Dying to Live: Last Rites

by Kim Paffenroth

  “Now you remember this. Getting this close to live meat is pain. It’s bad. You get this close to someone ever again and I’ll have her fry you on this thing like a bug under a fucking magnifying glass. How you think that’ll make her turn out?”

  Doctor Jack stood up and rolled down his sleeve. The crowd applauded the torture and Truman felt the pain decrease.

  “No!” Doctor Jack roared. “You stop that, girl! You turn that back up now!” The pain gradually increased back to its previous level. At least Truman could see Dalia again. Her weeping was more controlled now, and she seemed reassured to see him still alert and looking at her. Through the buzzing in his head, Truman thought he could hear rain on the canvas of the tent.

  “These two need to learn some more,” Doctor Jack continued, standing behind Dalia, his hands on her shoulders. “People can’t be friendly with these monsters. It isn’t right. So we’ll get you two to associate pain with it.” He put his hand on top of Dalia’s, holding the dial. “Tell him how you feel about him, Dalia. Do that and we’ll be able to finish.” He made her turn the dial.

  “I like him,” the girl wailed. The crowd laughed.

  “Tell him, not me.”

  “I like you.”

  “Tell him more. You’ve worked together every day. I’ve seen you. You trust him.”

  Truman couldn’t really say the pain increased at that point. It was sort of past the point where he could note gradations in it. The only added sensation he noticed was a pressure inside his head, like it was going to implode. He wished it would. He didn’t know what use his brain was anymore, except to remember and think about hideousness like this, over and over, day after day, night after night.

  “I trust you,” Dalia said. Oddly, she’d calmed down somewhat. Perhaps Truman had succeeded in hiding any further pain. Though it was nearly impossible to think now, the feeling of triumph at that thought was overwhelming to him.

  “And you more than like him. You don’t have a daddy. You look at this thing and you love him. You think you can save him, take care of him, make him happy, make him safe. But you can’t. But tell him anyway, so both of you will know what to think of that feeling.”

  Dalia looked completely calm now to Truman, though it was hard to focus on her, he was shaking so much. And even though the crowd’s cheering was louder than before, Truman heard her perfectly as she said, “I love you.” He didn’t see Doctor Jack turn the dial further, but knew he must’ve, because the pressure in his head and the thrashing of his body made the whole scene before him into a blur, though the brown smudge of Dalia’s face in the middle of it retained some radiance, if not clarity.

  Truman did not know he could still lose consciousness. It had never happened in all the years he’d been dead. If it weren’t for the pain, it would have been one of the most delightful experiences he could imagine, reminding him of sleep and comfort. He didn’t think he closed his eyes, as he was unable to move anything anymore, but his vision slowly closed in around Dalia, then darkened completely. The pain remained constant as this happened, though at the very end it lessened slightly, as he heard other voices, including a woman’s. That seemed odd at this point. They sounded like they were arguing.

  As the pain decreased, Truman had the most joyous thought that the living people were tearing each other apart, eating each other alive there in the hot, musty darkness. That would be how things were supposed to be, and that idea made Truman the happiest he’d been in days.

  Chapter 32: Will

  Will had been out in the wilderness enough he could find his way back to the city by cutting through fields and woods instead of keeping to the road. He didn’t want to be walking along there as the wagon made its way back. He didn’t know what to say to those guys if they caught up with him. What happened to Mike was horrible. But things like that were just part of life. But what they’d discussed doing to him afterward? That was unnatural. That was evil.

