Copyright © 2017 Stephanie Erickson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-944793-10-4
Table of Contents
The Dead Room
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
The Dead World
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Alive
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Stephanie’s Books
The Dead Room
By: Stephanie Erickson
For You
Approx. 322 years after the apocalypse
1.
The body lay on a two-piece metal pyre in the center of the clearing. Nothing more than the skeleton of a table, the pyre was simply used for the display and transport of the bodies. Burning the dead was a custom from the time before.
The corpse’s blue cotton, long-sleeved shirt was buttoned all the way to the top to hide his injuries, and the matching navy slacks had recently been pressed. With his hands folded over his abdomen, Wesley looked rather dashing. Ashley wished her match had actually been dashing in life.
She wondered who would wear that outfit next. Nothing was ever wasted on the island. Not even the clothes of a dead man. She herself had worn the clothes off a dead woman’s back. Squeamishness was a luxury no one could afford.
Although “new” clothes were made on the island, from animal skins and the cotton grown in the farmlands, they were typically reserved for the higher ups—elders, doctors, and the like. Cotton was difficult to grow in the cold climate, and the clothes were made entirely by hand. Once it had been worn and patched a few times by those with power, new clothing was eventually passed down to the lower branches of society,
But, it wasn’t just clothing that moved on after an islander died. All of their belongings were redistributed among those in need. The dead’s family wasn’t allowed to keep anything they didn’t need. Sentimentality was a lost emotion to the islanders. Reusing everything was essential, even if the previous owner was a dead man.
It had only bothered her once—the first time she’d seen one of her father’s outfits on another man. Even then, at the tender age of ten, she’d understood it was bound to happen eventually. She just hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Only a week after his funeral, she’d spotted one of her neighbors walking down the road in her father’s clothes. She ran to him, hoping her father’s scent might still linger on his shirt. But the man neither embraced her nor offered her any sympathy. He only looked at her with wide eyes, the horror and disgust plain on his face.
Death on the island was such a strange thing. She’d lost track of how many funerals she’d been to in her lifetime—at least one a month. Unexpected deaths, like that of her match, added to the average.
Only three of the losses had actually meant something to her—her mother, her father, and now Wesley. Her father’s funeral was, of course, devastating, made more so by the fact that they’d shared the same first name. Everything the elders said about him could have also been applied to her. How they were thankful for “Ashley’s life,” how they wished “Ashley peace.” It sent shivers down her spine.
Once, she’d asked him why they shared a name. His mother’s name had been Ashley, he’d explained, as had her mother, and her father before that. On and on, down the line, the name had traveled, until it had reached Ashley. And one day, as was their tradition, it would go to her own child.
The funeral for her mother, who had been taken by a simple cold that escalated into something much worse, was nothing more than a hazy memory. Still, Ashley missed her mother terribly and felt incomplete without her. She searched for her whenever the jasmine got caught on the wind, because her mother had loved to wear the flower behind her ear.
Wesley’s funeral was a problem. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about it. The loss of her parents had left her feeling completely alone. She’d hoped to find love again with her match, but he’d left her terribly disappointed.
Now that he was gone, her emotions warred with themselves. Relief was the biggest player fighting for space in her mind. Relief to have escaped the abuse and the pressures of being the next elder’s wife. Guilt came in at a close second, but not because she regretted killing her match.
It was because her best friend was being blamed for it.
She sat alone in the front row, worrying her hands as she took in the scene around her. A large crowd was gathered in a semi-circle around the body. The clearing was equipped with seating for roughly a thousand people, and the island’s population tended to hover near that number, plus or minus ten or fifteen people. Wesley had been such a prominent figure in their community—next in line to be an elder—so nearly the whole island had come to pay their respects. Most of those present had always told Ashley that she was so lucky to be matched with him.
If that’s luck, they can keep it, she thought. Funny how relaxed and peaceful he looks now, Ashley mused as she studied his body. She snorted, causing pain to shoot through her right side where he’d kicked her last night.
She grimaced, and her hand automatically flew to the spot. Was it really just last night? she marveled. So much had happened.
The summer had been warm that year, warmer than normal for the northwestern island, but a crisp taste of fall was on the wind. In a vain attempt to keep out the cold, and the memories, she adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. A breeze rustled the spruce trees bordering the circular clearing, ruffling it back out of place.
The islanders in the rows surrounding Ashley watched her as she fidgeted. They probably assumed she was in shock. Maybe she was. Memories of her match flooded her mind. She knew from the start that she didn’t love him, but love wasn’t the point of matches—continuing the species was.
