I Am Alive

by Cameron Jace

  I rest my ear against his chest. He is still breathing. That’s good. So what’s wrong with him?

  Hysterically, I search the backpack again. My last hope. As I rummage through it, I find one of Leo’s strange syringes, like the one I used to wake him with the electric shock after defusing the bomb in his mouth.

  Blindly and irrationally, I pull a syringe and stab his neck with it. Leo shudders in place, then goes to sleep again. I wait a little, knowing it has a delayed effect. He breathes again, as if longing for all the air in the world after drowning.

  The audience lets out sighs of relief. Timmy must be gritting his teeth.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Leo furrows his brows, staring at me, looking fresher. That syringe is magical. Will its effect last against his pain?

  The crowd laughs at Leo’s reaction. He looks around like he has never seen this place before.

  “What do you mean what’s wrong with me?” I bounce back at his foolishness, camouflaging that I am so freaking happy to see him come back. “I just saved your sorry ass!”

  “How can you save my ass standing on top of me?” he says like he has no heart. It means he is back, and he is functioning.

  He looks around, dazed. I think he is looking for his gun. I don’t know what to say to him. He’d been hallucinating all that time. The syringe kicked him back to life again. At least he doesn’t think I am God anymore.

  “Where is my Super-V?” he demands, like a drunken madman.

  Wow. This is so out of place. Maybe he is hallucinating again. Only in a different form. I gaze at his leg, and wish he wouldn’t look at it. It’s bleeding more than before. How much blood did he lose?

  “Forget about your Super-V,” I shout back. “Just smile at the camera, and say I am alive.” I push the iAm, almost against his nose.

  “You know damn well that I am alive!”

  Good. That’s all I needed. I stare at Timmy, and he nods reluctantly. “Okay. Okay. That counts,” says Timmy. “Although, I wonder if he actually remembers his own name.”

  “Where is the camera?” says Leo, looking into the nowhere.

  “Why?”

  “I want to say cheese.” He slurs the words out of his mouth, showing his big white teeth for a second.

  Audience laugh. Audience tic. Audience tac. Audience toe.

  That’s when Leo’s head falls back abruptly, as if someone has just pulled the plug out of him. I check his pulse and make sure he is alive. I won’t try to wake him again before the next hour.

  41

  The fifth hour is like when you’re still walking, halfway to the dance, stuck in the middle between the shelter of your parents’ home, and the unknown of the dance. It’s when everything becomes equal. It’s only then that you realize that going back and continuing on is the same amount of effort and the same distance, so you might as well keep on going.

  I kneel next to the unconscious Leo, staring at the dark of the void in front of me. Although the waterfall in front of me isn’t that visible, I can see it with my ears; the sound of the water rushing down, hitting against the surface of the mountain, crashing into the river, every sound creating an image in my mind, mostly in black and white.

  If I can only see through your eyes. I remember Woo saying that. What did you mean by that, Leo? What did you mean?

  “It’s time,” says Timmy, yawning. “Fifth hour.”

  “I am alive,” I say, wondering if I am lying to myself. Leo starts to shiver. His body is so cold.

  “Can you hear me, Leo?” I ask. “Are you awake?” I repeat, tightening the shirt on his bleeding leg. I wish I had any kind of medication in the backpack. I pull his head up and let him drink some water, but he doesn’t want to open his mouth.

  “What’s wrong again?” I wonder, impatiently.

  “How many bottles of water do you have?” he asks. For the first time, he sounds sane enough to start a conversation.

  “Just this one,” I answer. “Why?”

  “Keep it then,” he says. “You’ll need it. I can do without it.”

  “What do you mean? There is enough for both of us here. You’ve been bleeding all night.”

  Leo doesn’t acknowledge me. Typical him. He tries to move his leg with one hand, while on his back. It hurts. He lets out a painful cry that echoes back and forth between the mountains in the night. A couple of birds flutter away in the dark.

  “I guess I have an awful voice,” Leo mumbles at the birds, talking as if he still has that imaginary toothache. Well, he has more than a toothache. He has a leg that he can’t move anymore, and he still sounds dizzy.