  Will knew the dead would never know he’d been there, he moved so quietly. His last words to Garrett were not bragging: the dead truly did not scare him. Their presence in the world didn’t bother him, didn’t present him with dilemmas he couldn’t understand or guilt he couldn’t assuage. In fact, the hours making his way through the countryside back to New Sparta were about the calmest he’d spent in some time, even though the same thoughts plagued him. Will had gained a certain clarity, focus, and resolve that had been painfully lacking in the last few weeks. He still didn’t know exactly how things would work out, but what he would do when he got back to the city and found Rachel had become much clearer to him. They’d get out of that house. Sell all the crap they’d accumulated. They’d sleep on the boat—hell, they were paying for the dockage anyway. They’d sleep out here in the woods if they had to, if there were some stupid law about people not being allowed to sleep on boats at the city dock. But they’d get out of that city now. Rachel could keep working her job and they’d get Truman and Lucy out and be free of this place.

  Jumping across a ravine and continuing on through a field, Will wondered if Rachel would go along with that. She had become so different since coming to the city. He wanted her to be happy, of course, but he didn’t understand what mattered to her, what made her happy now. He could tell she wasn’t as eager to leave as he was—he’d even wondered recently if she wanted to leave at all. When she found out what they did here—how they treated both living and dead—she’d have to see, she’d have to agree.

  He loved her so much, and remembered how beautiful and carefree she used to be, both when they were on the boat, and before that, when they lived in their old town. As much as she used to sleep around, there had been a kind of simple, innocent carelessness even about that. Everything about her had been perfect, or he could always see the perfection in it, at least. Now—something was obscured, lost, darkened about her. But he had faith in her, and he knew there was no way she would want to hold on to their comfortable life, once she found out all the horror underneath and around it. There was, quite literally, no way to be carefree in New Sparta. It seemed to Will that the place ran on care and concern, worry and want. He had to get away from it. He’d try his best to convince Rachel of that, but there was no way he was staying there another day.

  Later, running in the shade of some woods, he saw a huge crowd of dead people shuffling along the road to the city. They were all dressed in the funny striped shirts. Will kept moving, observing them as he went. Was Lucy in that group? No way he could go down there and find out. Even if they were dead people partly under the control and command of the living, a crowd of a hundred was nothing to fool around with. And what would Lucy be like now, anyway? How much human flesh had she eaten, and what effect had that had on her? Will felt sick when he thought they could be feeding her bits and pieces of Mike tomorrow. If he were growing increasingly confused and confounded by how Rachel acted in the city, how much worse would it be to see what Lucy turned into, under the influence of these people? If he did manage to get her out, would he ever be able to trust her or turn his back on her after this? All her hard work, all her self-control, and maybe they’d turned her back into a monster. Will picked up his pace and determined to get her out, regardless.

  Sliding down an embankment that would keep him out of sight of the shambling horde, Will found that he still had the clarity he needed to confront such questions. Rachel was only alive now because Lucy had sacrificed her own safety and happiness. Fuck all of New Sparta’s rules about credit and fees and interest and loans: the debt they owed that woman was the only one that had to be repaid, no matter what.

  Garrett had been correct about Will not getting back until after dark. But as he walked through the checkpoint at the city gate, his fear increased way beyond what it had been out in the wilderness with dead people all around. The place was noisy and it stank, though the rain that had started falling slightly improved the smell. Will didn’t know how he and Rachel had ever tolerated it here, let alone how they could’ve go
tten so used to it, so enamored of all its offerings, so tolerant of all its demands.

  Rachel wasn’t at the house when he got there. He found a note from her, that she’d gone to the Dead End with Ken and a guy from work. Will tried to think of how to deal with this unforeseen complication. Also, he admitted to himself, he had to restrain his rising anger and jealousy. The jealousy was just him being childish. And the anger? Well, that was more reasonable, since she’d gotten so obsessed with all the fun to be had in the city. But now, he felt sure she’d understand how wrong it was, once he explained what he’d seen happen today. They’d pack what they could carry and be out of there in the morning. There’d doubtless be all kinds of paperwork to fill out, but she’d help him with that ordeal and they could plan on how to get Lucy and Truman back. So he just needed to focus on that, on what he’d tell Rachel when she got home and how they’d clear out the next day.