Her life had become so much worse, though, after learning who Wesley really was—nothing but rage. She couldn’t get her mind around how badly the elders had misjudged him. Or maybe she was the one they’d misjudged.
The memories continued to close in on her like the even
ing fog, until she reached the night before. The hits, the kicks, and the ugly words all flashed in her mind. She felt every strike land on her a second time. Felt her hand take the knife…
Her heart raced, and her breath came in short gasps. Tears streamed down her face. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady herself. She couldn’t afford to panic. The others might suspect something, and then what? Though she could think of no possible way things could get worse than they already were, her lack of imagination was undoubtedly born of grief—not for her dead match, but for her best friend, her only family, who was awaiting his execution.
Before she could dwell on Mason’s fate, the funeral service started.
Elder Alkoff led the procession, with Elder Mattli and the other seven elders in tow. Dressed in funeral robes that covered their arms and dragged on the ground behind them, they all walked down the center aisle, heads bowed. None had their hoods raised, as was customary for funeral services. The elders thought it would comfort the islanders to look upon the faces of their leaders in such a dark moment.
Elder Alkoff clutched the book as he made his way toward the body, his black robe kicking out in front of him. When he arrived at the pyre, he paused, muttered a few words, and turned to face the crowd. The rest of the elders spread out on either side of him, forming a row.
Opening the book to the proper section automatically, Alkoff didn’t even look at it when he spoke. He’d conducted enough funerals to know the words by heart, and so he kept his tired, gray eyes trained on the islanders. “In the name of our savior, Bennett Ashby, we give thanks for this life. For without him, it would not have existed at all.” His voice was deep, booming, and authoritative, echoing across the clearing.
The crowd responded as one, “We thank you for this life, Bennett Ashby.”
As Alkoff continued the service, Ashley wondered what that even meant. Were they thanking Bennett Ashby for their own lives, or for her match’s? She certainly wasn’t thankful for his life. And just then, she wasn’t sure she was all that thankful for her own.
“We continue to give thanks and praise for this island, and all the lives on it, for we have been spared the horrible fate of those who came before.”
The crowd responded, “We give thanks and praise to you, our savior, Bennett Ashby.”
Again, Ashley’s mind wandered. What exactly was the ‘horrible fate’ the elders so often referred to? Could it be worse than submitting to an abusive man in the name of continuing the species? All the elders ever said was that civilization had crumbled at its own hands, and the islanders were the only survivors. No one knew more than that, but to hear the elders tell it, the island was the only part of the world that was still inhabited. But Ashley had a hard time accepting that as truth. What made the island so special that only they had been chosen to survive?
She shook her head. Now’s not the time for that train of thought.
By the time Ashley tuned back in, Alkoff had closed the book and moved on with the ceremony. Elder Mattli stepped forward.
Alkoff’s second in command cleared his throat in preparation for his part of the ceremony. “Wesley was…” he paused briefly, “…full of potential. The elders would have had a strong ally in him. His presence will be missed.” He let out a short sigh when he was done.
He turned to the body and sprinkled a handful of sand on it. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. So we return this body to the Earth.”
Do they really return the bodies to the Earth? Ashley wondered, not for the first time. No one was allowed to see what the elders did with the bodies after a funeral. The body was carried away by two of the elders. The clothing, along with the rest of Wesley’s extraneous belongings that Ashley didn’t need, would later be delivered to its next owners by one of the elders’ lackeys. There were no graveyards on the island—the space couldn’t be spared—and Ashley didn’t remember ever seeing smoke after a funeral. Maybe they dump them into the sea. She imagined a huge skeleton reef offshore with centuries of bodies in various stages of decomposition. The image was grotesquely comedic, and she stifled what would’ve been a manic laugh.
Mattli returned to his place among the elders as Alkoff continued the ceremony. “Through death comes life.” The crowd stirred with anticipation of who would be allowed—or forced, depending on how you looked at it—to add to the population now that a death had occurred. “Constance and Matthew Deneau, we look forward to celebrating the life you can now bring into this world.”
A collective sigh passed over the crowd, and a few people patted Matthew on the shoulder to give him their silent congratulations. Ashley eyed Constance, trying to decide if she was happy or not. She didn’t know the girl very well, but they were about the same age. With both of them in their mid-twenties, they were an ideal age to contribute to the population.
