The Beautiful Dead (13 page)

“Where are
they taking that little girl?” I ask, but I really—I really almost don’t want
to know.

She tells me
anyway. “A number of things a Human is used for here. They could take her for
all the information they can get—kindly at first, then with more cleverer
means, then manipulative means—then strip her of her humanness and eat her.
Or—”

“Eat her??”
I’m standing now, gripping the bars with two very tight fists. “It’s true?—The
Deathless eat us?”

“Humans. Not
us. They have other uses for us.” She looks up at me, her eyes turning dark. “I
wonder if this was part of your agenda all along. Maybe a plan of yours since
the first day. To rope me in, have me imprisoned and die by your side. Dying at
the side of the one I gave Undeath to … How poetic.” That last word she spits
at me like a fireball, her mouth wrinkling with abhorrence.

“Yes,” I admit
sarcastically. “This was my plan. You have me all figured out, Helena. I wanted
us to get eaten, or whatever’s going to happen to poor, miserable us. This is
my idea of a good time. Aren’t we having fun?”

“You were
young and you were stupid. I should have known you hadn’t the strength to
survive this world. I should have gone with my instinct, told the Judge my
suspicion that you were incompetent, self-serving, idiotic, reckless … You
would sooner watch the city burn than live another day in that putrid skin of
yours.”

“How was I
supposed to know how to do a proper Raise??—and with such a bang-up example, I
might add!”

“I did mine
flawlessly!” she snaps. “
You
didn’t run!”

“YES I DID!” I
scream at her, finally, once and for all having had enough of her foul distaste
for me. “I RAN! The moment you ditched me on that filthy porch of mine, I had
enough! I bolted! You didn’t know
that
one, did you? I ran until my feet
could’ve fallen clean off!—those pretty feet Marigold made for me! I ran until
there was no more ground, until all that stretched before me was a cliff and a
very, very dark place below. I even fell over, hanged from that cliff, and do
you know what my first thought was?—all this running, all this life, all this
death has led to this. A cliff. All I needed do was let go my little stupid
fingers, and this little stupid girl you can’t stand would’ve fallen to the
mist below. This little stupid girl you named Winter, she wouldn’t be here
right now. Not a day goes by, not a minute goes by where I wonder if it
might’ve been a better decision to have let go that day.”

I don’t
realize, but through all my angry words, tears somehow came to my eyes. I
wasn’t actually aware that the Undead could physically cry until this very
moment, my fists clenching the bars of my cage so tight they could draw blood,
had I any in my veins.

“And it wasn’t
you who saved me,” I point out to her, to Helena whose full attention I now
have, whose normally superior and hostile form is, at the present moment,
replaced with apprehension. “It was Grimsky. He was there to save me, not you.
He gave me this life, not you. Whether you pulled me out of the ground or
Grimsky himself, I have
him
to thank for my Final Life. You gave up on
me at that doorstep … You let me run.”

Still squeezing
the bars with my hands, I stop talking. The wind thrashing around like a
sandstorm, I watch her face with fiery, silent assault. I wait for her to
prepare her nasty response. I want her to burst into flames.

“That was
brave, what you did,” she whispers.

I think I
didn’t hear her correctly. “What??”

She nods her
head to the side. “Back in the Mists. When you stood up against the Deathless
army. Just a sword in your hand. That was brave.”

I stare at
her, unable to grasp what she’s saying. I’m still so angry from my outburst
that I half-yell my next sentence. “I was scared!! I didn’t know what to do!”

“Whatever it
was, I didn’t teach it to you.” Her voice is numb, detached. “You did that, all
on your own. That was Winter. Maybe it was a bit of the real you peeking forth
… the Old you. Maybe you lived a brave life.”

“The Old me?”

She purses her
lips and looks off. “As they say, life is short. Death is shorter.”

I turn away
too, annoyed. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Give it a few
decades.” She casts her gaze the other way, hiding her face. “You’ll realize
how very little you know about this new dead world … about life, unlife … about
your humanity and what you think you value.”

I drop to the
floor, somehow unable to hold up my own weight any longer. All the fight and
anger has left me and all that’s left is the deep seed of desolation. No matter
where we stood before, Helena and I are in this ugly context together. Also in
mind is my half-awareness that somewhere in the city are the Judge and her two
men. Somewhere else, the innocent Marigold.

