The Beautiful Dead (8 page)

“You better?”
Grim asks when we’ve made it outside, headed in another direction now.

“Much. Where to
now?—home?”

“Nope. I’ve
something else to show you. Something you will truly want to see. Something
real.”

A little
dubious, I walk with him further down the road. It winds through other bundles
of homes until at last it opens up to another set of Trenton’s tall iron gates.
I ask him where we’re headed as we pass through them, but he just smiles.
Through the familiar range of dead trees that surround the town, we continue
down pebbly paths that go on and on. I’m excited, to be honest. I hadn’t
realized how curious I was about the outer world until now. What else is there
but dead trees and the Harvesting Grounds from which I was borne?

And then the
woods give way to a field that nearly knocks me over with its sheer …
undeadness. I mean literally un-dead. Not dead.

Alive. A large
stretch of grass is before us. Real grass. The first of any I’ve seen. This
meadow thrives somehow in the middle of a dead world … Trenton’s secret lawn.

Without
awaiting Grimsky’s go-ahead, I leap forth eagerly. Kicking off my ridiculous
heels, I dance barefoot in the grass, the tiny sprigs catching between my toes.
I spin in circles, the grey sky spinning with me, the little earth tentacles
and plant limbs like miniature green fingers tickling my feet. I fall, no care
in the world, land flat on my back in the bed of grass. A soft crunch at my
side and Grimsky’s laying there next to me. Tonight just became perfect, in one
little clumsy instant.

“Told you
you’d like it.”

“This is
amazing. What
is
this place? What is it called? It has to have a name.”

“Nope,” he
says, hardly able to contain his giggles. He’s clearly proud that he’s managed
to save an otherwise sour evening. “It’s just nature working her way with us.
Mother Nature surviving against all odds.”

“You
are
a poet,” I tell him. “When you have your Life Dream, you’re going to say, ‘Yes,
Winter. You were right all along. I was a poet in my life.’ I swear.”

I feel like
I’m floating, the grass not even touching me.

“Your hair
looks so bright against the greenery,” he points out, moving a hand to touch
it.

“Why is it,” I
go on to ask, randomly curious, “that we have certain senses and not others? I
can feel the grass in my toes. But can’t feel physical pain. We can’t taste or
smell, but can see and hear incredibly well.”

“No one can
say for sure why we are the way we are. Or why we’re animated at all. What
brings us up from the earth? What makes us intelligent when we haven’t even a
heart that beats? Winter, we’re just miracles, each and every one of us.
Science never could explain the miracle of life, why bother explaining the
miracle of death?”

Miracle. I
never thought to call this Second Life a miracle of any kind … the miracle it
is … an impossibility that is clearly possible. The phenomena of us.

“That,” I
whisper, having turned my head and caught sight of something, “is a tulip.” He’s
running his fingers through my hair. “I think I liked tulips. I think when I
was alive, I owned a beautiful garden. Tended it every day … the rosebuds, the
saplings, tulips. Of course, my favorite ones to cultivate were obviously the
sunflowers.”

I reach out to
touch the tulip. Strangest thing, I can swear as my finger grows close to it,
the tulip pulls away, if just barely. At least I think it does.

“If we were
alive together,” Grimsky whispers into my ear, pulling my attention away from
the flower. “I’d find you the biggest garden in the world.”

“Have you
heard of a place called Garden?” I ask.

He wrinkles
his face. “Just … Garden?” I nod. He shakes his head and says, “No. Why do you
ask?”

“No reason.” I
look away, lost in a little thought.

“We could call
this place Garden.” His breath tickles my ear. It actually, I think, truly
tickles my ear. I smile, still caught in my little dream, still staring at the
strange tulip, my finger outreached for it, never having gotten close enough to
touch it. “We can call this place whatever you like … It’s ours now.”

“I think when
I was alive,” I whisper, drawing my focus back to the pretty boy at my side, “I
read lots and lots of poetry. Maybe I read your poetry.”

“Maybe we were
in love,” he goes on, still in my ear. “Maybe we knew each other in our Old
Lives. Maybe we owned a house together … a house with a garden.”

