Wanted: Undead or Alive

I Hated That Job Anyway

When I walked in, my manager held my note up. "Be right back? Seriously, Olivia?"

I cleared my throat. "I had an emergency."

She crumpled the paper and whipped it toward the trash can. "You can't just drive off and leave everything unattended. What the hell could be that important?"

"Well—"

"And what the hell are you wearing?"

I looked down at the baggy gray tee shirt I'd taken from Drake. It hung halfway down my thighs. In blocky pink letters, it declared, I heart hot moms.

"You see—"

"And did you even comb your hair before you came in? What the hell have you been doing?"

I waited to see if she was done. It seemed she was. "I think I need to quit."

All the blood drained from her red, enraged face, leaving her looking even more pasty than usual. "Quit?"

"Something came up."

"In the middle of the night?"

"Yes."

"But there's literally no one to cover your shift."

And that's where things stood. It didn't matter why I'd left, why I was braless and wearing a shirt that obviously wasn't mine, or why my hair was sticking up in every direction as if I'd been through a hurricane. I was a warm body behind the front desk. "Well, maybe you ought to have a meeting with district and figure out why no one wants to work here. Think real hard. Maybe you'll figure it out."

While she sputtered and objected, begged and eventually told me I was fired, I gathered the few belongings I had left behind the desk. Her screams followed me out the door. I drove to the bank and fed a handful of twenties to the ATM. Back in the car, I paid my phone bill and then drove home, locked the door behind me, put a chair under the knob for good measure, toed off my shoes, and crawled into bed. Sleep took me the moment my head touched the pillow.

~*~

When I woke, the day outside my bedroom window sounded like it was in full swing. A garbage truck rumbled. Someone honked. A siren wailed. I starfished in the middle of my bed and watched the ceiling fan spin round and round until my bladder demanded I get up.

I stripped off my filthy jeans and the, I heart hot moms, shirt and dropped them in the hamper before climbing into the shower to stand under scalding hot water and have an existential crisis. After a while, the water cooled, so I soaped and scrubbed as quickly as possible and went in search of clean clothes. Leggings didn't have pockets and the pockets in women's jeans are useless, so I found a hoodie and made a mental note to get some cargo pants. All the cool kids seemed to wear those. Now I knew why. Guns, cuffs, crucifixes... they all took up space.

On my way to the kitchen in search of cereal, I eyed the backpack by the front door. Once my bowl was full, I snagged the bag's handle and hauled it over to the sofa. I dropped it on the floor, scooped a pile of Cap'n Crunch into my mouth, and texted Chantelle.

I slept with Mandrake.

Again? On patrol. Can't chat. Marry him, already.

I'd rather get shot by a cop on patrol. My prejudice wasn't against Mandrake so much as it was against the institution of marriage. I'd happily be an old spinster if it meant avoiding going down the same path my parents had trodden.

She sent me an emoji with its tongue sticking out.

Assuming I had no further immediate need for the nukekubi information, I pulled The Code out of my bag and opened to page one. An hour later, I'd more-or-less deciphered about ten pages of legalese. As far as I could tell, The Organization is the "government" that enforces The Code, and the ultimate spirit of the law is to prevent humans from learning about others.