Chapter 12 - Greg

“Quick!” Greg pulled their bug-out bags out of the closet, both with sleeping bags laced at the bottom. They were backpacks filled with everything they would need for an emergency escape just like this one. Sam took the smaller backpack and walked out of his bedroom. He followed, carrying the larger one and giving the room one last inspection to make sure there was nothing else he’d like to take with them.

Sam waited in his bare living room, looking worried. She had changed out of her costume and now wore jeans and a long-sleeve shirt.

“Do you think everyone’s okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He honestly had no idea.

They had made a narrow escape and only made it to the next door neighbor’s back yard when all hell broke loose. After making their way down from Brooke’s bedroom window, they’d run like crazy, weaving through backyards and avoiding angry dogs. Throughout their trek, Greg’s hand stayed tight around Sam’s wrist, especially as her sexy devil outfit elicited catcalls from a few jackasses they encountered along the way. They ran until they made it to his apartment, which, thankfully, was only two miles away from Brooke’s house. With the commotion taking place in the front yard, he hadn’t dared go for Sam’s car.

To date, this had been the lamest warning his Keeper instincts had ever given him. Normally, he had more notice and time to get Sam out of harm’s way. But tonight, his mind had been otherwise occupied, which was unforgivable. His carelessness could have cost Sam her life.

Stupid fool! He chided himself again. He’d been doing it for the last twenty minutes.

“Do you have everything?” he asked.

Sam nodded absently. Her mind was elsewhere. He could tell.

“I need to call Brooke,” she said, fumbling for her cell phone.

“You can call her once we get on the road.” He headed out the door.

They had been waiting for this to happen, had packed their bags a while back. Now the time had come, but their preparations hadn’t made them feel any better about leaving.

When they reached the car, Sam climbed in the passenger seat and punched a number in her cell. She slammed the door shut as Greg threw the bags into the trunk. Walking to the driver side door, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, opening his mind and letting his instincts take over. Danger still lingered nearby, but he was now a few steps ahead of it. He wouldn’t mind staying and taking care of the bastards who had come for Sam, but his top priority was her safety. To hurt her, they had to find her first.

Greg climbed inside the car and started it. “Any luck?”

“No. I got her voicemail.” Her tone was full of dread. “Greg, do you think we could go back . . . just to see if she’s okay?”

“No!” Greg said emphatically. Every time he thought of Brooke’s house his instincts went ballistic, warnings of danger flashing like police lights.

“But—”

“No, Sam. We have to leave. Now!”

Sam nodded, looking resigned. They’d agreed that if this happened, she would heed his instincts if he sensed danger. His radar had saved her life three times already. Not following that advice would be suicide.

Greg pulled out of the parking lot.

“Right or left?” he asked, trying to smile for Sam. He hated to see her upset.

Whenever they’d discussed where to go if this happened, they’d never agreed. He wanted to head to the mountains in Colorado. Sam, to a big city where they could blend in.

“You decide,” she mumbled as she nibbled on her thumbnail, a nervous habit Greg had come to know well.

“I’m sure Brooke is fine,” he said, trying to ease her concern.

“But what about the screaming we heard?”

“Maybe just party excitement.” He knew it was a lame theory, but what else could he say?

She gave him a look that seemed to say I’m not stupid.

“Okay, so maybe it wasn’t party related, but they wouldn’t have hurt anyone. I’m sure they left when they realized we weren’t there.” Greg was counting on that. He hated the thought of anyone getting hurt because of them.

He looked right and left, then in his rearview mirror. “Okay, we’re going west, then.” He started to turn left, but stopped when Sam seized his wrist.

“Wait!” She had a look of deep concentration in her eyes.

“What?”

“Go east,” she said as if in a trance.

“O-kay. Are those . . . your instincts talking?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” she murmured. The trance seemed to break. She blinked and looked around. “Yes,” she repeated, sounding more certain.

“East it is.” He turned right and stepped on the gas. Indecision wouldn’t get in their way. “Any place in particular?”

“I’m not sure.” She gave him a pleading look.

“It’s alright. Don’t worry. The calls aren’t very specific sometimes.”

“Right.” She seemed pensive for a moment then said, “This sucks. I don’t want to leave.”

“I know.”

They’d had this conversation plenty of times. She wanted to live a simple life, have a simple graduation and become a simple cook. Well, not a simple cook, she wanted to be a five-star chef, a goal she knew she was more than capable of accomplishing.

“It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it all out,” he reassured her, then left her to ponder.

