by Logan Keys
Reginald lifts a stack of papers with handwriting that’s flourished and precise. The same perfect letters that are scrawled across my palm. Clenching my fingers, I push the fear down, stuffing it away for later. He holds Jeremy’s demands before placing them on his desk.
He lights a cigar, lifts the stack again, and puffs, cheeks hollowing. Bringing the paper to the cherry glow at the end, he holds the corner to it until the pages catch fire.
Silence envelopes us as we watch them burn. Then, he tosses them into the fireplace. The cinders of our demands still smolder while we wait, unmoving, like in a staged performance: the Mouse King in his chair, pleased and plump; the guards at my back, frozen and waiting for commands; and me, not so still or pleasant, but rather vibrating with anger.
Weakness threads through my voice. “Where’s Jeremy?”
He ignores my question. “Those papers had the word ‘rights’ on just about every page. Once upon a time, we supported everyone’s rights, and we ruled ourselves into uselessness.”
“Where. Is. He.”
Reginald goes on, like I’m not even in the office. “Our history is littered with poverty; people dying from starvation and sickness. Do you want to see that happen again? Have you noticed any of that in Anthem?”
“Hiding it doesn’t truly make it gone.”
“It’s under control.”
“The mantra of a dictator.”
Vile lips smile, and it frustrates me to notice their commonality to Jeremy’s; his bottom lip is heavier than the top, same as his boy’s. “Liza, we would have forced ourselves into extinction. I’m about survival, above all else.”
“This was caused by desperation. You can’t heap more over-reaction to follow and expect abundance.”
“You’ve been fed lies, girl.”
“I’ve been given a front row seat to your truths, old man. No thanks. We fought our way from death and tyranny before, and we can do it again. Now I ask you one more time: where is Jeremy?”
Reginald snorts. “So the tiny tot from the Upper East Side of Manhattan knows what the world needs? She makes demands, shouts me down like a proper revolutionary, eh?”
That word: Manhattan. It’s like a memory, and nothing more.
But hearing it for the first time in so long jolts me from my sleeper state, and I’m suddenly dizzy with fury. “Dictatorship swooped in when we were too weak to fight, when we were too broken to remember who we were. But the people are awake now. They want to cut you up and use you for bait. When they get here, and they will . . . I’ll be first in line to watch them tear you apart.”
“Dictatorship? Such youthful ideals. Will you tell me that money’s the root of all evil, too? Greed can’t ever outwit the want for eternity, my dear; living forever far outweighs that. The people of Anthem don’t hate me. They hate the place they’ve put themselves in.”
“Eternity?” I say. “Is that what you call it? Becoming a zombie isn’t a way to live. And here, Anthem City, is no place to live. I wouldn’t want another two hundred years like this if you’d paid me. How’s that for lack of greed and want for immortality?”
He rubs his mustache, eyes black and beady, narrowing on me. “Not the zombies. We’re this close to making it a reality for everyone to live like they do. What? You haven’t heard? Jeremy didn’t tell you?” His rat mouth quirks, and I’m back to wondering if they are even related. “I can see why he likes you,” Reginald says, as if reading my mind. “But you don’t know what it’s like to age and wilt, and leave the world to a younger, dumber generation; to watch them waste precious youth and resources. People don’t really know what they need; they have to be told.”
“Says every communist before Hitler, till now.”
“Agreed. But not all of their ideas were bad.”
“And not every rabid animal was always so.”
“Touché.”
I stand. “But they must be put down all the same.”
“Sit. Now.”
A guard hammers a hand onto my shoulder, forcing me to sit. I fight the urge to spit on the Mouse King’s desk. “Every emperor who built his empire on the backs of slaves had something to show for it. The pyramids can be seen from space, but was it worth millions of lives?”
Reginald leans back in his chair. “A humanitarian, and worldly. I like it. But do you see a kingdom here?”
“One in ashes, but yes . . . I do.”
