The Dead Saga (Novella Part 1): Odium Origins Read online

  Odium Origins.

  A Dead Saga Novella.

  Part One.

  Claire C Riley

  Published by Claire C Riley at Breakwater Harbor Books, Inc. Scott J. Toney and Cara Goldthorpe, Founders. www.breakwaterharborbooks.com

  Copyright ©2013 Claire C Riley

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Amy Jackson Editing.

  Cover design by Claire C Riley

  Formatting by Karen Perkins of LionheART publishing services

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without direct permission from the author.

  Dedications.

  Thank you to the wonderful fans who continue to read and love my stories as much as I do. It’s good to know that at the end of the world, when the zombies rise up . . . we’ll have each other for support.

  Thank you once again to the fans who filled in my survival questionnaire and gave me the basis for these characters. Without your clever and often hilariously badass answers I wouldn’t have been able to create such crazy messed up characters. So thank you once again to: Steve Medd, Jane Medd, Britta McDonald Häming, Duncan McDonald, Halima Rahman, Josie Ryan, Tim JD Byrne, and San—my geeky web guy.

  Thank you to my awesome beta-readers (who also happen to be amazing authors too):

  Amy Queau, Ken Mooney, Eli Constant, Mike Lee, and to my wonderful, funny-as-hell Voo-Doo-eyed editor, Amy Jackson. I couldn’t have done this without you all.

  The Street Rat.

  One.

  “Bitch, I will not ask you again. Where the fuck is it?”

  I roll my eyes and fold my arms across my heavy chest, making sure my breasts squeeze up to the top of my small tank top like two plump peaches. Vinny’s eyes flit to them and then back to my face, his mouth sneering at me.

  “That shit ain’t gonna work with me this time, Crunch.” Vinny shakes his head. “You really fucked up this time.” He almost sounds sorry for me. Almost.

  Somewhere along the line I know I’ve messed up with him, kinda like I’ve messed up everything else. Only this time I’ve fucked up big time. I knew it when I was doing it, but when you have a bag of rocks in front of you, what’s a girl to do? I harden my face even more, unwilling to let the little dipshit see how much I’m sweating it. ‘Cause I am. I’m sweating it real bad. I know I’m going to be lucky to make it out of this predicament anytime soon, and then what? What’s Mom and Pops going to do then?

  “Look, I’ll return the gear—with interest. Tell Andre to keep his shit together, no need to start freaking out on me. A deal came up that couldn’t be missed, an opportunity for us all to make some extra money.” I shrug like it’s no big deal.

  Vinny watches me, waiting for any little hint that I might be lying to him. I definitely have his interest now, even if I am bullshitting him. He huffs and looks to the floor, thinking about my deal.

  Looking up at me through his dirty hair, he asks, “So, who was the buyer?”

  I pause before replying. “Don’t worry yourself over that, I got it covered.” I wave him away with a smirk and some swagger, fucked if I can think up someone’s name that quick.

  Vinny catches my eye, and in that moment we both know I’m lying, and we both know that he knows. The only question is what he’s going to do with the information. He looks cornered, unsure almost. He doesn’t like this part of the job—he’s told me that before—but a job it is, and there’s no way he’ll trade my life for his. The night is closing in on us, the moon shining brighter than it has in weeks. In this fog-covered town, we don’t get to see an awful lot of the pretty stars that come out at night, but the moon we do see. It’s nearly full, and I wonder if I’ll make it until the next full one, or if I even care. I always promised myself I’d get out of this shithole and see the stars up close; maybe this—death—would be my chance.

  “You have until tomorrow night. After that, I can’t cover for you anymore. He’ll be coming for you, and I’ll be with him. Don’t make me do this.” He turns to walk away, and without looking back he adds, “My ass is on the line here, Crunch. As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t see you tonight.”

