DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 8, SECTION 10

The public meal at the football field was a somber gathering. Hundreds of people had formed lines at the barbeque pits, but there was almost no conversation. Drops of freezing rain had started to fall. I needed to eat pretty desperately, so I tightened my surgical mask and slipped into the food line, doing my best not to draw any attention.

A cook with a Home Guard logo on his jacket was slapping hot slices of tri-tip onto paper plates. To this, he added a ladle of what looked like porridge made of wheat, Muldoon's other reliable staple. Not exactly gourmet eating, but I was so hungry even the porridge looked utterly delicious—you have no idea how strong TGV hunger pangs can be.

Just about everyone shuffled to the bleachers to eat in small, dour groups huddling in the rain. I sat on an upper row where I could watch people filing in. While I kept a lookout for a friendly face, I raised my mask just enough to expose my mouth and devoured the steak as quickly as I could. None of the Home Guard sentries patrolling the bleachers seemed too concerned about enforcing the surgical mask rule, which lent even more credence to Tuck's theory. People had to eat, after all, and they only hassled people who'd finished their meal and hadn't pulled their mask back down over their mouth.

Still, it was hard to tell who anyone was at a distance. I managed to recognize a few people, but none of my old high school friends or anyone else I could be certain to trust.

Just as I was finishing the last of the steak-greased porridge, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"I thought that was you!"

I almost retched the food I'd been stuffing down my throat. I was sure I'd turn around to see one of the rangers.

But I didn't. It was Mrs. Whipple. It really was like my old P.E. teacher lived at the high school. She was being so friendly compared to everyone else, and it felt so good to hear a warm-hearted voice, that I almost forgot to try to get her to keep the volume down.

"It's been so long!" She chirped. "How have you been?"

". . . Um," I said, swallowing down my last bite. "Taking care."

She didn't seem to be aware that I was a wanted fugitive. She obviously wasn't about to turn me in. As long as I could get her to keep her voice down, Mrs. Whipple was as good a person as anyone to try to get some information from, I supposed. It wasn't like I could afford to be picky.

"Actually, I've been kinda lying low," I said quietly. "I was wondering if maybe you know what's going on with my parents?"

"You know, I was just thinking about them the other day," Mrs. Whipple replied breezily. "I haven't seen your folks for such a long time! Tell them I said hi." 

So, she was clueless. I was totally wasting my time with her. I stood up and started to ease away.

Mrs. Whipple asked, "How do you think Danielle's doing?"

My sister was always Mrs. Whipple's favorite cheerleader, and she'd always held it against me that I didn't join the squad.

"I haven't really seen her for a while," I answered absently. I was desperately scanning the crowd for someone who might actually know something useful. "I'm not even really sure where my sister is."

Mrs. Whipple laughed. "Well, she'd better be in the locker room!"

Locker room? I was sure I hadn't seen Danielle through the window. Could I have missed her?

"Wait," I said. "My sister's in the locker room too?"

"All the cheerleaders are, sweetie. The game's just about to start. They've got to be in their outfits by now."

Oh. 

Mrs. Whipple had gone totally batshit.

She must have had some kind of PTSD after everything that had happened.

"You better sit down." She tugged my sleeve. "The fireworks are about to start. Any minute now."

I pulled away from her warily.

"I don't care to watch them, myself." She shrugged and softened her voice. "But they make you watch them, don't they? At least now they've moved the show to the football field after that fire in the square got out of control. Now we can watch the fireworks from the bleachers. More comfy."

Fireworks?

What was that supposed to mean? I couldn't even begin to make sense of what she was talking about. . .

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