I turn to face
him, my eyes meeting his. “Go on.”

“And for every
petal shed from every flower, I’d give it more sunlight,” he tells me. “Our
house would be overcome with flowers. Healthy. Always in bloom. Every
star-shape bursting with color. For every leaf that wilted, I’d plant ten more.
I’d never let our garden die.”

“Promise,” I
breathe into his eyes.

His lips
answer without words.

Later when I
rise from the ground, I look back to see my shadow against the grass. I smile
until it slowly occurs to me that what I’m smiling at isn’t a shadow at all.
The little spot of grass we laid on has died. Burnt grey into the vivid green
is a silhouette of Grimsky and Winter, like they’re still lying there in bliss.

The tulip I
reached out to touch, it has coiled into itself like a wounded insect, the tips
of its petals withered.

C H A P T E R – S I X

I guess it’s
official. That’s what happens when you go on a few outings over the course of a
week, people start lightning-bolt rumors that cause turns of heads wherever you
go. Hilda’s making me dresses for every occasion in every exotic color. Good
thing the dead aren’t colorblind.

The neighbor
Jasmine catches me on my way home one day to tell me how lovely I look on
Grim’s arm when we have our “formal” outings. I have to thank her for all the
food she’s been giving me, the fruits and vegetables I can’t name, and also the
rare bird here and there—though they become more scarce by the day, she
confesses. Hard to come by, the sky that once rained them now as barren as the
earth below it. She asks me when I’ll be ready to have her over sometime to
show off my cooking prowess. I tell her I’m not the best chef. She doesn’t
care. How can she? Couldn’t taste a scrap of it anyway.

On one of my
walks, I pass the schoolyard. My friend Ann is sitting on the curb reading a
book. After how I’d left things with the teen, I felt it appropriate to greet
her.

She looks up
and smiles flatly. “You look a hundred years better than last time I saw you.”

“I’ve settled
a bit more,” I agree, smoothing out the front of my outfit. “You like? Hilda’s
my new best friend, as far as apparel goes.”

“Never liked her
taste. But looks good on you. You reconsider pulling your head off for a game
yet?”

“I … don’t
think it’s for me. Sorry Ann.”

“Your loss.”

She returns to
reading her book. This Ann doesn’t remind me of the bubbly, energy-rattled teen
I’d met before. I sit on the curb next to her, concerned. “Is something up?”

“It’s nothing.
I really shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Surprised
about what?”

“They’re not
letting me advance to college.” She rolls her eyes, her fingers gripping the
book tighter. “They say I still have more to learn, but I think the truth is, I
don’t look old enough. Even after redoing senior year eight times with straight
A’s … I’m still seventeen.” She turns her despondent, steely eyes my way. “I
even asked my mom if they could reconstruct me at the Refinery, make me older. She
said it’s against Trenton law, go figure.”

“I thought we
were free to do as we pleased,” I murmur, noting how naïve that sounds even as
I say it.

“The tragedy
with this New Life is, you have to accept a lack of natural progress.” Ann
sighs, leans into me. “Hope you weren’t looking forward to having kids.”

I stare at the
ground, overcome with what she just said. I hadn’t considered other things I’m
giving up with this new existence … like pregnancy, carrying a child, a real
baby. Growing old and grey, being some kid’s grandma. Instead, I’ll be twenty-something
… forever. I know it sounds like someone’s long-desired fantasy, but in this
context it makes me feel anything but grateful.

“Some people
dream about staying in high school,” I joke, trying to lighten her mood despite
what she’s doing to my own. “No one wants to grow old, not really. Age is
overrated.”

“So’s high
school.” She tosses her book to the side. “I’ve read that damn thing sixteen
times anyway.”

“Maybe you can
graduate and—you know—stay graduated,” I offer. “Not everyone goes to college.”

“Whatever. Wanna
do something fun?”

I stare at
her. “Sorry, I’m still not up for decapitation.”

“Something
else.”

Oh.

