The Dead-Tossed Waves

by Carrie Ryan

  He lowers his arm but I keep my fingers pressed against his skin. It’s still damp, a combination of sweat and the ocean. Life flows from him, in the warmth of him.

  He stares at where I touch him and then into my eyes.

  I pull my hand away. His gaze is steady against mine and I step back.

  “It’s the only thing we can do,” he says, and for a moment I think he means us. Think he means my touch. “We have to kill them. They’ll cave the gate in otherwise. It’s too dangerous.” I realize then that he means the Mudo, he means killing them.

  “I just …” I don’t know how to explain to him how it all felt, suddenly wondering who the Mudo once were. Knowing there could be a connection between us. The thought makes me feel uneven, uncertain. “Never mind,” I mumble.

  “It’s the only humane thing to do, Gabry.” He waves his hands at the Mudo but I can’t bear to look. Can’t bear to imagine what it would be like to see the people I love on the other side of that fence—of what it will be like when Catcher is one of them.

  It’s disorienting—I’m not used to thinking of the Mudo as anything but monsters. They’ve never been anything else to me and I wonder now if this is how my mother has always felt. If this is why she treats them with such respect before killing them on the beach.

  “This isn’t fair to them,” Elias adds. And I want to ask him what is fair about any of our lives. But instead I just nod as he tentatively raises his knife and I don’t stop him as he resumes his task. I want to walk away but I don’t. I want to cover my ears against the moans, against the blade scraping skulls and the sound of the chain-link fence, but I can’t.

  I stand by Elias’s side as he kills them all and I continue to stand there as he pants after the last one slumps to the ground.

  I remember my mother telling me earlier that we are nothing more than our stories. I look at the masses of dead flesh, at all the stories that are now forever silenced.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. For feeling weak.

  “So am I,” he says. He turns to me, his eyes bright and intense. “Are you sure you want to see your friend?” He holds his body frozen, waiting for my answer.

  I want to tell him no. I want to beg him to carry me home. To erase my memories. I want to give up and not have to bear any of this.

  But I promised Cira. And I promised myself. And it isn’t fair for Catcher to go through this alone.

  “I’m sure,” I say, taking a step forward.

  Elias shakes his head and then reaches his arm around to his back and pulls out another dagger identical to the first. He shrugs out of the scabbard and then hands it and the knife to me before he walks past into the darkness.

  I buckle it to my side and then pause, looking at the corpses on the other side of the fence. They appear almost human in death, more human than they seemed just moments ago. And I wonder again what we lose when we die and if we retain anything of what we used to be when we Return.

  While the amusement park has stayed mostly as it was before the Return, the rest of what used to be Vista didn’t. For generations, scavengers have picked it clean. Elias walks through the ruins with confidence, not questioning where he’s going, and I stumble behind in the darkness, skirting the shadows cast by the fat moon.

  “How do you know this place so well?” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

  “I’ve been looking for someone,” he says again, but he doesn’t elaborate.

  He seems so confident out beyond the protection of the town and the Barrier, so sure of himself and his steps. I envy him for it. With every crumble of rock I jump, afraid it’s more Mudo rising.

  I jog until I’m closer to him, feeling safer when I can reach out and touch him. “Who are you looking for?” I prod. I try to see into the darkness, try to remember every turn and twist we make through the streets, but I’m already lost. It makes me feel even more uneasy.

  He stops abruptly and I stumble a little before finding my footing.

  The street here is wide. Gaping windows look down on either side of us from buildings nothing more than caves. In the far distance I can barely see the moon shining on the curve of the tall coaster and beyond that the cut of the lighthouse beam spinning through the night.

  “Your friend’s in there,” he says, pointing down another street to a tall narrow building. “Third floor, left side,” he adds.

  I squint into the darkness. “How do you know?”

  He raises a shoulder. “I keep track of these things. When you leave just keep the coaster to your right and go straight. You’ll hit the beach and your boat.”