“Your father was Jiles Randusky, was he not? You know, I saw him play once. Ah . . . I do so love the surprise on your face to know that I, like you, am human and indeed have a history outside of . . . this.” He gestures around. “Your father was a miracle in front of the piano. I imagine that you and I had probably passed one another on the street once or twice. How small a world, eh? What say you join us in this part of the city and gift us with your music, Liza? I could give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”
My anger leaves in a breath, replaced by sadness. “I was sick,” I tell him. My voice is distant, hoarse, and I stare at nothing. “No one cared what I had to offer when I had cancer. You despise the sick, treat them like animals, fear death so damned much, you never looked around to see you had no life here. What it was . . . what we had . . .” Black hatred and shock tinges my words in a whisper. “Mimi.”
There’s pure pleasure in seeing Reginald pale upon hearing her name, so I say it again.
“Mimi—Melissa. How can you even look at yourself? You’re the devil!”
His face pinches, and he stabs out his cigar, snuffing it like so many lives he’d shipped off, including his youngest daughter’s. Reginald leans forward, teeth bared, while the bones beneath the skin press tightly like they’re trying to leave. “When they’re full of disease, this is how they’ll be treated. They cost us so many resources out there on their private little vacation!”
I cackle, witch-like and dry, my own teeth bared. “It’s never too expensive to be a good human being. Nothing costs greater than being evil. Kindness is free, you bastard! Being a great father to your child is easily the cheapest thing on earth!” I bolt to my feet, and a guard grabs my arms to stop me from lunging across his desk. “You have a daughter! Had—maybe she’s gone already . . .” I shake the guard away and cover my mouth at the horror of that thought alone. Dead. Mimi’s face, tiny and significant, brings a fresh dread. “A beautiful little girl. She’s sick, not inhuman. She’s alone—scared! You could go get her at any time!”
The guard forces me back into my seat, but I’ve already wilted anyway, sniffling and wiping my eyes. I face the black, night-filled window, where a flash blossoms, and in it are small, barely visible people—a legion of them running up the grass, hunched and hiding.
My gaze snaps to Reginald.
The Skulls, or whoever is with them, are at our doorstep already.
Had he seen them?
But Reginald’s lighting another cigar and hasn’t noticed.
Nonchalantly, he says, “My son has always fancied himself a poet. The day he gave me his first book of poetry, do you know what I did?”
I force myself not to glance at the window again, even though it’s like a burning ache in my sternum to ignore the visual proof of freedom at our gates.
“I threw it into the fire,” he continues. “After reading every single word, I burned it, and then I sent him to be purged. That book. The fire. It’s what gave me the idea. His first poem even said ‘poison in the veins.’ He’s a brilliant boy, even if he is willful.”
Reginald laughs haughtily and slaps his thigh.
“Is that what you’ll do to me?” I ask, trying to distract him.
“Certainly,” he says. “One way or another. Do you know what the purging is?”
Curiosity drives me to reply. “Some say it’s spider venom.”
He scoffs. “Oh, no. That would be . . . useless. Let me explain
. Have you seen any of the resuscitated dead up close, what they really look like? The idea is to basically short circuit the brain, except for a few parts. Despite the rumors, they’re not as dead as we’d like to believe. It only seems that way because they fight a constant battle of rigor mortis.” He grimaces, and my stomach spins. “Nasty business.”
Then, Reginald holds up one finger, like his points need help being made. “But! If you’d seen it in the small stages, the early infections . . . Oh, how to explain . . . This mutation of cells, whenever it happens in a microscope, it’s like lightning in a bottle—in a body. The change happens like that.” And he snaps his fingers. “So, I got to thinking: what if there was a way to slow down this process? This, I wanted to know most of all. So we tried it by purposefully introducing it into the bloodstream a bit at a time through breaking the virus down to almost nothing.”
My jaw drops.
