by Carrie Ryan
More Militiamen rush through the opening, crowding around the group and creating a chaos of shouts and moans.
Daniel spits on the muddy ground, still holding his arm across me, his flesh heavy against my body.
They’re too far away for me to see if Elias is there, and my irritation is hard to hide.
“What’ll happen to them?” I ask.
Daniel shakes his head. “They’ll be quarantined,” he says simply. “The Protectorate may allow the Soulers to go settlement to settlement preaching their filthy lies wherever they want, but it’s our right to quarantine anyone seeking entrance to Vista.”
As the Soulers draw closer even more Militia pour out of the gates, their weapons held ready. The sky vibrates with thunder and lightning. I stare at first the Soulers and then the Militiamen, the strain and tension of the moment filling the air.
One of the Soulers steps forward, an older man, slightly stooped, his eyebrows shot through with gray. Attached to his wrist is a rigid leash leading to a jawless and toothless Mudo.
“The Third Order of the Soulers begs entrance to your city, that we may spread the word of God and the truth of his salvation through resurrection.” He spreads his arms wide as he talks, his tunic plastered to his skin. The movement jostles the leash and the Mudo he’s holding stumbles slightly, reaching toward a Militiaman.
Daniel tenses in front of me and I cringe as everything seems to happen at once. The Militiaman swings his blade at the Mudo. A young Souler woman jumps forward to stop him. The Mudo moans, reaches, his jawless face dripping rain.
And the ax slices across the Souler’s chest.
Blood seeps through her tunic, a spray of red. Everything’s still for that moment. The woman wobbles. In her hand she holds her own leash, attached to a Mudo next to her. Her fingers go limp and the chain slips from her grasp.
I recognize her—she’s the woman from last night, the one who held the boy as he turned. She’s the one I wanted to rip to shreds for what she allowed to happen to him. But now, seeing her standing there with the blood, the disbelief in her eyes, everything changes.
She looks so different now. Frail where she was strong, round where she was sharp. She looks older, more hunched over, as if the weight of everything has finally grown too much. She collapses to the ground.
The scent of her blood hits the air and saturates the space around her. I know the instant it reaches the Mudo. They erupt, their moans high-pitched and fevered. They all stumble toward her and the Soulers try to yank at their chains to keep them at bay. They tug at their collars as if they might tear through the air, pull themselves to the woman.
The Militiamen explode, screaming and shouting. They swing at the Mudo, the Soulers begging and pleading for mercy, afraid that another one of them will be hit. The rain intensifies and people slip in the mud.
The Mudo the woman was leading is the boy who sacrificed himself. His teeth are gone, as is his lower jaw. And now that he’s free, now that the chain is loose, he reaches for the woman.
If he had teeth he would devour her. But instead he just pushes himself against her, eternally hungry.
The Militiaman with his ax dripping blood swipes again, embedding the blade in the Mudo boy’s neck, and he falls over the woman. She screams and clutches at him, the vision so similar to that of last night—but so horribly different.
Bile rises in my throat as I watch the woman reach for the Mudo boy’s face. She shoves her fingers into what used to be his mouth, frantic, as if she might somehow infect herself before her injury takes her. I step back, wanting to run, wanting to get as far away as possible from what’s happening. From the screams and shouts and moans and blood.
The Militia decimate the Mudo, decapitating them even as the Soulers plead for them. The Militiamen push the Soulers away, forcing them to kneel on the ground. Everything’s out of control and wrong.
“We’re members of the Protectorate!” one of the Soulers shouts. His voice shakes as he cries out. “You’re required to offer us protection! We’ve done nothing wrong! We’re here for peace; we’re here for God!”
No one listens. I should want the Soulers to pay for what they did last night but seeing them like this, weeping in the mud, I don’t know what to think or how to feel. The woman who was hit with the ax falls slowly back until she’s lying prone, staring at the sky with blood everywhere. The dead Mudo boy lies across her lap, his spinal cord severed at the neck.
