by Logan Keys
“Thanks!” said the Judge; “a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah me!
That I the Judge’s bride might be!
“He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
“My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.”
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
“A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.
“And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.”
But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
And his mother vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
God Pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”
— 67 —
At first I think it’s Cory that’s come back, but then I realize a more wily zombie has climbed through the window to get at me where I sit.
He’s realized his luck and speeds up, mouth bloody. My hand won’t work long enough to do more than grip my gun. Too bad it’s at my side and useless. If I fire now, it will go through my leg.
Just when I’ve decided to put some holes into myself and speed up the process, Cory’s outline appears. He shoots the stiff, making head pieces land in my lap, while Vero hops through, diving beneath the heavy layer of smoke.
She bends down next to me, touches my head, and her hand comes away with blood. Must be why I’m such a bump on a log.
I try to stop her, but her hands light up anyway.
Slowly, my hearing returns. “Stop, Vero. . . . Stop.”
“Let me help.” Her face drains pale as she finishes.
I sit up, achy, but repaired. And I’m still holding onto her.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I say.
Vero wipes the blood from my face. “Me, too.”
“Guys,” Cory says, and we both turn to see that other stiffies have figured out where the live ones are at.
Two fall through the window, and more burst through the half-burned door. They flood into the room, and Cory, Vero, and I pick them off, one by one, until the pile of undead keeps the doorway blocked. We focus on the window.
“Better hope none of these guys are bombers,” Cory calls over his shoulder.
I nod, but keep firing.
“Let’s get out of here.” Vero yanks on me until I see her pointing toward the stairs.
In a fire, “up” is the worst way to go, but . . . like we have a choice.
We run to the second floor, Cory at the front, myself at the back. Vero’s weak and slow, and guilt turns my stomach as her feet stumble against the edges of the steps, hands sprawled out to catch herself.
The second floor has a balcony, where we finally escape the smoke. The remainder of the team fights on the street below us. They’re completely surrounded—at least a hundred soldiers in the group—but zombies line the blocks in all directions, thousands more funneling this way.
All those good men and women down there will be torn apart, and I’m helpless to do anything but watch.
Another explosion shakes our building, but it’s done by one of ours who’s decided to kamikaze out versus being eaten. He blows a hole through the stiffies’ ranks, and the rest use the space to trailblaze out of being surrounded.
And they keep on, until they’re out of sight.
The main door to our floor starts to bang.
“What do we do?” Cory asks.
“The roof,” I say.
Vero’s eyes round at my plan. In a burning building, the roof will be first to go. Again, though . . . what choice is there?
We use the balcony railing, boosting one another up, before I start to scale the side in rock climber fashion. The door gives before I’m finished, and the undead pile out onto the balcony, reaching for my dangling legs.
Vero and Cory have to drag me the rest of the way.
The roof’s flat with no way down, except for a concrete pool dive, hold the water. Still, we search all four sides more than once.
Finally accepting the inevitable, we sit against the wall to wait.
Cory’s down a ways from us, though I ignore the urge to thank him for saving me. For sure he’s got some angel on his side, but he owed me after the Murphy incident.
Vero takes a swig from her canteen before handing it to me.
I drink the water in large gulps, forcing myself to stop. My throat feels blistered.
Watching me, she laughs. “At least the suckers can’t—”
The roof collapses, and she disappears.
“Vero!”
Immediately, I dive for the hole, nearly sliding through. The shingles have caved in, and the smoke screens all but the flames. I rush back to the side and scramble down onto the balcony.
I’m shoulder to shoulder with stiffies who latch onto me.
“Vero!”
Heat sears my face as I press forward through the hands that threaten to tear me apart. With twists and yanks and shots fired at the closest, I discover a second hole in the floor. She’s fallen through two stories!
It’ll be a miracle if she’s still alive.
“Veronica!” My voice cracks on the last part of her name, and I shove stiffies down the stairs toward the first floor.
A big one locks his arm around my throat and bites the side of my neck.
“Dammit!” Kicking free, hot blood running down my back, I jump from the middle of the stairs to crowd-dive over a group of zombies gathered like a poorly constructed concert of drunks.
When I land, we all topple into the fire, and my pants catch. Another stiffie bites a hole in my arm for good measure, while the heat melts my ACU’s to me.
“Vero!” My eyes stream with tears, and I shoot as many zombies as I can without a clear sight. “Vero!”
Another grabs onto me, hold firm and mouth bloody from eating recently.