“Sure, we learned it has side effects, that the patient will eventually turn into a zombie at a much later date. But at just the right ratio . . . ah well, it’s certainly a thing of beauty. Loss of pain, lack of resistance, and stiffening. Best of all, incredible strength. Almost impossible to kill.”
I grip my face, hands shaking. “What do you mean they turn into a zombie. . . ?”
He shrugs, as if it’s no consequence. “They always turn eventually, no matter what.”
“Even after one time?” My middle is hollow and echoes with each word.
His smile is nothing short of evil. “Even after one drop, my dear. Shall I give you a demonstration?” He gestures to the guard who was holding my arms before. “Remove your helmet.”
My eyes spring open. I’ve never seen them without helmets, except for that one who’d attacked me, but he was already a zombie. This one’s unlatching the black visor with a pop, lifting it to release a familiar thatch of floppy brown hair that just touches his brow.
Eyes of purple haze watch me impassively.
— 70 —
The world burns. Orange skies blend into purple ones, while the ocean laps peacefully in the distance. I walk into the soothing green.
But what I thought was the ocean turns out to be the lake by my farm. Somehow, I’m back home again.
I roll my pants up and wade out.
“Tommy,” my sister calls to my back. “Dad’s gonna be mad if you don’t go help them with the well.”
I shrug.
After she leaves, I take in the tranquility with a sigh. It feels like forever since I’ve truly been at peace, and this is serene. The sun’s almost set, and the sky has turned a perfect blue, like time has rolled all the way back.
“Remember this?”
I pivot to find Daisy standing there, only she’s not a zombie anymore but her old self. The other had been the dream.
This version’s true.
She grabs my hand. “We used to hang out here for hours. I never wanted to go home, and you never wanted to do chores.”
“It was perfect.”
“Yeah.”
I frown down at the water. Something feels missing, some important puzzle piece I should know about, yet when I focus too hard, it flits away.
Daisy pulls me around to face her, linking her other hand with mine. “But we aren’t here, Tommy, and we never will be again. You need to wake up. Please. Wake up.”
I stare back in confusion as her face greys, her lips turn blue, and red blossoms around her green irises again.
“Wake up!”
My eyes snap open. Vero’s sitting over me. She’s panting while blood drips from her face and onto mine. “Wake up, Tommy! Wake up!”
Behind her lurch zombies, too many to count.
And fire.
Pain, a relentless sizzling, biting pain jolts like lightning through my legs, my neck, my stomach, and my back.
It peaks, and my vision shrinks.
“No, no, no!” Vero shakes me. “Wake up!”
I do, and the pain is gone, replaced by a feeling of freezing over. I’m so cold.
I tell her this, and she places a hand to my cheek, eyes filling with tears, mouth moving so fast nothing comes out of it.
I feel as though I’m smiling.
I want to touch her face, but can’t seem to move.
She kisses my forehead, and even though I can’t feel it, I’ll never underestimate that gesture again. Warmth spreads into that spot and down through me like hot cocoa.
That’s when I realize it’s her Special; her hands are lit up.
“No,” I manage to say.
She draws her lips close to my ear. “Let . . . me . . . help,” she chokes out. “I love . . . you.”
When the heat dissipates, Vero slumps over, head on my lap, blood oozing from a gash on her head. I sit up and grab her by the shoulders. She has too many scrapes and bites to count, and her eyes are closed, mouth softly open.
“No, Vero, no, don’t do this! Please wake up!”
I pull her close.
“Vero, don’t go.”
But when I search for a pulse, I find none.
And that’s when I start to transition.
— 71 —
Blackness swallows me, and I let it.
Wind on my face. I’m running. He’s running, the monster.
A warm splatter.
Then . . . nothing.
I come to myself feeling wet. My cheek scratches on a gritty surface, and my body moves without effort. Liquid flows over my face, into my nose and mouth—I choke on it.
Salt burns my sinuses.