  I study him, trying to figure out who he is and where he’s from. “You’re not coming with me down there?” I ask. My throat suddenly feels dry, my palms sweaty.

  He shakes his head. “None of my business,” he says.

  I hold out the knife he gave me but he pushes it back. “It’s not smart to be without a weapon,” he says.

  I try to swallow. “Are there Mudo down there?” I ask.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he says. “Other than your friend.”

  My stomach clenches and I grab at the sleeve of his tunic. “But I thought you said he hadn’t turned, that he’s just infected.”

  “I said he hadn’t turned yet. He’s still dangerous.” I look in the direction of Catcher’s building and rub my palms on the hem of my shirt. I grit my teeth. “Fine, I’ll just take care of myself,” I tell him, knowing how stupid that sounds after his rescue on the beach.

  He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t laugh. Just nods. “Good luck, Gabry.” And then he turns and walks out into the darkness, leaving me standing alone on the empty street.

  “Wait,” I call after him, not ready to see him go. Not ready to be alone or to face Catcher.

  He pauses and turns until I see his profile. His chest stills as if he’s holding his breath, as if he’s waiting for me to say something important. He takes a step toward me.

  “Thank you,” I finally say. He stares at me a moment and then shrugs before walking away. Every sound becomes amplified: the sound of his footsteps fading, the groan of buildings settling from the heat of the day. Cicadas buzzing, rising and falling. My mouth tastes bitter, my throat raw from screaming for help earlier on the beach. The ocean salt has dried, making my skin itch and clothes chafe under my arms.

  I want to run, either after Elias or toward Catcher, but I know that running will only feed my panic and then I’ll do something stupid. Mentally bracing myself, I take a deep breath and walk toward the building where Catcher might be.

  I clench my fist around the handle of the knife, my shoulders tight and feet ready to sprint. There’s nothing to indicate that Catcher’s here, has ever been here. I glance behind me at the street, wondering if Elias is watching me walk into a trap.

  But what else can I do? Run back to the beach where my boat is still surrounded by Mudo? Run toward the amusement park hoping that there aren’t any Mudo out there, knowing that the Militia will find me and turn me over to the Council and ultimately the Recruiters?

  I pause on the threshold to the building, its walls rising above me to the stars. I place a shaking hand against the doorjamb and stare into the blackness. There’s no way I can do it. No way I can force myself inside.

  But a hand grabs me and pulls me inside anyway.

  I choke and freeze as arms wrap around me. And then my body catches fire and I fight.

  “Gabry.” The voice is broken, ragged.

  I stop struggling and fall against him. It’s Catcher and he’s here and he’s alive and I’m finally safe.

  He seems comfortable in the darkness as he leads me up two flights of stairs and into an empty room flooded with moonlight. He walks to the gap of an old window and stands there, nothing more than a shadow.

  I hesitate, watching him. Afraid that touching him would ruin this moment. Would make all of my fears and pain come rushing back. But still, I can’t help it and I finally step forward and reach my arms
around him, pressing my face into his back.

  With each breath he draws, I can hear his heart. It sounds so strong, so full, and I press deeper against him. Hoping that if I hold him tight enough I can keep the infection from spreading.

  He turns and faces me, puts a hand on my cheek, his thumb tracing the path of my tears. I reach up on my tiptoes, try to press my lips to his mouth, but he twists his head so that I kiss his jaw, his muscles tense and hard.

  He steps away from me then, back to the window, and I stand in the darkness. A dull light flashes against the space between us and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s the lighthouse in the distance. For a brief moment I wonder if my mother is still there staring at the Forest and if she misses me.

  When the light hits again I see the stains on Catcher’s shirt. The rips from where it was torn in his fight with Mellie.

  “Come home, Catcher,” I tell him.

  “I can’t,” he says, his hands gripping the rotted frame of the window. “I’m infected.”