  Will was in the kitchen, shoving cans of food into a duffel bag of clothes when Rachel came in, panting, soaked from the rain. She sounded like she’d been running for some time. She glanced at him, then bent down to grab her thighs as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Rachel, where’d you run from?” Will asked, all his other concerns pushed aside once he thought there might be a problem with her. “What’s wrong?”

  “From—Dead—End,” Rachel gasped, separating each word with a pant. “It’s—long—ways.—Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Catch your breath and we’ll talk. We’ve got to talk.”

  Will gave her a few seconds. As her breathing slowed, she stood up all the way and grabbed his shoulder. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said.

  “What?” Will said. “What happened? I thought you liked it here.”

  “I did. But I saw Truman. He was in some kind of carnival they have set up there. They were torturing him. Electrocuting him, over and over. God, it was awful, and the people thought it was all fun. Even Ken said it was no big deal, and I used to think he was so nice and thoughtful. I couldn’t believe what they were doing. I was sure they were gonna kill him right in front of me and it’d be my fault. I finally ran up and yelled at them to stop, but we have to get him out of there.” She grabbed his shoulders. Her eyes were wet, and not just from the rain. “We have to. Right away.”

  “Okay. But it’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

  Rachel sniffled, then lowered her brows. Will had never noticed she looked prettier when she was angry, but he was quite struck by it now. “No, it is,” she said in a harsh tone. “I was too stupid and gaga over this place. Please, please, you have to help me get him out of there. And Lucy too. Oh God—I almost forgot about her, and she’s probably in a bad place, too. We have to do this. Right away. Tonight. Not waiting around and making plans and talking about it. Just doing it.”

  “I think I saw Lucy,” he said. “I was running back from where we were foraging and I saw a crowd of dead people on patrol. She might’ve been in there.”

  “Wait—running? Why were you running back? What happened?” She’d expressed concern for him before, of course, when he’d talk about work, but it sounded so much more passionate and real tonight.

  “One of the other guys was bitten, and they wanted me to shoot him. I couldn’t, so I just left them out there. I didn’t want to have to deal with them and all their craziness anymore.”

  “That’s terrible.” Rachel let go of him and seemed to deflate, her shoulders dropping and her sinking. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a quieter voice. “God, I’ve been so stupid. It’s my fault all of you are in all these different messes now. I don’t know how any of you can forgive me.”

  “You were sick and we had to take care of you,” Will said, touching her shoulder. “That’s not your fault. I know.”

  “No, but everything since is. I was spoiled and wanted to stay. I was comfortable and lazy. I’ve been such a selfish bitch.”

  “You didn’t know what was going on. They hide the bad stuff. That’s why I ran, too.” Will paused, biting his lower lip. “They weren’t just going to shoot the other guy. I know some people don’t want to get up and walk around after they die. You even talked about that, when you were sick. But they wanted the body so they could sell it and feed it to dead people. That was too much for me. They hid those kinds of things from us, or you would’ve wanted to leave sooner. So don’t feel so bad, Rach.”

  Rachel opened her mouth, and even went as far as heaving a little, before turning and covering her mouth with the back of her hand. When she turned back, she still looked sick and ready to vomit, but some of the anger and determination had returned. “All right,” she coughed. “You’re packing? We need to do this now.”

  “Yes. Just food and clothes.”

  “Good. I don’t want anything else from here.”

  Will still didn’t know how this was going to work out, but with that response, his doubts and anxiety about her vanished.

  Chapter 33: Lucy

  The women shuffled into their home after the feeding, the smell of the blood clinging to them. Even though she’d only had the one piece, it felt to Lucy as though a strand of it was stuck between every one of her teeth, while the rest of it remained a burning lump in her gut. She’d run her tongue all around her mouth, all night, over and over, but always the phantom, wriggling little bits of evil would still be there when she was done. She’d never eat slop like that again. The next time she tasted blood, she was going to make sure it was done right—pure and passionate, like a consecration and not a vile poisoning.