Abandoning her
book on the sidewalk, she takes my hand and together we move down a couple
streets into the Town Square. I’m about to ask where we’re going when she hushes
me, then leads me down a narrow alley between two very tall brick buildings.
Through an opened sliding door, we enter a room with vending machines—ugh, I’ll
never get used to all the pretend eating in this place—and move down a hallway
that seems to be lined with offices, storage closets, janitorial closets,
bathrooms … and then suddenly we stop.

“Quiet,” she
whispers the second I was about to ask her why we stopped.

In the room
nearest us, I hear a conversation happening between a man and a woman. It seems
a little heated, but I’m not really paying attention to what they’re saying. On
the wall opposite of us, I see a giant picture of the Mayor of Trenton with the
words “Grand And Great The Leader Of All Of Us Dead And Dead Again, 9999” engraved
on a little plaque below.

“It’s the year
9,999?” I whisper, and she hushes me again.

And I wasn’t tuning
into the conversation we’re eavesdropping on a second ago, but when I realize
the male voice is the Mayor’s and the woman’s the Judge who so kindly put a
sword through my body not too long ago, my ears perk up.

“How can you
be so certain?” I hear him say.

“The scene was
unmistakable,” the Judge responds, her every word like a falling hammer. “They
came for one person only, and it
has
to be her. Everything fits, down to
her winter-white head. You should have allowed me to carry on with my hunch instead
of wimping out and—”

“You are not
thinking clearly. Her hair was the Refinery’s doing. We’ve had others—
many
others—of the same color! Tetra, remember her? And the girl from the parlor,
and the white-haired boy from—oh what’s his name—the one from the east quarter hardware
store—”

“Theirs is
artificial!” she barks back. “Hers is
real
.”

“You are wrong,
Enea. Pure superstition. Trenton is at peace, mine-dear, and it will remain so.
Do not our people have enough on their minds? We have the walls watched, every
gate supervised …
They
will not be returning.”

“Twenty-seven
lives were lost in the tavern,” she presses on, sternly, “including your
lute-loving lady.”

“Watch your
tone, Judge.”

“And not a
single one of them survived—
except her!
And still, you’re willing to
just let it go,” she persists, her anger mounting, “until another tavern is
vexed by those terrorists?—until one of our quarters full of children is overrun
by death-hungry heathens? Would you rather sacrifice them, just to pretend
everything is fine when clearly it is not? All you’d have to do is give them
the girl, Mayor. She is who they’re after.”

Ann is
suddenly tugging at my hand, trying to pull me back down the hall toward the
way out, but I stand my ground. I have to hear more. Especially because, well …

Because it’s obviously
about me.

“Given up on
your Human theory?” the Mayor asks calmly. “You know how very much they enjoy
the taste of a man’s flesh. I think it’s still fully possible they were drawn
here by a stray Living.”

“No,” the Judge
insists, her voice cold and harsh. “They’re here for her. She’s the missing
progeny.”

The missing
what-geny??

Ann yanks my
hand, panicked, but I’m stubborn as ever. I’m desperate to hear more …
Something to better explain what happened at the tavern that day … Something to
give me more truth than I’ve gotten from anyone else, even Grim. Could the
people who decimated the tavern that night really have been looking for me? Did
being in the bathroom, in fact, save my life?

Or was it not
me at all? Was it John they were after?

“We’ve been
over this,” the Mayor growls. “There is no
missing progeny. That’s a
myth, and a ridiculous one at that. Belabor the point again, I swear it, mine-own
ears will fall off. Focus on your current duty, Judge, as you still haven’t
completed your report.”

“Because the
case is still open,” she barks back, “and the report, inconclusive. I’ll turn
it in when it’s ready, Mayor, when I’ve uncovered what must be uncovered, when
I know the truth that is, unquestionably, undoubtedly, unmistakably still
waiting to be unearthed.”

And then I let
Ann carry me off, dragged by her clutch as I am, for I sense the Judge is about
to leave the Mayor’s office and I hardly think it’d benefit me to have her know
I overheard all that. In an instant, Ann throws the both of us into a closet,
pulling the door shut as quietly as we can manage. We wait, holding our
imaginary breaths, as the Judge’s heels are heard clicking past the door.

“9,999 is what
we say the year is,” Ann whispers.

“What?”

