by DJ Molles
No, this is the way Stuber wanted to go. Whimsby couldn’t take that from him.
He left the door open and turned back to the table, his feet moving slow. How strange his body was in the presence of loss. He was as strong as he ever was, and yet his feet felt heavy and slow. He became overwhelmed with the nonsensical desire to rest. So he sat in a chair with a heavy sigh, one arm propped up on the table, staring out that open back door.
“I guess you’re the only one left,” she said from behind him.
Whimsby was surprised, but didn’t bother spinning. Surprised because she hadn’t made a sound—just appeared out of nowhere, as she was prone to do. But he had her voice pegged by the third syllable, so there was no need to react.
He did turn towards her, but just so that he wasn’t being rude. “I suppose I am.”
Niva stepped towards him, moving slow. “I can see you’re saddened by it.”
Whimsby nodded. “They were all good friends. I felt this way when all of them went.” He lapsed into a long silence. “Being human is hard. If I’d have known…” he trailed off, a careworn smile on his lips. Eventually shook his head. “Well, no. I would have still done it. I would have still chosen to be human. It’s been more good than bad, I think. It’s just…” He looked up at Niva. “I’m afraid I’ll never meet people like them again. People worth knowing.”
Niva sighed heavily, took a few more slow strides into the room until she stood at the table next to Whimsby, her hands resting on the back of a chair. “You will.”
“And then I’ll love them for a time,” Whimsby said. “And watch them die. And experience this all over again. And again. And again. I don’t know if I can keep doing that forever.”
“You can.” Niva pulled the chair out and sat down. Rested one of her hands on Whimsby’s. “And it’s becoming increasingly important that you do.”
Whimsby took a page from Stuber’s book and scoffed. “Why does it have to be me, then?”
Niva smiled gently at him. “You’re their memory, Whimsby. Perfect and impartial. You can’t be twisted into telling lies. You can only tell the truth. That is what they need now, Whimsby. That is what humanity needs. They’re on the cusp of evolution, of finally becoming something better. It’s been a long and arduous journey—I know; I’ve watched it the whole time—but the work is not yet done. You must tell them the truth, every new generation, so that they know where they came from, and where they’re going.”
Whimsby frowned. “Are you commissioning me?”
“I am giving you purpose.”
“Couldn’t someone else do it?”
She shook her head. “No one else was there, Whimsby. No one else that’s alive, anyways.”
Whimsby stared at her for a long moment, but, as ever, found her difficult to read. All the same facial expressions as a human being, and yet he still could not determine her motives. They seemed to be good, but the machinations of the plan took some dark turns, as history had proven. It was difficult to appreciate the totality of the plan when it came at the cost of so much grief.
“Is he alive?” Whimsby finally asked.
He was sure Niva knew who he was talking about, but she still raised her eyebrows. “Whoever do you mean?”
“He went somewhere. With you. And you’re still alive, so…”
“Somewhere,” Niva echoed, thoughtfully. “Anywhere. Otherwhere.”
Whimsby leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “So he is?”
Niva looked out the open back door for a long time. Long enough that Whimsby knew she wasn’t going to answer him. Though he couldn’t imagine why.
“Just teach them,” she eventually said. “Tell the story. The true story. Tell them what you saw. That will be enough. Extrapolation isn’t necessary. Just the truth. That is what they need to remember. That is what will help them grow into what they’re meant to become. After all, it’s not where he went that matters, is it?” Eyes back to Whimsby. “It’s the choices that he made when he was here.”
Whimsby sighed, shaking his head. “Evolution takes a long time.”
She smiled at him, eyes twinkling. “A long time is relative, Whimsby. For you? It’ll just be a little while.”
***
He was their memory, and this is what he did:
He sat down with them, some of them eager, some of them bored. Some of them thinking they already knew the whole story. Others barely able to contain themselves, because they knew you’ve never got the story until you’ve heard it from the source.
He sat down with them, every new generation. The faces changed, but the people were always the same. And in that way, it was almost like they would live forever, just like Whimsby. Always a new batch of young faces, so that they never seemed to grow old and die. Or, at least, Whimsby didn’t have to watch it happen. And for that time when he sat down with them, they became his friends.
He was their memory, and this is what he did: He told them a story.
And it always began the same way—the way that Stuber had told it.
“He sit’s in prison and his sentence is death.” A serious look at those gathered. “He does not know who he is, or what he is capable of.” A hand, traveling across an imaginary horizon line. “And yet, destiny hurtles towards him whether he knows it or not.”
Then he would lean back. Scratch his chin. Look towards a window.
“Before we see who this condemned man is, let us look back to who he was, just a few days before. Let us go back to a battlefield, and a scavenging crew, and a series of events that will place this young man on a path from which he can never come back. A path to discovering who—and what—he really is.”
Then, with a sly glance in their direction. “If, of course, he manages to survive that long.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
D.J. Molles is the New York Times bestselling author of The Remaining series, which was originally self-published in 2012 and quickly became an internet bestseller, and is the basis for his hit Lee Harden series, which will release its third title in late 2019. He is also the author of Wolves, a 2016 winner in the Horror category for the Foreword INDIES Book Awards. His other works include the Grower's War series, and the Audible original, Johnny. When he's not writing, he's taking care of his property in North Carolina, and training to be at least half as hard to kill as Lee Harden. He also enjoys playing his guitar and drums, drawing, painting, and lots of other artsy fartsy stuff
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