Soon they found themselves on the interstate headed . . . somewhere. Away, at least. Greg didn’t feel all that happy about the fact that they were going in the opposite direction of Colorado. But in this, he knew he had to follow her instincts, even if east didn’t feel like the right direction to him.

Sam dialed Brooke’s number several times and bit her thumbnail a little more with every answer from her friend’s voicemail.

“Call me as soon you get this, Brooke. I need to talk to you.”

“That’s got to be the tenth message. Um, don’t you think it’s time you call James?”

Deciding how to inform her adoptive dad and Rose of their eventual escape had been the hardest part of the plan. In the end, they had chosen the cowardly route: leaving a letter that explained their reasons for their departure, a piece of paper that Sam had composed over a month ago and had kept at the bottom of her desk drawer.

The missive was mostly full of lies, of course, because the truth was too hard to believe. It explained their deep love and readiness to start a life of their own, and her desire to find her biological parents. It begged James and Rose not to worry and promised sporadic contact. More importantly, it assured them that the decision to leave had nothing to do with anything they’d done. On the contrary, Greg and Sam assured them they’d be greatly missed.

Very slowly and deliberately, Sam dialed a number. “I’ll call James’s office.”

After leaving a short message that explained where to find the letter, Sam threw her head back in exasperation.

“I hate doing this to them,” she said.

“I know.”

“They’ve been great. They don’t deserve it.”

But there was no other choice. They’d already gone over this a thousand times. Discussing it again would just bring them more frustration.

Sam got back on her phone and left another message for Brooke. This was turning as compulsive as her fingernail-chewing.

“Why don’t you try to sleep?” Greg asked to divert her attention. “We’ll be on the road for a while. Brooke will call you tomorrow. For all you know, she’s making out with Brandon as we speak.”

Another lame attempt at cheering her up, but he couldn’t think of much else. He had known leaving everything behind would be hard for Sam, but tearing out of town full of apprehension over her best friend made it that much worse.

Still, she played along. “Ew,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Exactly.” Greg was glad to see her try. It was a good sign.

“You’re probably right,” she said after a few minutes of silence. She opened the glove compartment and placed her cell phone inside. Her hand hesitated for a second before shutting the little door. She pushed up on the seat and, for the first time, looked ahead at the road.

“So where are we going?” Greg asked.

“Beats me.”

“Indianapolis?” he asked.

“Mmm,” she furrowed her brow. “No, further.”

“Louisville,” he offered.

“No.”

“Further than that?”

“I think so.” She rubbed the back of her neck.

Greg knew just how infuriating calls could be. They could be overwhelming, but short on details.

“The Big Apple!” she exclaimed.

“New York?! I don’t wanna to go to New York. Shit!”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s just . . . too big. Maybe if we were going on vacation, but I don’t want to live there.” He turned on the windshield wipers as a light drizzle started to fall.

“Why not?

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me see . . .” He tapped his temple in a fake gesture of deep thought. “Could it be because we only have a thousand dollars and we’ll need an arm and a leg to pay for just about anything?”

“We can find jobs. It might be fun,” she offered.

“I doubt two high school dropouts—because that’s what we are now—will be able to find much. Although, maybe I could walk poodles for rich, old women,” he joked. “That should be easy enough.”

“I’m afraid of where that could lead.”

“What do you mean?”

The windshield wipers squeaked. Greg turned them down a notch.

“Who knows, maybe the old women will end up walking you.”

Greg thought about it for a second, trying to figure out what Sam meant, then it dawned on him. “You think?” he asked, acting as if he was actually pondering the possibility. “Could be a good thing. Morphid Gigolo in New York City. Easy money, you know.”

Sam slapped him on the arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Hey, you brought it up.”

They laughed, if a bit nervously. There was a lot on their minds, but it was good to set all their worries aside, if only for a moment.

The miles flew by, one after the other. Sam slept for a bit while he drove, feeling more at ease with every state they left behind, even if New York didn’t ultimately feel like the best place to go. When he stopped for gas, Sam woke up and offered to drive. She wanted him to rest, but he was too wound up to feel tired. He was determined to get Sam as far away from Indiana as possible, maybe even in one trip.

After twelve hours of driving, stopping only to refill the gas tank, Newark came into view. They had discussed the need to get rid of the car and planned to find someone who would buy it. Greg’s parents had given him the title, and if they found the right kind of place, they could get some cash for it without being asked too many questions.

Sam seemed convinced, for some odd reason, that they would find a place to live in Manhattan. The idea was bonkers, but he went along anyway. Her Morphid instincts were guiding her.

They found a title place in a rundown part of Newark. The owner gave them the once over, flashed a set of unsightly gold teeth and offered them a third of the car’s price. They took it without arguing.

