The Beautiful Dead (30 page)

A man I might
still love.

“Serve the
final Judgment!” bellows the Mayor once more, his showman arms sweeping out for
the crowd.

Every eye in
the Square is on me, and it is in this moment that I finally choose to see.

Forlorn faces
meet mine. Tired faces. Angered faces. Aching faces.

This is not
the populace of a victorious city.

“Serve the
final Judgment!” he calls.

This is the
populace of another prisoner city. Jasmine, I spot her leaning against the cold
brick of a shoe store. Her eyes detached, it’s like I can read her thoughts.
The girl with the braids whose name I never learned … Jasmine’s Death-Daughter,
her own Raise, ended. There is no victory for her, the price for it too great.

What’s next
for her, other than an eternity of pretending nothing is wrong?

Ann, she’s in
the crowd too, alongside her scarf-wearing friends. Or at least the ones that
survived. This is no victory for her either. Another senior year at Trenton
High to look forward to. Another year in the prison of eternal, cycling,
endless death. Another year pretending.

Pretending,
pretending, pretending.

“Serve the
final Judgment!”

And my eyes
cannot find a single Human in the crowd. The Humans, all of them, either
blended in or blundered away by our exclusionary laws, our anti-blood laws, our
Pretender laws. Is this the victory I fought for? The victory so many died for?
The victory we wanted?

“There is more
than one kind of poison,” I whisper, and I’ll never know if my dad recovered
from the hospital. “A poison of the soul,” I say, and I’ll never, ever know.

“Serve!” cries
the manic Mayor.

I turn to the
sightless Grimsky, sword heavier and heavier in my hand, in a monotone I ask, “Do
you have any last words, Grim.”

He turns his
face up to the sky as if to feel the warm rays of an imaginary silver sun, his
expression resolved, his lips part to say: “Deathless I am, Deathless forever
be.”

The world
waits. I hold the sword up high, steeling myself for the blow. “Pretenders no
more,” I utter.

And chop off
the head of the Mayor.

It slowly
rolls across the Stage, drops to the soiled earth below with an unimpressive
thump.

An ugly sort
of smoke spews from where the steel blade had decapitated the Mayor, his neck
now a freakish sort of chimney, revealing to the jaw-slacked and baffled
populace of Trenton the Mayor’s true identity. Among the people, a false idol.
Above them, a leader whose bad intentions we may never know, his words now
sealed away in the vault of his own groveling eternity.

There is
silence. I feel deep misgiving, wondering if the crowd will mistake the meaning
of my action.

Make right of
all your wrongs, Claire.

The mayor’s
body at last loses its balance, collapses onto the stage with a resounding
thunder that rings through the Trenton people.

Looking out to
the many, many faces, to the many prisoners of Trenton, I realize their only
authority, their only word of rule, has been ended before their eyes. Like a
chain about their neck, at long last broken. The door to the cellar they’ve
been shut in, at long last cracked open.

Sunlight
spilling in, blinding them. Glorious, freedom-singing sunlight. Now what do we
do, they wonder.

Now what do we
do?

“This city,” I
declare, lifting my sword up high—Okay, I feel pretty melodramatic in this
gesture, but when you’ve just slayed the only two leaders of the Undead world
that you know in the space of one little evening, I think you’ve earned the
right to practice just about any amount of drama you damn well please. “This
city is a free one, from here on out, so help me!”

No one speaks.
No one blinks. No one breathes.

Of course no
one breathes.

“This city
belonged to people,” I tell them. “Living people. Until this man you call your
Mayor stole it from them.” I’m still trying to spot the Humans in the crowd,
wherever they are, but I can’t. “They did nothing wrong. Humans … Living
people, just like you and I used to be. Living people helped you win this
battle. They are among you right now!” Though I can’t spot a single one.

When the war
ended, where’d they go?

“I don’t want
any rules!” I cry. “I don’t want to live by some Mayor’s say-so. I don’t want
to pretend like I’m happy—I want to
be
happy! I don’t want to say I’m
alive when I’m not. Under this skin is a heart that doesn’t beat. In this
flesh, no blood. No pulse. Pretender no more!”

I lift my
sword. This is that moment when everyone cheers. This is when the triumphant
music plays, the horn sounds, and everyone throws their hands up in victory,
their hearts light and their eyes inspired.

Nothing but
ringing silence.

But then something
quite curious happens. Scattered throughout the crowd, scarf-adorned teenagers
step up and ceremoniously remove their scarves, dropping them to the pavement.
Their deepest secret drawn along each of their necks: the proud slit of
decapitation.

Ann among
them, she is the one to speak up. “My name is Ann. I’ve been a senior at the
Trenton School for my entire Undead life. We have already died once, all of us.
With this second life, this second chance, why must I spend it dying again
every day?” She holds up a fist. “Pretender no more.”

Really, it
isn’t necessary to do the whole inspirational fist-in-the-air thing.

But the
movement continues with another lady, garbed in heavy pearls and necklaces. “My
name’s Camille and ever since my Raising, I was taught to fear the living. It
wasn’t until I had my Waking Dream that I realized why. They didn’t want us to
see what we’ve lost … But how can we expect to make progress by blotting out
our own tortured histories? Roads cannot exist without a destination on both
ends. Pretender no more.”

And it just
goes on. “I never wanted to be the old town hag at the end of the street,” an
elderly woman gripes bitterly. “I wanted to be an artist! I wanted to tell my
story on canvases that stretched the buildings tall, oils and watercolor and …
and … I want to paint the sun!”

“Pretenders no
more!” shouts another man. “I’m sick of getting my arm reattached every
weekend! I’ve been imprisoned over sixteen times for refusing Upkeep!”

