new girl," one of the older supernaturals called out.
With a start, Harlow realized it was the black-haired girl who'd given her the look of death earlier.
She looked like he was nineteen or so, tall and skinny. Her nose was small and perfectly straight.
"This bitch probably shit her pants when she heard old Brenty baby scream like a girl. Need a new diaper, bitch?"
"My name's Harlow." she had to get away from this girl. Without another word, she made for the stairs, only because they were close, only because she had no idea what to do or say. But the bully stepped in front of her, holding a hand up.
"Hold on there." She jerked a thumb in the direction of the upper floor. "New people aren't allowed to see someone who's been … changed. Raiden and Wren won't allow it."
"What's your problem?" Harlow asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice, trying not to think what the girl had meant by changed.
"I don't even know where I am. All I want is some help."
"Listen to me, Bitch." The girl wrinkled up her face, folded her arms.
"I've seen you before. Something's fishy about you showing up here, and I'm gonna find out what."
A surge of heat pulsed through Harlow's veins.
"I've never seen you before in my life. I have no idea who you are, and I couldn't care less," she spat.
But really, how would she know? And how could this girl remember her?
The girl snickered, a short burst of laughter mixed with a phlegm-filled snort. Then her face grew serious, her perfectly manicured eyebrows slanting inward.
"I've … seen you, skank. Not too many in these parts can say they've been bitten." She pointed up the stairs. "I have. I know what old Brenty baby's going through. I've been there. And I saw you during the Transformation."
She reached out and poked Harlow in the chest.
"And I bet your first meal from Cookie that
Brent'll say he's seen ya, too."
Harlow refused to break eye contact but decided to say nothing. Panic ate at her once again. Would things ever stop getting worse?
"Zombic got you pissing your pants?" the girl said through a sneer. "A little scared now? Don't wanna get bit, do ya?"
There was that word again. Bitten. Harlow tried not to think about it and pointed up the stairs, from where the moans of the sick guy echoed through the building.
"If Wren went up there, then I wanna talk to her."
The girl said nothing, stared at Harlow for several seconds. Then she shook her head.
"You know what? You're right, Lo, we shouldn't be so mean to Newbies. Go on upstairs and I'm sure Raiden and Wren'll fill you in. Seriously, go on. I'm sorry."
She lightly slapped Harlow's shoulder, then stepped back, gesturing up the stairs. But Harlow knew the girl was up to something. Losing parts of your memory didn't make you an idiot.
"What's your name?" Harlow asked, stalling for time while she tried to decide if she should go up after all.
"Pru! And don't let anyone fool you. Raiden's mine, not that he would look twice at you. Me. You can call me Mrs. Raiden if you want." She smiled for the first time; her teeth matched her nose, absolutely perfectly straight.
Her breath though, it escaped just enough for Harlow to get a whiff, reminding her of some horrible memory that was just out of reach. It made her stomach turn.
"Okay," she said, so sick of the girl she wanted to scream, punch her in the face. "Mrs. Raiden it is." She exaggerated a curtsy, feeling a rush of adrenaline, as she knew she'd just crossed a line.
A few snickers escaped the crowd, and Pru looked around, her face bright red. She peered back at Harlow, hatred furrowing her brow and crinkling her nose.
"Just go up the stairs," Pru said. "And stay away from me, you little bitch." She pointed up again but didn't take her eyes off Harlow.
"Fine." Harlow looked around one more time, embarrassed, confused, angry.
She felt the heat of blood in her face. No one made a move to stop her from doing as Pru asked, except for Clint, who stood at the front door, shaking his head.
"You're not supposed to," the younger boy said. "You're a Newbie—you can't go up there."
"Go," said Pru with a sneer. "Go on up."
Harlow regretted having come inside in the first place—but she did want to talk Wren.
She started up the stairs. Each step groaned and creaked under her weight; she might've stopped for fear of falling through the old wood if she weren't leaving such an awkward situation below.
Up she went, wincing at every splintered sound. The stairs reached a landing, turned left, then came upon a railed hallway leading to several rooms. Only one door had a light coming through the crack at the bottom.
"She's gonne witness a Transformation!" Pru shouted from below. "Look forward to it, Bitch!"
As if the taunting gave Harlow a sudden burst of courage, she walked over to the lit door, ignoring the creaking floorboards and laughter downstairs—ignoring the onslaught of words she didn't understand, suppressing the dreadful feelings they induced. She reached down, turned the brass handle, and opened the door.
Inside the room, Raiden and Wren crouched over someone lying on a bed.
Harlow leaned in closer to see what the fuss was all about, but when she got a clear look at the condition of the patient, her heart went cold. She had to fight the bile that surged up her throat.
The look was fast—only a few seconds—but it was enough to haunt her forever. A twisted, pale figure writhing in agony, chest bare and hideous. Tight, rigid cords of sickly green veins webbed across the guy's body and limbs, like ropes under his skin. Purplish bruises covered the kid, red hives, bloody scratches. His bloodshot eyes bulged, darting back and forth. The image had already burned into Harlow's mind before Raiden jumped up, blocking the view but not the moans and screams, pushing her out of the room, then slamming the door shut behind them.
"What're you doing up here?" Raiden yelled, his lips taut with anger, eyes on fire.
Harlow felt weak. "I … uh … want some answers," she murmured, but she couldn't put any strength in her words—felt himself give up inside.
What was wrong with that guy? Harlow slouched against the railing in the hallway and stared at the floor, not sure what to do next.
"Get your ass down those stairs, right now," Raiden ordered. "Clint'll help you. If I see you again before bedtime tonight? Do I make myself clear?"
Harlow was humiliated and scared. She felt like she'd shrunk to the size of a small rat. Without saying a word, she pushed past Raiden and headed down the creaky steps, going as fast as she dared.
Ignoring the gaping stares of everyone at the bottom—especially Pru—she walked out the door, pulling Clint by the arm as she did so.
Harlow hated these people. She hated all of them. Except Clint.
"Get me away from these people," Harlow said. She realized that Clint might actually be her only friend in the world.
"You got it," Clint replied, his voice chipper, as if thrilled to be needed. "But first we should get you some food from Cookie."
"I don't know if I can ever eat again." Not after what she'd just seen.
Clint nodded. "Yeah, you will. I'll meet you at the same tree as before. Ten minutes."
Harlow was more than happy to get away from the house, and headed back toward the tree. She'd only known what it was like to be alive here for a short while and she already wanted it to end.
She wished for all the world she could remember something about her previous life. Anything. Her mom, her dad, a friend, her school, a hobby. A guy she dated.
She blinked hard several times, trying to get the image of what she'd just seen in the shack out of her mind.
The Transformation, Pru had called it the Transformation.
It wasn't cold, but Harlow shuddered once again.