  I step forward. “How do you know? Maybe it was a scratch, maybe she didn’t really bite you.” I realize as I’m saying the words how hard I’ve been hoping they’re true. That I’ve come all this way with the hope that what I saw last night was wrong. That Cira is right and that Catcher isn’t infected.

  But the longer the silence stretches between us, the more desperate my hope becomes. “Tell me you’re okay,” I say frantically. I want to beat my fists against his chest until he tells me what I want to hear but instead I just dig my nails into my palms.

  “I’m infected, Gabrielle.” His voice is scratchy and low, defeated.

  “But how can you know?” I plead. I shake my head, words tumbling out. “You’re not. You can’t be. I can’t—”

  “I can feel it.” He turns back toward me, his eyes hollow and lost in his face. I swallow, remembering the Mudo on the beach. How can the man in front of me turn into that? He’s so strong. So warm. So alive.

  And then I realize that the heat of his skin is fever due to the infection. That it’s burning through him even as I stand here and stare at him. Eventually, just like everyone else who’s infected, it will kill him.

  I think about my mother telling me how she’s seen people she loved turn Mudo. How she’s been there at the end. To me it was just another story, another tale of her life in the Forest. I never truly understood what she was telling me. Never realized what it meant, what she must have endured.

  I didn’t think it would be this hard to face Catcher. But now I stand here and stare at him and understand why my mother made herself forget. I understand how much easier it would have been to stay in the town, forget about the Barrier and Catcher and how he makes me feel.

  And then I remember again that she’s not my mother, and the room starts to swirl around me. There are no sacred memories. Catcher steps forward, his hand out to me. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I grab on to him.

  I don’t want things to have changed so much. I want to go back to last night, when I only worried about how to kiss Catcher, when my mother was still my mother, when the world finally seemed to be opening up and when life hadn’t spun so out of control.

  “How’s Cira?” he asks me. His shoulders are stiff as he waits for my response. I hesitate. “Please tell me she’s all right. That she wasn’t …” He doesn’t finish the question but we both know what he’s asking.

  “No,” I tell him, looking at my fingers, at the window, anywhere but in his eyes. “She wasn’t hurt. She’s back at the village.” I swallow before saying, “She’s okay.”

  Relief washes over him, his body sagging against the wall.

  “Please come home,” I beg him. A feeling wells inside me, pushing against my skin. If I can bring him home, if I can make him better, then we can figure out a way to erase the past day. We can figure out a way to go back to last night, to play it out differently.

  This time as we faced each other on top of the Barrier we could choose differently. I could give in to my fear and take his hand and pull him back down toward Vista. We could both be safe. And then we’d never have ended up here, never have been confronted by this moment.

  But of course, that wouldn’t change the fact that my mother isn’t my real mother. It wouldn’t change that I’m not really her daughter. That I don’t know who I am anymore. Even if last night had never happened, I’d still be lost.

  “I can’t come home,” he says, almost like a moan, his mouth against my hair.

  “Please,” I whisper. Everything inside me screams, desperately wanting things to be different.

  I can feel the way his body shudders under mine. The way his chest heaves. I can feel him sobbing in my arms.

  “I’m scared, Gabry.”

  My chest aches. I think about him finding his way out here after last night. Stumbling through the darkness, terrified and bleeding. Of him spending the day here, tracking the sun across the sky through the empty window. Burning up with fever. Alone. Terrified. I wonder what I would do if it were me instead of him. How I would spend my last days, knowing what comes next.

  “I’ll stay here with you,” I tell him. “I won’t leave until …” I can’t finish the sentence.

  “You’ll get in too much trouble.” Every one of his tears scorches as it falls against me.

  I think of Cira, of the others in the cage in the square, and I wonder if I should tell Catcher about them or if it will only add to his anguish. There’s nothing he can do for her, nothing either of us can do.

  “You have to go home,” he says. “Your mother will worry otherwise and she might call out the Militia,” he adds.

  I feel the anger from before seeping through me. I still don’t know if I can face her. Too many questions swirl and crash inside me. Did my real mother wonder why I never came home as a child? Could she still be out there in the Forest, looking for me? Wondering about me?

