by Daryl Banner
And he ended John’s life without even the decency of supplying him a Second one. Instead, I had to wait twelve years for the Whispers to do it.
“He should be turned to dust,” I decide. “Let the Lock have the pleasure, I don’t care. We’re all doomed to dust if we don’t find Shee anyway.”
I pull another piece from the bin: a plate of armor. “Steel plate,” Ann remarks, nodding. “Good idea.”
At hearing that word, I freeze in place, watching my hands as the plate of armor hangs innocently from them. After a moment of studying them, my face calms, and a smile spreads across the doom. Does this mean that, in time, the Deathless grip does leave a person? John’s ring … This steel armor … I feel myself sighing with utter relief. Ann gives me a quizzical look and I just shrug, responding with, “John will need protection.”
To that, Ann smiles.
The rest of the Dead have been summoned to the front gate at Mayor Megan’s stern command. Megan has already briefed them on the reason for their summoning and the purpose at hand. The announcement does not go without due resistance, as many of them protest. One lady—I knew her twelve years ago as one in a pair of Living sisters named Lena and Margie; this is Lena, who rose the day Grim attacked Garden—insists that she’s perfectly happy mining in the southwest end. She’s made a life for herself here and wasn’t going to uproot when none of us have an idea how many days we have left. “I just want to live the rest of them happily! And not out in the wilderness! I’ve had enough wilderness for one lifetime!” Her sister was not as fortunate and never Rose.
“But if we do go, we have a chance at eternal life,” reasoned another woman I haven’t spoken to since the fall of Garden: Ash. Her tall slender form turned Undead at Grim’s touch too, her First Life truncated in an instant. “I’m willing to struggle now for the chance at saving my forever. Why the hell wouldn’t you? Count me in.”
Still, three other men I’ve never met take a lot more convincing. “This is messed up,” one of them named Bill asserts. “Thrown out of our own homes like rats. Isn’t the Great Julianne out there doing this same mission?”
“We’re not diseased,” another chimes in, angry.
“The only way you’re getting me out of this city is by pulling me apart and carrying me with you in a basket,” another man—Winston, I think his name is—barks at us with acid sarcasm. “So if it’s brutal violence you want to start practicing, by all means, tear me apart. Continue your injustice and in due time you’ll be no better than the Deathless King, may he rot for all the rest of eternity. And I’ll prefer a nice wicker basket, please.”
Ann shouts something at the crowd. Then, realizing no one can understand her muffled words through the helmet, she flips open the visor and repeats: “No one’s going to pull anyone apart!”
“The world is pulling us apart,” a young Undead boy in front says, despondent. “With every storm and rainfall … We’ll be exposed to the elements out there.”
“We will have the means to protect ourselves,” Ann assures the crowd. “We will have coverings we can set up in a matter of seconds. Tents. Shields. We will be wearing armor. The rain will never touch us.”
“I’m not leaving,” shouts a blue-haired teen girl in the back, fed up. “Julianne is saving us. You can’t make me leave my home because a bunch of Humans are scared.”
“This has nothing to do with the Humans!” cries Ann.
The War Of Pointless Back-And-Forth Arguments commences and I stand there dead as the Dead, eyes half-open and annoyed to the bone. Each rising voice is as grating as the last, and through it all, I see no easy resolution. The Undead won’t leave as a unified whole; it’s as simple as that.
Through the mess of yelling and hurt feelings, I spot a dopey-faced man with a mop of black hair and a blunt bulb of a nose. He regards Ann nervously, a look of deep emotion twisting his face as the arguing grows worse and worse, louder and louder. It isn’t until I notice him picking at his fingers that I recognize who it is. Jim, and he’s certainly grown up quite a bit. He was tall twelve years ago; he’s taller now. Though I’d hoped the years would have given him more smarts, he still appears dumb as a fencepost, though I have no way of confirming that. Call me judgmental, I don’t care.
And then suddenly I realize the reason for his pained expression: Ann is his girlfriend. He doesn’t want to see her go. “Of course,” I breathe, feeling sorry for them.
