Chapter Three
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Zombie | The Cranberries

My heart pounded.

Where was I? How did I get here?

Rain continued to pour down on my head and shoulders, drumming across the metal bridge in an unending cacophony. An uncommon chill swept down my back, the sensation of something terribly wrong having occurred. Had I been teleported somehow? Time traveled? It made no sense.

Of course, there was an easy way to get an answer.

It took me a moment to feel the familiar weight of my phone in my back pocket, the flip-phone Nokia that had since become my constant companion in the wake of rejecting all social media and modern smartphones. All in the name of protecting myself.

What good that did me.

Only when I opened it, the screen didn't blink on. My panic only continued to rise as I pressed the power button, over and over, only to confirm that my phone was indeed very dead. How could that be? This sucker had over a day's worth of battery power, which was half the reason why I picked it. It shouldn't have lost power so quickly.

But I had no idea how long it had been on. How long I had gone without charging it. Over a day, apparently.

Not since I woke up this morning. Was it even this morning? What day was it?

I looked around again, wrapping my arms around myself as I shivered. Aside from a few passing cars, there was no one on the bridge. No one who might have seen me or passed me. Why was I here?

And then another thought hit me. Oh, god, my bat mitzvah. Did I miss it?

And then the rest followed. Aunt May, Peter. They must be freaking out right now. And Dad. He was supposed to be there. Everyone was supposed to be there. Were they out looking for me right now?

The water dripped warm down my face. I had to get home.

With no way to contact anyone, my backpack missing and my wallet with it, I had no quick means of getting home or getting help. I just had to walk. At least I knew where I was, to a certain extent. Still in New York, on the bridge over the East River. Maybe a few hours' walk home.

And once I got home, I could get answers.

This was fine. I was going to be fine.

That was the mantra I repeated in my head as I started to walk, trying to keep myself calm even as my heart rate and lungs threatened to betray me. I couldn't freak out, I couldn't start hyperventilating or having a panic attack, as tempting as it was right now. Maybe some freak accident happened. Maybe I just bonked my head and forgot a few hours. It didn't explain my dead phone, but maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought.

Or it's even worse, a voice in the back of my mind whispered.

I tried to ignore it.

As I headed off the bridge, I became aware of a growing ache in my stomach, a deep-seated hunger. I was starving. When was the last time I ate? I thought maybe I just missed dinner, but the more I walked the more I knew this wasn't the usual end-of-day hunger I experienced. No, this was one I was all-too-familiar with, but hadn't had in a long time. The kind of hunger where my head swam and my knees shook, where I hadn't eaten all day. Maybe more.

It took thirty minutes before I finally reached Queens, to the streets below the bridge. Everything was closed at this hour, the streets largely empty. No one around for me to call for help.

A strange kind of numbness washed over me as I passed in front of a 24-hour diner. It was mostly deserted except for a waitress and a few lonely patrons, but the smell of food was intoxicating. My stomach growled in earnest, and I knew I couldn't make it all the way home, not without something to eat. I was just too hungry. I struggled to keep my eyes open, grew dizzy if I turned too fast, and my stomach felt like it was caving in, the pain impossible to ignore.

But I also had no money. Nothing to my name except the clothes on my back. I couldn't pay for any food. And I didn't like the idea of dine-and-dashing, but right now it seemed as though I had no other choice, unless I wanted to break into a grocery store.

As I pushed the door open, the bell jingling overhead, I reasoned with myself; I could always come back tomorrow and pay for the meal I skipped out on, with extra for a tip.

Whatever I had to do, just so I could eat right now.

The waitress looked up when I entered, a middle-aged woman with bright yellow hair and pink lipstick, whose eyebrows shot up when she saw me. "Well, aren't you a sight, honey. What happened, did you forget your umbrella?"

"Um," I shuffled up to the counter, and found that my voice was very rough, raspy and quiet from lack of water. The waitress had to lean in, and I pushed some hair out of my face, trying to speak louder, not really acknowledging her question. "C-can I just have a, er, a plate of…"

I scanned helplessly at the menu on the wall behind her, then back at the waitress, whose brows started to furrow. Her little nametag said Dolly. "Are you okay, dear?"

