The Dead City (Ophelia book 2)

by Amy Cross

  I hate myself for relying on her, but the truth is: right now, I need her to come through for me.

  Ophelia

  Limping along the dark street, I try to ignore the pain in my head. There's no time to stop, no time to go to a hospital. I just have to keep going and hope that I don't pass out before I find her.

  When I reach the entrance to the park behind the college, I figure that I might as well head in there. There are sirens in the distance, but I'm fairly sure that Victoria won't have gone too far. She knows the game's up, that there's not much time left, so it's not as if she's going to make a run for it. Instead, she'll be trying to work out how to make her final stand, and for that she's going to need some help.

  She's going to need me.

  The park is mostly unlit, with just a few streetlights marking a narrow path that winds its way between the trees. Deciding to head into the shadows, I make my way across the grass, and after just a few paces I realize that I can't even see where I'm going. I hold my hand out to make sure that I don't walk straight into any of the trees, but I keep going anyway. If Victoria is going to make her presence known, it's going to be somewhere like this. If there's even -

  Losing my footing, I suddenly stumble and drop to my knees. The pain surges in my head and I let out a gasp, and when I try to get up I realize that I'm far too dizzy. I take a moment to gather my strength and then I force myself to my feet. Stumbling a little further, I finally reach the back of the building where Victoria was working.

  “I'm not looking for a murderer,” I remind myself. “I'm looking for an artist.”

  And where else would an artist go, but to her studio?

  Figuring that she must be inside, I manage to find the door and I slip inside. It's hard to believe that the police aren't all over this place, but I guess they're focused on the building where the students were found unconscious. They'll get here eventually, though, so I don't have much time. Going it alone was a mistake earlier, but now it's a good idea again. I wish my life was more consistent.

  Pushing through the pain, I make my way up the stairs until finally I reach the space where Victoria's Dead City models are still in place, their forms picked out by moonlight. As I limp toward them, I can't help but feel sorry for Victoria. She put so much of herself into this project, and she truly believed in its value. When she told me that she didn't want to kill anyone, that she only killed because she needed the bodies for her art, I actually believe her.

  “You look like hell,” a voice says suddenly.

  I stop and turn.

  Slowly, I become aware of movement nearby. I watch as she steps out from behind one of the models.

  “They're actually closing the roads,” she continues. “Can you believe that? There are roadblocks, and I heard a helicopter a few minutes ago. This definitely isn't how I thought things would end.”

  “It's not the end,” I tell her, staying very still as I feel another wave of nausea rushing through my belly. “You can get help, Victoria.”

  “And how would that work?” she asks. “They'd lock me away and tinker with my head? They'd try to change my personality? Face it, true artists are never appreciated in their own lifetimes.”

  “You're really a big fan of yourself, aren't you?” I reply.

  “I guess an artist has to be arrogant,” she continues. “Otherwise, why would someone go to all the trouble of doing something like this. I want you to do me another favor, Ophelia. I want you to make sure that eventually, when the shock has passed, people remember the real me. I never wanted to kill anyone, but there was no other way to get the bodies. I considered grave-robbing, but that would have just complicated things. Murder was quicker and cleaner. It was easier. There was no downside.”

  “Apart from killing people,” I point out.

  “Yes. Apart from that.”

  “Victoria -”

  “I need help,” she adds. “I never thought I'd say that, but it's true.”

  “And I can help you,” I reply. “The police -”

  “I mean help with my art,” she continues. “I've been standing here for a few minutes now, trying to work out what to do for my final show. And it really does have to be final, because it'll be the last thing I ever do. I'll never be in control again, so I have to make it count. It has to sum everything up. All my thoughts, all my beliefs... Everything I've ever wanted to say, it all has to be said now, and in a way that can't be misinterpreted or forgotten. Fortunately, I think I have a plan.”

  I watch as she walks over to one of her models. She runs her hand across its face, as if she's lost in thought.

  “I'm not an idiot,” she says eventually, taking out her sculpting knife and starting to carve into the model's face. “I know I can't continue like this. I have to die, but I'm not sure quite how it should happen. Not yet. There's still so much to work out, but they're closing in.” She turns to me. “I haven't quite forgiven you for calling the police, but I think I understand why you did it. You're still the only person who's ever understood me, even if you didn't get it all right. You're the only friend I've ever had.”

  “I can still be your friend,” I tell her. “I...”

  Another wave of nausea hits me, and this time I have to steady myself against one of the models.

  “Friendship is art,” she says after a moment. “Everything is art, isn't it? And maybe it's fitting that friendship should be the subject of my final piece. After all, art should challenge everyone, even the artist herself. So I'm going to turn us into the final piece, Ophelia. You and me, friends together. Friends forever.”

  “Please,” I reply, “just let me help you.”

  “It won't take long,” she continues, hurrying over to one of the benches. “I've got some resin. All I need to do is cover you once you're dead and then get you in position, and then I'll kill myself and make sure I'm found in the right pose. It's quite simple, really. I figure I can cut my wrists and then finish the work while I'm bleeding. I won't be able to pose myself properly, but I can be on the floor. All the other Dead City models are standing, so it's strangely appropriate if I, the artist, am on the floor. I'll be the fallen artist, found among her own creations.”

