Blue

by Brandy Wehinger

  It was going to be bloody.

  JESSY, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  I FELT EXCITED, yes, but also nervous and shy about seeing all the people who knew me and had loved me. I was a different person now. I wanted them to love me still, but sensed I would need to reintroduce myself to them, explain that I was no longer the soft and happy girl who had once played in the trees.

  I was almost to the platform, three rungs from the top, when I saw Xavier smiling down at me. Then something strange happened. My senses snapped to attention, my heart quickened and I felt my face burn with the warmth of blood. I wanted to look away from him, but it was as if I were seeing him for the first time. I recognised then what had been happening quietly and sweetly in our letters to each other. My best friend had found a place in my heart. I looked up and saw his soft eyes, his shy smile, his hands stuffed nervously in his pockets.

  I took a deep breath and pulled myself up the last few rungs and onto the platform. I can do this. Just act naturally. Xavier came towards me and, without hesitation, pulled me into his arms, hugging me.

  ‘So glad you’re home, Jessy.’

  I felt like crying, but I didn’t. That was the one thing Ray had taught me that was useful. Instead I swallowed and let Xavier’s arms hold me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I whispered. ‘Glad to see you, too.’

  VIRGIL, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  THE FILTERED GOLDEN light of the forest and the spicy, warm smell of the trees made Virgil feel as if he were in a dream. It was as different as it could be from the sharp light of the desert and the scent of minerals from the sun-cooked rocks. He would, he thought, miss only the fresh, slightly wild scent of the desert sage. Next time he went down the mountain, he’d make a point of gathering some of its seeds to see if he could grow it up here. But Virgil hoped he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a good while. He was exhausted and ready to stay put.

  The people of Tree Sanctuary had welcomed Owen and him to their community and offered them work as guards. They’d also be in charge of transport should anyone need to leave the Sanctuary. This seemed an easy deal to Virgil and he was looking forward to living a quieter, calmer life amongst the trees. The people here were nice enough, too. They were friendly, but didn’t press him to talk or crowd him. That suited him just fine.

  Owen seemed happy with his new home as well. Even now, Virgil could hear him laughing in the distance. He was probably having a giggle at the punchline of his own joke.

  Jessy was a little harder to read. She seemed settled, but Virgil had at first been surprised when she said she’d prefer to stay with Owen and Virgil on their platform, rather than return to her foster parents. She had shrugged her shoulders and didn’t offer an explanation. Perhaps, after all, her choice to live with a couple of retired Gunslingers was understandable. Many of the forest people were naïve about the world beyond their tree houses. They lived, for the most part, in happiness and safety. They’d experienced a few accidents on the ground, but were shielded from the harshness and violence of the world outside their sanctuary. Jessy knew the danger and hard reality of life amongst the Corpses too well now. She’d left a girl and come back a Gunslinger. No wonder she wasn’t trying to return to the life she’d had before becoming a professional Corpse killer.

  Jessy was back at school for some of the day, but was taking a few shifts as a guard as well. Some in the community had been sceptical about her ability to do the job and handle the responsibility of guarding the community. Jessy had simply declared her competence, and said nothing more. The fierce look in her eyes had convinced them, and she was given the role as a ‘special circumstance’.

  Mostly, the Sanctuary residents left the Gunslingers alone. Jessy seemed to like it, Owen was happy and Virgil felt grateful for the chance to rest. As always, he was sensitive to the world around him, tuned to sense danger. Everything seemed okay, safe. But he had a feeling … something was nagging on the periphery of his senses, whispering scary words he couldn’t quite hear.

  So Virgil cleaned his weapons and kept them nearby, ready.

  CHRIS, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  CHRIS HAD DECIDED it was more prudent to keep the prisoner in a secret room in a building not associated with the jail. But that meant Elliot was uncomfortably close to Chris’s own residence. When he looked out the windows of his office, his eyes would drift to the place where his son was imprisoned, and the knot in his stomach would leap into his throat.

