by Keys, Logan
And Jeremy pounds on the microphone. “Against all Authority! Against all Authority!”
Then, the crowd begins to chant it, over and over again, each time a little bit louder, until the lights flicker high above.
Jeremy walks me home in silence. Together, we’re lost in our thoughts. For me, I’m memorizing every nuance of our kiss. For him, this is the wake of his new treaty. The Skulls and the rogue army, side by side. Kiniva has agreed—more than agreed—they’re friends, and he’s promised, if the citizens rise, he will, too.
This is a small victory, but well won.
Crystal had even squeezed my shoulder and looked me deep in the eye with a “thank you” written across her sharp features and a hint of surprise that I’d enjoyed.
When Jeremy walks me to my door, I turn suddenly shy again. “You were wonderful,” I tell him.
“I was okay.”
“Okay? You single-handedly made the uprising international. And you gave people something they haven’t had in such a long time.”
“Pretty words?” he says.
“No.” My hand finds his cheek. “Hope, Jeremy Writer. You gave them hope.”
He lays his hand over mine. “I was greatly inspired.”
“How so?”
Jeremy tugs me into his arms and places his head on top of mine. “Because you still see the good in people. After everything you’ve been through, you give people more chances. You find the parts of them they most want to be and you bring that out. If I was great at all tonight … if I was able to make some change … it was because you believed I could.”
I’d stay like this forever, but he pulls away and says, “Will you play something for me?” And he touches my chin when I tuck it in, and smiles down. “I’ve resisted up until now, because I worried that if I watched you make music, I’d never want to risk anything ever again; that I’d want to just leave this place and find somewhere where you could play and I could write.”
My smile is soft; it feels like the smile of a woman on the verge of more than a simple crush. “So why did you change your mind?”
Jeremy grins. “Because life’s too short to give a damn all the time.”
Out of all of my musical works, one’s already on my mind for Jeremy. A romantic thing of medium tempo, but when I play it, it comes to life and sparkles like dew on the morning grass of the old world.
This, I play on the piano gifted to me by the very voice of the Uprising, and the boy that I’m feeling the edge of love for.
I’ve played it before, just in practice. But tonight, for him, I’m a spirit. Anything else is too tangible.
Jeremy watches me a breath away, and we share the space like two people telling secrets while I squeeze the sweet music from my fingertips. My mind slips open to him like a flower, though only through the music, leaving my mystery intact.
It’s only fair, since he’s really the mysterious one.
Finishing slowly, and reluctantly, I float back down to earth until I’m human again and turn to gaze at purple eyes filled with so many emotions.
Jeremy sits enraptured, face alight with interest and something too bright to recognize. “Music is your life, your love,” he says.
Not completely. “Music is freedom,” I tell him.
That makes him smile. “From?”
He knows, but he wants to hear it.
“Pain,” I say. “The end of the world….” Then, more softly, “Myself.”
His brown hair falls in front of his eyes when he nods in complete understanding. And that is what we have. An understanding.
Speaking keeps me tethered. Otherwise I feel I might float away. “My father said the universe has its own song older than time itself,” I explain. “We merely play a small part. It’s not like it’s the music that speaks, he said, but the pauses in between … like … I don’t know …”
“A heartbeat?”
“Yes. The stops and starts.”
“Sort of like how we yearn for those most in their absence.”
I focus on the piano keys to keep from asking: Do you yearn for me, Jeremy?
“My mother argued, though,” I add. “She said music is wasted if there’s no one to dance to it.”
He sighs, content. “I love hearing you talk like this, about your past. It’s a side of you I’ve not seen.”
One that no one sees….
His renewed smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. “What would you have done, Liza? I mean, with your playing, before the flood.”
“Orchestra, maybe. A band. Or the greatest of goals: concerto.”
Jeremy raises his brows in question.