  “There are people in these models, aren't there?” I ask.

  “Of course. I thought that was obvious.”

  “I guess I just didn't want to accept it,” I reply, watching as she drags a large bucket toward me. “This isn't going to happen,” I add. “You know that, don't you? The police are going to find this place any minute.”

  “Which is why we have to work fast,” she says with a smile. “Don't worry, Ophelia. Our deaths are going to be art.” She steps closer to me, with the sculpting knife in her hand. “I'll make it painless. You're going to live on as part of the Dead City. We both are. When they understand the meaning of the piece, they'll put it all on display.”

  “Please,” I reply, “don't try to do this.”

  “You're not exactly in a position to fight back,” she says, grabbing my arm. “It's a shame you won't just let me do this, but if you insist on struggling, I guess that's your choice.”

  “Let me help you,” I reply, taking hold of her wrist. “Victoria -”

  “You'll be dead in a few minutes,” she tells me. “Then I'll -”

  Before she can finish, I throw my weight against her, knocking her into one of the models. We land hard against the ground, and the model smashes next to us. Part of the front falls away, revealing the face of the dead body inside.

  “You broke it!” Victoria shouts, grabbing the broken face pieces. “What the hell is wrong with you, Ophelia?”

  “I think I was wrong,” I reply. “I don't think I can help you at all. No-one can.”

  “I'm going to have to fix this now,” she continues, turning to me a hint of anger in her eyes, but that hint quickly fades as if her relentlessly-spinning mind has no room for such base emotions. “Sorry, but I'm going to have to kill you right away.”

  She lu
nges at me with the knife, but I'm just about able to slip out of the way. She immediately tries again, and this time the knife slices into my leg just above the knee. I let out a cry of pain, but she's already pulling the knife out, ready for another attack. This time I grab her neck and pull her toward me, while making sure to keep away from the blade. I put my hand on her wrist and slam it against the concrete floor, but it's not enough to make her drop the knife and we struggle for a moment longer before finally I'm able to wrap my hands around hers, with the blade in the center. She's pushing toward my chest and I'm pushing toward hers, but I'm not sure I can hold her back for much longer.

  “You're making this difficult!” she hisses.

  “I swear to God,” I gasp, “you'll be okay once the police get here!”

  She smiles.

  “Victoria,” I continue, “please...”

  “I'm right,” she replies. “Friendship really is art. And that means...”

  I wait for her to finish the sentence.

  “What?” I ask. “What does it mean?”

  “I get it,” she adds. “I've had a better idea.”

  She stares at me for a moment, and then suddenly she stops trying to push the blade into my chest. At the same time, she turns it back toward herself, and I don't manage to react in time. Now that she's not trying to push the knife into me, the pressure I'm applying is enough to force it the other way, straight into her chest directly above the heart. As the blade slices into her, she lets out a gasp, but the smile remains on her face.

  “There,” she says, “now it's done.”

  For a moment, I'm frozen. All I can think about is the past: the last time something like this happened, on the kitchen floor in an old farmhouse. Another knife. Another chest. Another body.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks. “Ophelia, tell me.”

  “No,” I whisper, letting go of the knife. “I'm going to get help.”

  “Stay!” she gasps, grabbing my wrist. “You know I... All I wanted was to be remembered as an artist. That'll happen now, won't it? People are going to talk about me...”

  I stare in horror as a bead of blood trickles from the side of her mouth and runs down the side of her face. She's still smiling, though, as if in some strange way she's pleased that she's dying. I guess her own death – in this way, at this time – was the 'better idea' she mentioned.

  “I thought I had to always be in control,” she whispers, as her breathing becomes more labored, “but I was wrong. People are still going to remember me, and the Dead City...” She looks up at the models, which are still towering above us. “It's my creation. It's my gift to the world. People will talk about it, and I know I'll be recognized for what I've done. I'll be remembered, and the project will get extra meaning from the fact that I died here in the middle of it all. Every great artists has to give her life to her work eventually.”

  “You're not going to die,” I tell her.

  “Of course I am,” she replies, with more blood running from her mouth. “I'm not scared, though. I just wish I could be around to read the reviews of my work.”

  “Victoria, I..”

  Pausing, I realize that there's no point offering her false hope. Even if I ran to get help, she'd be dead by the time I got back. The only thing I can do now is make sure that I'm here with her, so that she doesn't die alone.

  “You'll remember me too, won't you?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Well that's another thing. A bonus.” She lets out another gasp, as if the pain is becoming too much. “It might take a while before I start getting mentioned as an artist instead of as a serial killer. I understand that there are issues that society has to work through first. One day they'll see the truth, though. And I'm glad I had a friend. I never thought that would happen, but we found each other. We really are similar, you know.”

  “With a few small differences,” I point out, as tears run from my eyes. “A few different turns.”