In the chaos I look for Elias, terrified that he’s in danger, unable to reconcile this feeling. I don’t see him, though the Soulers have begun to look alike, covered in mud and streaked in red, rain dripping down their faces like tears.
“I don’t understand,” I say to no one.
Daniel finally steps away from me and joins the rest of the Militia massacring the Mudo. I know it’s best; I know the Mudo are monsters and should be killed. But something about it feels wrong. The joyful savagery in the Militiamen’s eyes …
This is my fault. I caused this. I told the Militia about the Soulers. Unable to watch anymore I turn and run back to the lighthouse, leaving everything behind.
By the time I get back to the lighthouse, rain is coursing in from the ocean, the waves rolling hard against the sand bringing more and more Mudo to the beach. It doesn’t take long for the Militia to arrive, and I can feel the energy radiating off them from the recent confrontation. I try to avoid speaking with them, though when a few ask about my mother I tell them she’s ill and in bed.
All seem to take me at my word except for Daniel, who just stares at me, the corner of his mouth turned up, his eyes narrowed. As the day wears on and patrols rotate off the beach to come inside and dry off, Daniel lingers the longest. But thankfully we’re never alone together.
As Catcher’s third night of infection nears, I refuse to even consider that he’s turned. I can’t stop thinking about him. I should be there—I promised him I’d be there—and I feel as though I’ve failed him again. The fear and worry roll through me like the thunder through the sky, until I have to get away from the Militia and from Daniel’s curious stares.
I steal away for a moment, pretending a need to check the lantern, and I climb to the top of the lighthouse and lean out over the railings toward the ruins.
The wind whips my hair around my head, strands plastered to my face by the rain, and I’m instantly soaked. Of course I can see nothing—the encroaching night is only darkness and water. Out there somewhere Catcher is dying. And he’s alone.
Unless Elias is there waiting. Planning to turn him into one of their jawless Mudo.
Guilt and anguish crush me, making me feel physically weak and ill. My heart is breaking. I should be there; I promised him I’d be back and I wonder if he knows it’s the storm keeping me from him or if he thinks I’ve abandoned him. I want to sprint down the stairs and race to the Barrier. I want to dare the Militiamen here to follow me. To stop me.
But I don’t. I can’t help but think about Elias’s words the other night—that if Catcher truly cared he’d forbid me to take the risk to see him again. I kick at the railing, pain thrumming up my toe, furious at Elias for making me question Catcher’s feelings.
I press my hands to my face, not wanting to admit some small sense of relief about the storm. Glad that I have an excuse not to muster the courage to cross into the ruins again. Happy that I don’t have to face those fears tonight.
I remind myself that some infected people make it longer than others. It’s the end of his third day and the bite was small—Catcher has to have a fourth day. It’s what I have to believe so that I don’t crumble here to be washed away by the rain.
As the storm rages through the night I keep boiling water over the stove for the Militia; I make hot tea and fresh bread and I try to pretend that somewhere out there a man I might have loved isn’t dying.
The Militiamen laugh. They slap one another’s hands and talk about their kills, sometimes whispering rude things that I wonder if they inte
nd for me to overhear. Daniel is the worst. It’s like a holiday for them—rarely do they get to dispose of so many undead. Only the biggest storms dredge so many bodies up and toss them ashore.
I try to smile as the wind screams outside. I try to pretend that I’m like them, that I believe in what they do. That the Mudo are only monsters. But then I think about Catcher and all my beliefs haze at the edges. I can’t think of him like that; I refuse to accept that he could be like the other Mudo and that some part of him won’t remember me.
The storm doesn’t break the next day. If anything it intensifies. The Militiamen are even starting to look a little haggard. I pretend to make trays for my mother, brushing off any offers to help and polite inquiries into her health.
