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  The truth was, Eli didn’t know much about himself.

  As a young child, Eli had been found wandering the city. It had been five days after the Crashdown. He was filthy, and as feral as the wild dogs that ran by the river.

  The authorities estimated his age to be four years, by his size. Because of the chaos in the Post-Crashdown city, his initial appearance didn’t even make the news for a few days. Nobody claimed the boy, and he was non-verbal, so he couldn’t even claim himself.

  He was placed temporarily with one of the psychologists who assessed him, and then there was the whole cult thing and his incarceration. Luckily for Eli, he was eventually sprung from jail and adopted by the only person who seemed to care about him. That was where his memories began.

  Everything Eli believed to be true about himself, Brenda was inclined to treat as fiction these days.

  Back when they first started dating, she would beg him to tell her more about his operation. They stayed up late, drinking cocoa and talking about their odd childhoods.

  When Brenda eventually admitted she’d exaggerated or altered her stories, she expected Eli to admit the same. When he did not, a sliver of distrust grew between them. Over the last few years, the distrust had metastasized, and now they had… this.

  Brenda leaned across the eating table, pointing the knife between Eli’s eyebrows. “Admit there’s no microchip. Admit you say those awful things just to spite me.”

  He pointed to the spot in his hairline and nodded forward. “Start digging.”

  She pressed the tip of the dirty knife against the scar.

  “One of these days,” she murmured.

  “You’re getting nut butter in my hair.”

  She snorted and pulled away suddenly. Eli looked up to see a cruel smile twisting on her lips.

  Now what?

  She picked up her tablet and tapped away for a minute. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said with mock sympathy. “It looks like Gerald called in sick today, which means Andy will take his route, Dave will take Andy’s route, and you, my dear Eli, will be on the Zombie Run, yet again.”

  Eli’s skin prickled with another wave of cold sweat. “You wouldn’t.”

  He'd lucked out the previous day and not had to cross through the Zone, but he wouldn't be so lucky today. He swallowed and tried to summon something truthful that would help this situation.

  “Brenda, you looked beautiful this morning when you weren’t conscious.”

  The See-Through Girl flared her pale nostrils.

  “Save your cleverness for work, because you’ll need it.”

  And with that parting shot, Brenda stood and pushed the table away from her, slamming the edge against Eli’s lower rib cage. He kept eating, pretending it hadn’t hurt.

  Chapter Three

  The Zombie Run was the least popular delivery route. It passed through the Crash Zone, a circle of destruction and chaos in what was once the business district of the city.

  Nobody sane worked or lived inside the Crash Zone. A person could pass through without suffering long-term effects, or so the city officials assured residents, but it was an area best avoided.

  There were no actual zombies in the area—at least not the kind seen in movies, with chunks of body parts falling off as they milled about in search of brains and shopping malls. Residents of the Crash Zone—called Crashers by most—had perfectly human plumbing. If you ripped an arm off a Crasher, he or she would die. Just not immediately.

  It wasn’t scientists who tested this theory by ripping off arms. Crashers had a pesky tendency to run after vehicles passing through the Zone. They seemed to be as helpless to their urges as Border Collies living near a highway, chasing cars because their brains told them cars were sheep. Chase the sheep.

  The only problem with the Border Collie metaphor was that humans hadn’t been selectively bred to chase sheep. So what was it? Nobody knew, or those who did know weren’t telling.

  The look on a Crasher’s face as he or she chased after a car was one of rapture. If the vehicle slowed down for a light or to circle debris on the road—and there was always debris on the road in the Zone—the Crasher would close in on the vehicle and grasp at anything. Mirrors. Door handles. Bumpers.

  A little defensive driving maneuver usually shook them, but not always. The main roads leading into the Zone had stop points, where drivers could voluntarily use the provided tools to remove protruding mirrors and handles, or cover them with stretchy self-adhering plastic—the vehicle equivalent of a bandage.