“The year.” She
smirks, annoyed at having to explain. “Because no one knows the real year. Who
knows when the world ended??—So it’s the year 9,999, every year.”

“Oh,” I mumble
distractedly. “That’s … useful.”

In a moment,
the hallway is silent. Ann peeks her head out, then pulls me with her. Quickly
we make our way back out of the building, but not before I stop at the vending
machine to grab a few free bags of crisps and a couple candy bars. “Just for my
collection,” I whisper at Ann, who rolls her eyes. Then we’re sprinting down the
alley and into the Town Square, making sure to blend into the crowd as naturally
as we can manage like we hadn’t just snuck into the Mayor’s backdoor.

“Wonder what
that was all about,” Ann murmurs. “Who is this missing progeny?”

“No idea.” I
answer too quickly.

“I wish I’d
seen what happened at the tavern,” she goes on, excited. “No one is allowed to talk
about it, even though my mom’s been so … sullen … since the incident. I think a
friend of hers was at the tavern that night.”

“I’m sorry to
hear that.”

“Me too. If my
mom doesn’t cheer up, she’ll be taken away.”

“Why?”

“People don’t
want to see grief, I guess.” She gives a shrug. “That’s Trenton Law. Be happy
or else.”

I don’t know
which to feel worse about, her mother’s friend who was at the tavern, or the
fact that I might be the reason for that tavern incident at all.

“I guess I
should get home,” Ann mutters. “I don’t even have time to see if the Heads are
meeting up. Not much in the mood, anyway.”

“Me neither.”

“I didn’t even
show you what I wanted to! Next time, we’ll go to the criminal’s quarters where
they lock up petty thieves and baddies.”

“Next time,” I
agree, lost in my own thoughts.

And before it
registers, Ann’s left my side. I stand there for a while, the bustling of people
all around me going about their day’s errands, and the heavy words of the Mayor
and the Judge still hang on my mind.

The Judge,
Enea. I hadn’t known her name until now.

I can’t handle
being in the middle of a busy street. I push myself through the Town Square,
thrusting my feet onward toward the west end of town. On and on, shutting up my
thoughts, I press through the city until finally my cul-de-sac looms close, and
my house closer.

“It’s a fine
day to be whatever,” I sing, ascending my porch steps clumsily. The door
clicks, I swing it open and lock it behind me. “Sorry, roomie, I’m not in the
mood.” Without giving him so much as a glance, I toss the bags of crisps and
candy at the table on my way to the bathroom.

With my cockroach
housemate perched in a corner of the ceiling, I turn on the faucet and shut my
eyes, listening to the calm rush of running water. My head is foggy with
questions, worries … I don’t know where to focus, what to think, what to figure
out. I know only one thing for sure: The Deathless, whoever they are, came to Trenton
that night in violent pursuit of one of two possible people, both of whom are
under this very roof.

“You alright?”
he mutters, having come partway down the hall.

“Who the hell are
these Deathless??” I ask the air.

“The what?”

I sigh. Of
course he wouldn’t know. “Never mind. I just need to be left alone. I’ve had an
awful day. I … I wish nothing more right now than to be able to sleep. How I so
envy your humanity.”

He doesn’t
respond to that. Quietly, he turns and does exactly as I requested: leaves me
alone. A part of me wishes he wouldn’t.

I stare at the
mirror studying my hair, my snowy cascade, the inspiration for my name, the
first thing Helena noticed when she pulled me out of the ground. No, my hair
wasn’t a product of the Refinery. The Mayor was wrong. My hair was like this
from the first minute of my New Life … White as winter.

Maybe the
Judge is right. Maybe they were after me.
Are
after me. But who am I?

Who was I?

When I finally
emerge from the bathroom, John’s already seated at the table writing. He’s been
doing a lot of that lately, scribbling page after page—of what, I’ve no idea.
Very secretive he’s deciding to be. I’m not one to pry, so I let him have his
space without argument and just sit on the couch in silence. Small as our home
is, privacy’s a nice thing to be afforded now and then.

“Did your
laundry,” he mumbles without looking up.

He has his own
way of showing thanks, I guess. Little as his gratefulness for all I do for him
goes.