I carry the trays up the winding stairs into her room and I sit on the edge of her bed and I stare out the window into the storm-buffeted ocean, eating the food I prepared for her.
There’s no way Catcher will make it through the night. I know this as well as I know that there will never be a world without the Mudo. I feel hollow when I think of him. More than hollow.
Catcher will die alone. In an empty room and in an empty city. He’s the first and only boy I thought I could love, the first one who saw something in me worthy of attention. And I’m not sure I’ll be able to find anyone like him again—someone I’ve known for so long that trusting him feels like breathing.
A knock sounds at the door and I drop the tea I’ve been cradling. The scalding liquid splashes down my leg, the mug shattering on the floor.
I can already see the knob turning, can hear my name on their lips. I jump to the door, press my body against it and then ease my way through a small crack, closing it behind me. I try not to show that my leg stings from the burning water. My upper lip is already sweating with the effort of appearing relaxed and casual.
It’s Daniel, and I try to force out a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. He doesn’t step back to allow me to pass and so I’m crushed against the door. I can’t open it to give us space or he’ll see my mother’s empty bed and will know she’s not here.
“How’s your mother?” he asks, pretending he’s just being polite.
“She’s resting,” I tell him, willing him to believe my lie. I feel off center up here alone with him, and unable to figure out why he’s so intent on where my mother is. “All this noise, it hasn’t been good for her.”
He looks over my shoulder as if he’s hoping to be able to see through the wood. He nods. “I’m sure,” he says unconvincingly.
He doesn’t move and I’m afraid to leave him here alone. Afraid of his obvious suspicion. “The others,” I say, trying to appear calm and as though I’m not afraid of him. “They’ll be wondering where we are. The coffee must be low, I should go tend to it.”
Daniel smiles at me then, as if he’s indulging my whims. “Okay, Gabrielle,” he says. He stands there a moment longer, the air too heavy around us both. I can smell the beach on him, smell the Mudo. The scent tears at my throat, sinks into my stomach, and I feel sick. I want to shove him away, to tell him to leave me alone. But instead I just clench my hands by my sides.
Finally he turns and walks slowly down the stairs, leaving me gasping on the landing as if I’d never breathed before, my fists shaking and my fingers numb.
Even though the sky clears that evening, the swollen waves still toss the Mudo against the shore, their bloated bodies like lost mounds on the beach. And so the Militiamen continue in their shifts, their pace less frantic but still as intense.
The lighthouse feels too close, too warm with all the men staying there. With Daniel and his glances and glares. I try to escape outside but they’re there as well. Walking the length of the shore, their axes and sickles ready for the next body. As the light hazes they gather wood and try to light fires that struggle to ignite and then pop and crackle, throwing weak halos onto the sand.
I escape upstairs, excusing myself to tend to the lamp. I coax it to life, wind the gears but don’t set it spinning just yet. I stare at the light wondering if Catcher will be alive to see it. Wondering if my mother will look for it on the horizon. Does anyone still care anymore about me and this light?
I drop the sliver of wood I used to light the lamp, its small flame fluttering through the air until it falls as a burning red ember. I’ve taken over my mother’s life, I realize. And suddenly I imagine my entire existence unfolding in front of me, ruled by the chimes announcing the tides, measured by spins of the lamp.
I see it all: waves crashing and stretching, the sun swapping with the moon, blazing the horizon orange over and over again. The Forest tangles over the fences that are too old and too endless to maintain. The ruins crumble to nothing more than rubble, the coaster finally giving way to gravity as Vista gasps and chokes and tries to hold on until one day the lighthouse gears grind to a halt, no supplies from before the Return left to repair them. The Protectorate abandons the useless town that fades, forgotten, into the future.
And during all of it, at every tide, I’m here: standing alone on the gallery and waiting. For my mother, for the hope of Catcher and Cira. Every dusk I light the lamp that no one follows. Every high tide I decapitate the people-who-used-to-be—people like Catcher and Mellie—and I am safe and alone and old.