“Concertos are solos with a backup orchestra,” I explain. “Usually three movements long: the first movement is fast and in sonata form, the second movement is slow and in ternary form, and the third movement is fast again and in rondo form.”
His fingers push back loose strands of my hair, and his voice is warm. “I could listen to you talk like this all day.”
I could say the same when he talks about writing.
I become lost in the purple, and a corner of his mouth quirks up in confidence. This close, he’s pure menace to my senses. Jeremy’s still high off of his victory—battle-buzzed. His speech in the warehouse struck home, and this is how he’s chosen to celebrate with me.
Maybe I’m much more than simply a passing fancy.
The thought jacks up my heart rate; I’m a prize for the awesomeness that Jeremy Writer lives and breathes each and every day.
His lips are an inch from mine. “Say something musical.”
“Largo—” But the “g” and the “o” are captured by his mouth before his lips make their way to my chin. “Gusto, forte, Baroque …”
Muffled warmth caresses my throat so the word is almost missed.
“More,” Jeremy whispers.
Nearly breathless and with blood heating my voice, I whisper back, “Allegro … andante … a … ada … adagio … mmm….”
Love being love.
The weeks after Jeremy’s speech in Kiniva’s arena hasn’t shown the change we’d expected. If we thought the citizens would have some grand reaction, then, sadly, we were wrong.
And without them, we’ll lose. We’re still a drop in the bucket compared to the Authority’s army of guards. Kiniva, too, had offered with his own men, if only they chose to strike the first match, but he’s gone for now, until when, none of us know.
Regretfully, in light of this unexpected sameness, I’ve returned to the courthouse, and Jeremy’s returned to ranting on the roof each night. I’ve been in a selfish mood these last few visits, having tired of his incessant, desperate monologues and restless with our small touches here and there.
Clearly, the honeymoon is over.
The night before last, I mentioned needing a night to myself. He agreed, and said I looked tired. I fought the urge to slap him and instead had graciously replied, “Yes, we’re all quite exhausted.”
He’s wrong, though. Each day, it’s like I gain more energy. Since having chemo, I should be slowly returning to health, but I’m beyond that. Some days, I just want to run a marathon.
“We need something more!” he yells, arms thrust out as he paces. His palms flip as if he can’t decide whether he should slap his thighs or his cheeks. “We need to find the rest of the population who’d do something, but can’t. We need to make a statement. They know our position, but they need something to wake them up!”
“That sounds risky,” I say.
My last stunt almost made me zombie bait, and I’m fresh out of suicidal antics as of late. Hopelessness about the “cause” clings to everyone. Even Crystal’s been talking about making demands and finding common ground with Reginald Cromwell himself.
Jeremy went insane when he first heard this. “She wouldn’t!” he cried. “Has she lost her mind?” And he’d rounded on me with wide eyes. “Have they all lost their minds?”
Beating a dead horse …
A velvety smooth voice startles me when I enter the barracks.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
Vero’s sitting on my bunk, waiting for me.
“Did you hear?” I ask.
I’m still focused on the news about going home, and I’m ignoring this conversation for … ever.
“Yeah, I heard. Don’t try to deflect, Hatter.”
Shrugs do in a pinch. I toss my hat onto the stand and start to kick off my shiny shoes.
I expected her to be more excited, but Vero seems pensive at best. Her black hair’s tied in a low ponytail, and she’s changed out of her dress uniform, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the collar stretched out and riding low.
I pause while undoing the buttons of my jacket. Dark eyes have followed my hands on the trail downward, and my buzz is making me read something new in her expression.
“It is my fault, Vero,” I say in a thick voice. “I should have known it was a trick. Poor Murph didn’t stand a chance. Why’d I go off half-cocked, anyway? If only I’d waited….”
Her smile is sweet, knowing. “Because you care. Because you’re you.”
Vero stands, and she picks up where I left off on my jacket buttons. Then, she pulls it down my arms, but I catch her hands, stop them when she reaches for my shirt. So it isn’t the buzz.
