Dead Right, ep XV
Wenton nodded and reached to hug his brother. He couldn't help himself, he'd become a hugger ever since Cara's funeral. Dell took a step back.
"I'd rather have another fist fight." Wenton ducked his head and smiled. Dell would always be Dell. His brother followed him to the door. The EPU guy was gone, probably already in the limo.
"Give him a kiss for me when he wakes up, okay?" Dell nodded. "He knows what to do to get himself ready. Don't let him wear the Spider-Man pajamas. That's for Friday. I'll call in the morning."
"Okay," Dell said.
Wenton was hesitant to leave. As scared as he was, the look of absolute terror on his brother's face was priceless.
Day 1
Wenton couldn't sleep. It was that thing in the spare bedroom that had the mind of his dead wife, but it was also his brother's waterbed. The thing had been in constant motion throughout the night to the point he'd almost gotten seasick. Wenton had given up trying to sleep on it and fled to a big chair in the corner of the room.
He had no idea how Dell afforded his lifestyle, but he certainly had a sense of style. The whole apartment was a piece of art. The cream-colored walls in the living room and the dark brown furniture. The egg-white walls of the kitchen and the wood cabinets—Wenton didn't know about any of this stuff, but it looked expensive.
He'd left her out there after trying to talk to her, but she hadn't responded. Even when the guard had taken that helmet thing off she'd had this faraway look like she'd already checked out.
He pulled himself out of the chair and stretched, his spine crackling. His knees ached from being curled up, but it was preferable to the bed. Wenton wondered if she slept at all, mulling over talking to her again.
If sleep wasn't coming he might as well. He wrapped himself in the blanket he'd been using and headed for the door. Even the carpet felt expensive as he treaded to the living room barefoot.
Wenton stopped at the end of the hallway. There she was, standing by the window. She wasn't staring outside, just had her head down, looking off into space. He looked at the guard, passed out on the couch. The man had said all of two words since they'd met and he wasn't to live her side.
Wenton had to get her away from him. He charged back into the bedroom and threw on his clothes. He went back in the other room, shoes in hand. The guard was snoring and didn't seem on the verge of waking up anytime soon.
She hadn't spoken to him in the tank, but for the briefest of moments he saw her in there; his wife. He had to get her somewhere alone. Somewhere to jog her memory, to bring enough of her back so she could tell him what had happened. Wenton was hesitant to touch her, realizing he was afraid. This thing only had his wife's memories, it wasn't really her. He'd always avoided vemans he'd seen on the street. They were a societal plague, a dirty secret the world tried to pretend didn't exist. He'd often wondered why no one had rounded them up and exterminated them.