I picture Vero’s grey eyes, and I shove my knife through his eye socket. As he falls, I glimpse the bomb strapped to his back . . . just in time to catch a load of shrapnel in the gut when he explodes in half.
— 68 —
My dinner’s cold when the servant brings it. In my guest room, lights flicker from the distant explosions, while dust particles float in the rays of t
he window’s sunlight, knocked loose from all of the shaking.
Not only has the battle continued, but today, it’s also redoubled.
A man I haven’t seen since my first night in captivity at the mansion brought my food tray this evening. Rolling up his sleeves after setting my meal down, he shoots me a glance, then turns to leave. The spider on his forearm is tiny, but clear.
So the Skulls have planted themselves here.
My spirits rekindle, but I keep my face impassive as the door closes behind him. I still don’t know if I’m being watched.
Sleep avoids me, though I’m extra warm when night falls. I wasn’t allowed to see Jeremy today, probably because of those close explosions. Nevertheless, I kick under my covers with a muffled “yahoo.” I’m excited about their progress. What if they win? What if the Skulls take over Anthem?
Pride blossoms in abundance at my having played my small part.
Somewhere close to dawn, my eyes finally close. The softness of the mattress lulls me while I watch the window. No explosions light the night tonight, but soon.
A single whispered word wakes me from the blackness of my rest, “Liza . . .” as the covers slowly glide down my legs.
“Whuh. . . ?”
A chilled hand covers my mouth, making me squeak.
“Shh. . . .” Jeremy’s pressed a finger to his lips and pinches mine shut. Through the dark, his purple eyes shine, and he motions with his head, mouthing: “The bathroom.”
By the hand, he leads me in and onto cold tile, then closes the door softly behind. My shirt isn’t long enough to cover my underwear, though shadows hide my bare legs. The downward jumping of Jeremy’s gaze tells me his night vision’s adjusted fine.
Too late for modesty. So, with a hand on my cocked hip, I grin, although my boldness keeps him from looking directly at my face.
“What are you doing here?” My skin leaps while I shout in a whisper, “I saw a Skull! Are there more? What are you doing!”
He nods and pulls his hoodie back to reveal thick brown hair that’s mussed. “They’re coming—soon. I’m sneaking out right now to give Crystal a message. We won’t have much time before they realize I’m gone. But . . . I had to see you, Liza. Make sure you were okay.”
My sucked-in breath is loud, and Jeremy claps his hand to my mouth again. I grab it, hold onto it. “Sorry,” I whisper. “But what will they do when they catch you! Jeremy, what if they hurt you?”
“I have to try. Now’s the only chance to let them know when it’s best to strike. But first, I . . . I needed to tell you something, just in case . . .” He steps closer, forcing me to look up. “Liza, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me . . . to this place, really. I just—”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Listen—”
“Tell me you’ll be careful—”
“Would you just listen to me for one damned minute?”
“It’s a bad idea!”
“Shh.”
My growl this time is cut off by hard lips—frustrated, cold, unyielding—and they press until I give in, silenced. But then, I grip him like a lifeline. I’m scared—really scared.
And he is, too.
“St . . . ay.” A hiccup interrupts the word.
He shakes his head and kisses me harder.
More hiccups. “Don’t . . . do . . . this.”
Jeremy invades my mouth to keep me quiet with a desperation that claws into my core. He knows the risk. He won’t change his mind. Our hands tangle and weave together, and I back into the sink, where he props me up onto the edge so we’re more at a level with one another.
Even.
Equal.
Our feelings finally meet in a perfect apex—exact.
I break away to breathe. “I’m serious, Jeremy.” And tears threaten, fighting their way to the surface. “You’ve been acting so strange here. What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you everything, okay? I promised things . . . for you, for everyone. My father has to think I’ll do what he wants, understand? Shh, Liza. . . . Hey, don’t cry.”
“I’m not!” I smack the teardrops away. “You shoosh!”
“We don’t have much time. Let’s not argue. I want . . . I was just going to say . . . be mine, Liza.”
A hiccup couples with a laugh. “I thought I was.”
“Good,” he says. “But I mean always.”
“Always” is perfect. “Always and forever” is wonderful. But “always” isn’t so long in Ash City. Anxiety and fear stiffen me, and when I don’t answer right away, doubt makes him frown while the purple glow dies a little.
“Yes. Of course.” My words coax the flame back into him. “Jeremy, how could you think otherwise?”