  In the twenty-six years since Crashdown, the laws regarding the legal status of Crashers had flipped back and forth nearly a dozen times.

  As Eli rolled up to the checkpoint to remove his mirrors, he read the current bulletin on a digital billboard. As of that day, the penalty for negligence causing the loss of a Crasher limb was equivalent to a month of Eli’s salary as a delivery driver.

  Eli found it amusing they used the generic term “limb,” when it was always arms, not legs.

  He’d been a teenager the first time Crashers were designated non-person entities. This legal change happened in a rush, because there’d been some sightings of Crashers with infants, and the authorities needed the legal clearance to capture and tag Crashers before re-releasing them.

  It turned out the infant sightings were a hoax, which seemed obvious in hindsight. Anyone taking up residence in the Zone became sterile, and Crashers were too slow-witted to kidnap babies from the healthy.

  During the catch-and-release program, which lasted six months, the population in the Zone fell by fifty percent. It was a dark and shameful time for the city, and culminated in a dark and shameful time for Eli, personally.

  Before the program ended, the Zone had to be fenced off. There’d been a high-profile death of a wealthy European sport hunter, shot by someone in his own hunting party.

  Right after the fence went up, a schoolmate of Eli’s found an unguarded access route into the Zone. The group of boys ventured in one night, spirits high and the air thick with camaraderie. It seemed like the right thing to do—a coming-of-age ritual, in a society that had little else for young men to prove their bravery.

  The other boys had considered tattoos, piercings, scarification, and base jumping. The only thing they could agree on was spending the night in the Zone. Eli didn’t know about the plan. He was just following along because a boy named Mike, who was the closest thing to a friend he had, invited him along.

  Eli had promised his father he would never go into the Zone. Never. But it was easy to make that promise during casual late night chats in the kitchen at home.

  Once he was in a car with four boys he wanted to like him, promises bent and cracked under peer pressure.

  That night, they drove into the former heart of the city, toward the Zone. All attention inside the car turned to Eli, in the middle of the back seat. Would he cry like a baby and ask them to turn around? Everyone knew Eli was a tattletale, so he’d been left out of all the planning.

  He shrugged and said nothing.

  They reached the newly-erected fence and stopped the car. Mike, who was in the front passenger seat, turned back and said, “Be cool, man.”

  “I’ll try,” Eli replied.

  Mike jumped out and pulled at the weak point in the fence, opening it enough for the car to drive through.

  The car’s driver turned to look at Eli with dark, glittering eyes.

  “You’ll try?” he snarled.

  The driver of the car was also the group’s leader, a dangerous boy who’d dubbed himself Falcon.

  Going against Falcon was like walking out into a lightning storm. In a suit of armor. On stilts.

  Eli swallowed down his fear, and said, “Well? The fence is open. What are you waiting for?”

  The boys on either side of Eli laughed and ribbed him with their elbows. Mike jumped back in the car, his cheeks ruddy with excitement. He had no idea what Falcon had planned, or he wouldn't have gone. None of them woul
d have.

  Falcon punched the gas, and the car pierced through the fence. Under a thick blanket of night, they entered the Zone.

  * * *

  “Did you plug the meter?” a woman asked.

  Eli startled out of his daydream and looked up to see a woman, about fifty, wearing the uniform of a parking enforcer. She stood still, with booted feet planted on either side of her bicycle.

  He finished the last twist of the screwdriver, and the van’s mirror fell into his hand.

  “I’m working,” he explained, pointing his chin at the delivery company’s decal on the side of the van.

  “What a coincidence,” she said flatly. “I’m also working. My job is to enforce the parking regulations. That meter’s got a red light flashing. You seem like the law-abiding type, so I presume you already swiped your ID card, or put a coin in the slot, and it’s only flashing now because these machines go on the fritz sometimes. So, which is it?”

  “These meters are always breaking down,” Eli said.

