by Logan Keys
“Never, Dallas.” I search his face. “Not in my heart. I can’t do it.”
“I love you,” he finishes.
At this, I close my eyes. I’ve been damned from the very beginning.
If he chooses me, he’d have to leave. He won’t abandon his son, and I won’t let him.
Physically, I shake free. Mentally, I’m in a state of bondage I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Joe just said he loves me.
Loves. Me.
I can’t believe the strength of my words when they come out: “Let’s hunt, Joe.” And he nods, frowning, unsure of what to make of my response. He doesn’t know it’s my love for him that keeps me moving.
He’s loaded with guns more than usual.
“What were you doing out here?” I ask.
“Searching.”
I raise a brow.
“For my brother’s killer.”
I chin-nod at the surrounding area. “Why so close to the gate?” Big game doesn’t come through here too often; they smell our fires.
“I was on my way back to get a dog.”
The part of me that loves the thrill of the hunt can’t help asking, “Why? You find something?”
Joe gives me a half-smile, the old “us” returning like it never left. It started just like this: he and I tracking, sharing the Wilds together.
We’d always have this … maybe.
“I shot a deer earlier and was following it, but some tracks mixed up with the ones I was tailing.”
I hesitate to ask anything more.
“Will you come with me?”
I let out the trapped air from my lungs. “Sure.”
“Good,” he says.
“But I think we should bring Cara,” I add, looking away, embarrassed by feeling the need to have a chaperone after the last time we were caught alone.
Joe nods. “Okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Liza
We were given another shot. Late that night, just before what would have been our tree’s last leg, some poor deer had wandered near, before dashing away. The zombie horde followed them off into the darkness. By then we were the quieter and seemingly lifeless choice, too tired to sing or talk, so they all gave up and left.
Now, we climb down and return to the house, where we have a clean chimney that won’t give us away this time.
Unfortunately, we’re both too exhausted to do much more than board up the windows and the door. We double the amount of wood needed, just in case.
After I start a fire, I find Tommy busy laying out some blankets. He makes my bed, as well. With my bite, I suspect he’s giving me a longer break to recover, but I sense he’s also recovering from something.
“Thank you,” I say, looking at the comfiest bed I will have slept in since we landed in Texas.
We dig through the house a little more. I think we both want to snoop around a bit, since we’re probably feeling kind of nostalgic after the almost-dying thing.
I take a closer look at the house this time, and it’s stranger than when we first entered. Some old photos hang on the wall, and precious items have been stowed away, like the owners intend to come back.
“Who were they, ya think?” Tommy asks.
I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“I always try to imagine who lived in places like these, what they might have been like.” He points to one photo where a dad and a mom hold hands with two young children, smiling, rested, healthy. “They seem nice.”
I smile softly. “Yes, they do.” Then my gaze shifts over to Tommy. No time like the present. “Tell me about ‘Special.’”
He grows serious. “You might want to sit down, Marilyn.”
“Okay.” I sit cross-legged on my bed.
Tommy finds his own spot, and he rubs his face like he’d avoid the discussion altogether if he could. “You and me, we aren’t normal.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Normal nowadays is kinda scary.”
“No jokes. Listen, okay? We’re made.”
This piques my interest in a bad way.
“Engineered.”
This is unexpected. “What do you mean? Who engineered us?”
“A group of scientists from the Underground made me, and one from the Authority made you; they did something to make us different. In fact, you’re more different from the rest, even.”
Sounds like something big, the kind you don’t wait to mention to the person traveling with you for weeks. He’s kept things from me that had to do with my very life? “Explain.”
Guilt crosses his face. “I can do things, get bigger or whatever. And you … you made things float or something once, I think, I’m not sure what I saw. And with the zombies, didn’t you feel it? It is crazy, but it’s true.”
I bark out a dry laugh. “Truly crazy, then.”
“Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but the Underground was trying to make one of us perfect. That’s you. You’re ‘Eve.’” He gestures to the mark on my arm.
“I thought this was just a brand for prisoners or something. E-V-E. I guessed maybe it stood for the company, but you’re saying this is a name? Eve?”
“How do you think you fought all those zombies yesterday? Do you honestly believe that was normal? Their plan was to make two perfect Specials and…”
“Breed them?”
I raise my brow, and he avoids my gaze.
“I thought I was just pumped up on adrenaline last night,” I whisper.
“It looked a lot more like you were able to fight back without training, like you had instincts beyond a natural human. But I agree, it could have been mistaken for adrenaline. Other than your eyes. I know very little, and this idea to give the human race a second chance, I’m sure they’d … um … artificially …”
“Gross. Hatter.”
“Yeah… Wait.” He blinks up at me. “How do you know my name?”
“Thomas?”
“No. Hatter.”
“I didn’t say Hatter.”
“You did. You just said Hatter. How do you know my last name?” He shrugs when I stare back blankly. “Maybe you heard it while you were asleep. In your bubble, I mean. I could hear your machines, so you could have heard them call me by my full name.”