And Grimsky.

“This is all
my fault,” I finally say. “This is all on me.”

“Yes, of
course. This is all about you,” Helena quietly mocks me. “Let’s not think on my
part in this. How I misguided you. Pay attention instead to Winter as she weeps
and feels sorry for herself. Please, pity our plight.”

“We could die
here.”

“We’re already
dead,” she states unnecessarily.

I try to weep,
but I just can’t. I shut my eyes and push my hands into my face. I beg to be
turned to stone, to become a statue instead of this thing I am. I beg to be
forgiven for this utterly unforgiveable situation we’re in. Somehow though, I
fear it’s only going to get worse.

Time passes.

Neither of us
stir. We may as well be stones.

It could be
minutes later, hours later, days later, when I hear once again the sound of
dragging chains. I look up, shaken. In the distance stalks another
shirt-and-tie man down the rows, a different one than before, limping and
grunting with every footfall. Again, the people escape to the opposite sides of
their dirty cages, eyes wide and watching as he passes, but he isn’t coming for
any of them. No, of course not.

This one’s
coming for me.

C H A P T E R – T E N

“Well,” I say,
almost hoarse from the length of time we’d spent in silence. “Seems like you
won’t have to put up with me much longer. It’s my turn now.”

She says
nothing.

“It was nice
knowing you, Helena. Thanks for this wonderful whatever and, you know, good
luck with your next Raise. Hope she’s a better one. Happy never after.”

And then the
guard plucks a single key from his length of chain and pops open the door—to
the cage opposite mine.

I was certain
he was headed for my cage, but seems I’ve called another false alarm. After the
cage is opened, the guard peers around as though confused. It seems he can’t
locate the prisoner. I lean to the side, curious if I can see for myself
whoever the cell was holding.

And then a
teenage boy bolts from the cage—dust flying in the air—and tears off down the
aisle.

“Helena!—Look!”
I cry, pointing.

The boy, who
was cleverly hiding under a blanket masked by the dirt and sand of the ground,
is disappearing quickly now into the distance. The guard, despite this, looks
entirely unaffected by the boy’s escape. Leaving the cage wide-open without a
care, he simply begins to limp leisurely, backtracking down the aisle and out
of sight.

“What just
happened??” I ask, blinking anxiously. “Did he escape?—Did that kid escape,
just like that?”

Helena huffs,
annoyed. “This city is impossibly huge. The streets are like a Hell-damned
labyrinth. He’s a fool. He’ll be punished and brought right back. You’ll see.”

I’m gripping
the bars of my cage, squinting. Maybe I can see the boy if I look hard enough.
I’m bursting at the seams with something I haven’t felt in quite a while,
something I cling to without hesitation … Hope.

Minutes pass
and I’ve dropped my hands from the bars. My eyes are still squinted, peering
into the distance. I have a few false alarms, but I don’t see the teenager or
the prison guard. I stay focused, sure I’ll see them very soon.

An hour
passes. I’m no longer looking for the teenage runaway. I’m inspecting my hands,
bored. I’m wondering if I got manicures when I was alive. I wonder what my
favorite color was. Midnight Blue or Winter White.

I wonder what
my name was. My real name.

More hours
pass. I’m sitting in the corner drawing figures in the sandy ground. A smiley
face. A little boat on the waves. A tree with big fluffy leaves. I draw a giant
shiny sun in a sky full of happy clouds. Anything that pulls me away from this
dead world. This is the way the Undead dream, I’m convinced. I draw the outline
of a cat, whiskers included. Maybe I liked cats when I was alive.

I lay on my
back, spread-eagle, and stare up into the grey sky cleaved by the bars above
me. I smile for no reason, just to remember what it feels like. I can hear
Helena stirring in her own little prison. It feels like it’s been days since
we’ve spoken, though I know better.

Or do I? Ever
since my Second Life started, I’ve been so very bad at tracking time. I assume
it has to do with a few trivial things, like not sleeping, not having meals,
not having mornings or sunsets or late afternoons … All of this, start to end,
just one long day.

For someone
back home, it must feel quite differently. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, pretending
that the Human John is next to me. “I told you I’d be back by morning … but
it’s come and gone, clearly. However have you been managing on your own?”