“My first
pretend-daughter was imprisoned when she stopped acting her physical age,” a
frustrated, high-voiced lady yells. “We are not dead! We are not static
entities! We are h-h-human beings! Pretenders no—!”

“Human beings!”
concurs another young man with one invigorated yelp. “We deserve to live in
freedom!”

“Pretenders no
more!” another shouts.

“Pretenders no
more!” yet another joins in.

And so it
happens I’ve incited a sort of rally. Pretenders no more, they chant with
joyful conviction. Pretenders no more. Pretenders no more.

Their cheering
and chanting enveloping us, I turn my gaze back to the slack-bodied Grimsky
still bound to the stake.

It’s so
strange, to look at someone you used to love after your whole identity has been
tampered with. It’s like I’m seeing a completely different person. It’s like …

It’s like, how
can I possibly judge him, after knowing what kind of person I was?

How can I
possibly judge anyone anymore?

“Grimsky,” I
say, leaning in close to him. The chants and cheers surrounding us, I say, “I
don’t know if this is going to work, but I have a gift for you.”

I unbind the
box at my hip and, with great care, I place my own Lock stone into his eye
socket. He doesn’t even flinch, trusting me completely. The stone neither glows
nor shimmers green, but he lifts his head and for a moment, I think he sees me.

“Didn’t work,”
he whispers.

It’s with a
very, very heavy heart that I say, “Grim. I’m going to undo your binds. And I
think … I think it’s best if …”

“Deathless I
am.”

I don’t have
to finish the thought. Loosening a dagger from my side, I clip his restraints,
freeing him from the post. He gains his balance, and the stone seems to fix on
me. Regardless of his claim, I think he can see me.

In fact, I
think he sees me perfectly.

“Goodbye,
Winter.”

And then he
tears off the stage and races through the crowd of chanting citizens—and they
are not kind to him. Booing and hissing, they chase him away. Through the joy
and the madness of a truly victorious people, Grim makes his way, and in just a
handful of seconds, he’s gone.

Goodbye, Grim.

Figuring the
deed to be done, I step off the stage and move through the crowd. Already,
people are letting loose. A woman’s taken off a wig she’s been forced to wear,
embracing her baldness with a grin ear-to-ear. Another person dances and
another one sobs. Everyone does as they please, ecstatic and bursting with joy.

I find Jasmine
by the wall, and she’s all smiles. “Oh, Winter, Winter, Winter. My little
rabbit … What’ve you done?”

“Think I just inadvertently
created anarchy,” I say dryly. “I mean, we can’t realistically survive without
any rules at all, can we?”

“Give me a
hug,” she sings, and pulls me into her body. I grip her back, letting myself
smile.

“Tell me,” I
say, almost not wanting to hear the answer, almost dreading it. “Where are all
the—”

“They’re all at
the gymnasium being tended to by Doctor Collins. All of them.” She pulls away,
still smiling. “He has a purpose now, Winter. All the knowledge of his Old Life
now made relevant after all these years, valuable beyond measure! He’s treating
the wounded Humans. This is a special day for us all, my rabbit.”

And then out
of nowhere, little Megan has crashed into my hip, clinging to my waist in the
tightest hug. Ann’s there too, a crossbow hanging at her side.

This is what
victory feels like.

I put my one
hand on Megan’s head, running it through her hair, and Ann says, “So you’ve
executed a King and a Mayor today. My, my, you’ve been busy.”

“Maybe you
could ask for a few years to be put on at the Refinery,” I suggest, “and start
at the University next semester. Marigold has a lot of hidden talents.”

“I can be
twenty-one forever!” she cries, overjoyed.

I peer around,
surveying the crowd and squinting into the distance. “So where are the others?”
I’m glancing the other way. “Where’s John?”

Megan squeezes
me tighter. Ann looks away, the joy leaving her eyes.

I stare at the
top of Megan’s head, realizing she hasn’t said a word. “Megan.” I try to mask
the worry that’s suddenly gripped my throat. “Megan, where’s John?”

“Oh, Winter,”
says Ann, nervously clutching herself. “I’m so … I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry about
what?” I ask stupidly.

Because I
don’t want them to tell me.

I don’t want
to know.

“Megan,” I
say, lowering myself to look her in the face. “Megan, where is he? Please. Where
is he.”

She doesn’t
answer.

And I bolt
from them, tearing off in wild pursuit of the gymnasium.

T H E   F I N A L   C H A P T E R

So many happy,
happy faces.

I rush through
them and I don’t care.

Another person
I love in a hospital bed, in a death bed. My mother and her lost legs … My
father …

So many happy
faces.

Freedom and
victory and I don’t care.

Another one I
love.

Claire, make
right all your wrongs.

I throw the
doors of the gymnasium open and I have to find him. So many faces, even they
are happy, even wounded they are happy.

So many faces
and not the one I need.

I move from
bedside to bedside, from station to station, makeshift patient areas and beds
and upturned weight machines and benches.

It’s in the
room of mirrors that I find him, lying on a stack of mats next to the large
back window.

I’m at his
side already, I’m gripping his hand with mine. He doesn’t move.

“John,” I
breathe.

I put my one
arm around him, even wounded as he is, blood all over his face, I hold him like
the mother I never hugged, like the father I never said goodbye to, like the
friend I’d lost, like the boyfriend I never let in.

And deep, deep
within him … I hear the gentle drum.

It is the
sweetest song I will ever know on this dead planet, the song in his chest.

“He isn’t
doing well,” Collin says, having emerged from a neighboring room. “Just comes
and goes.”