Blue

by Brandy Wehinger

  ‘So pretty much your nanny taught you to be the person you are,’ she had commented. He had never thought of his life like that, but it was true — all the good memories of his life in the City involved only his sisters and Beth. He had never seen so clearly how distant his parents were from their children. Katie’s stories of her own family were very different from his. ‘My mother was an artist and an amazing baker. She’d spend hours decorating birthday cakes in a theme she thought would make us happy. One time, my brother had a SpongeBob cake, complete with yellow icing and gapped teeth, presented on a platter covered in plastic paper like blue water and surrounded with gummy sharks and chocolate fish.’ Elliot had no idea who a sponge or a gummy were, so Katie had to explain what a cartoon was, what kind of sweets were popular when she was young, even the idea of cake decoration. ‘The world was completely different,’ she said. ‘Not everyone was as spoiled as my brother and me, but many were. I think we took our easy lifestyle for granted. What I can’t believe is how much people in your colony either don’t know or have forgotten. Before the Plague, people had electricity, radio, cars, the internet and so on. You guys in the City don’t even use solar power.’

  The way she phrased that made Elliot pause and ask, ‘Do other colonies have power and cars? I’ve never heard of any other settlement with them.’

  Katie stared at him. ‘You know there are still uninfected humans all over the planet, right? There are not as many as before, but there are still lots of colonies like the one you come from.’

  ‘Yes … no. I know there are other people out there, but we’ve always been taught that they lived quite roughly.’

  ‘Some of them, yes.’ Katie could see how little Elliot understood of the world, and so carried on carefully. ‘But there are many places out there just as nice as your City, and a few of them even have electricity supplied by solar panels. They’ve got enough technology running that they can watch an occasional movie and listen to music. Nobody there really knows how to fix anything when it breaks, so I guess there will be less and less of it over time.’

  Elliot was mystified. How could his father not know about this? How could the teachers at Desert Camp not know?

  As if answering his thoughts, Katie said, ‘The desert group of humans in this part of the world have been cut off for a really long time. Not a great deal is happening out there, but even if it was, you guys would have to cover a lot of distance to get to another settlement. It seems, too, that your society has been organised so that you’ve never had to venture out.’

  ‘Have you been to these settlements?’

  ‘Kind of. Well, I spied on them a long time ago. I’ve been around a bit, and out of boredom have checked in on you humans from time to time. Mostly I just snuck into the cities, took what I wanted and then left quickly.’ Katie pointed to a painting that took up a fair amount of wall space and had been carefully positioned for ample lighting. ‘That is The Grand Canal, Venice, by Claude Monet, my favourite Impressionist. I stole it from one of the big city museums.’

  Elliot looked at its soft colouring, shades of blue and other colours smeared together into a watery image of a grand distant building surrounded by water and what appeared to be old poles. ‘Are those poles pieces of an old building that fell into the water? Or are they just dead trees?’

  Katie clapped her hands in delight. ‘Elliot! You’re a natural art critic!’

  Elliot smiled back, perplexed but enjoying her praise. ‘What?’

  ‘We don’t know everything. These Old Masters created questions with their work as well as beauty. That’s one of the reasons people stared at them for over a hundred and seventy years, and I’ve stared at them for the past fifty. I felt kind of bad when I took it, but oh well. No one else was appreciating it. Look, I’ve got other paintings here, and books — if you’re interested?’

  And so they sat for an entire evening, looking at books with pictures of the masterpieces from another age, candles illuminating the metal walls of the Tower, Katie wrapped in a luxurious silken robe, its hood nearly obscuring her face. Elliot’s imagination was taken to Italy, France and Spain, as Katie explained how each artist changed the way humans saw the world. He couldn’t believe the intricate history that had pulled people forward through the centuries, or how art was just one aspect of this story.

  Sitting with Katie in the Tower, Elliot could feel the history of the world behind him, but also felt the prospect of an amazing future in front of him. She was his future as much as these artists were the past.

  ROSE, late spring, 62 A. Z.

  Dear Diary,

  Yesterday I didn’t speak one word. Not one. There’s nobody to talk to! I ate every meal by myself because Jenny takes hers back to her room. There are only two servants left because Mother has fired everyone except the cook and one maid, and they are too busy to stop and talk. Mother and Father are always somewhere else. So when I was getting into bed last night I realised that I hadn’t actually spoken to anyone all day.

  I was thinking about Oscar and wondering how he’s doing — if he’s still going to the hang-out, if he knows what’s going on. A couple of days ago I asked Mother if I could write him a letter and she said, ‘Absolutely not! Stop being so dramatic and selfish.’

  Oscar and I have always been a team. We’ve kept each other safe from bullies, gossipers and mean cliques. He has always protected me from snotty, jealous girls with his clever, quick comebacks and by always being at my side. I’m not trying to sound arrogant, but sometimes other girls have a hard time relating to me because of who I am and what I look like. I’ve always been skinny, but now I’m tall, too. When I look at myself, I just see skinny legs and arms, but I guess others think I’m pretty.