  The woman rolled her bicycle forward, kicking at the ground with booted toes, the way a little kid might goof around. She wasn’t a bad person, just a person with a bad job.

  “Young man, are you saying that meter needs a service call?”

  Eli’s voice caught in his throat. He sensed leniency in the woman’s tone, but he couldn’t take advantage of her offer. The chip in his brain that prevented him from lying was going to cost him a parking ticket today.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said, evading her question.

  “Then I’ll have to write you a ticket, won’t I?”

  Eli grumbled that she might as well, since it was that kind of a day. She printed him a ticket and handed it to him, saying, “Hang onto that for tax purposes.” She did it with such sweetness that by the end, he thanked her and waved goodbye as she pedaled away on her bicycle.

  He finished preparing his van, then hopped in to see how much worse his day could get.

  There were no packages to pick up or drop off within the Zone, but it was the fastest land-based route to access Castle Point. This was where the city’s elite lived in their mansions, and enjoyed their verdant golf course.

  If the Crashdown event had been a murder mystery story, the residents of Castle Point could be suspects. Although they complained bitterly about the inconvenience of the Zone, they had benefited. Despite softening prices elsewhere, property values in Castle Point had only risen Post-Crashdown.

  Eli drove from mansion to mansion, dropping off and picking up packages.

  He didn’t usually care what was in the boxes he delivered, but at one house, he was so bored that he casually asked the wealthy woman at the door what she was so excited to receive.

  “Coffee filters,” she exclaimed breathlessly.

  Eli glanced over the waybill, his eyes bulging when he saw the premium charges the woman was paying for extra-rush delivery. The coffee filters had come from outside the country, straight to her door in less than a day. It had not been cheap. For that much money, you could rip off three Crasher limbs and still have plenty left to party.

  He turned and quickly walked away before she asked a question that might lead to him telling the truth, and him subsequently getting fired. Being a delivery driver was not the career he wanted, but it was the only one that would have him. Unlike most residents of Castle Point, he needed to work so he could live.

  He reached through the van’s open window to let himself back in, then drove to the golf course and parked for lunch. He ate a meal he’d brought with him, because he couldn’t afford Castle Point restaurant rates.

  As he usually did after eating lunch, he dozed off and enjoyed a nap before the second part of his shift. He dreamed of severed limbs and spontaneous human combustion, and woke up to find himself wildly smacking his hands all over his body to put out non-existent flames.

  A groundskeeper from the golf course knocked on the window and told him he couldn’t sleep there.

  “I’m working,” Eli said, nodding back at the sign affixed to the side of the van.

  “What a coincidence. So am I,” said the groundskeeper.

  They exchanged nods, and Eli drove away, still off-kilter from the bad dream.

  At the checkpoint, Eli rolled up his windows, took a deep breath, and drove back into the Zone. He always tried to hold his breath, the way some superstitious people did when driving through tunnels. If he hit green lights, he could make it through in six or seven long-held breaths. The lights were all red, so it took him fifteen.

  He stopped at the same station, plugged two coins into the parking meter, re-affixed his mirrors, and peeled the bandages off the handles. He hadn’t even seen a Crasher, much less been chased by one. Maybe the news was right, and they were becoming nocturnal. Like bats.

  Eli checked his next pick-up location:

  Ghost Hackers, 855 1/2 Yaro St.

  It was an odd address, for an equally odd business.

  He wanted to see Khan again, but was embarrassed about the previous day. On top of getting caught drooling over the girl, he'd told Khan they wouldn't see each other around. Now going in would be even more awkward, like when you say goodbye to someone too soon and then bump into them ten minutes later.

  He would have to skip the pickup.

  Three hours later, the van was full of boxes, and he pulled into the depot to unload.

  “You’re missing one,” the grizzled warehouse foreman said. “The one from Yaro street.”

  “Can't Dave get it tomorrow? It's not a rush delivery.” Eli grinned. He couldn’t lie, but he could try to be charming.