"Yeah, I'm —" I didn't know what to say. What could I say to explain what the hell happened to me? "…Having a bad night. I'm sorry. I don't have any money to pay you."

It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself. What was wrong with me? There goes my chance of getting food. But instead of telling me to leave, the waitress Dolly just smiles and pats my hand where it laid on the counter. I tried not to flinch, while she said, "Hey now, don't you worry about that. It's on the house. The special sound good?"

If I tried speaking right now it would immediately end in tears, so all I could do was nod and take a seat on one of the stools. Try to collect my thoughts, and get warm. There was a pay phone here but, again, I had no money and I didn't feel like imposing on the nice waitress any more than I had. By the time I even thought of it, Dolly was already using it, speaking quietly into the receiver.

I just needed to eat. To eat and fill up and get on my way. Aunt May would understand, if I came home smelling like food. I had to eat. I wouldn't have made it there otherwise.

In the back, I could hear the grill sizzling and the cook humming to the radio. Soft music played from speakers above, and a TV played the news silently in one corner. I could hear the water dripping from my clothes, plinking onto the floor as I sat there, shivering and aching and trying to stave off the encroaching emotional avalanche just waiting to hit me at any moment.

Dolly returned with a milkshake and a sympathetic wink, and I started drinking so fast I gave myself brain freeze. But it was so good, rich and creamy and cold, that I had to remind myself to go slow. The ache in my stomach finally began to soothe, and I was halfway through the milkshake when Dolly delivered a plate in front of me. Burger and fries, an excess of grease, fat, and salt. Perfect.

As I began eating, the bell jingled behind me, a woman entering. I didn't look around at first, too absorbed in my food, but if I had I would've seen her coming straight for me. A slow, measured walk, confident but wary — a cop, I immediately thought, right before she sat in the stool next to me.

She wasn't dressed like a cop. Dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, no make-up. Plainclothes, jeans and a raincoat that hid the bulk of her gun holster and handcuffs. I immediately tensed, but the woman's face wasn't hostile or intense. Just curious. "Hey, there."

It was such a simple greeting, and so suspicious that I froze mid-bite, staring at her in wide-eyed silence. Why was she here? Why was she talking to me? Had I done something? Was it something I did in my missing memory? I hadn't even thought to ask for a date or time while I was here, afraid of coming off too weird. As if walking in soaking wet without any money wasn't baffling to any waitress on the graveyard shift.

I didn't say anything to her, but she had my attention, so the woman just smiled gently and said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to scare you. Just wanted to ask if you needed any help getting home."

Jesus, was she a mind-reader? I swallowed a little too hard, shaking my head. My voice croaked, "H-how —? Who are you?"

The woman reached into her coat pocket and I almost bolted right then and there, but instead of pulling out a weapon, she pulled out a badge. NYPD. "I'm Detective Sullivan. We've been looking for you, Amelia."

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Panic raced through my brain, wondering what had happened, what would bring the police right to me. Had they been following me? For how long?

I was almost afraid to ask: "What did I do?"

Detective Sullivan blinked in surprise. "Do? You didn't — you went missing, Amelia. Your family is very worried about you."

"Missing?" I repeated, aghast. Even though it made sense after the fact, I still didn't know what that meant. How long. What happened. "For how long? How did you know I was here?"

Detective Sullivan's brows furrowed in concern, before pointing to the TV. I turned, and was stunned to see my own face on the late-night news report — was that my school picture? Ew — an anchorman speaking very seriously while words scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Amelia Fletcher, seventeen years old, six feet tall with blonde hair, last seen at Midtown High at three-twenty…

Below the TV stood Dolly, giving me a small wave and apologetic smile. It took me a second to understand. She had recognized me. That's who she had been calling on the phone. I was just too dumb to listen in. If I had, though, I had no doubt I would've been hauling ass out of this place.

I turned back to Sullivan with a look of utter shock. They've been looking for me. My face, on the news. Everyone knew who I was, what I looked like. My name. My face.

I couldn't decide whether to be horrified or grateful. That whatever happened, or whatever almost happened — it didn't go down like last time.