Ann, who was in the middle of an impassioned speech to the ever-angry Undead, turns to me expectantly.
I blink. Quite suddenly, the whole of the twenty-or-so Undead we’ve gathered are all looking at me. Did I just steal their attention with my two tiny words, or has some imaginary procession named me the next speaker? What the hell are they expecting me to say?
“Go ahead,” prompts Megan, encouraging me to address the Dead.
Oh, nice. So I’m supposed to be the one to convince them all to leave the only permanent home they’ve come to know and love.
I clasp my hands, feeling confident. I stand before them and think of the most inspirational string of words I can find. “We’re all going to die,” I announce.
The Undead stare blankly at me.
“We are,” I assure them. “You’re going to die, Lena. You’re going to die, Bill … Ash … Winston.”
“My name’s Willard,” he grunts.
“Willard.” I knew I might’ve had it wrong. “We’re all going to die. You know who else is going to die? Every Human in this city. Except the difference is, they won’t Rise again. We’re the lucky ones. We were given a Second Life, a second chance to experience the world. Don’t waste this second chance. We have to find Shee, and—”
“Empress,” blurts one of the women nervously. I don’t catch who.
I squint at whomever it is. “Empress Shee.” What gave her such status? Did she fashion herself a tiara of cricket legs I don’t know about? “The Undead world hangs in the balance, and maybe she doesn’t even—”
“Empress,” the same one corrects me.
“Okay, I was using the pronoun ‘she’ that time and not her name,” I say in the general direction of the voice. “Seriously. I’ve fought with and tore a wing off said ‘Empress’ and there is no need to fear her or whatever you think you’re required to call her. Regardless of what you think sh—of what you think it is, it is Undead, just like you, just like me, and it will even someday turn to dust … unless it is stopped.”
“We don’t even know where the woman-thing is,” Wilbert points out—Wilson, Wyatt, Wally, I’ve already forgotten—and he stamps his shovel into the ground, as if that shovel represents all his conviction. “Why waste my time?” Why he’s got a shovel, I won’t ask.
“You don’t have to,” I announce. Megan and Ann shoot me a puzzled look. I have no idea if this is going to work, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about battling the stubborn, it’s to let them have their say. Words and arguments can only carry as far as the truth will let them. In the end, the truth is always outed. Two opinions can’t be heard when they’re both being shouted at once.
“We don’t have to what?” asks Willie-Whoever.
“Waste your time,” I explain patiently. “You don’t have to go. You can stay and live all the rest of your Undead days here. Or weeks. Or hours, whatever’s left. You can shovel mud. The rest of us are going to embark on a journey. It won’t be an easy journey. It won’t even be all that pleasant. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that we’re going to have a … certain someone accompanying us. And he is certainly the most despicable specimen of a once-human-being I can possibly think to dig up out of the ground. But we’ll take this journey and we may or may not find what we’re looking for. I assure you, no matter its outcome, I’ll at least turn to dust knowing I’ve tried saving this existence of mine. If I had the choice, I’d much rather choose an eternity with … with my loved ones, rather than a few weeks where every second I have to check my hands to make sure they’re still there.�
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Cue the inspirational music.
Ann touches my shoulder, drawing herself up to my side, and she announces, “Winter has a point. And I think it’s best for you to consider all your, um … your hands falling off.” She frowns. “And you don’t have to … you don’t have to join us. But we’re stronger together.”
Mayor Megan, her eyes full of darkness, lifts her chin to the crowd. “The party leaves at sunset. That’s about five hours from now. You have until then to make up your mind. All those who are going, meet here and you will be adequately equipped and armored.” She nods once, as if preparing to say something else, then simply clears her throat and dismisses herself back to the Cyclops Tower. I watch her go, filled with a kind of sadness.
Hours later, I’m seated on a short stone wall that lines a vegetable field, my legs dangling, when John finds me.
“Sun setting?” I ask quietly. He nods. “About time to leave, then.”