I hear more
stirring in Helena’s cage. “Doing alright in there?” I ask her. No response. “I
know, I know, the accommodations here are just awful. I’ll be sure to request a
mattress at the very least, if I can ever manage to phone room service.” No
response. “Listen, I know you wish you’d never Raised me, but I—”

“Actually,”
Helena quietly interrupts, her voice lofty and calm, “I was thinking about my
life.”

“Wishing I’d
never entered it?”

“My First
Life,” she amends.

I turn my
head. Helena’s never mentioned anything about her Old Life before. In fact,
until now, I hadn’t known she already had her Waking Dream.

Well now
Helena, don’t keep me in suspense. “What about it?” I finally ask.

“Nothing.” She
looks down, lets out a tiny sigh.

“Come on, Hel,”
I urge her quietly. “Tell me.”

She chuckles.
The sound is so uncharacteristic coming from her, I have to be a little
surprised and wonder what I’d done to inspire it. Then she says, “Hel. No one’s
called me that before. I think I like it. Hell we’re in, after all, Hell we’ll
forever be in. I brought us here.”

“Nonsense. I
did.”

“I’m
responsible for you.” She shrugs, her back still facing me. “I’m responsible
for everything you are.”

“Well, I’m a
brave fool, according to you. So there’s that much.”

“Braver than
I.”

“Whatever. I
bet you were brave in your First Life.”

She shrugs
again. A moment passes. I almost think she’s given up on saying anything more.

Then she
murmurs, “I was a quiet woman. If you can believe that. I was quiet and I was
nice and I was lonely.”

“No, I don’t
believe a bit of it.”

She lets out
another small chuckle. “Well, I was, apparently. I had a job at the bakery. I
kept to myself, rolling and kneading. My fingers were dry and gritty all the
day long. I was poor but got along without complaint. I never married.” She
runs a hand along the ground, sighing. “I don’t know what’s made me afraid of
dirt in this life … I seemed so very comfortable with it in my First. I didn’t
mind my small breadbox home or the absence of friends. I didn’t mind living
alone. I didn’t mind that my life wasn’t amounting to anything great, and I
hardly inspired to be any greater. I utterly wasted my life and my name was
Anna.”

“Anna,” I
mutter, trying to encourage her. “That’s a pretty name, you’re lucky to know
it. Wish I knew mine.”

“I was
nineteen, living on my own and working. Then I was twenty-seven, still alone,
still working. I’d lost track of time, then died before my twenty-eighth
birthday.”

She turns to
me now. I try to refrain from showing anything on my face. The story of her
little life is already over and she’s hardly said a thing.

“There is a
moment … Most people won’t tell you this, but there is a moment of perfect
clarity just before you let go of your life. It is a very brief moment in which
you are completely lucid, free, and focused. It is a brief moment but it is
your final moment and it will burn upon you for the rest of eternity, like a
brand to your soul of the life you just lived. And in my moment, I knew that
I’d been lying to myself, all my life. In this moment, I realized how badly I
wanted to love, to have excitement, to be a person of great importance … but
didn’t care enough to make it happen. I had been a fool … a happy fool, but one
nonetheless. And in my little lucid moment, I formed a single thought … just
before I let go. The thought was … If only I could do it all again. How
differently it’d be.”

She goes
quiet.

After a length
of time, I finally let myself look at her. I’m surprised to find her smiling.
The expression on her face … I’ve never seen Helena look so at peace. I hate
even admitting this, but I want to reach through the bars and touch her
shoulder, hug her, something. I’m not entirely confident Helena would welcome
any of that.

“I don’t know
a thing about my life,” I say instead. “Maybe someday it’ll come and I can
share my experience with you too. Maybe I also lived … humbly.”

“Maybe,” she
murmurs, still staring off.

I sigh. “I
really wish I knew even just one thing about my Life.”

“You do.”

I raise my
eyebrows. “I do?”

“You came from
the earth young … like me. Twenty or so, if I had to guess. Could’ve been my
younger sister on your first day.”

I still don’t
follow. “What does that mean?”

“It means you
know at least one thing about your Old Life.” She looks at me now. “You died
young too.”

