Almost Alive (The Beautiful Dead Book 3) (18 page)

The Judge’s blade. I thought it’d been broken or lost; my memory’s foggy. From all the countless swords in the world, it’s a wonder that I can look at the Judge’s blade and recognize it. This same blade took off the old corrupt Mayor’s head. This same blade ran through my mother’s body at the edge of a cliff. What else has it done?

“Someone made a sheath for it, too,” Ann mutters, searching through another bin. “Don’t worry, I’ll find it.”

“Judge Enea,” I murmur, admiring the sword. Not that I’m any sort of blades specialist or expert swordsman, but I’ve an unusual, deep relationship with this weapon. Come to think of it, it even ran itself through
me
, first time I met it. The Judge was testing if I was Deathless after the tavern was attacked. That was the night John and I first met. “Can’t believe this was just … tossed in here.”

Ann meets me with a long sheath and, without asking, begins to bind it to my backside. I let her, still calmly observing the sword and remembering the time it gently javelined through the air by Jasmine’s own hand, and not so gently landed into the skull of the Warlock. Yes, this blade even claimed the life of the little Warlock whose intellect we’re about to trust on this journey.

“If I had been the one to have the conversation with the Lock,” Ann tells me, pulling the strap on the sheath tightly, “I … would have done just the same as you.”

I reach behind me and sheath the Judge’s long blade, listening to the scrape of metal and leather as it’s put away. I turn to Ann, then smile. I take an eyepatch I just pulled from the bin and, to her bewilderment, I bring it over one of her eyes, tying it in the back. “You had an eyepatch when I first met you,” I point out. “You look deadly now, like an assassin. No one’s gonna mess with you. Not even Mother Nature.”

Ann smiles awkwardly, takes a knife from her pocket and brings it up to the eyepatch. In a second, she’s made a less-than-pretty hole, her eye peeking through. “There,” she mutters. “Unlike Megan, my eyes still
work
. All I need’s a scarf now.” Then she adds, “And for the record, Grimsky doesn’t deserve to exist, whether alive or not. He should be turned to dust and I don’t care who does it.”

I can’t with confidence say I agree. My feelings about the Green Prince Of Whatever have considerably had their very-ups and their very-downs. He protected me once. He betrayed me once. He turned me over to the Deathless once. He loved me once. He half-ruined a world for me once. He destroyed many of my friends once. Or twice. Or more.

And he ended John’s life without even the decency of supplying him a Second one. Instead, I had to wait twelve years for the Whispers to do it.

“He should be turned to dust,” I decide. “Let the Lock have the pleasure, I don’t care. We’re all doomed to dust if we don’t find Shee anyway.”

I pull another piece from the bin: a plate of armor. “Steel plate,” Ann remarks, nodding. “Good idea.”

At hearing that word, I freeze in place, watching my hands as the plate of armor hangs innocently from them. After a moment of studying them, my face calms, and a smile spreads across the doom. Does this mean that, in time, the Deathless grip
does
leave a person? John’s ring … This steel armor … I feel myself sighing with utter relief. Ann gives me a quizzical look and I just shrug, responding with, “John will need protection.”

To that, Ann smiles.

The rest of the Dead have been summoned to the front gate at Mayor Megan’s stern command. Megan has already briefed them on the reason for their summoning and the purpose at hand. The announcement does not go without due resistance, as many of them protest. One lady—I knew her twelve years ago as one in a pair of Living sisters named Lena and Margie; this is Lena, who rose the day Grim attacked Garden—insists that she’s perfectly happy mining in the southwest end. She’s made a life for herself here and wasn’t going to uproot when none of us have an idea how many days we have left. “I just want to live the rest of them happily! And
not
out in the wilderness! I’ve had
enough
wilderness for one lifetime!” Her sister was not as fortunate and never Rose.