  Now, up close, the sight of Elliot’s silent, sleeping form made Chris swallow back tears. He had not seen him like this since he had been brought in, and already he was regretting his desire to do so.

  He stood at the end of his son’s cot and examined him. He looked much younger and more vulnerable than he remembered, and much thinner. His closed eyes only added to the impression of innocence.

  Foolish, foolish boy, Chris thought. I did not raise you to be like this. No sense of duty, no sense of community, no pride in who you are. Instead, you became a romantic, an idealist, a naïve idiot. He sighed and looked away. In truth, I am the one who has failed. Long ago I should have taken the time to teach you what reality is, what really matters in this world — power.

  Chris knew this to be the one real certainty in his life: those with power will prosper and be happy; those without it will work and suffer. But to have power, one must make decisions, be calculating, make sacrifices. Somewhere I mis-stepped, Chris thought. I should have taught him this lesson as a father to a son. Instead I let the educators fill his head with idealistic knowledge and dreams.

  He looked again at Elliot’s sleeping face. ‘It is my failing as a father that has brought you to this point, my son,’ he whispered. Then he turned, closed the door and walked away. As he motioned to the guard to resume his position, he knew that, however hard he might try to suppress it, the image of his beaten and emaciated son would forever be burned into his memory.

  He would not return again to see his son. No, he needed to stay strong. If Elliot woke and looked at him, questioning or pleading, Chris might crumble … or find the missing pieces of his soul. Chris saw this as a weakness in himself, acknowledged it, and decided never to test it again.

  ROSE, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  SHE COULD HEAR her mother speaking to someone.

  ‘Yes, it’s very hard—’

  ‘Well, you’re being very strong—’

  If her mother was strong, Rose thought, it was because her soul was hard. What kind of woman would let her son be executed when she could prevent it?

  And poor Jenny. Rose had heard the commotion from her room. Jenny had begged and pleaded with Annette. There had been shouting and tears, slamming doors, and not long afterwards, the sound of footsteps as a healer arrived with at least two guards. Jenny had screamed in terror as they took her away to the hospital.

  Rose had taken the news of the Council Leaders’ verdict on Elliot more calmly. Punishment by death. She had waited for the horror of Elliot’s sentence to knock her back into confusion and despair. But she surprised herself. Instead of feeling weak and overwhelmed, Rose felt the depth of her determination. She had listened to their ruthless plans for Elliot and thought, This is what I would expect from such heartless parents. She wasn’t going to let them harm her brother.

  Rose left her room, walked down the hallway and gently knocked on the door where she knew Annette was entertaining a fellow socialite and accepting praise for being ‘strong’.

  A pause. ‘Yes?’ came her mother’s voice.

  Rose forced a soft smile to her lips and entered the room. ‘Mother, would you and your guest like a cup of tea? I’m making one for myself.’

  Annette smiled back, but she looked at Rose sharply. ‘Thank you, dear, but we’ve already had some. It’s nice to see you’re feeling better.’

  Rose dipped her head as if in apology for intruding, and left the room. It was better her mother not suspect her of anything. Let her believe Rose’s spirits were lifting and she was returning to her normal s
ubmissiveness.

  As soon as she was away from the corridor, Rose hurried over to the kitchen. There was no sign of the cook, so she ducked in and hastily filled a bag with food: bread, cheese, dried meats and fruit. She heard footsteps in the hall and grabbed a small flask of water, stuffing it in her sack as she squeezed herself behind the door and waited for the cook to enter. When the old lady had passed by, Rose slipped behind her and out into the hallway before the door closed once again.

  JESSY, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  I GULPED BACK a wave of fear when Virgil told me the news: Tree Sanctuary had asked him to escort Mr Ding and Xavier to the City, and they would need to take Bob.

  ‘But—’ I began, and then closed my mouth. There wasn’t any real way of stopping it.

  Virgil’s eyes softened, and he looked at me with a knowing look.