Detective Sullivan accurately guessed what my reaction meant. She tilted her head inquisitively, leaning in a little as she explained, "Amelia, you've been missing for three days. We put out an AMBER alert, the FBI are involved. Especially since this isn't the first time for you."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. Three days?! God, no wonder my phone didn't work. I wondered how many messages and calls would be on it when I charged it again. "I-I didn't know."

"You didn't know?" Detective Sullivan said, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. It sounded accusing and I flinched, so she readjusted her tone, softer now. "What do you mean by that, Amelia? Can you tell me what happened?"

Automatically, I shook my head. "I-I don't remember."

I hated that answer, how much it left unsaid. How it seemed to echo through time, through my memories, my past. How it all came rushing back now.

I thought it was over. And I was wrong.

"Are you sure?" Detective Sullivan insisted, her lips pursing in doubt. "You don't remember anything, anything at all?"

"I mean, the last thing I can remember is being at the park on Friday —" I began, eyes squeezing shut as I tried to scan my memories. But there was just a huge blank, and the harder I pushed the more my head hurt. "I d-don't — I can't —"

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay, we don't have to worry about it right now." Detective Sullivan quickly raised a hand to stop me before I could get overwhelmed. As I released a sigh, she reached over and grabbed a napkin from a nearby box, and handed it to me. "Here, your nose is bleeding."

"Oh," I took the napkin in dull surprise, pressing it to my face. It came back pink when I pulled away, the rainwater having diluted it. Had it been bleeding this entire time and I never noticed? With how heavy the downpour was out there, how dark the night, it wouldn't be a great shock. I looked at the detective. "I'm sorry. I have… I've had memory problems in the past. But this — it's never…"

I didn't know how to finish. How those words hung in my mouth, awful and heavy.

Sullivan opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. She seemed to consider that answer for a long moment, then said, "Okay. Well, in that case, I think it's best if we get you home right away, Amelia. Does that sound alright?"

I glanced longingly at my food, before admitting, "I can't pay for this. I… I lost my backpack, my money."

"That's okay, I can take care of it," Detective Sullivan smiled and patted me on the arm. I tried not to flinch away. Waving to Dolly the waitress, Sullivan said to me, "You can eat the rest on the ride back, alright? I'm gonna make a call and let everyone know you're safe."

Nothing else needed to be said after that. At least not by me. Dolly got me a to-go box and wished me well, then Detective Sullivan was ushering me to her car, a plain sedan with no police markings. It gave me the willies but I got in the back, warm box of food clutched to my chest. Detective Sullivan scrounged around until she found a blanket and threw it over my shoulders, and blasted the heat when she turned on the vehicle.

Soft jazz played on her radio all the way home.

~o~

It was past midnight on a Monday. Or, that is, a Tuesday. Yet the house was all lit up when Detective Sullivan delivered me to the front doorstep.

She didn't even get one full knock in before the door flew open, the finale to a rush of footsteps. The rush of wind as it swung open, a cry of "Mia!" and suddenly I was being hugged by at least three different people at once, collectively dragging me inside like the victim of a zombie apocalypse.

I recognized their scents before I actually saw their faces. Peter and May, of course, the latter whose hand was trying to brush all that hair out of my face to make sure I was all right and allowed me to see again. Then there was Wanda and Pietro,

But they weren't the only ones there.

There was an FBI set-up in the kitchen with a bunch of computers hooked up to a landline telephone and agents in dark suits. Ned and MJ were in the living room, with bags under their eyes, and next to them standing up appeared Steve and Natasha.

There was only one face missing. Dad. I looked around the space, faintly hopeful, just to see Steve shaking his head silently. And I understood. He couldn't be here, not when there was law enforcement everywhere.

Still, I wanted to see him, too.

"What happened?"

" — she was found in a diner off the bridge —"

" — Diner, what were you doing there?"

"Did someone take you?"

"— We need a full description of everything that happened —"

"Did you lose your phone?"

"Where were you? Are you okay?"