  Oscar is handsome, too, but others don’t really pick on him for things like that. I think he’s always really careful, though, because he prefers to play with me rather than the boys. He’s still a guy, and strong and sporty and all that, but he is who he is. I miss my best friend.

  ROSE, late spring, 62 A. Z.

  SHE SAT IN her room, knees pulled up, a grey robe over her head. She’d been crying on and off for the past week and it had left her drained. When her father told her what the Council had decided to do with Elliot, she had felt the edges of her world darken, gather in. She had tried to speak, but nothing came out. Her knees had buckled and she fell to the floor, feeling a blackness cover her.

  This can’t happen. This shouldn’t happen. Why are they doing this?

  Hours later she had felt the numbness dissolve, to be replaced by a string of frantic thoughts, each the start of a new pathway, a new puzzle. But when she tried to find the next piece to fit the thought together, she would see in her mind only the next unconnected piece and the process would start again. It exhausted her, made her sick, but she was unable to control the fragments in her head that shouted, Look at me! Look at this! What about Elliot? He’s our blood. Does Father hate his children? Did Mother start this? Is this my fault? Are they joking? Can this be stopped? Why did the Leaders do this? Are they crazy? Am I?

  Tears spilled down her face until fatigue finally, blissfully, stopped her mind with sleep. But her sleep was filled with nightmares. People in black robes converged on her, trying to wrap her in their oily clothes, and when she looked into their faces she saw that their flesh was rotting, peeling back from their skulls.

  LUKAS, late spring, 62 A. Z.

  SURVIVING IN THE desert proved to be surprisingly easy, especially because he didn’t really need to eat or drink. Sure, he had got a bit thinner and shrivelled, and he felt lonely and a little strange within himself, but he wasn’t suffering and he wasn’t in any danger of dying. I’m already dead, he told himself. But he didn’t feel dead.

  Then one morning, many months after he’d last eaten, he had woken to find a rabbit sitting near him, noisily gnawing on some kind of seed pod. Lukas felt his mouth fill with saliva as he looked at it and was consumed with a sensation he had never felt before. He c
ouldn’t name it, but he imagined it was what predators felt: raw desire, focus, clarity, hunger. He craved meat. He lunged at the rabbit, but it squeaked in terror and leapt away.

  At Tree Sanctuary, meat had been a luxury and, when it was available, was mostly just chicken and never more than once a week. Now he knew he would have to learn to hunt.

  The desert was desolate but beautiful, its bronzed floor punctuated with humble but fierce vegetation, and the air was sweet with sage and baked earth. Lukas kept walking. He was alone except for the odd roaming Corpse. Lukas laughed to himself when one of them started walking beside him. In the forest, the Infected were almost always in small groups. Perhaps some part of them thought their odds of getting a meal were increased by moving in a pack?

  This Dead companion was a quiet fellow, except for the occasional moan and the slight dragging noise of one of his feet. He must have turned in the past ten years or so, because he was still dressed and his clothing partly intact. Lukas did not know why this Dead had, whether consciously or instinctively, decided to accompany him.

  Every day followed a similar pattern: Lukas would rise in the morning and start walking, and his tag-along Dead would follow. Lukas had no real reason to keep moving, no plan, but he felt compelled to stay in motion. The aimless wandering, the daily change in environment, seemed to sooth him for some reason, so he kept at it. So did his friend.

  Over a year had passed when Lukas saw his first living faces — riders on horseback were coming directly towards him: Gunslingers. What they would do when they got to him, Lukas had no idea. These professional Zombie killers didn’t seem like the type to ask questions and ponder his situation. Yes, I know — I look like a Corpse, but I promise I won’t bite you! Ha!

  It was better to avoid detection completely. He left his Corpse companion and headed for a nearby bush — scraggly and inadequate, but the only vegetation that could possibly serve to hide him. He threw down his backpack, crawled in as far as he could beneath the meagre branches, then placed his limbs at awkward angles, hoping that if he was noticed at all he’d appear like just another dead body.

  But as the riders came nearer, Lukas could see his Zombie friend get excited and begin to transform. The slow, dragging gait was replaced by the quick, darting movements of a crouching creature ready to spring and attack.

  Wow, Lukas thought, I was not expecting that. You’re a quick one.

  The first rider passed, and the Corpse made its move. The Gunslinger must have been daydreaming, but he was now wide-awake, frantically trying to pull his machete from its holster. The horse, knowing the danger, shied away, jumping sideways and unseating its rider. The other Gunslingers moved in to help. One of them ran his horse at the Corpse, which was nearly on top of the fallen rider, who was desperately trying to scramble away. The horse’s momentum smacked the Corpse on the shoulder, spinning it around, but did not stop its pursuit.

  An arrow sang out. The aim was true, penetrating the back of the Corpse’s head with a thick noise, its point exiting the eye socket with a squirt of viscous fluid.

  From his hiding place, Lukas studied the man who had shot the arrow: a black wide-brimmed hat and white-blond hair. Even more startling than his unusual gauzy hair was the incredible calmness in the man’s eyes. He looked almost serene, Lukas thought — though that was probably just the look trained killers or soldiers gained after years of danger.