  Sometime in the night Lucy heard a light rain falling on the roof. She sat there with Carole and Christine in their usual spots, saying nothing, their individual shame and weakness slowly giving way by morning to the fragile strength of the bond between them.

  Lucy walked out front just as the sun rose. It had stopped raining, though there were still puddles on the ground from the night before. She paused to look up at the guard tower and was greeted by a whistle. The one who liked her body so much was still on duty. Yesterday’s show hadn’t been enough, apparently. No, he’d want something more elaborate and personal before he’d leave her alone. She slowly unbuttoned the big, striped shirt and kind of swayed, as though to music. Of course, in her mind there was music—the fourth movement of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony—slow, with only strings at first. She remembered the piece perfectly, vividly. She should, she’d played and listened to it so many times.

  With her eye closed, the whole scene didn’t even seem so bad, with that internal soundtrack to keep her mind occupied and entranced. Lucy let the shirt fall partly open, careful to keep her maimed left breast covered, and only reveal the firm, round, smooth right one. The morning air felt cool and damp, but the sun was already shining brightly enough that it deliciously warmed her face and bare skin. She cupped her right breast with her hand, sliding her palm up and over it, then slipping it back down to take her nipple between her forefinger and middle finger. She repeated this motion several times, still with her eye closed, as the symphony’s movement progressed and picked up pace.

  She could’ve continued this quite pleasantly to the end of the piece, but she heard a snore and a groan and that broke her reverie. It was early enough in the morning that the other men might still be asleep and she couldn’t help but think how her unwanted admirer might actually be masturbating to her display. Though Lucy couldn’t articulate why that’d be wrong, exactly, she knew instinctively that it was so sufficiently disgusting that no music, no matter how sublime, could drive the thought from her mind, or let her overlook the way she had to degrade herself for their amusement. Lucy turned and bent at the waist, hiking her shirt up, and then hooking her thumb on the top of her pants to push them down a bit. She slowly ran her left hand in circles over her buttocks, then lightly smacked it a couple times. Hopefully, that’d finally be enough to satisfy him, whatever he was doing, so she stood up and continued walking around the corner of the house.

  Once she was
out of sight of the guard tower, Lucy buttoned her shirt back up. She went around the house, retrieving the pot she’d put under one of the drain spouts. Holding it behind her back, she slinked to the front of the house and returned inside. Thankfully no one stopped her or demanded anything this time.

  The light had increased enough that Lucy could see the other two women in the living room. Lucy grabbed a rag as she went over to Carole first. Bending down, she cleaned the woman’s face with the wetted rag, wiping off all the blood, scrubbing her chin especially, where the stains were stubborn and caked on. Lucy turned and did the same for Christine, who looked at her more quizzically than Carole had. It was harder with Christine—she was more jowly and the blood had dried thicker in the creases of skin.

  Christine grunted and wiped her face on the back of her sleeve. “Huh. When did you get so into being clean?” she asked.

  Lucy sat next to her and started wiping around her own mouth, though she suspected there wasn’t nearly as much on her. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just felt like it. The sun’s out.”

  Christine reached for the pot. “Nothing special about that. You want me to do yours?”

  “Sure. Do what you can.”

  Christine helped clean Lucy off and handed the pot back to her. Lucy looked down at the water. It was stained pink from dipping the bloody rag into it. Lucy sniffed, and it still smelled mostly like rain water, fresh and cold. She raised the pot to her lips and sipped. The metallic taste of the blood and the foulness of the rag did little to obscure the sensation of the water’s purity. She swirled it in her mouth before swallowing. Her mouth finally felt clean.

  “Take,” she said, offering it to Christine. “Drink it. It’s not bloody.”

  Christine grunted again. “It’d taste better if it were,” she said, but drank anyway. She passed it on to Carole, who took some as well before setting the pot down.