“Great. I remember things from while I was sleeping, but not from before.”
“Why don’t you try it?” Tommy asks. “Find out what you’re capable of.”
But I merely shrug. I thought we had. “I’m tired.”
He nods, and we both lie down on our beds—me with my mind reeling after the revelation; and him with his cat out of the bag, wondering if I’m gonna freak out.
I am.
I’m more than freaking out.
Neither of us can sleep, so I ask, “What happened to your family?”
From the corner of my eye, I see him wave a hand. “Buried. Gone.”
When I look over, he’s staring through me, as if daring me to look away. Something’s shifting in Tommy—fewer jokes, fewer smiles, more anxious stares into the distance. Even worse are those times he gets testy for no reason.
Anger sits in this man. Leagues of it.
“You buried your family?”
“Sure. Yeah, we all did.” His jaw’s granite.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “I still hold out hope that mine are somewhere waiting.”
“Come on.” He gets up restlessly. “Let’s try to see if your Special wants to play.”
“You saw me fight. Isn’t that it?”
“I don’t think so. Specials can do a lot of things regular people can’t. More than just stab zombies.”
I sit up, irritated. “Okay. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
“Yours is not the same. Not even close.”
“Oh, so it’s only about finding out about me, I see.”
“No”—Tommy chops a hand down—“you don’t see at all.”
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing. Everything. I just want
to get to LA.”
“Tell me what’s in LA.”
“I already told you. The Underground. They can help us.”
“And that’s it?”
“What’s with all the questions?” he snarls, and I get up to leave. I’m not arguing with someone I barely know. “How would you like me to ask you personal things?” he says.
I gather up my stuff. “That’s low, you know. Why the sudden irritation? Tommy, what’s in LA besides the Underground?”
“Okay, fine. Someone. I’m hoping someone is there.”
“I see.”
Tommy pushes a hand through his hair in frustration. “Stop saying that! You don’t see—you can’t possibly—and I’m left trying to explain. Let’s just go back to avoiding all of the big topics.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Fine. Fine. Just accept it, and that only makes me madder.”
“Yes. Fi-ne. It’s not any easier for me to dig deeper, okay? So why don’t we take your advice and just avoid everything but the basics.”
“FINE!”
I gasp at the sudden roar of his voice, at the shape of his formidable anger. In his shadow, I sense something else—something big, watchful—and then I feel foolish when nothing’s really there at all.
“I’ll sleep in another room,” I tell him, trying to stop this in its tracks. “You’re just trying to bait me into a fight.”
“Go ahead. Run off.”
Fury fills me like a balloon, and I, too, roar back at him: “Who do you think you are? You think I like this? Do you imagine I enjoy being completely in the dark? Don’t even get me started on your having omitted very pertinent information that wasn’t yours to hide. This is my life, Thomas—mine. You don’t get to play games with information about me. I’m not a child. Who are you to me? Nobody. You don’t even know my real name!”
Tommy shrinks, shoulders slumped, embarrassed by his temper. “Marilyn, look—”
“My name is not Marilyn!” I snap. “It’s Liza!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tommy
Liza.
The name fits like a glove, and the transformation is brilliant. She’s not some fictitious person anymore. She’s Liza. And as certain as the sky is orange, she’s a real somebody.
“Okay.” I nod once, then twice, and I can’t help smiling. I try out the name, “Liza,” and it thrills her.
“Liza,” she echoes.
And we both let it settle.
All might not be right in the world, but at least this one good thing, while small, has happened. Liza fairly glows with this recognition, and I can see her mentally patching a quilt of what she knows about herself.
Girl from the bubble. Check.
Has been to Anthem. Check.
And is named Liza.
Later, when I return from gathering firewood, I find Liza quiet, pensive.
She’s looking out the window, knees tucked beneath her delicate chin, and when the moon catches her eyes, I see moisture in them.
This gives me pause. The first dark emotion from my traveling companion. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
She turns, placing her chin onto one knee.
“I had a dream.”
I crouch before her. “Tell me.”
Liza quietly regards me for a moment. These days, I’m not one to ignore a dream. Besides, it’s too cold for us to do much else, and this might be important.
“It was Swan Lake.”
Last thing I expect her to say.
“Okay …” I draw out the word slowly.
“Do you know it?”
“As in the play? Not really.”
“The ballet.” She turns back toward the window, and somehow I know she’s picturing it outside. My gaze follows hers to the pond, frozen over now, when yesterday it’d been green and vibrant.
The temperature’s steadily dropping.
“The queen Odette is cursed to live as a swan,” Liza explains. “She meets her prince, but he’s tricked out of loving her.”
I frown. “Is this what’s making you sad?”
“No. It was a memory. Something to do with my family, I believe.”
“Ah.”
Eyes closed, she tips her head down in defeat, seeming ready to cry, but then balls up her fists instead. “The music, it’s right there in my head.” Liza straightens, then opens her bright eyes, almost accusatorily. “First, the flute, light and sweet—the passion in the music moves me—makes me … what?” she says at my smile.
