Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) (36 page)

I relax against the side of Mr. Lovett’s desk and steady my breath. Once I feel somewhat ‘together’, I pull out a small Phillips-head screwdriver from my rainbow wig and start to disable his computer.

I hold my hand above Mr. Lovett’s computer listening for any kind of electric static crackling around my skin. When I feel none, I begin. I can’t fall apart over the fried electronics. I have to do what I came up here to do.

Three of the six tiny screws are out of the computer, the ones that would release the hard drive from its little plastic nest, when it gets worse.

A wave hits me. I rock back on my heels, topple, and hit the wall. My shoulder brushes something and I hear a crash. I quit moving, knowing that because I can’t see, I’ll only knock more shit over if I continue flailing blindly.

“No, no, no,” I whine as if that will make Julia’s death turn on its heels and leave. Because that is what I’m feeling—her death.

I work faster.

First I reach out for the desk, find its edge and pull myself back to the computer. In my hurried panic, I start dropping the little screws on the office floor. They give little ping-ping noises as they bounce off the wood and roll away.

I have the last screw loose, but not completely out, when my vision changes entirely.

The world dissolves from its usual solid self into a shifting world of color. The only equivalent I can think of is heat sensory, like the way they show it on TV or in the movies where someone puts on special goggles and then the world turns into an orange-yellow-red blob. This isn’t exactly right, what I see in the moments before a death, because I see more color and nuances, but it is close enough that you get the idea.

The problem with it happening now is two-fold. Problem one—I can’t see the last freaking screw anymore. I can’t clearly define anything, now that the world has reduced itself to something less substantial than an acid trip.

Problem two, Julia Lovett is about to die and I’m not close enough to save her.

I can feel her out there, moving around in the yard, feel the pull surrounding her, centering around her and drawing close. If she dies and I am not near her, she can’t be saved. Proximity is required for a death replacement.

The only thing I can do now is force myself to focus. And even after my best effort, the colors are still there. I try to use my fingers to work the screw out by hand and loosen the hard drive, really hoping that it is the hard drive I’m removing. I’m not a computer expert. I only know how to do this because Brinkley, my ex-handler, showed me on an old garage sale computer making me practice until I practically wept for a break. This time I have to rely on my fingers, the feel of grooves against the tips just to figure out what I’m doing.

Finally, it falls free of its case. Clutching the stolen hard drive in one hand, I rush back toward the stairs. I can’t afford to be casual. I can’t afford to take my time or even stop to turn off the bathroom light or open the door. In fact, I’m forced to crawl down the stairs the way a baby would, butt first so I don’t fall. I make slow progress, but I can’t save Julia’s life if I break my own neck before even getting to her. Somehow I manage to make it back to the sliding kitchen door and see Ally on the other side. Sure she is a blur of color like everything else, but I know Ally. I know what she looks like even in this form. Maybe it is because I’d saved her life once, or because she’s been on a
bagillion
replacements with me, or even because she is my best friend. I don’t know and I don’t care as I pry open the glass and croak her name.

Nothing.

Louder: “Ally.”

She turns around and it must be the way I look because she comes running.

“Are you—”

“Here,” I say. I shove what I hope is the hard drive at her and step fully into the back yard.

“Jess, your shoes,” she says.

“No time.” I’m already walking to the edge of the brick patio stretching like a giant doormat away from the kitchen entrance. I am searching the yard for Julia.

I find her colorful blur twirling again. She is out by the fence and I can’t see anything around her that is of danger. But I know better than to let that assumption stop me. Something can fall from the sky at any second. Some insane driver could crash through that white fence. Hell, little Julia could be having a heart attack from all that twirling.

I run through the soggy grass, my socks soaking up the cold rainwater, curling my toes. I run and Ally follows. Not too close, yelling “Everyone back up, please!” She knows to do crowd control and create as much distance between me and the others as possible. I have no idea if it works. I can’t afford to focus on anything but Julia.

At this point I am running across the yard, arms out to grab her. Julia must see me coming and stops twirling for long enough to scream and run in the other direction. It isn’t until I hear her screaming “Mommy the clown! Mommy!” that I realize I am the one terrifying her, a clown with what must be a manic expression, rushing at her, full speed.

“Damnit, come here!” I yell unable to pretend like this was anything but urgent. “We don’t have time for this.”

And of course I am right. But as a clown chasing her, growling obscenities, what else would she do but scream harder and run faster? And I hear Ally yelling. Something unclear, directed at Regina. People always want to rush in and save their loved ones from dying, but it only ever gets in the way and causes more causalities. After all, I can only replace one person at a time.

Death is different for everyone. And I see it differently for everyone.

Sometimes I see death as a tiny black hole created inside a person, an empty swirling vortex that sucks all the warm, living colors out of a person, leaving nothing behind that can survive.

Sometimes a hot-cold chill settles into the muscles in my back and coils around my navel before yanking me down into oblivion.

Then there are deaths like Julia Lovett’s.

A death where I just have to throw myself out there and hope it works out. No vision guidance. No conscious effort on my part. Just faith that being who I am, what I am, the exchange will happen.

Julia reaches the fence just as I grab ahold of her. I clutch her against my scratchy polka-dotted jumper while she screams and flails. I try to say soothing things: “You’re okay. It’s fine! Calm down!”

All lies of course.

Because then it hits us.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kory M. Shrum lives in Michigan with her partner Kim and a ferocious guard pug, Josephine. She’d love to hear from you on
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