There is a woman I learned about on one of my first days. She’s infamously called Mad Malory and her story is a tragic one. After emerging from the Refinery on her first day, she was regarded as one of the most beautiful creations ever made. They called her Magnificent Malory back then. Marvelous Malory. Magical Malory. Everyone in town wanted to know everything about her. Every woman (and some men) wanted to be her.
Until she had her Waking Dream.
The very moment it happened, she emitted a scream that would never end. The soles of her feet might as well have been set afire for all anyone knew. This woman took to the streets shrieking in throat-splitting agony and no one knew why at first. No one could approach her. Everyone, the whole of Trenton, was frightened. But they hadn’t been frightened enough, for the next thing she did was unbearable for anyone to witness: She clawed off her own face. With those fabulous pearly new nails she’d been given courtesy of the Refinery’s ample talent, she dug deep until the skin pulled clean from her skull. Screaming not from physical pain, but from emotional anguish, from whatever memories of her Old Life her Waking Dream had gifted her, she screamed and screamed until her voice broke. Literally … broke.
I’d really wished the person who told me this story hadn’t gone into such detail, but she did. And it goes on.
Mad Malory she was, she took to her home and set it on fire. With herself inside. But we are not the stuff that living people are made of, and no amount of fire could kill her or put an end to her inner torture. Indeed, we cannot be destroyed, I’m told. Her body ablaze, burning without end, feeling none of it, feeling all of it, she tore through the city, broke through the gates of Trenton and vanished into the Dying Wood—an infinite plain of lifeless trees that surrounds our humble dwelling. Into the burning horizon she ran, never to be heard of again.
The settled remains of her house still lie at the corner of town, somewhere no one any longer inhabits.
I suppose that’s the “worst case scenario” of a Waking Dream gone bad. Most aren’t like that, I’m reassured. Most are quite pleasant, or entirely ineffective.
I’m curious in my Old Life if I would’ve gone for a man like the one from the tavern … if a man like that would’ve gone for me. His hand felt so warm on my lips, shutting me up. I think I could feel his pulse even then, throbbing from the little veins in his palm. I almost think I can feel it now.
Suddenly I feel very bad about leaving him there. I want to go back and save him. I should go back.
“Winter,” says a raspy voice.
I look up, finding a familiar face on the porch next to mine. I’m surprised that I’ve already made it back to my house somehow. “Hey, Grim.” I try to smile. “Couldn’t make our date?”
“We were told to keep to our houses, incidentally. That’s why there’s no one out on the streets. Some sort of town scare, probably a false alarm.” He shrugs. “Speaking of, what are you doing out?”
“Just so happens, I was part of that so-called town scare.” I smile coyly. “It happened at the tavern. You never told me the Undead could die, Grim.”
Grimsky’s face turns very serious.
“What happened?” he asks me.
So my pale-faced neighbor joins me on my porch and I tell him everything. By the time I get to mentioning the militant woman, he’s covering his mouth with a pasty hand. “She interrogated me like a criminal, asking me if I knew Humans, or if I was one of the—What are the Deathless anyway?”
“I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “Something awful. The woman you speak of is one of our only authorities here besides the Mayor. She’s called the Judge, I think. She protects the city from—from things.”
“We need protection?” I ask carelessly. “I thought this whole Second Life thing was happy-go-lucky, caution-to-the-wind and all that. What do we have to fear?”
“Nothing, of course.” He looks away.
I sigh. I’m so tired of my questions being evaded. “Just tell me, Grim. Is it true?—Can we die again?”
His eyes find mine again and he just stares at me for a very long time. Finally he says, “No.”
“Then what did I witness at the tavern tonight?”
“We are eternal,” he explains, very carefully choosing his words. “We are forever, but—Well, you remember what I told you about shattering, the day at the cliff? We may never die, but we can be broken. Literally.” He’s getting uncomfortable, I can tell. He does everything but squirm while trying to answer my question. “We have few weaknesses, but can be pulled apart. We can be … grinded to dust. I’d really rather not talk—”
“I want to know.”
