It smelled in here. It smelled of something that I remembered, yet something I’d forgotten. I didn’t like it—the smells, the people, the noise. It was dangerous, all of it, and would attract the biters. They would come back again, and these people wouldn’t be able to hide forever. They’d come and they’d kill, and I didn’t want to be here when it happened.
The men came to a stop in the middle of the large room, tables and chairs scattered throughout. People too, all of them staring at me. A woman in a wheelchair loomed before me; she was pretty but her legs were gone. She was blond and thin, and…nearly naked.
Where was I?
“What am I supposed to do with that?” she asked, her soft voice laced with annoyance.
The tall one laughed. “E said to bring her to you. You’re supposed to put her to work.”
Work. What an odd choice of word considering they’d kidnapped me, dragged me off to their foul place of existence. I wasn’t doing any harm to them, wasn’t bothering them, yet they’d cornered me, taken me, beaten me.
I wanted to go home.
Home. Was that what I was calling my cave now? Home wasn’t what it used to be. It wasn’t a two-bedroom, white brick house with yellow rosebushes lining the driveway and a swing set in the backyard. Home no longer had a pantry and a bathroom, it didn’t have a television or a comfy peach sofa with three cream cushions. Home wasn’t any of those things anymore. But home, my cave, was safe. Home was something I could trust. Where I belonged. I couldn’t trust this place or these people. And I didn’t belong here.
The short, fat man was talking now, but I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering, and I couldn’t make out a word of it. I couldn’t be here, I couldn’t stay here around these awful people, these loud, noisy people. I couldn’t be here when the biters came back and killed them all. I wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.
“What good is she going to be to me?” the woman shrieked. “She’s disgusting! My God, she’s growling!”
“Clean her up,” the tall one said. “Who knows, there might be a whole lot of good under all that shit.” Glancing down at me, he grinned again. “After a week in the Cave, she’ll have all that fight fucked right out of her.”
My pounding heart stuttered to a stop. Fucked. Fucked. Fucked. What was this place? What were they going to make me do?
No… No, I couldn’t be here. I couldn’t be here!
“No,” the woman said. “You can’t leave her here! What in the hell am I supposed to do with her? Why doesn’t she speak? Is there something wrong with her?”
“Aw, come on, Dori.” The short one groaned, releasing my arm.
My body slouched to the ground, leaving me leaning at an awkward angle. The tall one hadn’t let me go, his fingers still curled around my bicep, his nails digging sharply into my skin.
“There’s shit going down out there, and we need to get back to it or Liv’s going to have a fit if that gate isn’t back up. Cut us some slack, would ya?”
The woman sighed, an angry, irritated sigh. “Fine,” she snapped, “but only until I speak to E. Put her in one of the back rooms, and lock her up until I can find someone who’s willing to clean her.”
Gripping the armrests on her wheelchair, she leaned forward as she looked me over. “You try anything,” she hissed viciously, “anything at all, and I will cut you. You got that?” Sitting back in her chair, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and glared at me. “Why can’t we leave the crazy ones in the wild?” she muttered. “They don’t belong with us.”
I wanted to laugh at her, to tell her how stupid she was, thinking that I was the crazy one. They were the crazy ones. Living out in the open like this, playing with biters, being noisy and laughing as if there was still something to laugh about in this world.
“I don’t like this,” she continued. “I’ll never get her stench out of the sheets. I’ll have to burn them.” Her voice turned shrill. “And sheets are expensive!”
“Sure, sure,” the short one said as he reached for my arm again, and it took everything in me to allow him to touch me, to not lash out, to not kick and scream and fight my way free of this place.
I wanted to go back to my cave. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want their hands on me. I didn’t want to hear their noisy voices. See their stares. Their anger. Their pity. I didn’t want any of it. A hot tear slipped free from the corner of my eye as my panic began to rise.
“I want to go home,” I whispered, my throat dry and scratchy, my own voice sounding foreign to my ears.
The woman glanced sharply at me, a flash of sympathy crossing her features. “Don’t we all, darlin’?” she replied, easily shrugging away her emotion. “You’re better here with us.”
I could read her expression—the slight pinching of her nose, the slump of her shoulders—and knew she didn’t believe her own words.
“Home is where you stay,” she continued. “And this is where you’ll stay now. It’s safe here. You have nothing to fear from me.”
A snarl slipped past my lips, the only sound I could manage to make in the face of her lie. Her cheeks flushed hotly as she realized I could see straight through her, see her for what she really was. A liar. And a bad one at that.
Glancing up at the men, she nodded and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. With a grunt, they began dragging me across the room, my dirty sneakers scuffing across the carpet, lifting the edge of a rug. All eyes were on me, the room quiet save for the sound of my feet snagging on the uneven floorboards and bits of carpet strewn about.
As I was taken down a dark hallway, the air grew considerably warmer, the smells rising in their intensity. Noises came from behind closed doors all around me, familiar noises, groans and moans and cries, not of pain, but of pleasure. I remembered pleasure; even when I didn’t want to remember it, I did. I remembered his handsome young face, the feel of his warm hands, the way his soft mouth would cover mine. I could hear myself crying out, wanting more of him…
“Jesus, she stinks.” A naked woman pressed herself against the wall, wrinkling her nose in disgust as I was dragged past her.