  I watch Vinny walk away, the gravel crunching under his heavy boots. A long time ago we had a thing. It was good, too—but then they say never to mix business with pleasure. I pull a joint from my back pocket and light it up, taking a long hit and holding it in for as long as I can, feeling the heaviness of it settle on me before letting it out slowly. The fog covers me. Weed mixed with crack. This shit is good. I can tell why people become addicted. Lucky for me I don’t have that type of personality. That and my parents being fuckups with shit like this is enough to keep me real when I feel the urge to splurge.

  I crush the joint underfoot; I don’t want it anymore. I walk away, checking every now and then over my shoulder to make sure Vinny is actually letting me walk away tonight and isn’t pulling some sort of stunt on me. I’m glad—fuck, it’s not like I’m not glad. It’s just I thought this was it: the end. I’d built this up in my head, and now I have another day to try and figure this shit out. Can this shit be figured out?

  I shake my head and walk back to my car. It’s a short journey to shitsville, and Mom and Pops are in. They have no clue that I’m home, as usual. Not that it really matters; I’m a big girl now. I have been for a long time, and they haven’t cared for just as long—possibly longer. I head straight to my room, pulling out the bag of rocks from under my mattress. Real fucking inventive hiding place. I laugh to myself. Hell, it’s not like I’m some big drug dealer and I’ve had lessons on how and where to stash gear. I gaze down at the rocks, evil fucking shit that it is. Yeah, I’m a bad girl, but I wasn’t always. Life bred me this way. Or should I say two fucked up parents with addiction problems did?

  I look around my room: old photos of friends and family, a special one of me and Pops that even now makes me smile, posters of punk rock bands, all my awards and scholarship shit—my way out of here and to med school—are still stuck there with drying out Blu-tack. Such a fucking waste. I know it, my friends know it, and my parents know it—when they’re lucid enough anyway. Everyone knows it. I shrug to myself and stuff the gear back under my bed. It doesn’t fucking matter now. This is my hand and I’ll deal with what I’ve been dealt. One day this will all be a memory. Surely one day my pops will love me again and we can leave this shithole behind.

  I head to the kitchen, passing the smoke-filled living room, and check in on the two junkies smoking with Mom and Pops. Pops nods his hello at me and I flash a quick smile. It’s cool that he’s aware I’m here for once. I look over and see Mom slumped in the corner, spittle dribbling from her mouth. I huff and continue to the kitchen. I grab a beer and down it in one gulp, my thoughts going back to my little problem and what the fuck I’m going to do about it.

  I could give the shit up, but then what was the point in stealing it in the first place? I wanted it off the streets and away from junkies, and it is. If I give it up now, Andre will fuck me up anyway and it will all have been for nothing. Shit, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I need to get out of here. I head for the door, hearing Pops shouting at one of the other dudes, and I stick my head back in.

  “You took it, I know you did, and now I’m gonna fuck you up, boy.” Pop’s eyes are wild as he stands toe to toe with one of the junkies. I’ve seen the little skinny guy around here before, but can’t remember his name. He’s just Ratface to me, because you know, he looks like a rat. I chuckle to myself.

  “Dwayne, man, I didn’t touch it. It was the bitch. I sa
w her!”

  Pop cranes his head back, and I look away but hear the sound of his head crashing into the other guy’s skull, shortly followed by a grunt and a thump. Yeah, just like that. I look back and see blood pouring down Pops’ face and the junkie on the floor out cold. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Ratface, but my pops is another matter.

  “Fuck, Pops. There goes my evening.”

  Two.

  “You gotta control your temper,” I huff, threading the needle through his skin. He grunts but doesn’t reply. He knows I’m right, but he’s too high right now to care. When he comes down and the pain hits home, he’ll be all rainbows and puppy dogs. “You could have killed him, Pops. You know these young junkies don’t have what it takes to—”

  “I know, just fix me up and you can get on your way,” he interrupts with a grumble.

  The junkie is propped against the wall, unconscious but alive. He’s going to wake up with a serious comedown later, though, and probably won’t realize why he has a deep cut across his face held together by medical tape. Hell, he probably won’t care, either—which is why I didn’t bother to stitch it for him.