  Lukas wasn’t certain, but he had a feeling the man in the black hat looked at him — directly. The man seemed even to lean forward in his saddle to have a better look. An interesting expression crossed his face — shock, at first, then a look of fear. He called out for the men to get moving, then spun his horse and rode away.

  Lukas stayed where he was. Could the man possibly fear him? The Gunslinger was the one with the weapons, while Lukas was pretending to be dead in a bush, unarmed. Perhaps he had simply imagined the expression on the Gunslinger’s face. But Lukas knew what he’d seen, and knew that the man in the black hat had told the other men to move out quickly because of Lukas’s presence.

  He’d have to be more careful in his movements and remain hidden from the humans from now on. He knew what he must look like to them: a six foot four inch, grey-skinned Dead who moved fast and was in good condition, albeit with one arm, and was therefore dangerous. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up with an arrow in his own skull. He’d start choosing less-travelled trails, ones with lots of brush for cover, and start camping in places humans wouldn’t go.

  Lukas looked out at the landscape, mostly open ground, with ancient rock formations and jagged cliffs in the distance. They were beautiful and impossible, boulders stacked atop each other, marked by the passage of time and wind. Lukas wriggled out of his hiding place, picked up his backpack and started walking.

  ROSE, late spring, 62 A. Z.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m having a problem putting things together, because I think … the Leaders are going to kill Elliot, but … Father is letting them take him for punishment because … I’m having a problem trying to put this together. If they get him, how …

  Mother is going to let them kill Elliot. She hates us. I hate her.

  Horrible. I’m horrible. I can’t save him. He doesn’t know they’re coming for him. He won’t know! If I could just … Stop. Stop. I’m having a problem putting things together. I don’t know …

  The dreams are the worst. No, the knot in my brain is. I can’t think. I can’t stop it. I’m having a problem trying to put …

  JESSY, summer, 62 A. Z.

  Dear Xavier,

  I’m not as sad as I was before, but I still hate it here. It’s either crazy or boring and everyone is grumpy — well, everyone except Owen and Virgil. They’re pretty nice and try to show me how to do things. Virgil is really quiet, but I think he understands how I feel.

  The marriage thing is ridiculous! I had no idea. My parents have never said anything about it, but I don’t think those kinds of rules apply to Gunslingers. Don’t worry about it, though. If that girl, Rose, is stupid, then don’t marry her. You can tell them to get lost and leave, move to another settlement, or even come be a Corpse killer with us. You’ll REALLY hate Ray, though.

  I’ve been getting better at my archery and ground skills. We were moving heavy supplies between two parts of a settlement that doesn’t have a good bridge system. We were on the ground and I was on guard at the rear when a Dead came out, moving pretty quickly. I was totally scared, but decided I’d try to kill it myself. It had been a lady once and was wearing a tattered, open-backed gown. She came at me fast and I used my machete to put her down. One strike! I was so proud.

  I got a good look at her after I knew she was really dead. Her face looked like it had been stitched together when she was alive. Her scars were really dark and pulled the skin down towards the bones of her skull on one side of her face. I think she must have been young when she was infected and, looking at the side of her face without the scars, might even have been pretty. She had a white bracelet on her wrist with her name: Letitia Coleridge. It’s strange to think of the Corpses as ever having been humans like us, with names even.

  Anyway, I think you should write to Rose and tell her what your parents told you. She should know the real reason you guys have been told to write to each other. Maybe she’ll freak out and her family will put an end to the stupid arrangement.

  I miss you.

  Jessy

  VIRGIL, late spring, 62 A. Z.

  VIRGIL HAD BEEN thinking about the man he saw lying under the bush pretending to be dead. It had been years since he’d seen a Blue, but the man’s unnatural, greyish-violet skin had been a dead giveaway. He was in poor shape, but definitely alive — or rather, wasn’t a Zombie — and had certainly been trying to hide from them. But if the Blue was smart enough to do that, it must be smart enough to know that humans would kill it without questioning. It understood danger and feared for its life.

  The Blue had looked nothing like his
brother, but Virgil couldn’t help thinking back to the last time he had seen Finus, his twin. Something about the long limbs arranged in strange angles and the castaway appearance of the body made him remember Finus when they left him. Virgil usually tried not to think about his brother — in fact, worked hard at forcing his mind to skip over thoughts that included him. The two of them had been mirror images of each other, both of them sharp shooters and keen horsemen. They worked as a team, hunting, on missions, and fought back to back. But even now, four years after he’d died, Finus was just there, asking to be remembered.

  The day Finus died had been strange from the start. The air had been oppressive and cold, with heavy black thunder-caps pushing the sky down, darkening the desert. Everyone in the crew was grumpy, tired from staying up late the night before, and the job they were on their way to do was probably a lost cause. The emergency note delivered by pigeon was dated a week earlier — the chance of the stranded group still being alive was minimal. A shaky hand had written that they were trapped in an old outpost, usually just a temporary stay-over place for Gunslingers. Only they hadn’t known how to roll the security gates, so their horses had been eaten. Luckily, they had a pigeon with them. Unluckily, it hadn’t flown directly to its destination. After a week of sheltering with nothing more than a thick door between them and the Corpses, the chances of the group still being alive were low.