  The foreman cleared his throat and spat out the result through a gap in his teeth. The missive barely avoided Eli’s forearm.

  “Nope,” the old man said. “Dispatch is God, and dispatch says pick it up today. You don't quibble with dispatch. You’d better high-tail it on up to Yaro, or you’ll get docked.” He cleared his throat again, but Eli was already back in the van before the second chunk flew.

  Eli cursed his stupidity as he battled upstream through rush hour traffic.

  He reached the shop, parked, and ran in. Another box was waiting on the counter. He kept his head down low and scanned the bar code without looking around for anyone, planning to grab the box and be back out in a single breath.

  “You again.” Khan emerged from the shadows. “I thought this wasn't your route. Did you switch with someone so you could spend more time here?”

  Eli's cheeks flushed as he remembered the dark-haired girl.

  “Long story,” he said. “I was crunching my toast too loud at breakfast, and my girlfriend switched my route to punish me for the fight that ensued.”

  “That wasn't such a long story. It was barely an anecdote.”

  Eli stood in front of the cardboard box, not yet reaching for it. If he wasn't mistaken, Khan was initiating this conversation, which meant he could stay and chat without cringing.

  “I have a lot of anecdotes about Brenda. Most guys make a face when I tell them, though, so I try to keep it to myself.”

  “Is she a good woman?”

  “What's your definition of good?”

  “Loyalty.”

  Eli nodded. “She's good, then. I'm the only man for her, the only one she trusts. She doesn't always like my honesty, but she prefers it over the alternative.”

  Khan nodded. “She sounds good, considering she's a female.” He grinned at his joke.

  “She's a redhead, and she wears a lot of black mascara. Without it, her eyes look pink, like an alien's.”

  “How do you know aliens have pink eyes?”

  Eli shrugged. “I guess I don't. But aliens aren't real, so they can be whatever we imagine.”

  “How do you know they didn't cause the Crashdown?”

  Eli frowned. Deep down, somewhere, he knew something. He knew it, yet he didn't know it. Not consciously. But he knew the Crashdown hadn't been caused by aliens. It had been him. Not that he knew that conscio
usly, either. But he did know it wasn't aliens.

  The silence between them elongated into awkwardness.

  Finally, Eli reached for the box. “I should let you get back to work, doing whatever you do with the pretend necromancer stuff.”

  Khan raised his eyebrows. “Pretend?”

  “Yeah. I heard you on the phone, remember? You shake stupid people down for money. I guess you have to, since appliance repair isn't much of a business these days. If something breaks, people just buy a new one. It's cheaper than paying local labor.”

  “You don't think ghosts are real?”

  “Why would I? They're not scientifically proven, and I know for sure I've never seen one.”

  Khan smirked. “Maybe you will.”

  Eli shrugged. “If I see something funny in the next day or two, I'll know it was because of this conversation, and the power of suggestion. The mind is a funny thing. The placebo effect is real.” He smiled, preparing to bring the argument to its climax. “The placebo effect has been proven, unlike ghosts.”

  “Mm hmm.” Khan kept smirking.

  A moment passed.

  Eli reached for the box again, but slowly, hoping for more conversation.

  “My car’s in the shop,” Khan said.

  It was a simple statement, yet it was so much more. It was an opening. An invitation.

  Eli looked over to where he'd seen the DRIVER WANTED sign the day before. It wasn't there.

  Khan held out his forearm, which bore an address written on his skin with blue ink. “I've got a job booked, dealing with one of those ghosts you don't believe in, so I have to run out and grab a taxi.”

  “I have a van,” Eli replied, his heart going pitter-patter.

  “You could give me a ride.”

  “I could.”

  Khan leaned down behind the counter and grabbed a camouflage-print backpack, already bulging with mysterious supplies.

  What he didn't do was ask outright for a ride, or offer Eli a job as his driver.

  Khan picked up the delivery box sitting on the counter and handed it to Eli. “Don’t forget this.”