He bites his lip, then appears struck by a thought. Leaning into me, he quietly asks, “You didn’t seen any Humans, did you?”
I swallow. Okay, I didn’t tell him everything …
“Did you?” he presses me. “Please say you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?—That’s the truth?”
“I was under the impression that the world is dead, Grimsky.”
“It is. And there’s probably none left, but you must tell me if you see one,” he urges, narrowing his eyes. “Seeing one and not reporting it … That’s the worst offense, Winter. The Judge would put you back to the earth.”
“Why is it such a … a crime?”
“It just is, okay? Please. Promise me.”
Maybe it’s the panicked look in his eye, but I decide to not argue the point anymore. “Alright.”
How can one recognize a Human anyway? We’re shoved through the Refinery to look just like one. If anything, our way of life makes it such a chore to tell us apart. If there’s such a concern about it …
But then I already know the answer. That man in the tavern, it was unmistakable what he was—I was just slow to let myself see it. Slow to let myself feel his warmth like a space-heater halfway across the room. Slow to let myself hear the obvious footfalls of his heart.
“I was told once, the quickest way to die,” Grim murmurs, “is to forget how to live. That sounds like an awfully stupid thing to say, until you remember how difficult it is to live.”
“I don’t know how I lived. Or died.”
“I pity Humans. The daily responsibility of staying alive. Maybe that’s why we’re not allowed around them. It reminds us too much of that awful burden.”
Without meaning to, I put a hand over my chest, right where a hole used to be a short hour ago. I force a smile and kindly shift the topic to something more pleasant. “I picked this dress out for our date.”
He peers down at the swingy red thing I’m wearing, like he’s just now seeing it for the first time. His face lightens, his mouth spreads, his eyes open. “Yes,” he says, his teeth shining. “Yes, it really—it really suits you. I regret our date not happening.”
“We still have the rest of the night,” I point out, then glance up into the silvery sky. “Or whatever it is.”
“It’s whenever we want it to be.” He smiles, extends his hand to me. “Come over to my house. I’ll show you my wine glasses.”
I laugh, or maybe it’s Winter that laughs and takes his hand, and with a sheepish giggle she follows him into his creaky habitat.
Tonight, I learn that even after an unnecessarily eventful day, I can still have a good time. Even after being impaled by a sword. And being repaired at that vile pink building—again. And half-witnessing whatever it was that I half-witnessed at the tavern, I can still have a good time. I can smile and laugh and almost mean it. Or at least Winter can, and maybe she’s having a good time and that’s all that matters.
My impromptu date with Grimsky, sharing half a bottle of wine I can’t taste, looking into a pair of fake eyes from a pair of my own, our reconstructed hands touching, smooth and cold and numb, it’s real enough to fool me for the time being, casting away my worries and leaving me in a state of almost-bliss. And almost-bliss is okay.
“Was the chardonnay sweet enough for you?” he as
ks on my way out, leaning into me at the doorway.
I take one playful step back. “I don’t kiss on first dates. Winter likes making her men wait.”
“Winter?”
“I … I like making my men wait.” I dance off his porch, step onto mine. “Anyhow, we have all the time in the world, don’t we? You said it yourself. We’re only here until we’re not.”
He grins. “I still owe you a kiss for saving your life.”
I reach my door, wink at him. “Good night, Grim.”
He waves a little wave as I swing into my house, softly close the door behind me, and shut my eyes. A smile stretches the length of my face, a smile I can’t possibly contain. Oh, how such a day can turn around so fast in this funny little place. How horrors can find themselves drowned in a pair of old wine glasses, seated at Grimsky’s wobbly dining room table. Just a couple drinks and words with my dashing neighbor can heal the world. My maybe-past-life-poet Grimsky.
I turn from the door still smiling—only to stop short at the sight of something in the center of my living room.
Someone.
“Don’t eat me,” he says.