“Classical music puts me in mind of tea time and cricket.”
She cocks her head, squints. “No, you’re wrong. It’s entirely reckless.” She shakes her head as her hands lift. “The clash of symbols, air through the woodwinds—that’s the musical heart pumping the blood of the orchestra; a mixture of emotions—hatred, smoldering anger, sex and murder on the stage, all while keeping its purity; betrayal, if there’s that, and along with the human factors of the play, the music rises— Oh! And the silence. I forgot about the silence. The spaces between—”
“Heartbeats?”
Liza nods, pointing at me like I’m a good pupil, growing more animated as she goes on. “It tells more of the story. Two beats for sad; four for building intensity; the quick inhale of breath so they can play out again, and the crowd in that moment when they feel it—the intended emotions converge, making the audience one, palms tingling, united with the same reaction. And then it rises and rises!”
She jumps to her feet, and I’m reminded of my father at the pulpit.
“Tommy—the crescendo begins, and everyone knows: This. Is. It. They don't know what’ll happen, but it’s there, building them up to something, like every movie score”—she grabs my hands—“keyed up. Then after, they go off into the world with a classical score tattooed in their thoughts, and they dream, they create, not just art, but children, a life, a legacy …”
She can’t seem to go on, eyes glistening. I wait, enraptured by her performance.
“… it’s all gone. Don’t you see? Our hearts won’t get to find creation again and replicate; we won’t build families and living proof of our love … we … there is no future.”
Her face folds up, and my mouth drops open at her crushed expression.
“Liza, no, listen. Stop—don’t go there. You don’t want to do that. There’s no coming back from that place. Memorize it if you must—the spot inside you where you’ll lose your mind—and then never return.”
She sucks in a breath, but this time, it’s me who points at her. “In that direction is a long, dark alleyway without ending. We only have to get through today. Just now. You can’t think about anything else. Trust me, I know.”
Liza looks down, lays a palm to her forehead, breathing hard, ready to fall apart. For her, this is still new. For her, the end times began only weeks ago. And for anyone with a soul, it’s an overwhelming concept to grasp. Not to mention, her returning memories—their joys and sadnesses—because it can never be that way again.
“Liza,” I say, trying to distract her, “tell me about the music.”
She regards me for a moment, then offers a half-smile. “Let me show you,” she says and, after motioning for me to sit, comes around behind me. “Classical isn’t boring, Tommy; it’s the root of all music—rock, hip-hop, even country.”
“And why would you think I’d like country?”
“Don’t all cowboys?” she says, then she shushes me, and puts her hands on my shoulders, then trails them down to my chest like she’s in a trance.
With her arms wrapped around me, she hums the first part. “The flute,” she says, “but then come the horns.” And she thuds my chest, gently singing, “Dun dun dun dun dun.”
“Close your eyes,” she whispers, and I do. “Now imagine: One lone ballerina on a black stage. She’s white—her dress is white, and her skin is as pale as the swan she plays. This is where the swan song comes from.” In between her words, she hums. “And she’s fluttering, arms graceful an
d long. But she’s dying, Tommy, pleading with the audience to help her.”
And then, I see it—some of it comes back with the song she plays through me.
“Violins,” she goes on, and the high and reedy sound comes easily to memory, and with it, I can almost envision the swan queen falling to the ground, arms behind her.
Slowly, I open my eyes to Liza who circles around to face me, singing the crescendo and waving her arms like a conductor.
And this time, I don’t imagine it when the tiny candles light, at first just dots in her eyes, then blaze in full force across her irises.
Magnificent.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dallas
Although Cara gives Joe the stink eye a few times, she agrees to come with us. She’s not as good at hunting, but great in a fight.
For a while, we all take turns avoiding one another’s eyes, until Joe finally tries to smooth things over.
“After we found that tree, Dallas, the one with the blood,” he says, “I came back out and thought I saw something farther on. I found more tracks.”
“Deer?” I ask.
“Definitely not.”
Joe keeps the dog, Douglas, on a short leash.
“Did you bring a long rope?” I ask. He nods, and as we hike away from Ironwood, Cara lags behind, sulking.
He shows me where he shot the deer, and he’s right—the blood drips go one way, but a smudge of splatters crosses these. Something else had come along; weird tracks circle the other’s.
“Was it hunting the deer?” Cara asks, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Maybe,” I say. “Probably smelled the blood.”
“It wasn’t a clean shot,” Joe says. “The doe could be long gone by now.”
“No.” I point to a flattened area of brush. “See? She rested here. Can’t be far.”
Joe lets Douglas sniff around, while I get down on my hands and knees in the tall grass to figure out which way the doe went.
I locate one little speck of blood going in a certain direction.
We attach the long rope to Douglas, and he howls, rushes forward, nose down.
While being tugged along—maybe several miles—Cara seems to fight what’s eating at her, before she finally says, “You know, Joe …”