But Ashley wondered how fulfilling that would even be. Childbirth was dangerous on the island, and not without peril. Worse, illness was hard on children, and some never made it to adulthood. The island’s finite population made inbreeding a problem, and babies were often stillborn or born with deformities they didn’t survive. Legends were shared of a time when medicine had been plentiful, and disease more sophisticated than a respiratory infection, but life was smaller on the island. A common cold was all it took to snuff out a little one.
Mattli caught her eye, bringing her back to the service. “Now go in peace, knowing that as one life ends, another begins. So it is for you.”
So it is for me, huh? she asked herself. What could my life possibly hold now? She despaired as the crowd slowly filed away, leaving her alone and trapped between her future and her past.
Ashley continued to sit, staring at her match’s body. By the time she felt Mattli take her hand, she was numb, whether from the cold or the events of the last twenty-four hours, she wasn’t sure.
“My dear. You should go home. It’s getting cold.” His hands were wrinkled by time, but they were warm and comforting as they enveloped hers.
“I’d like to stay with him. To know what happens to him.” She didn’t finish her thought out loud. Since I don’t know what my own future holds.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” It was a simple, firm answer. But Ashley couldn’t accept it.
Anger rose inside of her, surprising her with its intensity. Everything was so chaotic, and she felt this was one thing she should’ve been able to control. She clawed at the opportunity desperately. “He was my match. I have a right to see him laid to rest.” Her voice echoed off the canopy of trees above them.
Mattli’s eyes turned sad. “Yes, you do. But I’m afraid you just can’t. You know that. You’ve been here before.”
That was true enough. She wasn’t an elder, but she could probably go through the service from memory.
But this one was different. She would not miss Wesley, but in many ways, his death signified the end of her life. She was nothing to the island without her match. They needed every young woman to produce more hands to help till the earth, repair buildings and machines, keep records, and keep the island running. The child’s sex didn’t matter—more bodies were what they needed. It was her most important role. Yes, she was also responsible for mending and making fishing nets on the island, and she was good at it too. But continuing the species was everyone’s top priority. And now that opportunity was likely lost to her.
Though she wouldn’t have wanted Wesley’s children, she was unhappy to have lost her main purpose.
Mattli stood, and she followed automatically, not consciously processing her actions. “Ashley, you are young and fertile. You may yet be rematched.”
She shuddered at the thought. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. But she didn’t know what she did want. The future looked bleak, especially if she’d have to spend it without Mason.
“At any rate, my dear, you aren’t a lost soul. The island can’t afford lost souls. You know that. You’ll find your purpose, and it will be soon.” An ‘or else’ hung in th
e air between them, making Ashley uneasy.
Her response caught in her throat when she realized the elder had walked her home. Feeling deflated, her shoulders sagged.
“Go get some rest. In the morning, it will be over.”
She nearly crumpled, knowing exactly what ‘it’ referred to. Her best friend’s wrongful execution would be far more difficult to endure than her match’s funeral.
2.
The home Ashley had shared with Wesley was dark when she walked in. Without thinking, she lit the lamp near the front door, bathing the scene in light. Everything looked normal. The chairs had all been righted, the blood had been cleaned, and the broken dishes had been sent back to the potter to be used for mosaics or ground down and made into new bowls, cups, and plates.
Despite the normalcy, the shadows knew the truth. Bile rose in her throat, and she ran to the bathroom.
The toilet was still stained red. She recoiled as soon as she put her face over it, rescuing her blonde locks at the last minute. Resigned, she went to the sink and poured some water into it from the bucket on the floor. Noting it was nearly empty and would need to be refilled before she went to bed, she splashed her face. The cold water shocked her senses.
Pull it together, she chided herself. She studied her reflection. She seemed to have aged in the last few hours. Dark bags hung under her steel-gray eyes, her hair was a bit frizzy and unkempt, and her normally beautiful porcelain skin had taken on a sickly gray tone.
Gripping the sides of the sink, she tried to take slow, easy breaths. She hadn’t meant for it to happen. Frankly, she hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. She had only asked him a question.
“But why all the secrecy? It just makes me think there has to be something more out there. What if Bennett Ashby set up more than one island?” She knew her questions agitated him, but she couldn’t help herself. Deep down inside, she believed she would be a better elder’s wife if she just had the answers to her questions.
“What makes you think you have any business understanding Bennett Ashby or his methods?” His voice was low and sinister, and she knew what was coming. No matter what she did at this point, his anger was like a freight train barreling down on her. Nothing would stop it.
The Dead Room Trilogy Page 1