  “Did your mom make you some sandwiches for school this morning?” he asks.

  I am confused. Is he hallucinating, being serious, or is he just practicing that edgy sense of humor of his?

  “What? No. Why?” I manage to say. “Don’t you remember where we are?”

  “Ah—” His eyes close again. “Of course, I remember.” He is trying to sound strong. “It’s those electric shocks. You have no idea what they do to me. I’ve been buzzed twice in twenty-four hours. Those buzzers are made to kill.”

  “I am sorry, but you didn’t want to wake up.”

  “They’re the main reason I faint. I didn’t want to tell you in the forest, but they have bad side effects. You got a bar of chocolate in that bag?”

  “What?” I almost laugh. “You don’t want water, but you want chocolate?”

  “Water is for survival, you’ll need it, and I probably won’t make it,” he says. “Chocolate strikes me as one last thing I would want to taste before—”

  “Hey,” I interrupt. “Don’t say that.” I pull out one of the candy bars from the bag. Vern’s favorite: Flame, the burning chocolate. It’s my favorite too.

  Leo unwraps it with his teeth, and takes a bite.

  “I hate chocolate, you know,” he says, chewing painfully on it.

  I laugh. “So why did you ask me for one?”

  “Because you like it,” he says without even looking at me. I wonder what is wrong with this guy. Is this supposed to be romantic, that he wants to taste something he doesn’t like because I like it? But he is so stiff when he says it. “I thought if I tasted it, I’d understand what keeps you ticking. How you just don’t give up.”

  I can’t believe Leo is telling me that. So far, he has been Mr. Survival, not me.

  “It’s awful.” He spits it out, and falls back again. Those electric shocks have messed with his mind. I have one syringe left in the bag. I’ll have to think twice before I use it next time.

  I hit him on the chest. “Don’t fall asleep before you talk to the camera.” He has to say “I am alive.” I wonder why Timmy hasn’t been pushy about this in the last few minutes.

  His eyes flip open suddenly, looking up at the night sky. “Am I alive?” he wonders, and his head falls back again.

  “That counts.” I look back at Timmy in the iAm. “The rules are to say ‘I am alive.’ It never specified it couldn’t be in question form, and never specified that the words had to be in the right order.”

  “All right. All right.” Timmy is still yawning. “Don’t get philosophical on me. You sound like my English teacher. See you in the sixth hour… if you make it that far.”

  The sixth hour is like when you know you’re getting closer to the dance, having kept your dress neat, having cared less about what people think of you, and having gotten used to the dark. Although you hear every strange sound in the night, you meet a homeless dog, a cute one who doesn’t scare you. It’s obvious that the dog just wants to walk along with you, keep you company. That’s when you learn that not everything in the dark of the night is so dark. Good creatures live in the shadows sometimes.

  Leo keeps wincing while asleep. I tighten my grip on the syringe in my hand, hoping I won’t need to use it to wake him up.

  “Bee,” Leo moans. “Bee.”

  What is it now? Who is Bee? Is this the part when I discover that he is i
n love with another girl named Bee?

  I can’t help but wonder how things like this interest me, when all I have to focus on is staying alive.

  “Who is Bee?” I ask, trying to sound as uninterested as possible.

  The viewer meter spikes a little. Leo is far more interesting to them than I am. I bet those are the bored girls who have nowhere to go to tonight, crashing at home on their beds, watching TV, looking for the next soap opera, the next unbelievable but heart-wrenching love story, the next princess, the next Prince Charming, ready with their popcorn, ice-cream, and tear-friendly napkins. I bet some of them sit barefoot on the edge of the bed, dressed to kill, with no one to go out with. TV and games: the perfect substitute for real life.

  “Who is Bee?” I repeat my question.

  Girls comment about how stupid I am on the iAm network, how I thought Leo could be interested in me, now that it is apparent that he is moaning for Bee. What’s her name, they ask. Some say Beatrice, Bianca, and many other names.

  “Bee—” Leo moans again. “Honey.”

  Okay. Now it’s official. Bee and Honey, the love of Leo’s life.

