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Stay well,
Ari
Hot damn. My first legit combat mod. Standard human drugs didn’t work on zombies, but Dr. Nikas had developed his own line of parasite-modifying pharmaceuticals—mods for short—for a variety of purposes. A basic combat mod heightened senses and improved speed and reflexes.
During my regrowth, Dr. Nikas had installed a mod port in my chest—a syringe access point to an implanted receptacle for storing and dispensing up to four different mods, unnoticeable unless you knew where to look. In one compartment, I had V13 on auto-dose—the Angel-only formula Dr. Nikas had come up with to counter my addiction to V12, with the bonus effect of helping my dyslexia.
I stuck the first syringe in the port and refilled the V13 reservoir, then added the stay-awake mod to the second compartment. The combat mod went into the third. I sure could have used this kind of enhancement with the diver this morning.
Maybe I wouldn’t have had to kill her.
Sighing, I pushed down the guilt and grabbed my phone to call Bear Galatas.
Bear was Nick’s dad and, after one hell of a rough sta
rt, an unlikely ally to the Tribe. A savvy businessman, he’d built Bear’s Gun Shop and Indoor Range from the ground up into a hugely successful venture. He was also widely considered to be an expert on survival and disaster preparedness, and ran a well-organized group of like-minded survivalists.
Unfortunately, Bear’s determination to survive any apocalypse had long ago caused a deep rift between him and Nick. Bear had been forcefully insistent that, for the benefit of the survivalists, Nick would go to medical school and become a surgeon—which Nick hadn’t wanted at all. After I finally managed to make Bear see the error of his ways, their relationship improved. Slightly. But that was before my rotting-away “setback” and recovery. I had no idea if they were getting along any better, but at least Nick hadn’t flinched at the mention of Bear’s name.
No, he only flinched around me now.
I flopped onto the bed and gazed morosely at the ceiling. How could Nick—or anyone—get over watching me rot away? Maybe it would be better for everyone if I pulled back and gave him some space. Spare us both a whole lot of grief.
The idea sent a horrible pang through me. It would probably hurt less in the long run, though. Rip the bandage off.
I shook myself out of the black funk and called Bear’s store.
A deep male voice answered. “Bear’s Den.”
“Is this Bear?”
“Nope, he’s . . . with a customer. This is Clark.”
“Hey, Clark, this is Angel. I really need to talk to Bear. It’s important. Won’t take long.”
“I’ll buzz him. Hang on a sec.”
Hold music came on the line. Eighties pop. For a gun store in the middle of redneck country? Seriously, Bear?
The music clicked off. “This is Bear. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
The cultured reply left me briefly at a loss for words. “Er, it’s Angel.”
“Hey, Hank. I’ll have to get back to you on that Brockman rifle. I’m still waiting to hear from the company rep.”
“Um, I think you’re on the wrong line. This is Angel.”
“Nope, I’m not wrong. I’ll give you a call when something changes. Have yourself a good day now.” He hung up.
That was either the weirdest conversation in history, or he didn’t want whoever was with him to know it was me on the phone. I didn’t like the thought of that.
I hunted down Raul and got one of the listening device scanner things then left the lab. I was almost to Tucker Point Community College when my phone rang. Unknown number, which usually meant either a telemarketer or someone insisting they could fix my computer over the phone if I gave them my credit card number. I declined the call, but a few seconds later it rang again from the same number.
Hmm. Telemarketers and scam artists didn’t usually call right back. “Hello?”
“Angel. It’s Bear.”
“Dude. What was that all about when I called the store? And are you using a burner phone?”
