Thicker than Blood by Madeline Sheehan Page B

me
into Evelyn. Quickly, he moved to stand in front of us, shielding
us both with his body. Evelyn’s hand immediately sought out mine
and we both squeezed each other tightly.
    “You look hungry,” the voice continued. “And
tired.”
    “We’re fine,” Alex snapped. “Just passing
through.”
    “We’ve got food, friends, and—”
    “I’m not your friend,” Alex fired back,
sounding more agitated than I’d ever heard him before. I watched,
barely breathing, as his shoulders tensed, the muscles in his back
bunching under his clothing.
    “Are you sure about that?” the voice replied,
sounding casual, easygoing, and far too jovial for my liking. “We
could all use a friend these days.”
    A crash sounded from behind us, just as a
bright light temporarily blinded me. Gripping Evelyn’s hand
tighter, as well as my gun, I blinked rapidly, aiming my weapon
uselessly, trying to see against the blaze of light. All around me
I could hear shuffling, muffled curses that sounded like Alex,
unfamiliar murmurs, and then all at once Evelyn was ripped away
from me.
    Momentarily alone, I flailed, fear holding my
scream hostage in my throat, until hands suddenly grabbed at me,
and pain erupted in my skull. Like from a blow to the gut, breath
whooshed from my lungs as my knees gave out. I began to fall,
dropping down a seemingly endless hole of nothingness, surrounded
by silence and a shade blacker than night.

Chapter Ten
    Evelyn
    I awoke to the sound of singing.
    Groaning, I grabbed my aching head and
found something sticky coating my hair, the scalp beneath tender
and raw. The trilling sound of several voices singing in harmony
only made the ache worse.
    I was suddenly reminded of attending church
as a child. Every Sunday we’d wear our prettiest dresses, my sister
and I, my mother as well, and my father would wear his perfectly
pressed suit. The minister had been a grumpy old bastard. Never a
smile for anyone, not even for the well-behaved children who’d sat
patiently and quietly for fear he’d scold them. In fact, as I’d
grown older, it had become a longstanding joke between my father
and me as we debated the reason behind that old man’s misery.
    When I was finally able to pry my heavy eyes
open, it wasn’t only the sound of singing that reminded me of my
childhood. I was seated in a church—the front pew, to be
precise—and there was a choir standing off to my right singing the
last hymn, a benediction I knew by heart.
    Similarities aside, the minister standing
behind the podium was the exact opposite of my minister. This man
was anything but miserable, and instead appeared to be hopped up on
happiness. His smile was warm, his eyes shining as they scanned his
congregation. A full head of thick brown curls framed his youthful
and friendly face, and when he turned that face in my direction, he
winked at me, his smile growing even wider.
    Blinking, I shook my head as if it would
somehow help clear the fuzz from my brain. When that didn’t seem to
work, I closed my eyes and counted to ten, because this must be a
hallucination or a dream.
    That was it! I was dreaming.
    Giving myself a good pinch on the arm, I
opened my eyes, yet nothing had changed. Confused, I blinked several times, and then a few
more for good measure. But nothing had changed. The merry minister
was still there, bouncing about happily, clapping while he sang.
Out of nowhere, the song suddenly reached a new volume, and my body
responded by sending a sharp shooting pain screaming through my
head from temple to temple.
    When I glanced to my left, I found an older
woman with gray hair, her eyes kind as she beamed at me. Scowling,
I looked away, only to find the space to my right occupied as well.
Another friendly face smiled at me, this one belonging to a
middle-aged man who was lovingly cradling a shotgun in his lap.
    Startled by the gun, I flinched and inched
closer to the woman instead. She placed a gentle hand on my
shoulder, and I flinched again.