“Joelle,” I say lamely, looking for an excuse.
Vero arches a dark brow. “Asleep. I checked.”
She tugs my hand toward the bunk. There, we sit side by side, and she looks over at my pillow and sheets before shooting me a glance that only an idiot would miss.
But I’m playing that idiot right now.
“Listen,” she says, and I hang on her every word, yet nod like I’ve just tuned in. “That thing with Murphy … it was terrible. But you weren’t in your right mind. The whole thing’s Cory’s fault. And it’s bugging me that you’d take that on … like you do with everything else.” Vero turns, bringing her pretty face mere inches from mine. “I know what you haven’t said, about that girl, Daisy—shh, you don’t have to talk about it, but you do blame yourself for every damned thing, Tommy. I just … if you’d let me—”
“Vero—”
“No, let me finish. I could help you.” Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. “I want to help.”
My brain shuts off as I stare at her mouth while it curves into a smile.
Somehow, my voice doesn’t crack. “But you … and I’m …”
Her hand finds my cheek. “Tommy, I’m aware of who you are.” She sighs in frustration. “It’s all gone to hell, ya know?” And her whispers are mesmerizing. “It’s just shit out there. But this … us … you can’t lie. It’s there; it’s real.”
When I don’t answer, she laughs. “I’m not making any damned sense. It doesn’t have to be love, is what I mean.”
My heart pounds, and my palms sweat. Love?
“Let me start over.” Pulling away, she rises to pace. “I’ve got nothing ‘cept you and Jo. I’d given up. I just … There are so many Corys and not enough of us, ya know? No one left to really care. Just survive-survive-survive, and that’s what I did. You get me?”
I nod.
Vero’s in front of me again, bending down to eye level. “And then it’s like, I meet you, and you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. I can’t help you if you won’t let me, Tommy. I can’t.”
She turns to pace again, the doubt on her face filling me with guilt. I don’t know what to say, but I do need her to stop pacing, and my hand snags her arm as though it has a will of its own.
Vero stops, eyes wide.
I don’t mean to kiss her, but it’s like my body decided to long ago, without me, and that it’s already known what I didn’t: Vero and I, we’re more than just friends. She’s strong and brave, and when she kisses me back, it’s like I’ve conquered a mountain, or won something, though I don’t even know what.
She weighs practically nothing when I sit her across my lap, and her hands are all over my neck and face and chest, and my shirt’s being ripped apart, and for once it’s not the monster doing it this time—she is. And she’s so … solid, though her parts are round and soft.
My heart speeds up so fast that I bang my head on the bottom of the bunk when I jump up, dumping Vero from my lap like a cinder. She slams down hard on the floor.
“Oh my God, Vero.” I help her back up with one solid yank on her hand that makes her yelp. “I’m so sorry.” But already I’m pulling away, feet tripping backwards over themselves when she’s up.
Inside me, the change has begun.
He’s here.
Only, I’m not transforming. He reaches forward—not me—moving of his own accord, and my mouth’s smiling—I can feel it.
Then, he’s got her in his arms, and she melts against him.
My voice still works. “No!”
Vero stiffens like she’s been slapped.
It’s a fight to regain control, and I’m losing ground. “Get out of here!”
She doesn’t move, so I shove her away when I find that I can, and she barely keeps from falling, hands flung out to stop her from crashing into the furniture. “Tommy…? What the hell—”
“I said, leave!” I advance, trying to scare her before he comes back.
She hesitates with a strange look.
“Run!” I roar.
And she does.
To cool off, I walked in the rain for a good solid hour. Joelle’s silent when I enter, like she can read something’s off with my mood, and she pads around in quiet uncertainty.
I shuffle around, too, just as uncertain.
That episode with Vero … did it really happen? He took control of me without the transformation. How is that even possible?
I’ll need to sober up some before I talk to anyone. Try to figure things out in my own head first. I make a pot of coffee and then lie down on my bunk, arm over my face.