“Don’t I fucking know it!” the tall one replied, laughing. “But pussy is pussy.”
“You’re going to hit this?” the short one asked, sounding horrified. “Man, she probably has a hundred fucking diseases.”
“I’ll hit a hole in the wall,” the tall one said. “A knot in a tree, a rip in the mattress, makes no difference to me. Here we are, home sweet home.”
We stopped in front of a door, and the short one released me to open it. Gripping me tighter, the tall one pulled me inside. It was dark except for one window that allowed the sunlight in, highlighting the sparse furnishings—a small bed, a dresser, and a chair.
Shoving me forward, the tall one released me, and I fell to the floor in a heap.
“I’ll be back once you’re cleaned up,” he said, and I lifted my head to look at him. Sneering down at me, he touched his cheek where I’d hit him. “You owe me for this, and this.” He held up his arm, showing me a bloody bite mark.
The men left, slamming the door shut behind them. A lock clicked into place, the sharp sound echoing loudly through the nearly empty space, sucking all the air out of the room and making it hard for me to breathe. The walls seemed to grow nearer, closing in on me as my heart beat painfully in my chest.
“I want to go home,” I whispered to no one.
Only I knew that I was no longer talking about my cave. I was talking about my home made of white brick, the one with two bedrooms, and yellow rosebushes that lined the driveway. My home with the swing set in the backyard. With the pantry and a pretty bathroom, and a TV that I used to watch when I sat on my comfy peach sofa, with the three cream cushions on it. I missed that home. I missed that life.
These people, their noises and their smells, this place, they were making me remember all I had lost.
“I want to go home!” I screamed, slamming my clenched fists down on the floor.<
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About the Authors
Fantastical realm dweller, lover of anything deemed inappropriate, and USA Today bestseller Madeline Sheehan is the author of the Holy Trinity Trilogy and the Undeniable Series. Homegrown in Western New York, Madeline resides there with her husband and son where she can usually be found engaging in food fights and video game marathons.
www.madelinesheehan.com
www.facebook.com/MadelinesheehanBooks
The Undeniable Series
Undeniable
Unbeautifully
Unattainable
Unbeloved
The Holy Trinity Series
The Soul Mate
My Soul to Take
The Lost Souls
Claire C. Riley is a bestselling British horror writer whose work is best described as the modernization of classic, old-school horror. She fuses multi-genre elements to develop storylines that pay homage to cult classics while still feeling fresh and cutting edge. She writes characters that are realistic, and kills them without mercy. Claire lives in the United Kingdom with her husband, three daughters, and one scruffy dog.
www.clairecriley.com
www.facebook.com/ClaireCRileyAuthor
The Obsession Series
Limerence
Limerence 2
The Dead Saga
Odium 1
Odium Origins 1
Odium 2
Odium Origins 2
Excerpt
THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD
by Daryl Banner
P R O L O G U E
It’s so cold. It’s so, so cold.
What you should know is, the first time a dead man opened his eyes, the twenty-seven doctors in the room screamed. The dead man did not bite them or foam at the mouth. He didn’t claw at them with his dirty nails nor did he grunt and moan like the dead were expected to do.
The dead man just opened his tiny mouth and asked, “Where am I?”
I’m so cold, but let me assure you, it was a quiet end. That’s what you should know above all else. Even with bombs all over the news. Mushroom clouds and calmly-reporting reporters. Debris snowing from the heavens, like winter. Bombs here, bombs there, bombs in your backyard and your neighbor’s living room. Smoke and liquid fire ate up the cities, the forests, the children.
No one knew exactly what was happening, and by the time they did, it was over.
And they were dead. All of them. Fire and smoke still covered the land like a blanket long after they were gone, the last of leaves and tree trunks burning on. The final blink of mother nature’s eye before she retired for a long, long sleep. Sweet dreams.
I’m not sure where I was when all this happened. I may have died already, but it doesn’t matter. None of us were going to survive.
At least, not completely.
If time were an endless plain, this event is the chasm cut deep in the earth, its yawn spanning far beyond what light can reach. This awesome rift, we will never know for sure how wide it is. But on the other side, as sure as we are that there is another side, that’s where my story begins. Not when the world ended, but long after.
After the trees have all but expired.
After oceans burn and mountains fall.
After the sky.
It’s so, so cold, but before my life is gone … before I forget my mother’s face or my favorite flower or my name, I need to explain something, and it’s crucial that you pay attention. I’m so cold, but just let me say this one last thing to you before I’m dead, before I’m
before I’m
before I’m
Are you paying attention?
C H A P T E R – O N E
W I N T E R
I came into this world like most people do: screaming.
“Don’t worry,” a kind voice tells me. “You’re just dying.”
Everything hurts. My skin is all icy and bitter. My heart’s a heavy stone the earth is trying to wretch from my chest and my vision is an angry haze—I am blind.
“Your eyes are adjusting, girl. Just relax.”
Dying?—Did she just saying I’m dying?