  ‘I know it’s a worry for you to see Bob ridden out by someone else,’ he said. ‘But these people have taken us and the horses in, with the expectation that we earn our keep by helping. Believe me, I’m not that keen on a trip either.’

  I hated this. Bob was my horse and he trusted me to take care of him. I knew only too well the terrible things that could happen to him out on the road. Would his rider know how precious he was? Would they listen to him when he was trying to say he had a stone in his hoof? I felt sick at the thought of him suffering under an inattentive rider, but then I thought about Bob and his dramatic way of communicating with those who didn’t listen carefully — he threw them off. Which was why he had a bit of a reputation for being naughty. Like me.

  ‘But couldn’t I go instead of Xavier?’ I asked. ‘I’d help Mr Ding out. He’s been my teacher, too.’

  Virgil seemed to contemplate this for a moment ‘Well, Jessy—’ He seemed to have difficulty finding the right words. ‘As you know, Xavier’s family want him to meet the girl he’s promised to. I don’t think we get to have much of a say in this.’

  My face burned and I had to work hard to conceal my emotions. Virgil gave me a moment to compose myself. I was grateful for that. How he knew about my confusing feelings for Xavier, I didn’t have any idea. I barely knew about them myself. All I knew was that it was no use dwelling on them, or talking about them, because they could never lead anywhere. Regardless of how I felt about him, Xavier was going to marry Rose someday.

  Virgil cleared his throat. ‘Look, I promise to look after Bob the best I can. Hopefully it’s just a quick trip and we’ll be back within the week.’

  ‘And hopefully Bob doesn’t try to kill his rider,’ I joked. But I wasn’t happy, and a sick feeling had settled in my stomach.

  XAVIER, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  XAVIER COULD BARELY contain his excitement about the trip to the City — it was hard to sit still, and he couldn’t sleep. But he tried to pretend it was no big deal. He even told his brother what a bore it would be, following around after old Mr Ding, meeting Rose’s family, having to be polite while sitting around drinking tea and talking. Dull.

  But the truth was, he was ready for the adventure. Riding with a Gunslinger through dangerous territory, maybe giving some Corpses a bash and seeing the City for the first time sounded good. They were even giving him a weapon to carry — a club with spikes on the end. Xavier couldn’t wait.

  They would leave at dawn and would push hard to get to a secured outpost on the edge of the City before nightfall. The next morning they’d start early so that they had plenty of daylight hours to get through the dangerous suburbs and old barricades en route. Virgil had said that if they didn’t make the City colony before night, and got caught amongst the buildings and old cars, then they were as good as dead. Xavier’s heart had skipped a beat then. The Gunslinger hadn’t been trying to scare him either; he’d just stated it as a fact, his cold blue eyes giving nothing away.

  Xavier was fascinated by Virgil. The man seldom talked and he looked kind of crazy with his uncut white hair. Xavier had seen Virgil look at him, and knew the Gunslinger had measured him, judging what he thought Xavier was capable of, what he was worth.

  Well, the Gunslinger hadn’t spoken to him as if he were just a kid, so maybe he thought Xavier was all right. Just so long as he didn’t do anything stupid out there to change Virgil’s mind.

  MEMOIRS OF J. DING, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  IT IS FOOLISH for me to take this old body on an arduous and dangerous journey. But my mind is still nimble and curious, and the opportunity is too great: an interview with a Blue, a sentient and cognitive being infected with the Zombie disease.

  The findings I will gather from the physical examination might begin to show which areas of the nervous system the disease prefers to target and which areas are spared. This is significant, because I hypothesise the difference between the Blue and a normal Zombie lies in the individual’s immune response, and the infection’s ability to damage or alter the cognisant areas of the brain. If I could isolate which mechanism has spared the Blue from the full brunt of the disease, it might just change the fate of the human race.