  The girls moan on the network that their boyfriends don’t call them “honey” enough. Boys in Faya, they all have to follow the footsteps of hotshot Leo from now on.

  “Honey…”

  I grit my teeth. Press harder on the syringe. I could get rid of Leo right now. I don’t want him to die of a heart attack. Should I push him over the edge, and get rid of him? It’s a killing game anyway. Another one bites the dust. The audience will be so happy that the game is about to end — but the girls won’t.

  Nah. Pushing him over the edge is too harsh. I still like him. I could just give him another electric shock from the syringe, buzzing him a little, not enough to make him die, pretending I am waking him up for the next “I am alive,” with him shivering in pain. Muahaha. I think I am starting to hallucinate, like him.

  Who the hell is Bee?

  “Honeybee,” he moans.

  Suddenly, I notice that flying bee again, the one that used to sit by the two lonesome flowers at the edge of the cave. It has landed back on his nose. Leo says I can’t wave it away, or it will sting him. Nothing good in that. He will suffer more pain, and the poor bee will die, instead of sucking on the honey in the flowers.

  Ah. Honey. Bee. Stupid. Me.

  “Should I kill it?” I ask Leo.

  “Nah,” he says with closed eyes. “Shake the flowers a little.” He is talking as slow as possible. “Remind her of what’s important to her.”

  “Her? How do you know it’s a her?” I ask.

  “It’s not like she is naked or anything.” Leo speaks slow, afraid to disturb the bee, so she doesn’t panic and sting him. “They’re queen bees, right? I never met a king bee.” He sounds funny when talks, like Donald Duck, because of the bee on his nose.

  I shake the flowers a little. The bee flies back, and starts sucking on the flowers.

  I look at her and the flowers, being here, so far from her kingdom and other bees, still hanging on, sucking on the flowers restlessly, and not giving up. I remind myself that not everything in the dark is so dark. And that not every girl dies like Faustina said.

  “I am alive,” Leo says, trying to smile at me. “How about you?” he asks.

  “You know damn well I am,” I shoot back.

  When I look back at my iAm, there are thousands of comments and questions. One of them intrigues me. I decide to share it with Leo.

  “A girl on the iAm has a question for you, Leo.” I read it out and look at him. “Is your nose made of honey?” I stick out my tongue.

  The eighth hour is when you and the dog become friends. You start telling it about your unlucky night, and it keeps sniffing the pavement as you walk, looking for something to eat. You’re both walking the same direction, different interests, but it will do. It’s called company.

  “It’s very cold,” says Leo. “Very cold.” His face is turning a little blue.

  I don’t know what to do. “I know,” I say. Just hang on. “Two more hours to go, and we win this.”

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “I can’t feel my leg.”

  I look at his leg. It’s turning blue. This isn’t working. He will need medication.

  “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Come here.” He stretches out his hand. “We could keep each other warm.”

  I stretch out my hand. “Don’t you think this is a little clichéd?”

  Leo pulls me close to him. I notice how weak he’s gotten. His pull is not like him at all. I lay in his arms on the landing, with stars glittering in the dark sky above us.

  “That,” he says, wrapping his arms around me, “feels so good.”

  I can hear his heart beating. I wish the little warmth I still have in my body could help, because this does feel so good.

  “You know what?” he says, as his voice resonates against my cheek from the inside of his chest. “This is worth it.”

  “Worth what?” I ask, enjoying his voice, low, resonant, and musical.

  “Worth the fight,” he says. “You’re worth the fight, Decca.”

  As my tears break out on the edges of my eyes, I look at the iAm network. It’s ten in the evening, but the world has exploded awake, commenting on this scene. I look over the landing. There are about ten iSees, broadcasting from all angles.

  Comments swarm the internet: Photoshop-made pictures of Leo and me, websites, forums, Zootube videos, Zwitter, and all other possible ways to communicate are talking about this scene of me and Leo. Here we are, lying between Heaven and Hell, him saying that I was worth the fight.

  Fourteen million viewers are watching us, and no one is even fighting, no one is dying, no one is killing, just two Monsters on the edge of victory.