  “Don't cry,” she tells me, smiling more than I've ever seen her smile before. “I'm getting what I wanted. If people hate me, they hate me, but some will get it. I did it all for the art. Just...”

  I wait for her to finish the sentence, but she seems to be losing consciousness.

  “You're my friend,” she says finally, her voice sounding much weaker, “but I don't even know your real name.”

  “No-one does,” I reply. “Not anymore.”

  “Tell me.”

  I shake my head.

  “Please,” she continues, and suddenly she takes my hand in hers and squeezes it tight. “Please tell me.”

  “I...”

  As she stares at me, I realize that it means a lot to her. Besides, I can't truly say that we were friends if I never even told her who I am. Those two words that I haven't spoken for so many years... They fill me with fear, but maybe that's a reason why I should say them right now, to exorcise their power over me and keep them from becoming something even more dangerous. Not acknowledging my true identity has become part of my mythology, but it can't hurt to tell her. Not now that she's dying.

  “Please,” she gasps.

  I lean closer, until my lips are right next to her ear, and I pause for a moment.

  “Please...”

  Finally, I do it:

  I tell her my real name, whispering it as a shiver passes through my body.

  “What?” she asks, her voice trembling.

  I tell her again.

  “Seriously?” she replies.

  I nod.

  “But... That's impossible! It's... You can't be!”

  “Do you understand now,” I reply, “why I can't ever tell anyone?”

  “But they...” She stares at me with a look of shock in her eyes. “You have to tell them. Everyone... They have a right to know! You...” She pauses. “I can see it now. Your face. It's subtle, but you still look like -”

  “No,” I say firmly, “I don't.”

  “Tell them,” she continues. “Please...”

  “I don't want that,” I continue, as tears continue to roll down my cheeks. “It'd be... I can't face it. I've come to terms with what happened, but I don't want anyone else to know. As far as the world is concerned, I'm long gone, I'm dead, and I don't want to come back. Can you imagine what it'd be like if people found out? It's better this way.”

  “But -”

  “It's better,” I tell her again. “You understand, don't you? Please, tell me you understand.”

  “Then you'll...” She pauses. “I understand. But you'll fall, Ophelia. People like us, we always fall.”

  “I know.”

  “We can't survive in this world.”

  I nod.

  “But I'm...” She pauses. “My art... going to be... famous.”

  She reaches up and, with her bloodied hand, she wipes the tears from my eyes. I wait, expecting her to say something else, but slowly she places her hand on her chest, and then she keeps her eyes fixed on me as she takes a couple more harsh, labored breaths.

  And then she's still.

  I stay where I am, still staring at her. Her eyes, in turn, remain fixed on me, but finally I move to one side and her dead eyes continue to stare up at the dark ceiling high above us.

  Reaching down, I feel the wound on my leg and I realize that I've lost quite a lot of blood. Too much, maybe. There are sirens in the distance and I'm sure the police are coming closer as they continue to search for Victoria. When they get here, they'll take me to hospital and they'll start photographing the scene, and then they'll take Victoria's body away and the whole machine will roll into action. For now, though, I just want to stay here and be silent with her.

  A few minutes later, I hear noises somewhere else in the building. The police have arrived. They'll find us soon. I guess it's over now.

  Laura

  “I wish they were all this polite,” mutters Gilmore as he opens the door to Bryony's cell. “I can't remember the last time someone was so nice
to me. She says things like 'please' and 'thank you'. To be honest, it's a bit weird.”

  “Can I go?” Bryony asks, springing up from the bed where she's spent the past day reading and drawing.

  “You can go,” I tell her. “It's over.”

  “It was Victoria, wasn't it?” she asks as she starts gathering her pieces of paper together.

  “Yeah,” I reply, struggling to not sound tired. “She was caught during the night.”

  “Caught?”

  “She's dead.”

  Turning to me, Bryony seems momentarily stunned, as if she can't believe what I just told her. I guess I should have been a little more tactful, but then that kind of thing has never really been my strength.

  “It's a very long story,” I continue, “and it's one that is probably going to be done to death in the media over the next few days. You can pick it up from them.”

  “Sure,” she replies, bringing her things to the door. “I knew she was weird, but I never...” She pauses for a moment, with tears in her eyes. “I've had a lot of time to think while I've been in here. Do you reckon that, if some of us had tried harder to be her friend, she might not have ended up like this?”

  “I'm not a psychologist,” I reply, “but if you want my opinion... No. She was single-minded and obsessed with making an artistic statement. Nothing she did was motivated by revenge or hatred. She just wanted to create.”

  “I guess it's good to think outside the box,” she points out, “but she went way too far. Still, she was brave.”

  “Brave?”

  “She stood up for what she believed in,” she continues as we make our way along the corridor. “Even if it was fucked up and wrong, she had an artistic vision and she went for it. She knew everyone would hate her and try to stop her, but she kept going. People like that, if they're trying to achieve something positive, sometimes end up improving things for everyone.”

  “Do you have an artistic vision?” I ask.