“Undying,” she amends. “You’re undying. But really it’s sort of the same.”
I’m reaching out for my mom. I want to find my dad’s hands and pull them toward me, they should be there somewhere. I’m furious that no one seems to be helping me, that no one’s there.
“No use in screaming on, you’ll just break your voice. You might need it.”
Why would I need a voice if I’m dead? And for that matter, how’d I die? When did that happen? Shouldn’t I know?
“No use trying to remember,” she murmurs sadly, her voice strangely accented. “That was your Old Life … a nothing life.”
I can’t picture my mom’s face. Or dad’s. There’s a strange vacuum in my mind now, like I can’t even remember having parents. The idea of anything existing before this moment, that simple idea seems so difficult to understand suddenly.
“You’re the worst I’ve ever heard! This awful screaming! Really, you should quiet down. You’ll wake the dead.”
I don’t remember the last word I uttered. I don’t remember the last meal I had. I don’t remember the last hour I saw on a clock. I don’t remember …
I don’t remember my name.
“That was a little joke of mine,” she says with a squeaky snicker. “Wake the dead. You’re not laughing.”
I’m panicked by the silence in my body where a heart should be racing. I’m gasping for air that isn’t there, with lungs that stubbornly refuse to fill. I’m in agony, I think.
“Let go of my hair!—You’ll pull it straight off!”
Her soft hair clenched in my fist, it’s the first sensation I have that isn’t horrible. It grounds me like an anchor. Suddenly gravity makes sense. My position of lying on cold hard ground makes sense. I’m aware of my ears for the first time and the information they helpfully lend … the ambiance of howling winds and whispers … the distant rumbling of thunder … the precise location of the strange accented voice that’s been speaking to me …
“You’re coming to, at last. I feared there was no hope for you, screaming as you were. Now please, a finger at a time, let go of my hair.”
My eyes have been open, but they only just now discover how to work. The furious haze of earlier releases me to my new world. Hovering over me is the face of a twenty-something-year-old with wide-set beady eyes and curls of black hair that gather atop two sharp shoulders.
“Really, I’d hoped for a prettier Raise, but you’ll have to do. Oh, your skin is so tragic.”
Who is this person?
“My name is Helena Trim,” she tells me, “and yours will be—Oh, I hadn’t noticed your hair! It’s so … white. A snowdrift in a dream. Almost makes up for your face. I’ll call you Winter.” She smiles for the first time. It sits oddly on her stiff, pointy face. “There, that was easy. Now are we ready to try standing?”
I push myself off the damp ground. Curiously, I find all the pain and torment I’d only a moment ago felt is gone, leaving an empty ringing in my ears that echoes down my body like a bell. I feel hollow. I feel weak. I feel like a vacuous shell holding nothing, not even air.
“Where,” I say, startled for a moment by the sound of my own voice, “am I?”
“The Harvesting Grounds,” this person called Helena informs me. “This is where the dead are Raised, girl. This is where everyone’s Final Life begins … if this can be called a life.”
“I’m—I’m dead?”
“Undead.” She delicately moves a strand of hair out of my eyes, wrinkles her face in pity. “We should get you to the Refinery straight away. Death hasn’t been kind to your—ah, never mind.”
I don’t remember leaving the murky field. I don’t remember being guided down a winding road that cut through an endless array of dead trees and into a city. I don’t remember walking crowded streets or being steered into a squatty pink building, but now I’m leaning back on some ki
nd of doctor’s table and there’s a large flush-faced woman with green eye shadow looming over me.
“Her hair is just exquisite!” she squeals, taking a handful of it into her puffy palm. “I’ve never seen hair like this, the color of pearls. And coming straight from the earth, no less! Her skin, however … oh, help us all.”
“Will someone,” I whisper quietly, “please show me a mirror?”
“Not a chance, sweetheart. Roxie, dear precious, hand me my Chromo and a two-inch carving blade, will you?”
I’m not sure what is happening, but it reminds me of prom night. The large lady starts working on my nails while gossiping sweetly with the others. Another girl who couldn’t be more than twelve years old starts scrubbing my legs for some reason. The one called Roxie takes to my hair, combing it and applying some pungent formula that makes my nose recoil. Helena keeps stealing my attention away, talking her little head off and, I suppose, trying to distract me from looking at myself. Despite her efforts, I catch a glimpse of what looks like an arm missing half its flesh, the bones of the hand visible. Of course I don’t recognize it as my own hand because, well, denial’s a powerful thing. And I’m still pretty sure I’m dreaming, except I’m not sure where I’d wake up. The idea of having a bed, or even a home to return to seems strange.
“Have I lost my memory?” I ask finally. “For good?”
“Oh, here we go,” the large lady sings.
Helena faces me quite seriously. “Yes and no. Your Old Life is gone. Your memory of it and all the memory you had in your previous life is no longer. It’ll come back someday, sure, but it’s best not to think of it at all. Just let go now and never again look back.”
“But—But I remember how to speak, obviously. I know language. I know how to walk. I remember concepts like … like prom night!—of all things. How is that possible if I lost all my memory?”
Thicker than Blood Page 39