“Very soon,” he agrees, then hops onto the wall, crouching next to me with such dexterity, I’m genuinely impressed. “I hope I’m around long enough to have my Waking Dream.” He keeps perfect balance on the ledge, like some kind of enormous bird in a person’s clothing. “I mean, it seems to be perfectly random, whoever turns to dust, right? Someone was explaining. The big lady with the scary makeup who’s cheery all the time.”
“Marigold,” I tell him. He really doesn’t remember a thing, does he? I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. “Her name’s Marigold. She fixed me up when I was pulled out of the ground. She gave me Icecap Blue irises. She gave me a new pinkie toe. She …” I sigh. Why does it matter? Why does any of it matter? We’ll all be turned to dust soon. There is no way we’ll find Shee or my mother. “How do you feel about leaving, John? Feels like you just got here and already we’re going.”
“I feel … curious,” he answers. “A journey sounds fun. I don’t know what’s out there.”
Yes, you do. Plenty and more that you’ve, all your life, worked to avoid.
Then again, the world’s changed. In only twelve years, the death and decay have been traded for greenery and spring. To be honest, I’m even a bit curious. Even if my last sight is some big oak tree or a fat ladybug on the tip of a long, curled blade of grass, it’d be much preferred over the cold steel of some building’s wall here in the City of the Dead.
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
He looks at me. “Yes, we are,” he agrees, smiling.
“I meant all of us. The Undead of the city, whoever ends up leaving. We’re all going to be spending lots of time around one another and …” I figure out my words, sucking my tongue for a pensive moment. “There are some things you’ve learned, John. Secrets. Big secrets. I just need to emphasize how so very, very important it is that you … keep those secrets.”
“You mean about your mom?” he blurts.
I hide the annoyance on my face, peer left, peer right, then nod silently at him.
He catches my drift, leans in and quietly whispers, “You never spoke badly about her. I don’t understand how her identity being a secret is so necessary. She was a Queen, once? Of the Deathless?”
“Self-named Queen of this very city,” I answer. “She birthed the whole Deathless movement. She’s responsible for the killing and the torturing of hundreds. Through her, Grimsky’s Green Army was born, which then was responsible for killing many Humans, including—” You, I almost say. I clench shut my eyes, then finish: “Brock. The one from the bar.”
“Oh, the Chief guy.” I nod. “Alright. So, she was a big deal. And this Grimsky … Is this Grimsky still around?”
“I hope not.”
“But the little guy,” John says, sorting it all out in his head, “is only going to help us if he gets to … ‘kill’ this Grimsky guy, right? If we don’t even know if he’s around, then how’s he—”
“We don’t know if any of them are around, John.” I sigh, push myself off the wall. “My mother. Shee. Grim. We have no idea. We could find piles of dust for all we know. All I care about is getting that stone back.”
“And the stone’s going to save us?”
I look up into his eyes. He smiles when my gaze meets his, John’s whole face lighting up and his fingers wiggling at each other as he remains there, perched and gentle and adorable. Grim killed the dark John I’d come to love, and the Whispers gave me this sweet, childlike John who treats this Second Life like some fun new toy. I worry what his Waking Dream will do to him. This adventure could be our last. These days, our last we’ll ever have, and he’s smiling like a boy with candy in his palm.
“The stone’s the only thing that can save us,” I say.
Too soon, John tells me the sun’s dropped below the walls of the city. We make our way to the gate where the rest of the Undead await. I am amazed to find, including John and I, that fifteen Undead have come. Among the fifteen I see Marigold and her chipper eyes, Ann and her dead ones, and the Chief shrouded in his cinched cloak.
I also find a girl whose face I recognize right away. How have I not yet run into her? I’d assumed she was destroyed at Garden or somehow fallen to pieces. She wears an oversized blouse and ill-fitting woolen pants. Her hair is tied up in a tight ponytail. When I approach, I greet her with, “Helen,” because calling her Brains—like everyone else used to—is just rude. To be fair, months after rescuing her from the Deathless, she had to be isolated right away because she kept trying to eat people and all she could say on constant loop was I … am … Deathless. I wanted to name her Helen, after my now-late Reaper.