We both turn,
our attention pulled once more by the dreadful sound of chains dragging along
the earth. From the dusty distance comes a slightly more able-bodied yet
equally-as-dilapidated-as-the-previous prison guard, except more than just
chains drag behind him this time. It’s the teenage boy that escaped, dragging
behind the guard with his hands and legs bound by chain.

The guard
comes forth and, in one solid motion, tosses the boy back into the cage—the
door still wide-open as it was left—swings the thing shut and locks it. The
guard makes a short, tired glance at me, eyes flit over to Helena, then with a
snort, departs. On and on until he’s faded into the distance.

“Like I said,”
mutters Helena. But maybe there’s a hint in her voice that wishes she’d been
wrong about the boy … Maybe she hoped he’d actually made it out.

“Do you think
he’s Human?” I whisper, concerned.

“All this
wind,” Helena grunts, “I couldn’t tell a heartbeat from a kettle drum. Not from
over here.”

I creep up to
the front of my cage. The teenager is housed just across from mine, a few yards
away … only the width of the aisle between us. I can’t hear anything but the
thrashing, chaotic air.

“Hey!” I call
out. “Hey!—Are you alright?”

He opens his
eyes. He doesn’t speak, he just stares up at nothing.

“What
happened?” I call out. “Did you see anything? Did you discover anything?—or
anyone? Did you—”

“Shut your
hole,” he says dryly, still staring off.

Helena
chortles. I shoot her a look, then face the teen again. “Listen. You were
really brave to do what you did. And we all want to get out of here. So maybe
if we exchange information, we can help each other.”

He just sighs
and says, “There’s no helping us.”

“Well, not
with
that
attitude.”

“Save your words,
lady.” He finally turns his head to me. “We’re gonna be here for the long
haul.”

His eyes defy
his youth, which for some reason tells me in an instant that this boy is
Undead, like us. He has messy matted dark hair and a bronzed complexion.
Despite his fifteen-or-sixteen-year-old appearance, I would believe it if he
told me he was a hundred years old.

“They didn’t
seem to bind you very tightly,” I note. “You could squirm out of those … Get up
on your feet.”

“What feet?”

I take another
look at him and realize, to my horror, that his legs now end at the knees.
“They—They took your—” I clap a hand over my mouth.

“Yeah, big
deal.” He shrugs, looks away.

I collapse to
my own knees, gripping the bars and feeling utterly, unpardonably sad. Like a
thief at the bazaar, he broke the law and tried to escape. His legs, cut off
for punishment.

So here we
are. No more closer to being freed than before. Only time is our companion …
ticking on and on, and an uncaring and patient companion it is.

“I’m Winter,”
I say, having nothing else at all to say.

Little
disjointed choking sounds escape his cell, but it’s unmistakable what they are,
even turned away as he is. Through the wind, his little breathy sobs penetrate.
I don’t care how Undead-old he is … I want to hold him like a younger brother
and tell him it’ll be alright.

Even without
legs. “Hey,” I murmur. “Where are you from? Tell me about your home.”

His sobbing
stops. He doesn’t turn my way, but at least I know he heard me by his silence.

“Go ahead,” I
urge him.

“The Deathless
can have my body,” he finally says, “but never my soul. They can try to keep me
here forever, but I’ll never be one of them. Not ever.”

“That’s for
damn sure,” I agree, encouraging him.

“I’m gonna be
the first Undead in history to escape the Necropolis alive,” he says. “I was …
gonna be a legend.”

I smile. “You
still can be.”

“Legends need
legs.”

Helena
chortles again. A sigh escapes my lips, my eyes rolling. “The incorrigible lady
in the cell next to me is Helena, and she is my regretful death mother, Reaper,
whatever you call it.”

“Your First
Hand,” the teenager says. “That’s what we call them. The First Hand you touch …
The First Hand you know, even before your own. You should appreciate yours.
Mine was slain.”

“How—How was
yours slain?” I ask sensitively.

“He was captured.
Wandered too far. First thing when I was brought here, I’m made to witness him
being grinded to nothing before my eyes … Nothing but dust now. He doesn’t any
longer exist, that’s what it means.”

I shudder,
turning to look at Helena for her reaction. Of course she remains stoic. Even
the emotional heart-to-heart her and I shared not a moment ago doesn’t
sensitize her to this boy’s story.