My eyes open, and Joelle’s standing over my bed. She has on a cape, and she’s painted her face white. “I vant to suck your blood!”
I fight the urge to shrink away. She has no idea how scary that is. I have to remind myself, though, that she’s still a child, so this prank is her goofy way of staying true to her age.
Joelle giggles. “I found a movie about you.”
“You did?” My voice is gravel against metal.
“Yeah.” She shrugs and hops onto the edge of my bed. “Big green guy runs around destroying the city, and he changes back, just like you do. He only turns when he gets angry; you won’t like him when he’s angry!”
“The Incredible Hulk…?” I smile, though it feels muted.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s it.” Stars sit in her eyes. “Incredible.”
I sigh and rub my face. “Have a seat, Jo. We need to talk.”
“I am sitting, Tommy….” Her voice wobbles like she’s afraid.
Joelle’s black brows furrow, cracking the white paint, and she moves her throat in a swallow while her dark eyes grow damp. I’ve seen Joelle cry a few times; there’s never any blood or vampiness to it, just a little girl who’s sad.
Tears spill onto her cheeks in long smears, and my heart snaps in half.
“You’re leaving,” she says. “I can sense it. Goodbye Jo-Jo. You don’t even have to say it; your face is telling me over and over. I’ve seen it enough to know, Hatter.”
She never calls me Hatter. It’s always either Tom-Tom or Tommy. My turn to swallow. “I’m sorry, Jo. We knew this might happen.”
Actually, we knew it would definitely happen. But so much time has passed, we’d been pretending that we could live out our lives here for a long time.
Suddenly, she brightens. “Why can’t I just—”
“No. You stay, Joelle. The boat ride alone is too dangerous. Once we get there, there’s no time to let you sleep, and no way to keep you fed. I won’t argue. You stay here and keep safe. The UG will always take care of you; that’s their prom
ise to your mother. So you do it, okay…? For me.”
She balls her hands into fists by her sides. Her silly costume makes this all the more surreal. Joelle’s face is tight with pain, and my eyes burn in the sight of her stricken fear. She’s lost everyone and everything already, and I’m just another person abandoning her.
“Every day,” she says, lip quivering. “Each and every day, I sit in the dark and watch movies, or maybe, if I’m lucky, we go out into the city—you, me, and Simon. But I won’t even get to do that anymore if you leave. I’ll just sit here like a prisoner for the rest of my life.”
I close my eyes for a beat. “I know. But Jo … if we win, if we defeat the Authority, then—”
Her own black eyes are like razors when they flick upward to meet mine. “Stop. Don’t make any more promises, Hatter. I’ve lived my life believing in them, only to have every single one of them turn out to be a lie. Don’t lie to me, okay?”
And I don’t.
My father’s words weigh heavily on my mind. He once told me a time would come when I’d have to stop running and just face it—all of it. Little did I know how prophetic the old man would be.
Strange thing is, though, it’s not just my own problems coming home to roost. It’s all of civilization’s.
Our foolish discontent over what we thought was so terrible has taken on new meaning, now that the undead creep over every bit of earth that’s not fenced in. Only a madman would believe this is the best we could offer.
If God gave us the precious gift of life, only to have us throw it back in His face, would it be so crazy to think He’d now show nothing else but wrath? My dad figured it was amazing that our Creator would still love us after what we’d done, and I’m trying to see this through my haze of anger. But it’s distant to me now, this idea of God and men and saviors. It’s so far away.
He’d be so damned disappointed in me.
Another voice, this one young and sweet, comes, as it always does when I’m like this. Untouched by time, or by my monster, she’s there …
“Your pa would have wanted you to move on, Tommy.”
Daisy’s in my head, saying the things she always said.
“He wouldn’t even recognize me now.”
“Maybe that’s ‘cause you keep lettin’ it get to you.”