Greg hated to get rid of their wheels, but they needed the money and had no idea where they would stash it in the meantime. Besides, he wasn’t about to risk getting tracked due to the car. If they had to flee again, they’d just catch a Greyhound.

Careful not to attract undue attention, they found a bus station and climbed on the first bus that stopped there, backpacks in tow. From the driver, they learned the quickest and cheapest way to get to Penn Station. After a few bus transfers, they found themselves on the subway, finally on their way to Manhattan.

They sat together on the hard plastic seats, avoiding eye contact by all means. People got in and out, everyone keeping to themselves. Some read newspapers, others checked their phones, most simply stared at the floor with earbuds stuck in their heads.

They reached Penn Station at 7 P.M., climbed out of the subway and emerged on a busy street, teeming with people. Standing on the corner of 8th Avenue and W 33rd Street, they watched in complete amazement.

“Wow,” Sam said, echoing the exact way he felt.

“What now?”

“Mmm, I don’t know. Let’s walk around a bit, find something good to eat. I’m starving,” he said.

“Yeah, me, too. But after that, we should find a motel or something. I’m beat.”

“Good idea. You’re starting to look rough,” she joked, though there was concern in her eyes.

Greg didn’t argue with that. The lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him and, if his stomach weren’t complaining so loudly, he was sure that instead of food, he’d be daydreaming about a soft pillow.

“Look.” Sam pointed at a street vendor with a “Philly Steak Sandwich” sign. “I’ve always wanted to eat some street food. Let’s go.”

Sam took his hand and pulled him along. They ordered two large sandwiches with all the trimmings, along with two Cokes. With their hands full of food, they sat across from the Pennsylvania Hotel, in front of Madison Square Garden, to eat and people-watch. It was an interesting experience for both of them, as neither had ever visited New York.

After finishing his meal, Greg used his iPhone to search for a place to stay. He clicked on a few of the nearby hotels and cocked an eyebrow in a satisfied I-told-you-so expression. The prices were ridiculously expensive, way more than they could afford, even for just one night.

“So, genius?” Greg said. “Where do we stay now?”

Sam ran a hand through her hair. “I still say we can find something.”

She knew perfectly well they didn’t have enough money to live in Manhattan. It didn’t make logical sense for her to feel confident about this. It had to be her instincts talking.

“C’mon, let’s take a walk. See what we find,” she said.

A huge yawn suddenly broke out of his lips. “I say we head back to Jersey. Everything’s cheaper there. We should both rest.”

“I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.” She pulled him to his feet and gave him a quick kiss. “We’re in New York, boyfriend. Don’t be a square.”

They walked down the street, towering above everyone. Greg felt people’s eyes on him and, more importantly, on Sam. He figured he would never get used to the notoriety that his Morphid looks gave him, but he knew with certainty he’d always detest the way men looked at his girlfriend. He wanted to thwack them all over the head.

Sam, as usual, was oblivious to it all. He loved her for that, even if sometimes he wished she was a bit jealous of all the girls that vied for his attention—not that he enjoyed feeling scrutinized by female, hungry eyes all the time.

It had been months since he’d rolled up inside a cocoon and metamorphed but still, going from a short, puny kid to a tall, muscular guy that girls found attractive was a serious mind job. Maybe it would have been easier to get used to if he’d grown up among his own kind, but he’d lived in the human world since birth.

“Here we are,” Sam said, staring up at the many, huge screens at Time Square.

“Impressive.”

A Calvin Klein commercial flashed on one of the screens, a sexy model wearing a tight skirt and revealing top.

“Maybe we could model,” he said “That would be some easy money.”

“You’re joking, right?”

He shrugged.

The image flipped to a male model in a pair of tight underwear.

“Well,” Sam said, cocking her head to one side and letting her eyes travel downward on the obscenely huge . . .

Greg grabbed her and pulled her away.

“Wait, I think I like your idea,” Sam said. “I would pay to see you on a big screen and . . . in all your glory.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, it was your idea.”

They laughed and teased each other, their mood growing considerably lighter. Greg tuned in to his instincts and liked the silence he heard back.

After a few more blocks, the weight of so many hours without sleep started to catch up with him. Still, he let Sam lead the way, until the foot traffic practically disappeared. He looked around, surprised at how suddenly they’d migrated into a less desirable part of the city. The street looked dirty and the air carried the smell of garbage. The buildings were in disrepair, most is serious need of a paint job, especially the ones covered in graffiti.

Sam grabbed his arm and walked closer to him. “I’m not sure. I—I think we need to go this way.” She put a hand to her stomach and made a face. “But I don’t feel too good.”