C H A P T E R – F O U R
H U M A N
I back up against the door at once, eyeing him warily. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. He’s here. He’s alive. He’s—begging me not to eat him.
Again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, so quiet I can barely make out the words. “Please don’t eat me. I’m just—I’m—”
“Do we eat people?” I ask plainly.
Crouched on the floor, his eyes seem to have trouble locating mine. He’s looking at the wall next to my head, squinting. “You aren’t—You aren’t hungry, you mean?”
“I don’t eat. We don’t need to.” His eyebrows narrow, clearly skeptical of my answer. “Seriously,” I reassure him. “I have no interest, like, at all. To be blunt, the idea repulses me. No offense.”
“None taken.”
The two of us remain silent and still for what feels like an eternity. I’m afraid to move, like it might inspire him to yell or do something stupid. And a Human screaming in my home after what Grimsky just told me, that would not do either of us well.
I ask, “Can we have a seat and—I don’t know—talk?”
“You can.”
I’ll forgive the attitude; he’s scared. Still watching him, I slowly make my way to the table. His eyes seem to search for me as I move across the room, which I find curious. I pull out a chair and lower myself into it.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You seem disoriented.”
“It’s dark in here,” he whispers. “I can’t see anything.” Oh, I forgot. My Undead eyes, I can see perfectly in this probably-very-dark room. “And,” he adds, even quieter, “I haven’t eaten in days.”
“Well. Can’t help you much in that department, seeing as we don’t eat.”
His shirt clings to his thickset body and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, indicating he’s either hot, ill, or terrified. Perhaps all three. His tattered pants tell me he hasn’t washed in days, maybe longer. Thankfully I can’t smell anything, but I imagine he’s no cologne model at the moment.
Still just as handsome as he was at the tavern.
“Can’t you get creative?” he snaps, a little irritable. “There is bound to be something to eat in this forsaken place.”
I’m about to come back at him with some snarky remark, but I hold my tongue. I think I see something in his watery, real eyes—something that cries desperation. This is a real person, a real person in need of my help.
“Why me?” I ask quietly. He practically snarls for an answer, his nose wrinkled like he smells something awful. Maybe he does. “Wow. Sorry I asked.”
“Who else could I go to? I had nowhere to go.” He hugs his own body, his arms bulging in the effort, either to keep warm or just to comfort himself. “You’re the first zombie who hasn’t tried to eat or kill me.”
Zombie. The Z-word. For the first time, used at me in this way, I appreciate now why the women at the Refinery found it so offensive. Just the sound of it cuts deep, hurts in a way a sword-through-the-chest couldn’t.
“So you gonna help me or not,” he mumbles.
Okay, it’s clear he doesn’t want a thing more to do with me than necessary. I disgust him. He deeply resents asking something like me for help. But how is any of this my fault? How can I be blamed for his awful situation?
Lucky for him, I have an idea. “We fake everything in this world,” I say, thinking aloud. “Surely someone’s bound to fake having a family to cook for. Or a husband to impress. Or a favorite snack to recreate late at night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I think I can help you. Wait here.”
Really, in a pitch-dark house, what else can he do.
I step out onto the porch, though I realize the town is probably still on lockdown from the “town scare” earlier. But when have I ever followed a rule since my Raising? I make my way to a neighbor’s house—not Grimsky’s. Somewhere across the something-of-a-cul-de-sac I live on, I find the lady I’m looking for sitting on her porch, the one who was kind enough to answer so many of my dead-world noob questions during my first few weeks.
“Winter,” she says, smiling as I approach. “You look a little sickly in the eyes. Haven’t been getting much sleep?”
“Not much, Jasmine. Pretend-sleep is hard to come by these days. Maybe you can show me some techniques.”
“Books,” she explains to me, like that’s all that need be said. “You may not be used to the ways of this world, my pet, but books are my secret. They give you somewhere to go while keeping you just where you are.” She smiles, shakes the book in her hand. “You should pick one up from Franken’s scriber, rabbit. It’ll pick you right up!”
