Page 37 of Mixed Signals
“Gus operates the phone tree,” she whispers, her bottom lip just barely grazing the shell of my ear. “I’m pretty sure he runs the new text message gossip division, too.”
Our town phone tree was intended for use in emergencies. That lasted maybe two weeks. Its sole purpose now is to share information on who cut whom in line at Ms. Beatrice’s, where Evelyn is off to and how long we can expect Beckett to be grumbling around town, and when the good coffee is getting restocked at the grocery. I’m not surprised to hear Gus is at the head of it. Especially since I got a text message three days ago from an unknown number telling me Matty is trying his hand at stuffed crust pizza.
There’s only one person who would be that invested in Matty’s menu development.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gus says archly.
Layla huffs.
Clint squints at the walls while Monty passes his hands over the frame of the door. Eric pokes Gus once in the arm, grabbing his attention. “No knives this time, Gus. I don’t want you cutting anything open again.”
“Again?”
Everyone ignores me. Gus holds up his hands, palms up. “How was I supposed to know there wasn’t a clue in the mattress?”
“I thought me yellingthere is no clue in the mattressrepeatedly over the intercom might help.”
This kid really isn’t paid enough. Gus hides his chuckle behind the palm of his hand, fanning his fingers out over his stubble. “Fair point. Well made, as always, Eric. Do the usual rules apply?”
He cracks his knuckles. I glance at the ceiling in an effort to find patience and find a severed head instead. Layla shuffles closer to my side.
“It won’t take us long to escape,” she says. “I promise.”
“GET IN THE CEILING, LAYLA!”
I sigh and loop my arm around Layla’s waist, pulling her down from the top of the desk as she tries to follow Gus’s instruction. It was cute, at first, how excited and enthusiastic she was. Now I’m just trying to keep her from long-term bodily harm.
“She’s not getting in the ceiling, Gus.”
Gus grips the front of my shirt in his fist and pulls until he’s three inches away from my face. He is sweating … a lot. “Do you want to live, Caleb?”
At this point? No. Not really.
“I’m happy to head out there and you know—” I make a vaguely motivational gesture. “Get the antidote or something. I’ll take one for the team.”
There was a snack bar off of the lobby. I will happily sit outside and eat a soft pretzel while this situation resolves itself. Layla and I can go get ice cream after and I can drown my sorrows in sugar and cream.
“If you leave the room, you’re disqualified. You’re gonna stay.” Layla presses her palm flat to Gus’s chest and pushes him away from me. “I could shimmy into one of the air vents I bet. The last clue said something aboutflow, didn’t it? Maybe it meant air flow.”
I like Layla a lot, but this is—this is chaos. This is complete mayhem. Why anyone chooses to do this for fun is truly beyond me.
Eric’s tinny voice appears over the speakers. This is the fourth time in the past ten minutes. “Please do not climb into the ceiling or air ducts. There are no clues in there. And there are no clues within the body parts, so you can stop working on that arm, Montgomery.”
Monty drops the piece of arm he was trying to dissect using a pair of tweezers and a piece of broken corkboard. It bounces across the floor and lets out a squeak.
“I think that was a dog toy,” I mumble to no one in particular.
“What we need to do is focus,” Clint yells at a volume that is not necessary. I don’t think he realizes that no one can focus when he’s gesturing wildly like that. “We need to find the third key, develop an antidote, and get the fuck out of here.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Eric has steadily been increasing the ambient noise for the last twenty minutes. I’m going to be hearing the drag and thud of undead bodies in my nightmares for weeks. “This is insane.”
“THIS IS LIFE OR DEATH, CALEB,” Gus screams in my face.
“If this were life or death, we would have been dead seven minutes ago when you almost let an entire undead horde through the window,” Layla snaps. “I don’t want to hear it from you. Go over in the corner and work with Monty on the safe combination.”
Gus stomps his way over to the corner, a parting look full of malice aimed in my direction. I haven’t been the most helpful, sure, but I think Gus is overreacting.
I keep that thought to myself.