  Many, though not all, of the typical Zombies show motor ataxia or movement dis-coordination, much like the poor individuals afflicted with the devastating symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. Their tremors and jerky movements point towards lesions within the midbrain. This primitive part of our brain is paramount for our movement control, as well as for other important functions, such as our ability to wake from sleep and remain awake.

  Have those people with an increased immune response, or with a longer conversion period, been able to subdue the Zombie disease just enough to have time to create antibodies against it? Does this spare the motor and cognitive areas of their brain? The deficiencies in movement coordination and higher thinking have been characteristic of the disease. So how has the Blue been spared these symptoms?

  My hope is that the interview I will conduct with the Blue in the City will yield important information. How was he infected? What was his previous health history? What was different about him that caused the course of the disease to go in such a direction?

  This journey will be hard for me, but well worth the effort.

  VIRGIL, autumn, 62 A. Z.

  IT WAS HARD being patient. Transporting was never easy: travelling with inexperienced riders, keeping them safe, anticipating possible hold-ups and dangers. But taking an elderly man, possibly the oldest man Virgil had ever met, down from the mountains and into the City was proving painfully difficult. And, to make matters worse, the Deads seemed to be everywhere.

  Every turn in the road presented another problem and another Dead waiting for its next meal. Already, six hours into the ride, Virgil had brained more Corpses in one trip than he had in years, and his clothing was soiled and oily from the spattering of their heads. Their most recent encounter had been the most nerve-wracking. They were passing a wet, swampy area, near the river at the base of the mountains, when four Deads rose up from the muck and slime, writhing and jerking themselves through the shallows. They were faster-moving than Virgil had anticipated, and the three horses couldn’t move away quickly enough to avoid a confrontation. The Corpses, stinking of stagnant waters and the fruity smell of rotting meat, came at them.

  One of them, its lipless face dominated by a mouth full of furry teeth, seemed to target Mr Ding. Luckily, Bob had kicked out instead of galloping off — Mr Ding was unsteady in the saddle at the best of times, and would have toppled off had the horse bolted.

  Such a near miss only confirmed for Virgil how vulnerable their small travelling party was. He had known it wasn’t an ideal situation: his only companions were an old man and the teenager, Xavier, neither of whom had ridden a horse before. Incident after incident had put Virgil’s nerves on edge and he had been short with them. He couldn’t concentrate on keeping them safe and make small talk at the same time, and the air between them had chilled and grown awkward. The scientist no longer tried to ease the tension with small lectures about the biology of the forest, and Xavier shied away from him and wouldn’t m
eet his eyes when Virgil addressed him.

  No matter, it’s more important they get to the City alive than that they like me, Virgil told himself. But it was as well there was not much further to go. He was afraid their luck would soon run out.

  When at last they reached the old but well-fortified shack and barn they would spend the night in before riding for the City, Virgil felt momentarily weak with relief. Here they could tend the horses, eat and sleep as best they could, and gather their energy for the ride into the City the next day. He knew it would be an even more dangerous journey than today’s.

  When Virgil helped Mr Ding dismount Bob, the old man’s joints had locked into position. Virgil had to half-drag, half-lift him off the horse and gently sit him on the ground. Mr Ding looked confused for a moment, then gave a weak smile and said, ‘Being exhausted does strange things to old minds. Forgive me, Virgil.’ He attempted to stand but his legs buckled, and Virgil rushed to his side to catch him before he fell.

  Virgil was amazed at how light the old man was, like a child. He carried the teacher inside, set him down on a blanket, and said, ‘We’ll get some food into you, sir. That’ll set you right.’ But Virgil doubted if it would. He felt his anxiety rising once more.

  He checked again that the old man was comfortable, then went back outside to where Xavier was brushing Virgil’s horse. He understood that the boy was trying to make peace with him, and make himself seem useful, but Virgil needed Xavier to tend to Mr Ding. The teen’s face showed a brief flicker of disappointment when Virgil told him to go indoors, but he didn’t argue, and did as he was asked.