“But if we do go, we have a chance at
eternal
life,” reasoned another woman I haven’t spoken to since the fall of Garden: Ash. Her tall slender form turned Undead at Grim’s touch too, her First Life truncated in an instant. “I’m willing to struggle now for the chance at saving my forever. Why the hell wouldn’t you? Count me in.”

Still, three other men I’ve never met take a lot more convincing. “This is messed up,” one of them named Bill asserts. “Thrown out of our own homes like rats. Isn’t the Great Julianne out there doing this same mission?”

“We’re not diseased,” another chimes in, angry.

“The only way you’re getting me out of this city is by pulling me apart and carrying me with you in a basket,” another man—Winston, I think his name is—barks at us with acid sarcasm. “So if it’s brutal violence you want to start practicing, by all means, tear me apart. Continue your injustice and in due time you’ll be no better than the Deathless King, may he rot for all the rest of eternity. And I’ll prefer a nice wicker basket, please.”

Ann shouts something at the crowd. Then, realizing no one can understand her muffled words through the helmet, she flips open the visor and repeats: “No one’s going to pull anyone apart!”

“The
world
is pulling us apart,” a young Undead boy in front says, despondent. “With every storm and rainfall … We’ll be exposed to the elements out there.”

“We will have the means to protect ourselves,” Ann assures the crowd. “We will have coverings we can set up in a matter of seconds. Tents. Shields. We will be wearing armor. The rain will never touch us.”

“I’m not leaving,” shouts a blue-haired teen girl in the back, fed up. “Julianne is saving us. You can’t make me leave my home because a bunch of
Humans
are scared.”

“This has nothing to do with the Humans!” cries Ann.

The War Of Pointless Back-And-Forth Arguments commences and I stand there dead as the Dead, eyes half-open and annoyed to the bone. Each rising voice is as grating as the last, and through it all, I see no easy resolution. The Undead won’t leave as a unified whole; it’s as simple as that.

Through the mess of yelling and hurt feelings, I spot a dopey-faced man with a mop of black hair and a blunt bulb of a nose. He regards Ann nervously, a look of deep emotion twisting his face as the arguing grows worse and worse, louder and louder. It isn’t until I notice him picking at his fingers that I recognize who it is. Jim, and he’s certainly grown up quite a bit. He was tall twelve years ago; he’s taller now. Though I’d hoped the years would have given him more smarts, he still appears dumb as a fencepost, though I have no way of confirming that. Call me judgmental, I don’t care.

And then suddenly I realize the reason for his pained expression: Ann is his girlfriend. He doesn’t want to see her go. “Of course,” I breathe, feeling sorry for them.

Ann, who was in the middle of an impassioned speech to the ever-angry Undead, turns to me expectantly.

I blink. Quite suddenly, the whole of the twenty-or-so Undead we’ve gathered are all looking at me. Did I just steal their attention with my two tiny words, or has some imaginary procession named me the next speaker? What the hell are they expecting me to say?

“Go ahead,” prompts Megan, encouraging me to address the Dead.

Oh, nice. So
I’m
supposed to be the one to convince them all to leave the only permanent home they’ve come to know and love.

I clasp my hands, feeling confident. I stand before them and think of the most inspirational string of words I can find. “We’re all going to die,” I announce.

The Undead stare blankly at me.

“We are,” I assure them. “You’re going to die, Lena. You’re going to die, Bill … Ash … Winston.”

“My name’s Willard,” he grunts.

“Willard.” I knew I might’ve had it wrong. “We’re all going to die. You know who else is going to die? Every Human in this city. Except the difference is, they won’t Rise again. We’re the
lucky
ones. We were given a Second Life, a second chance to experience the world. Don’t waste this second chance. We have to find Shee, and—”

“Empress,” blurts one of the women nervously. I don’t catch who.

I squint at whomever it is. “
Empress
Shee.” What gave her such status? Did she fashion herself a tiara of cricket legs I don’t know about? “The Undead world hangs in the balance, and maybe
she
doesn’t even—”

“Empress,” the same one corrects me.