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked with concern.

“It must have been that sandwich,” she said, suddenly looking pale.

“We ate the same thing, and I feel fine.” Greg stopped, placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face upward. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I don’t feel . . . Oh, God! I’m gonna throw up.” Sam ran to the edge of the sidewalk with her hand to her mouth, then violently released the contents of her stomach. She took a few deep breaths, then straightened with a groan. “Ew, gross! I hate throwing up.” She stepped away from the mess.

“Here, rinse your mouth.” Greg handed her a water bottle from his backpack. “If it was a bad sandwich, it’s good you threw it all up. How do you feel now? Better?”

She shook her head. “I feel worse.”

A movement up the sidewalk caught Greg’s eye. He turned to look and found a man dressed in a long, dirty raincoat, walking their way. No aura of danger surrounded him, but Greg still didn’t like the looks of him.

“Sam, let’s get moving,” he said, making his tone a little urgent to drive the point home.

She looked up from the pavement and ran the back of her hand along her mouth. “Something wrong?”

He gestured with his head toward the approaching figure. “I don’t sense any hostility, but I still don’t like it. C’mon, we can go back the way we came.”

After only one step, Sam’s face contorted in pain. Once more she bent over, but this time she dry-heaved. There was nothing left in her stomach.

At the sight of her pained expression, a deeper concern took hold of Greg. What if she got really sick? What if she needed a doctor or something? He shook the thought away.

She emptied her stomach. She’ll be fine.

“Can you spare some change?” a raspy voice asked from behind. Greg jumped and turned around, placing his body between the man and Sam, who was still doubled over in pain.

Greg looked the man up and down. Greasy, long hair and a matching beard framed his gaunt face. He seemed tall, but walked hunched over, as if he didn’t have enough strength to stretch to his full height. A light breeze blew through the avenue. The man wrapped his filthy coat tightly around him and shivered, revealing a set of bony, gnarled fingers. A ball of pity rose to Greg’s throat. He’d seen many men like this at the soup kitchen while helping Sam.

“Sure man.” Greg pulled a dollar out of his pocket and handed it over.

“Thank you.” The man stuffed the bill inside his coat, crossed the street and walked toward someone sitting in the front steps of a three story building behind them.

Frowning, he wondered how the man had closed the distance between them without Greg realizing it, and how he’d also missed the second person by the steps. Obviously, they meant Sam no harm, but he should have been more alert.

They’re like ghosts.

Regardless! This was the second time his personal feelings for Sam had gotten in the way of his job as Keeper.

He turned back to Sam, ready to whisk her out of here, but when he discovered the expression of horror on her face, he went cold.

“What is it?! Are you all right?” he asked, urgency rising in his tone. He looked around to make sure he didn’t get “Sam tunnel vision” again.

She was staring at the two dark shapes huddled together by the steps, tears sliding down her cheeks, horror or utter grief—he really wasn’t sure which—contorting her features.

“What is it, Sam? Please,” he pleaded.

Her gaze shifted, moving slowly and reluctantly toward the dark sky above, as if she feared what she would find up above. When her face stopped tilting upward, a sob broke through her lips and more tears spilled from her honey-colored eyes.

“Answer me,” Greg demanded, taking her in his arms.

Sam buried her face in his chest and cried.

“What’s wrong? Is it your stomach?” He felt at the verge of tears himself. Seeing her so distraught without being able to do anything was more than he could handle. “Please, baby. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“They’re Morphids,” she said, each syllable punctuated by tiny sobs.

“What? Who? What are you talking about?”

“Those people.” She pulled away and pointed toward the homeless man and his companion, as they sat on the steps looking miserable and forgotten.

“Those men are Morphids,” she said, visibly struggling to regain her composure.

Greg stared back at the men. “How do you . . .?” He didn’t finish the question. It was stupid to ask. There was only one way for her to know for sure.

She’d seen their vinculums.

Many questions bounced inside Greg’s head. What were Morphids doing in this rough-looking area? Why were they begging on the streets? Why had Sam’s instincts guided them here?

Apprehension constricted his chest. There was only one explanation for her distress. “Are they . . . cut off?” he asked.

She nodded. “They all are.” Her voice was an elongated lament that made the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck stand on end. “They all are.”

“What do you mean?”

“In there,” Sam said, pointing at the building.

Greg looked at the place more carefully and, for the first time, noticed the sign above the door. It read: NYC Rescue Housing, Homeless Shelter.

“The building’s full of them,” Sam said, her voice shaky with incredulity. “And every single one of them is cut off. They’re ripped apart.”