"— I tried calling you a thousand times —"

"Have you eaten anything? We've got left-overs…"

Aunt May was already asking Detective Sullivan a ton of questions, at the same time she was asking me if I was okay; the FBI agents were also closing in, with frowning faces and their own questions. A radio playing somewhere added to the deluge, and I was just surrounded on all sides by people and noise. And on top of all of that, Wanda's familiar presence settled in the back of my mind, warm and comforting, and she must have sensed my rising discomfort because she pulled me out of the fray.

"Enough!" She said, her voice loud enough to silence the room. The FBI agents bristled at the order, but no one disobeyed. "Just give her a second to breathe."

I probably needed a lot more than that, but I was thankful nonetheless, as Wanda ushered me to the couch. The living room was absolutely not big enough for the entire company here, so it didn't feel that much more open once everyone was gathered. Wanda stayed on one side while Peter was on my other, and everyone fanned out from there.

Detective Sullivan began, making my job a little easier. I just had to sit there and listen as she explained her version of events, getting the call and approaching me in the diner. The FBI took notes on it all, and I started to get nervous, like I was about to be quizzed next.

Because I didn't know what to say. I hardly knew more than Detective Sullivan.

They first began asking me basic questions: my name, my birthday, where I was from, et cetera — all being recorded on a tape, to be reviewed later I assumed.

"Now we need you to tell us what happened," the first agent said, who introduced himself as Jones. "Why were you in that diner? Where were you the past three days?"

"I-I don't know," I said, shrugging. "I just kind of… woke up, and I was hungry and I needed something to eat. I lost my backpack and I didn't have any money."

"We found your backpack," the other agent said, a woman, Mendez. She pointed it out, sitting at the counter in the kitchen. "Left in a dumpster in an alleyway off of Central Park. Nothing was stolen from it, your wallet and your ID were all in there, except for your phone, which we assumed you still had on you."

"You never answered any calls, so we couldn't ping your location off of cell towers," Jones added with a particularly disgruntled look. "Then we contacted the service company to get your GPS tracking, but for some reason your phone doesn't have one."

I glanced down at my hands and pretended that hadn't been on purpose, that I hadn't specifically asked Howie to modify my phone a few months ago.

I had geared my life for the strict purpose of not being tracked by any government or corporations. I knew that this would be an inherent risk, but I also never thought I'd just… completely forget. And, well, I knew I'd have people looking for me, and that was better than any bitty cell phone.

(I still wasn't going to change that).

Steve must have seen my nervousness because he finally interrupted the agent, raising a hand and silencing him with just the simple move. "Mia, can you tell us what happened on Friday?"

I blinked at him, my throat dry. Swallowing, I nodded. At some point, someone had stuck a mug of hot cocoa in my hands, so I took a sip before starting again. "It was just a normal day. I left school with Peter, Ned, and MJ and I split off to that memorial event in Central Park. Everything was going fine, nothing happened until… until I was trying to leave. I bumped into someone and — and that's the last thing I remember. Next thing I know, I'm on the Queensboro bridge. That was a few hours ago."

"You're saying you don't remember anything from the past three days?" Steve asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Has this happened before?" Natasha asked, leaning in.

"Um," I glanced over at Wanda and Pietro. As far as I knew, the last time anything like this had happened, had been in France. The boat explosion. The black out. Waking up in a train when I had been conscious the entire time. "Just once, I think. But that was over a year ago. And that had been triggered by a… an attack. I don't know what happened here."

There had been nothing to spook me. No explosion, no traumatic event or resurfaced memory. I was just here one second and there the next.

"We have you on security footage," Mendez said, turning a laptop around so I could see the recording on the screen. It was scratchy desaturated footage of the park from across a street. In the distance, I could just make out a line of people walking down some steps. I could barely make out myself, bumping into someone, turning to face them for a moment, before moving on again. I watched myself walk down the street and out of sight. "That's the last time anyone ever saw you. We scrubbed CCTV footage from a dozen cameras in the area but none picked up where this left off. It's like you vanished off the face of the earth."

I just stared blankly at the screen, watching it play over again. Nothing stood out to me. Not even the way I walked. Maybe I was heading for the subway, but from the direction I took there, it was the wrong way. I couldn't remember why I would have done that.