  He steps away from me, the lighthouse beam pulsing between us, ticking away the time he has left.

  He’s right—if I don’t go home my mother will send them out after me. I’ll be in as much or more trouble than Cira and the others. “I’ll come tomorrow night,” I tell him. “You’ll still be here tomorrow.” I mean for it to be a statement rather than a plea, but still I stand frozen, waiting for his answer.

  He hesitates. “I should have a few days,” he says cautiously. “It wasn’t a bad bite”

  I cringe at the word—the stark reminder of his infection. I look around at the empty room. I don’t want to leave him. Don’t want the night to be over. Don’t want to face what the next days will bring.

  “You should go,” he says. “And you shouldn’t come back. What if …” He swallows and his voice cracks as he continues. “What if I’ve already turned and I attack you?” He reaches out a hand, drawing his thumb down my throat. “I don’t want … I can’t hurt you.”

  “You won’t,” I murmur, placing my hand over his, holding it against my cheek.

  “This isn’t the way it was supposed to be,” he says, his voice breaking. “I had plans ….” He squeezes his eyes shut, his entire face collapsing and body shuddering. “Last night, that was what my life was supposed to be. It’s supposed to be you.” He brushes his fingertips along my temple.

  His words cut into me, his desires and dreams mingling with my own, throwing at me everything I’ve lost. Everything that will never be mine.

  “Are you telling me I can’t come back?” I ask him. As much as I desperately want him to say no, a part of me that’s weak and scared wants him to tell me yes, to relieve me of my burden and terror of this place and what he’ll become. What if I’m not strong enough? What if I fail him?

  “It’s not safe,” he whispers.

  “I don’t care,” I tell him. And suddenly I realize that it’s true. Strength and purpose and desire bloom inside me, soaring through my veins.

  We stare at each other, not knowing how to leave it. And then he reaches out and pulls me to him
again, kissing my eyes, my cheeks, my jaw—everywhere but my lips. Then he drops my hands and goes back to the window.

  “Be careful,” he tells me. The muscles in his shoulders ripple as he digs his fingers into the wood of the sill.

  I open my mouth. I want to tell him something, something he can hold on to when he’s scared. I want to tell him that I think I might love him. I want to fill the room with the hope that maybe love can make it okay. But everything is so trapped inside.

  Instead I turn and feel my way down the dark cramped stairs and out into the street, everything blurred with loss and pain falling on me, dragging me down.

  When I look back at the building the gaping windows are silent and dark. I want to see Catcher standing and watching. I need a memory to hold on to other than the fading feel of his heat against my skin, the absence of his hand on my cheek.

  I squeeze my fingers around the knife Elias gave me and start down the street, trying not to cry. I’m just heading toward the amusement park and the wink of the lighthouse beyond when a figure falls into step beside me.

  He’s going to turn, Gabry,” Elias says. “There’s nothing you can do about it”

  I clench my teeth and keep walking. I want to tell him to shut up. I want to scream at him and tell him that he can’t understand what he’s saying and how much his words hurt me. I want to beat on his chest until he realizes that he’s wrong, even though we both know he’s not.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask instead.

  He puts a hand on my arm, stopping me, and I pull out of his reach, frowning. I want to remember the feel of Catcher’s warmth, want to remember his scent. Not this boy’s.

  “If he turns I’m going to have to kill him.” He says the words plainly, without malice, but they cut me nonetheless.

  I slap him. Before I can stop myself I feel the sting of his skin under my fingers. He just stands there, half his face now red in the moonlight.

  I clamp my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide, unable to believe what I’ve done. I swing around and keep walking, trying to control my anger and sorrow, trying hard to ignore the reality of our situation. After a moment he catches up with me. I start to climb over a tall pile of rubble when I hear him sigh behind me. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I stop, my foot twisted between two rocks and my hands clenching the edge of a fallen wall.