He grins—impossibly, incredibly, just like always. And then I kiss that grin . . . because it’s mine.
But what if—
Jeremy sighs, hugging me to him, and we sit like that for a moment before we finally pull away. Time is short.
Anthem doesn’t give any more seconds than she has to.
“Why can’t I go with you?”
His hands on my arms tighten to the point of pain. “No. It’s going to be dangerous enough if they catch me. . . . Promise me you won’t try to follow me, Liza.”
I won’t make this any harder for him. He’s going to be lucky to get to the Skulls and back in one piece. I nod.
That relaxes him some.
The walk to the window is cold—freezing—and my teeth chatter. But it’s not just the cool night; dread tightens my muscles, making me quake. This is like walking to the hangman’s noose. This is pain in my middle.
This is goodbye.
For now. . . .
Just for now.
Jeremy begins his climb down, then sucks his teeth like he’s forgotten something, and we play “Romeo and Juliet” in the window’s moonlight. I lean over to hear while he hangs onto the lattice, just as I’d dreamed as a girl a hundred times.
No more poetry, though. Instead, he asks for my hand.
With a frown, I reach out, and he writes on it.
“Don’t look at it until I’m gone.”
“Sure.”
I’m smitten. Scared. Terrified. And one hundred percent in love. My hiccups come barely a breath between; they’re silly, loud, embarrassing, and I’m completely out of control.
Apparently, the world’s ending didn’t merit this type of reaction, though most assuredly, the thought of the end of Jeremy does.
After he leaves, I wait as long as I can bear before I read my palm.
I love you
My heart melts, and so does my vision in tears of joy and pain.
He had to do it this way. Jeremy Writer, as he’s wont to do, he had to write it.
— 69 —
Attacks increased after the night he came to my window, so they’ve made me stay in my room. Asking about Jeremy does no good. Demanding to see him goes unanswered. Finally, jumping on a guard, hoping my super strength visits to aid me only resulted in their threatening to drug me.
Apparently, my strength is normal unless I’m on the verge of death or something, because I’d girl-slapped his helmet, then bounced onto my butt like the tiny nothing that I am.
Explosions and gunfire are ever-present now. Even yells in the distance. They’re not too far away.
But I’m sick with worry and pacing my room, because I can think about only one thing at this moment: the boy I love—even more importantly, the boy who loves me—had climbed out through my window and disappeared into the void of Anthem’s upheaval.
And I’ve not seen him since.
My window stays open, but none of my sleepless nights are interrupted by him.
I’ve had plenty of time to think on it. What we share. Our love isn’t the sic
k and sticky splendor of teenage ardor, I’ve realized. It’s sharp, slicing—a knife to the heart, followed by the quick stitching of its two halves back together again.
I want to live for this boy.
I want to kill for this boy.
Thus, the insanity perpetuates.
A painfully shocking redesign of my insides. Before: Jeremy and Liza. Now: Jeremy slash Liza.
Purple-eyed and blue-eyed, level and manic, balancing one another in ways we’d never known. My hand still bears Jeremy’s three words in scrawled, pretty writing—untouched, unwashed. And I’d have it tattooed, if it could be managed.
Reading it a million times does nothing but reinforce the craziness I’ve submitted myself to.
First, three days passed by.
Then a week.
Not knowing is the worst.
Not knowing is hell.
This is hell.
On the eighth day, my door unlocks, and there stands the Mouse King himself. “Come with me, my dear,” Reginald says.
“Where is Jeremy, you bastard!”
He ignores the hissing creature that greets him, and turns on his heel to leave.
Instructed to dress for company, I shove my shaky, angry limbs into the red gown and gather up the fabric in a tight, sweaty grip, wrinkling it instantly to run after the big rat.
A group of guards trail us past the empty dining hall to an office, where our leader motions to a chair and moves behind his desk to sit. “I’d offer you a drink,” he says while pouring himself a glass of something golden, “but I will not waste my maids on another night of scrubbing floors.”
His lavish furnishings glow, the polish of the cherry wood catching the firelight. It’s chilly again tonight. Anywhere else in the world, this setting would be warm and inviting, instead of masking the cold and calculating.
This man’s barely said anything directly to me before now, which shows his dark wisdom. His message is loud and clear: I’m only important when he deems me so, and my regard is measured out by his attention. My side has no leverage . . . or do they?
Except, for some reason he hasn’t killed me. Hasn’t even laid a finger on me. Could his only hope to quell the uprising lie with us? Me and Jeremy?