“Actually …” I figure, why not get to the point. “I know something else that would pick me up. I think—I think I had a talent for cooking when I was alive. I’m not sure, but I’d like to try. Do you happen to have any—”
“Speak no further.” She rises from her rocking chair, invites me into her home with a wave of her hand. I really didn’t want this to be a drawn-out thing, considering there’s a sorta-starving person waiting not-so-patiently in my house, but I follow her inside.
Her house is like a little cozy cottage, warmed with the atmosphere of an herbalist living in the woods. I smile the moment I step inside … I think I smell something homely, like vanilla, but of course that’s just some kind of illusion because we’re incapable of smell.
“Well, technically,” she tells me when I point out the muted aroma, “no one can say for sure. I’d like to insist we ‘smell with our minds’ if you think on it a certain way. Same with foods. Once you’ve the first bite of your favorite meal, my little pet, you’ll come to agree.”
She fetches a pair of gloves, demonstratively pulling each one on. “You’ll need these every time you handle living fruit. Don’t ask questions, just go along.”
I nod, going along.
“Now every once in a while,” she explains, “I like to sneak out of Trenton. A little ways beyond the Harvesting Grounds is a lake—if you can believe it—around which the most curious of things still grow. Like these,” she says, revealing a basket of assorted roots, leaves, flowers, vegetables and stalks I can’t quite identify. “Maybe there’s something here that can aid you in your recreations.”
“Yes,” I agree, peering curiously into her collection. “I suppose I could, ah, toss a salad …?”
“You’ll need more, of course,” she adds, pulling a bowl from underneath her sink, “and maybe a few of these,” she also adds, producing—to my surprise—a pair of plump tomatoes from another cupboard.
“These are amazing,” I whisper, genuinely surprised. The tomatoes, admittedly so, are not the best a person’s ever seen, but in a world devoid of such color, these two plump red things seem as beacons of sunlight in a very dark sky. “F
or a while I was convinced there was nothing left in this world that isn’t dead or dying.”
“Rest assured,” she murmurs, a sad tinge in her tone, “where these treasures came from, far and few between. This isn’t the world you once knew in a breathier state.”
After placing the tomatoes and bowl into the vegie basket, she hands the entire thing to me. I try to protest, but she insists. “No, no, take it all, my sweet rabbit. The collecting of these is more a product of boredom. I’ve had my hand, it’s about time someone else have theirs.”
“You’re generous.”
Jasmine shrugs, pulls off her gloves and pats my face. “Take these gloves, and invite me over sometime. You can fix us dinner and we’ll talk the night away!”
Wondering for a moment where in my house I might stash a Human before inviting anyone over, I thank her and head out the door, reminding myself that there’s a dying living person on my living room floor, dying.
I make haste across the courtyard with the basket hanging on my arm. Reentering my house, I quickly shut and lock the door. He still waits there right where I’d left him. Only his head lifts a bit at the sound of my entry, his eyes focusing somewhere around my knees.
“Back,” I murmur, like it’s necessary, “and I couldn’t get you much, but this’ll have to do.”
As I approach him, he presses up against the wall as though I were a giant insect. I hesitate, sigh to myself, then toss the basket in front of him dejectedly. “Feast on,” I tell him, annoyed, then plant myself at the table. He tries reaching out, can’t seem to find the basket, then in an irritated grunt he calls out, “Can I have a little light? Please? I could be eating clumps of soil for all I know.”
“You’re such a—!” And then I stop myself. After all, the Human is sort of my guest—or permitted trespasser, whichever works—so I opt to be more tolerant and revise my statement: “Of course. Light. You need light to see.”
I rummage through a bag of things I forgot I collected during my first few weeks as an Undead. From it I produce a box of matches and one gnarled candle. I stick it on the table, flick the match against my thigh to inspire a flame, and then … then …
The Beautiful Dead Page 5