The Undead circle of Unlife.
She lifts her eyebrows way too far, parts her mouth, prepares herself for a solid ten seconds, then emits the soft monotone words of: “I … am … not … death.” She smiles proudly.
Well, it’s progress.
A moment later, Megan emerges from around the bend. Slowly marching behind her is the stiff-legged little man I’ll reluctantly refer to as Lynx, as that is what Megan insisted was his name. She brings him attached by his bound hands with a length of chain.
Megan stops in front of me and hands it off. I take it, a look of confusion likely washing across my face. “Yours,” she says simply. “You are the one with whom the deal has been made. He is yours, bound by chain, until the terms of the deal are met.”
So … he’s like my dog, apparently. And what she’s handing me is a leash. “Alright,” I mutter unhappily.
“I’m yours,” grunts the little Lock, and I squint at him, finding his face contorted by what might be a grin. He’s playing with me. Yes, that’s what kind of journey I’ve got to look forward to. Great.
Megan regards him with little compassion, then faces the group. “I want you all to understand, you are not hereby exiled from New Trenton, nor are you being in any form sent away. This is your home and it will always be your home, and at any point in your journey, you are welcome back to it.”
I realize Megan has taken a page from my book and decided it smart to give them the false sense of choice. It is a false sense, of course, because in reality, unless we wish simply to turn to dust someday, we have no choice. It’s either find Shee … or find oblivion.
“Take confidence with you that, while Julianne may have tried to pave the way, the many of you will be stronger together and will see the mission through,” Megan tells them, her stern, rusty voice providing the pep talk I never could. “You will succeed, my friends.”
There is no dissention anymore, perhaps because those who were so adamantly opposed to leaving are, in fact, not leaving. I take mental note of one other who isn’t leaving: the man who proved to be a guilty blood-eater, as he’s being held safely in the depths of that dungeon from which we just dug out the former-Lock.
I spot the warm russet face of Ash and the cold chalky one of Lena. I see the young Undead boy from the crowd of earlier and the two plump men with beards who could be brothers but are not: Bill and Will. I’ll call him Will b
ecause I can’t get his name right … or maybe I refuse to. There’s two seemingly teenaged girls, one of them curvy and short and blue-haired, the other so tall and bony and long she looks like she’s been pulled through a machine. She might’ve been. There’s also a very, very old man with yellowy skin who looks vaguely familiar.
Then I spot the diffident, little eyes of Collin. I gawp, the severity of this whole Undead departure hitting me quite suddenly at the sight of him. “But the doctor …” I breathe to Megan, incredulous, hardly able to form the words. “The doctor can’t … The city needs …”
“Rake and Robin are well-trained,” Megan explains quietly to me without my having to carry on. “They have assistants of their own at the hospital as well. Collin prefers to leave, I assure you. After his brother met his fate, he wants to do all in his power to … save his own.”
“Oh.” I put a reluctant hand on Megan’s shoulder, unsure why I’m doing so. “Alright, okay.” Maybe it’s to help myself from falling over, as if I’m still capable of losing blood to my head and fainting. Joke’s on me: I’ve got no blood in any part of my body, let alone my stupid, worry-plagued head. “So be it.”
At the front of the crowd, I notice Ann sorting through the equipment she’d pulled from the guardsmen arsenal, armoring the various Dead with metal leggings and breastplates and helmets that I assume to be our futile attempt to protect ourselves against Mother Nature, our true enemy. I watch her with sulky, half-opened eyes. I humor myself and wait for her to pull out umbrellas.
“The journey will be long and terrible,” sings the dwarf at my back. I’ve forgotten how oddly high-pitched his gravelly voice can get. “Maybe you’d be kind enough to carry me, lest I slow you down. Ha, ha, ha … ha …”
“Or I could pull off your legs and stuff you in a bag,” I suggest coolly, “and not have to deal with the nuisance of this dog leash.”