And there’s no one waiting for me, no one who knows me. No one to share my life and experiences with. It’s me and the ocean, the tides and the lighthouse and wave after wave folding time to the shore. Unlike Roger, there is no Mary to wash upon the beach. Unlike my mother, there’s no child to rescue from the Forest.
And now I understand what drove my mother back into the Forest, only to find me. What made her keep me to stave off the endless empty horizon. What made her want to forget and ultimately what caused her to remember.
I’m suddenly aware of how little I know about my mother’s time before me. I know she’s from the Forest. I know she left her village, fought her way to the ocean. I know she’s stronger than I could ever hope to be. That she created this life to raise me in the safety that she never felt growing up.
I know my mother loved but I don’t know what it felt like, other than that it caused her to want to forget. I know she left Vista at some point—traveled to the Dark City and beyond—and yet something drew her back. But what about her dreams? What have I ever known about those?
It’s as though my blood has reversed its flow and runs backward through my body, I feel so keenly the loss of my mother in that instant. I want to crawl to her and have her tell me that it will be okay. That I’ll always be safe.
I want her to tell me that even though the world can change course in a week, it will always keep spinning and turning.
I trace my fingers over the gears of the lantern, the greasy teeth sliding sharp under my touch. I think about all the times my mother’s hands rested here as she looked out into the world.
I realize now that I have my own decision to make: I can accept what I see. I can set the lamp to spinning tonight and every night after, safe within the barriers I’ve constructed around myself.
Or I can risk everything: run for Catcher and take of his last moments what I can. Open myself up to the possibility of failure and pain.
I stare at the rain gasping against the windows of the lantern room. I think about how different my life would be if I never crossed the Barrier that night. If when I sat on top of that wall with Catcher I’d pulled him back.
I wish I were stronger. I wish I were my mother. But I’m not. I set the light spinning, the harsh light blinding me with every turn, my heartbeat thumping with it.
The Militiamen leave early the next morning. The beach is pristine, the sand smooth and clear. The waves are like ripples in a bowl of water. As if the world has not raged for the past two days.
It’s always the strangest after a storm; how the world can be so dark and wind-whipped one moment, tossing Mudo endlessly ashore, and the next it’s as if the Mudo never existed. As if the world spun bac
kward in time to the pre-Return days.
I go and stand at the water’s edge, let the saltiness lick at my toes. I think of walking into the tide, of just putting one foot in front of the other until it consumes me. I can see flutters against the surface at the surf line and I know the calm is just a mirage, that Mudo still tumble out in the depths.
The enormity of my decision last night crashes over me, the length and breadth of my life alone. I realize that I just want something to take into that solitude to hang on to: one last kiss from Catcher. One last embrace from Cira. Something to remind me that I could be loved, I could be a friend if I were willing to take the risk.
And then I start running. Away from the shore, through the fence and over the dunes. I sprint up the path through the woods, the air under the trees thick and humid. Once I reach the town I cut around the edge, everything a blur as I weave toward where Cira’s being kept.
But I’m fighting against streams of people pouring from their houses and thronging toward the Barrier. They swell around me, the current too strong to resist and I’m carried along with them toward the main gate.
The Militia, some of whom were up all night at the lighthouse working on the beach, stand along the Barrier, tall and proud in their black uniforms. Their expressions are so sedate, so rigid and unblinking as they stand at attention, that it’s hard to remember how they were over the past few days: dripping with rain, raucous as they shared bawdy jokes, telling tales of their kills. I pull strands of hair from my braid and let it fall into my face, hoping to avoid making eye contact with any of them. Hoping to somehow stay beyond their reach.
Everyone’s there, the entire town shuffling and mumbling. And when the bell rings three times everyone hushes. The gate groans open. And the crowd cheers. I walk forward slowly and it’s as though no one can see me. As if I’m nothing to them. I hear the thump of a drum, the blare of a horn.
