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When I get back to my bed in the barracks, I lay back and pretend to go to sleep. Lamia watched me come in from her own bed, where she’s sitting reclined against the headboard, still as a stone figure. Only her creepy eyes move, following my every step. Hopping on the computer right now would be a big mistake, no matter how desperate I am to get James’s crazy scheme rolling.
Lyra comes back to bed a few minutes later, lays down and stares at the ceiling. I watch her dark silhouette from the corner of my eye. I don’t see how she’ll be able to go back to sleep now. For my part, I know there’ll be no rest—not with all the things whirling inside my head and the fact that I’m back here, sleeping under the same roof as Lizard Witch. I wish her hideous tail would quit flashing in front of my eyes every time I close them. I keep imagining the grotesque appendage wrapping around my neck and squeezing.
I toss and turn even after Lamia lays down and Lyra’s breaths grow regular. I remind myself that no one is expecting immediate action. James and Aydan will both wait for me to do my part first, and the plan is to wait for a couple of days, anyway. So I shouldn’t be itching this badly to get started with my hack?
Take it easy, Marci. You have time.
Lamia may have laid down, but she might be wide awake, watching, waiting for me to screw up. I need to do this when no one’s around. Keeping my ass in bed is the best course of action. I take several deep breaths, but I’m still restless. The decision makes sense, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.
Three miserable hours and one harrowing meditation later, I’m still awake in bed. It’s 6 A.M. and I feel like shit. I wait for Lamia to leave the barracks before even stirring. Bleary-eyed, I jumped out of bed and go to the lower level for a quick shower. It’s the only area set up for that purpose. This was an office building, so the other floors have only restrooms. The showers in the basement were probably in place for the maintenance crews and guards who, before The Takeover, must have worked here around the clock. They aren’t communal, which is a blessing, though new curtains and a deep-grout cleanse couldn’t hurt. There aren’t many stalls, twenty at most, so it gets crowded down there. But most people shower much earlier, so by the time I show up, there are only a few people still using the rundown facilities. Everyone else is already in the mess hall eating breakfast.
When I’m done, I head back upstairs, a towel wrapped around my head. I’m hungry and would love to get a warm breakfast, but this is a perfect opportunity to get to work.
I’m wearing a clean pair of black army pants and a tight, wife-beater top, standard issue for everyone here. Hesitantly, I dig in my backpack and pull out the zipper bags that contain Dad’s old t-shirts. I would love to wear one of them, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I should probably keep them in the bags, safe, preserved. It’s not like I have a lot of things that used to belong to him. What little is left, I should save as a memento. Except mementos are for people who expect to have long, prudent lives in homes with shelves and attics and places where to store their memories, safe from dust and decay. I’m clearly not one of those people. Not sure anyone is anymore.
What life I still have to live is right here, right now. Tomorrow is nothing but an illusion, a place I might never get to visit, a mirage that might disappear when I blink out of today.
Fingers trembling, I open one of the bags, pull the t-shirt out and shake it loose. It’s charcoal gray with a band logo on the front: Def Leppard. I grin. Dad liked Def Leppard? Judging from the size, he owned this t-shirt before joining the army. There’s no way he would have been able to fit in it afterward. I remember him sturdy, able to pick me up with one muscular arm.
I shake my hair loose from the towel, then slip the t-shirt over my head. For a moment, I think I catch Dad’s clean scent on the fabric, a scent that must be embedded in my memories like no other scent will ever be. But the t-shirt is old and has been in storage for too long to hold onto any traces of Dad.
I tuck the t-shirt into my pants, finger-comb my hair and take a deep inhale.
Time to kick some cyber ass.