I wake, sputtering and coughing. It’s long past dark on the beach and I’m lying on my side on the sand.
The water rushes toward me, and I’m submerged again.
I let it roll me out, and then back in again.
My ragged memory fills in the blanks: The ship. Joelle. The fight. Vero. She’d sacrificed herself for me. I sit upright with a choked sound; my legs are too weak to stand. The shoreline’s empty. No idea how long I’d been in transition.
A distant explosion on the water erupts, then a bright light floats so far off, it’s a mere dot.
Takes me a moment to realize what it is.
Our ship has been blown up!
Uselessly, I gather enough strength to wade farther into the water, and even swim out, until a wave tumbles my weak body back toward the shore. I try again and again while water fills my lungs.
After another huge wave tosses me back to land, I hunch over in defeat, arms shaking, barely enough strength to stay sitting. I pound the sand with my fists, coughing up salt water.
The ship is nothing but a fading burn of wreckage in the distance.
“Joelle . . .” I say, over and over. “God, why!”
Home was supposed to be wonderful, a new beginning. It’s been a death sentence for everyone I care about in what’s left of this rotten place.
“Tommy. . . ?”
I clench my eyes shut against the weird dreams that threaten to take me.
“Tommy.”
Her voice is as clear as a bell.
“I’m so sorry, Joelle,” I mutter into my hands.
“Don’t be.”
I flinch, glance up.
Dressed in all white, like the ghost that she is, Joelle stands in the water. First Daisy, and now her.
Will I only have ghosts to keep me company?
She walks forward, and once she’s near enough, Joelle, as pale as crystal, reaches out to touch my shoulder. Her black eyes find mine, staring at me with so much sadness. When her freezing cold skin brushes against me, I try to edge away.
She snags my wrist and, lifting it to her face, Joelle rubs it like a kitten. Momentarily, I relax . . . until I feel stinging needles in my arm.
I crawl backwards on the beach. “What are you doing!�
� I’m so torn between excitement that she’s alive and fear that this is a trick, plus confusion over her wanting to bite me.
“Tommy, I’m sorry!” Joelle holds out her hands, trying to calm me. “I’m just so hungry—I didn’t mean it. I was happy to see you, but then . . . I keep thinking about . . . food—”
“You’re real?”
She nods, and the spell’s broken. I drunkenly leap to my feet to rush over and pull her into my arms. “How?” I ask, but I don’t really care.
I crush her to me.
“I was on the ship when it got gunned down,” Joelle says, muffled against my ripped shirt. “The water was cold, black, and terrifying. I sunk to the bottom, but even the crushing depths didn’t faze me, so I simply began to walk.”
I shudder at the image, hugging her again.
“Tommy . . .” Her voice is as reedy as ribbons. “I need to eat.”
Right then I realize just how close she is to my throat. I inch back. “I know, Jo, I know. We’ll figure it out. Let’s get out of here first. The Authority’s probably already scouring the area for survivors.”
And like magic, a spotlight appears on the water nearby. We jerk our gazes skyward to the helicopter. Authority insignias glow on each side.
“What do we do, Tommy!”
“Run.”
We make it to the boardwalk before zombies head us off, forcing Joelle and me to slide between buildings and down alleyways, trying to dodge the chopper. Joelle’s faster than I am, but having gone this long without food, she’s not half as quick as usual. We aren’t long for this race, and we dive into an empty building to decide what’s next. The searchlight shines around the windows, but at least this place has no undead inside.
“Wait—shhh.” I lay a hand on Jo’s arm. “Do you hear that?”
“What?—oh, yes I do!”
“It’s a radio. The team’s around here.”
The chopper follows us as we check each window in a weird game of pop goes the weasel. My gaze darts to Joelle, then to the chopper and back, weighing my options. “I’m gonna count to three,” I tell her. “You start running and don’t look back.”
“Why? What’re you going to do, Tommy?”