"I was going straight home," I said, looking up to see the doubtful faces of the FBI agents. "I swear! I had nowhere else to be, I had studying to do. I don't remember this."

"And you didn't meet anyone there, didn't see anyone you might have recognized?" Mendez asked, frowning when I shook my head. "Noticed anything strange, anyone who might have been following you?"

Again, shaking my head, I didn't know what to say. I would've definitely noticed if I had a tail of any sort. And, as I thought about it a little more, avoiding security cameras was also something I could do with relative ease. But I wasn't sure if I should say that. If it would sound like I had wanted to avoid being tracked. Because I wasn't, why would I? I had no fear of being seen.

"Are you hurt at all?" Natasha asked. "No head injuries?"

I ran a hand through my knotted hair, but felt nothing. It seemed like something I would've noticed by now. No, all I ever experienced was a headache. And that nosebleed. "No, I just… woke up really hungry, that's all."

Steve reached out and closed the laptop before it could distress me further. "And when you woke up on that bridge, were you lying on the sidewalk, the road?"

"No, I was standing."

"Standing?"

"Yeah, just standing there," I said, wincing at how strange it sounded. "Not moving, in the rain."

Everyone was trading looks, and my shoulders started to hunch up with self-consciousness. "I'm really sorry. I-I don't know what to tell you. I just can't remember what happened."

"It's okay," Steve said, trying to give me a reassuring smile, although it felt the complete opposite to me. "We'll figure this out. Maybe you just need some time to remember, that's all."

"We're still looking for anyone else that might have been involved," Natasha added, and the way she said 'we' sounded like she meant more people than were currently present in the room. "Considering your history, we're not ruling anything out."

She ignored the annoyed look Agent Jones threw at her, before turning to me and reiterating, "We'll follow up with some more questions tomorrow. You look like you could do with some rest."

"Can it be after school?" I asked, as everyone started to pick up their things.

"Mia!" Aunt May admonished, her eyebrows shooting up in dismay. "You can't be serious."

"What? I don't want to miss school!" I said, holding out my hands. "I've got perfect attendance. Or had, anyways…"

"I think the school will understand why you can't be there tomorrow," May said, giving me a stern look, shutting down any protest before I could start. "Besides, this isn't over. You're going to see the doctor, too, just in case. I want you to get as much rest as you can."

There wasn't a lot I could argue with that. Right now, I just wanted the house to be a lot emptier, it felt crowded, claustrophobic, and I didn't like the presence of strangers here. Even if they were FBI. It just set my nerves on edge, and I was already not in a good state.

I just wanted to eat and lie down in my own bed and forget this all happened. Wait, no. Not forget. Just… just sleep for a little while. Hope that this will get better tomorrow, that the FBI and the police will find the answers they need and this will all clear up. There's going to be a real simple answer to all of this that I just hadn't considered yet, and it will all make sense again.

"Can I stay home?" Peter asked hopefully.

"What about us?" Ned asked, hooking a thumb at MJ. "Can we stay, too?"

"What, here?" May blinked in surprise.

"Yeah! I mean, I've already got my homework, so Mia can stay caught up!" Ned picked up his backpack just to prove it, and I quickly nodded my approval to Aunt May.

"And my mom is totally cool with it," MJ added quickly, adding her best School Picture Smile. "This definitely classifies as a family emergency."

Aunt May glanced between the four of us, eyes narrowing slightly. "This feels like a trap. I'm calling your parents."

"Aww." Two heads drooped in disappointment.

"We're staying, too," Pietro said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I smiled weakly at him and Wanda, the guilt rising up fast. No longer surrounded by half a dozen unblinking eyes, I finally managed to say, "I'm sorry. I must have ruined the b'nai mitzvah."

"We can always reschedule," Wanda smiled, taking my hand and squeezing it. "We waited years for this, what's one more Shabbat?"

Tears pricked in my eyes, and it was all I could do not to start bawling right there. The overwhelming relief, the confusion, the fact my perfect attendance record, the first one in my entire life, the longest streak ever, just got ruined. I didn't know why that was such a big focus right now. Maybe it was easier than having to consider the possibility something very terrible happened to me, and I couldn't remember.

"Thank you," I whispered.