“Okay, I was using the pronoun ‘she’ that time and not her name,” I say in the general direction of the voice. “Seriously. I’ve fought with and tore a wing off said ‘Empress’ and there is no need to fear her or whatever you think you’re required to call her. Regardless of what you think sh—of what you think
it
is,
it
is Undead, just like you, just like me, and
it
will even someday turn to dust … unless
it
is stopped.”

“We don’t even know where the woman-thing is,” Wilbert points out—Wilson, Wyatt, Wally, I’ve already forgotten—and he stamps his shovel into the ground, as if that shovel represents all his conviction. “Why waste my time?” Why he’s got a shovel, I won’t ask.

“You don’t have to,” I announce. Megan and Ann shoot me a puzzled look. I have no idea if this is going to work, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about battling the stubborn, it’s to let them have their say. Words and arguments can only carry as far as the truth will let them. In the end, the truth is always outed. Two opinions can’t be heard when they’re both being shouted at once.

“We don’t have to what?” asks Willie-Whoever.

“Waste your time,” I explain patiently. “You don’t have to go. You can stay and live all the rest of your Undead days here. Or weeks. Or hours, whatever’s left. You can shovel mud. The rest of us are going to embark on a journey. It won’t be an easy journey. It won’t even be all that pleasant. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that we’re going to have a … certain someone accompanying us. And he is certainly the most despicable specimen of a once-human-being I can possibly think to dig up out of the ground. But we’ll take this journey and we may or may not find what we’re looking for. I assure you, no matter its outcome, I’ll at least turn to dust knowing I’ve
tried
saving this existence of mine. If I had the choice, I’d much rather choose an eternity with … with my loved ones, rather than a few weeks where every second I have to check my hands to make sure they’re still there.”

Cue the inspirational music.

Ann touches my shoulder, drawing herself up to my side, and she announces, “Winter has a point. And I think it’s best for you to consider all your, um … your hands falling off.” She frowns. “And you don’t have to … you don’t have to join us. But we’re stronger together.”

Mayor Megan, her eyes full of darkness, lifts her chin to the crowd. “The party leaves at sunset. That’s about five hours from now. You have until then to make up your mind. All those who are going, meet here and you will be adequately equipped and armored.” She nods once, as if preparing to say something else, then simply clears her throat and dismisses herself back to the Cyclops Tower. I watch her go, filled with a kind of sadness.

Hours later, I’m seated on a short stone wall that lines a vegetable field, my legs dangling, when John finds me.

“Sun setting?” I ask quietly. He nods. “About time to leave, then.”

“Very soon,” he agrees, then hops onto the wall, crouching next to me with such dexterity, I’m genuinely impressed. “I hope I’m around long enough to have my Waking Dream.” He keeps perfect balance on the ledge, like some kind of enormous bird in a person’s clothing. “I mean, it seems to be perfectly random, whoever turns to dust, right? Someone was explaining. The big lady with the scary makeup who’s cheery all the time.”

“Marigold,” I tell him. He really doesn’t remember a thing, does he? I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. “Her name’s Marigold. She fixed me up when I was pulled out of the ground. She gave me Icecap Blue irises. She gave me a new pinkie toe. She …” I sigh. Why does it matter? Why does any of it matter? We’ll all be turned to dust soon. There is no way we’ll find Shee or my mother. “How do you feel about leaving, John? Feels like you just got here and already we’re going.”

“I feel … curious,” he answers. “A journey sounds fun. I don’t know what’s out there.”

Yes, you do. Plenty and more that you’ve, all your life, worked to avoid.

Then again, the world’s changed. In only twelve years, the death and decay have been traded for greenery and spring. To be honest,
I’m
even a bit curious. Even if my last sight is some big oak tree or a fat ladybug on the tip of a long, curled blade of grass, it’d be much preferred over the cold steel of some building’s wall here in the City of the Dead.