  “I’m not always going to be here to fix you up. I have a life, you know.” I tie off the end of the suture and look at him. His once handsome face is now ravaged by the drugs. His complexion is washed out—graying, like he’s fucking dying in front of me. I guess he is. Shit, yeah, he has been for years now. He smiles at me and I can’t help but smile back.

  “I’m sorry, pumpkin.” He looks down, shame washing over his features. “I’m sorry for it all. I know I’ve made a mess of everything.”

  My throat closes up and I swallow, willing the tears not to come. It’s not often that he’s this aware, this . . . like my pops. It’s times like this—when he seems like he still loves me, like I’m his baby girl—that I’m glad I stick around. There have been so many times that I’ve wanted to run away from this life, to start somewhere fresh before it’s too late for me, but there are too many skeletons in my closet now. Plus every now and then he can still be the nice him again. He can still be my pops, the loveable man who used to rock me to sleep.

  In this moment we’re father and daughter. I’m a kid and he’s my gentle giant—the man I look up to, the man whose shoulders I ride on, whose arms I run to when the boys tease me, who looks for the monsters under my bed. A groan breaks the moment and we both look toward my mom. She sits up, wiping the spittle from her chin, her hair a mess and her eyes bleary.

  “Baby? You got it for me?” She struggles to her knees.

  Pops heads toward her without another word for me. “Sure, baby, I’m coming.”

  It’s always her. She always comes before me. I stand with a snarl, leave my first aid kit on the floor, and storm out the house, slamming the door as hard as I can on my way. They can both fucking rot.

  *

  I hook up with my buddy Damien later on at Bill’s Bar & Grill. He knows the shit is going down, but he doesn’t care. We get smashed drinking shot after shot of tequila until we run out of money and Bill kicks us out.

  We wander around looking for stores to steal alcohol from, or at least someone we can score some weed off, but it looks like everyone is avoiding us. Or me—more than likely just me. Damien couldn’t give a shit about that, though, and that’s what I love about the big goofball.

  With my bleached blond trashy bob, nose piercing, and less-than-prom-prefect look of leather studded jacket and ripped-up jeans, I’m not everybody’s favorite goodtime girl, but Big Damo never gives a shit. He ain’t no college quarterback himself though. Big, black, and strong as an ox, but with no education and an addiction to rival my parents’, we’re a fucked- up match. We sit down on a park bench and he pulls out the last of his weed, rolls a big joint, and lights it up.

  “So what you gonna do, baby girl?” He passes it over to me and I shrug, a little stunned that he’s even brought it up, since that isn’t his normal style. He continues. “You fucked up big time, huh?”

  I take a hit and nod, not looking at him.

  “So, we gots to clear this shit up, girl. You know Andre will kill you if you don’t give him his gear back.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, Grandma!” I laugh and punch him in the arm, trying to lighten the mood. What the hell will my parents do without me to take care of them? They’ll be dead within the year. Mom I couldn’t give a shit about—she set this chain of events in motion—but Pops? Shit, I can’t leave him.

  He laughs too, but he’s right and I know it. I’m a dead girl walking.

  “You got any cash on you?” I ask.

  “Nope, my money don’t come through till Tuesday.” He looks at me with a mischievous grin. “What you thinkin’?”

  “Come on.” We both stand, a little unsteady after the weed and still drunk from the tequila. “We need some cash.” I need to get some cash and quick if I’m going to save myself—and my family in the long run.

  *

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  We both laugh and crash through the doorway, knocking over some shelves of snacks as we do. My feet pound the pavement, my breath loud in my ears—in, out, in out, in out. Damien turns and looks back at me, his face fucking happier than a kid at a circus. He loves this shit. Thieving, drinking, smoking, screwing: he lives for it. Not much else to live for when your only family is an eighty-year-old grandmother who can’t see and can barely hear. He loves the old bitch, though, even if she hates him.