  “Do you really mean it?” I ask, holding him tighter.

  Leo doesn’t reply. I think his heart has stopped. I can’t hear the beating. I look up from his chest. His head has fallen back again.

  Leo is dead. That’s what they start writing on the iAm.

  I slap him hard again. I have to admit I enjoy it sometimes, especially when he wakes up like now.

  “Of course,” he snaps, opening his eyes, looking at me. “Of course I mean it.”

  “What about all that talk about me being a princess, and you the guardian sent by the Breakfast Club? What happened to that?” I wonder.

  “The hell with the Breakfast Club,” he says. “Where is the Breakfast Club when you need them? Watching us almost dying, without being able to help us?”

  I wonder about that again. Why has the Breakfast Club sent Leo to protect me? How could I be special in any way to them? A Ten? Come on.

  “Lovebirds,” says Timmy irritatingly in the iAm. “Are ya alive? I need some confirmation. It’s the eighth hour.”

  “So alive,” I say. “I am so alive.”

  “And you, Honeybee?” Timmy purses his lips at Leo.

  “Hey Timmy,” says Leo, addressing Timmy for the first time, ever. “There is something I need to confess to you.”

  “And what could that be, Zambo?” Timmy picks his nose intentionally.

  “I am afraid you might be sensitive about it.” Leo winks at me.

  “Just hit me. I am sensitive-less,” says Timmy.

  “I wanted to tell you…” Leo picks up the iAm and looks Timmy in the eyes. “Bzzz. Zzz. Bzzzzz.” Leo glares and blows him a kiss.

  About five million girls wish that they could catch that kiss.

  The ninth hour is the ultimate test. It’s when you feel safe and sound, walking next to your loyal dog. You think about how you will brag at the dance about what a great night you just had. How you will tell them about how you survived everything and faced your fears, not knowing what was in store for you.

  This is when it suddenly starts to rain.

  You stop in your tracks, all wet. A car passes by and splashes you with dirt from the street, and you ask
yourself: how did this happen? I am only two blocks away from the dance.

  It rains heavily on me and Leo, and it gets colder and colder.

  Leo is passed out now, with a curving smile on his face. The rain washes over his leg. It’s so blue. He is not talking anymore.

  The rain lets the mud slide down from above, sticking grossly onto the walls, like slow blobby creatures coming to drown you. The mud splashes on us from above. I spit rain and mud out of my mouth, and wipe chunks of it off my face.

  “It’s almost the ninth hour,” says Timmy. “Let me hear you say I am alive.”

  “Leo,” I scream. “Wake up.” I pound on his chest. “Wake up!”

  Leo is gone.

  I rest my head on his chest. I don’t know if I can hear his heart beating. The sound of rain and mud is distracting.

  “Don’t you bail on me now.” I sit on top of him, and slap him left and right. He used to wake up this way, but it doesn’t work anymore. “Leo.”

  I raise my hands high with the syringe and hit it into his neck. He shudders, but he doesn’t wake up.

  I wait a little while for the syringe’s effect to kick in, but it doesn’t work.

  Pounding on his chest, I start to cry.

  “He is dead,” says Timmy. “Accept it.”

  “No,” I insist, and check his wrist for a pulse. His heart is still beating. Very slow. “He needs medication,” I scream into the iAm. “Please send us help.”

  The iAm is swarmed with comments and requests to send help for Leo.

  “I can’t,” says Timmy. “That’s the game. Accept—” I can’t hear the rest from Timmy.

  I look at my iAm. It’s turned off.

  I am out of batteries.

  “No.” I spit against the rain again, trying to push the button on. It doesn’t work. Why? Usually, it works for another minute or so. What’s wrong with this iAm?

  Did Timmy disconnect me? But he can’t control the battery of my iAm.

  I push the on button again.

  It doesn’t work.

  Push.

  No use.

  Push. Push. Push.

  No light comes out of the dead iAm.

  I raise my hand, wanting to smash the iAm against the rock of the cave. I stop halfway from smashing it when I see the bee again. Still, in all this mud, hiding in the cave.