  I stuff the wad of stolen cash in my pocket. It isn’t nearly enough to pay Andre with, but it’s a start.

  A can of something flies past my head, just missing me, and I turn to see the store owner throwing canned goods at us. I laugh harder and stop to pick up one of the now disowned cans—a can of dog food. I turn and throw it back, hitting him square in the chest. He cries out and slumps to the floor. Fucker doesn’t know who he’s messing with. I turn and run again, quickly catching up to Damien.

  “What the fuck was that about?” he pants out.

  “Fucker threw dog food at me. Do I look like a fucking dog to you?” I grumble, my feet never slowing down. Well, not until I think we’re far enough away.

  We slip into a side alley and stop to catch our breath. Damien’s more tired than me, but then again, he’s bigger than me. I lean back and close my eyes, waiting until my heartbeat slows down before I speak.

  “You get much?” he asks.

  “Not much, but it’s a start.”

  “So, we keep going then,” he states rather than asks.

  I look up at the small, beaten-up mall in front of us. In this neighborhood, it’s mainly rundown shops or small kiosks; most of the larger stores are closed down, but you never know when you’re going to get lucky. I grab his hand and drag him toward it. “Come on then, dude.”

  Inside is as sucky as the outside, but it’s definitely on the up and up. Shit, there’s even a security guard. He watches us as we make our way around the place, scouting out stores and basically getting ourselves shooed out of each one of them for looking like the shady clientele we are. We’re about to give up and head somewhere else when we pass a dirty sex shop. It looks like a sexed-up version of Victoria’s Secret, with sex toys and more suspenders and crotchless panties than you can shake a stick at.

  I grab his hand and pull him inside. No one bats an eye at us—they all seem more preoccupied by their own dirty little secrets than what we’re up to—and as we make our way around the store, we begin to stuff our pockets with things. I start out small: some skimpy thongs, negligee pieces that fold up small. I can’t even sell this crap, but that’s all by the by now. I catch Damien’s eye and nod toward the door, he smirks and we head for the exit. Mr. G.I. Joe security man stands in our way, stopping us from leaving.

  “Can you come this way, sir? Miss?”

  I look at Damien and then back to the big security guard, wondering if I could dodge past him and get away, but I know I’m not leaving Damien behind.


  “We haven’t done anything.” I plead, only half-heartedly.

  “Ma’am? This way please?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “And you, sir.”

  “This is harassment,” I spit out, trying to contain a giggle as he guides us to a back room. Damien looks as surprised as me that he got called ‘sir.’

  Inside he shuts the door and asks us to empty our pockets. I roll my eyes and begin to pull everything out. I look across to Damien, knowing that he has some shit on him, and wondering why he’s looking as shy as a girl on date night.

  G.I. Joe feels the same. “Sir? Can you empty your pockets, please?”

  “I don’t have to do shit. You don’t have a search warrant,” Damien bellows and folds his arms across his broad chest.

  “Dude, just empty your pockets,” I snap. The alcohol and weed are wearing off and I’m on a comedown from hell.

  Shouting sounds out from the other side of the door, and we all pause, but when it stops and there’s no more noise, I nudge Damien again. He rolls his eyes and begins to empty his pockets, placing everything on the table in front of us: underwear that would shock a hooker, anal beads, lube. I smirk, but then he reaches down the back of his pants and pulls out a dildo—a large black dildo. My eyes pop, and I look from G.I. Joe to Damien and burst out laughing.

  “What the fuck is that?” I clutch my sides giggling. Even G.I. Joe looks amused. Damien, however, looks embarrassed. He holds it firmly in his grasp, like a small child with a giant ice cream cone, and shrugs.

  A scream sounds out, followed by another, and there’s something in the scream that makes us all more than pause.

  Joe looks toward the door, and then back to us. “Wait here.”

  I hold up my hands. “Not going out there, that’s for fucking sure.” I try to joke, but the sounds coming from the store are anything but funny.