Almost Alive (The Beautiful Dead Book 3)

by Daryl Banner

  As she excitedly tells Lynx and my mother the most scandalous stories of the Undead that she can think of—and there are plenty—John and I find a spot near the kitchen, cuddled in an armchair that’s resting by the broken-down stove for no reason at all. His fingers play in my hair and I run my hand along his chest, caressing him. He kisses me once, making me smile. I stare into his dark, muddy eyes and return the kiss tenderly.

  “Do you believe in fate?” he asks, his voice croaky and distant, as we likely haven’t uttered a word in hours.

  I’m playing with a loose thread on his shirt when I answer. “Not really. I believe we’re given opportunities. I believe there’s as much value in missing an opportunity as there is in catching one. I think every effort and every mistake makes us better. I think …” My mind drifts away, remembering a horrible thing or two that I’ve done in one Life or the other. “I think every life is eternal.”

  “Do you think our Anima will … I don’t know … find each other again?” He’s having trouble speaking, like his emotions are catching hold of his throat. I’m reminded of the night that Human John caressed me in my bed, holding me tight and crying into my back.

  “I’m scared, John.”

  “I know,” he whispers. “I am too.”

  I turn around on the chair, lifting myself so that I can see John’s face. His handsome, chiseled jaw. His eyes that are so deep, I fall in helplessly every time. His mess of brown hair and his broad, strong nose.

  “I want to see you,” I tell him, my voice trembling. “I want my last sight to be you. I don’t care about the sun or the moon or whatever’s shining above us when it happens. I’ve seen it all before. I just want to see you.”

  He smiles, breaking apart all that coarseness of his face with dimples and teeth. It’s infectious, his smile, because I find myself smiling too.

  “Funny,” he mumbles. “I kinda wanted my last sight to be you.”

  “Well, well. We can’t both get what we want,” I jape.

  With that, our faces grow close, and our lips closer. The world turns and the party of three carries on in the other room. Long after the rain has passed, we’re still in the house, unbothered by the wet world outside.

  I don’t know how many days pass after the rain. It seems like an eternity that the rest of us spend our days chatting idly and entertaining ourselves with hobbies. Marigold starts another project in the pink building, but she keeps changing her mind of what she wants to build, tearing her things apart the moment they’re taking shape. I’m not sure when it happens, but the next time I check on her progress, I find only her clothes on the ground. In the pile, I see a steel-plated forearm and another blunt hunk of metal that was her other arm—a secret container in which she kept things. When I open the arm, curious, I find it full of fingernails. The project she’d left unfinished, it looks like a giant, creepy flower made out of hands.

  That night, we sit in that same circle, another fire going, but of the ten chairs we had set out long ago, only four are occupied now. Lynx is poking the fire with a stick when he stares up through the hole in the tent and drops his jaw. “No,” he breathes, disbelieving. Suddenly he ditches the stick and takes off running. “No,” he grunts under his breath, running away. We watch as he runs, chased by an invisible beast, and somewhere between Jasmine’s house and the horizon, Lynx’s legs fall apart beneath him, and the wind carries the rest of him away.

  “It was a necessary sacrifice,” my mother reassures me as the three of us sit on the roof of the hospital, staring into the silvery sky and wondering when it will turn blue for one of us. “You did the right thing.”

  “I’m watching each of my friends die.”

  “No, sweetheart. We’re already dead. We’ve been dead. Julianne and Claire have lived. You and I …”

  “Then what is this?” I ask, my eyes terrified of the endless silver above me, terrified of the man at my side who will, at any moment, leave me, terrified at my mom and her sudden impermanence. “What is the purpose of our Second Lives? Why are we here?”

  “One Life wasn’t enough, so the world gave us two. The Living needed the Dead for a purpose,” my mother insists. “You decide what that purpose is. Sweetheart, I’ll never leave your side. We are, all of us, forever alive.”

  “Forever alive,” I agree, liking the words.

  And then my mother bolts up, her eyes to the sky. As fast as the panic sets in, it releases, and she’s smiling so broadly my heart breaks in half. “Oh,” she mutters, her eyes detaching from the sky and, instead, staring ahead at something. “Why, of course.”

  I follow her eyes. Perched on the edge of the roof is a tiny ruffled blackbird.

  “Mom, I’m not ready,” I tell her, clinging to her hand.

  Her eyes meet mine, gentle and present and aware. “You, my sweet, dear Claire, are the greatest thing I ever accomplished.” The hand upon which she’d propped herself up gives away, crumbling, and she finishes her words on her back. “Mom’s with you forever, baby. Forever and ever and ever and—”

  Her face vanishes and I shut my eyes, capturing that last image of her in my mind, refusing to acknowledge her demise. I feel John’s arms wrap around me, holding me tight, knowing I need him to. His strong arms support me while I scream. He doesn’t let me get away. He doesn’t let me fall apart. He embraces me protectively while I scream until my voice breaks and until Mother Nature herself hears that I have given in, that it has won.

  When I’ve finished screaming, John is still holding me and the world is still there. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why I did the stupid thing I did? Isn’t that why I destroyed the Undead power … because the Living deserve to live? Because we almost destroyed the planet? Because without us, this world is better off?

  “There’s … nothing more unnatural … than a second chance,” I finally get out.

  John nuzzles his face into my neck. The ashes that became of my mother dance in the wind, and when I finally dare to turn my head, the stupid blackbird is gone.

  “This is so dumb,” John mumbles into my ear.

  I turn, looking him in the face. “What do you mean?”

  “This is so dumb, all of this. Why are we suffering?” He gets to his feet, pulls me up onto mine. “Come.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Who cares,” he says, a smile playing on his face. “Wherever it is, I’ll race you there.”

  Then, to my surprise, he’s running. The horrors and the heaviness and the pain drop from me in an instant, and I chase after John, exhilarated.

  Across the Square, we run. I’ve caught up to him now and, side by side, hands gripped, we race through the ghost town of Trenton. The gates find us bolting through them laughing, and as the dead woods surround us, we say goodbye to Trenton forever.

  The woods give way to sparser woods and we never stop running. “I know where we’re headed,” I confess to John.

  “Into the sky,” he agrees, laughing.

  When the trees have fallen behind us, the all-too-familiar edge of the cliff looms. The two of us fall to the ground, resting at the edge of the cliff. On our backs, our arms touching, I listen to the world as it breathes.

  “What’s your biggest regret?” I ask, curious.

  “My first words to you,” he admits, chuckling heavily. “Wow. Do you remember them? I asked you—”

  “If I was gonna eat you, yes, I remember fondly.” I roll my eyes and snort. “Oh, how far we’ve come …”

  “And do you know what I miss the most?” he asks. “About being alive?”

  “Chocolate?”

  He rolls onto his side. I do the same, and our eyes find each other. He takes my hand and presses it to his chest, softly drumming it in a steady rhythm.

  I listen, watching his chest as his hand moves mine. “I miss that the most, too.”

  “I miss the way you liked to listen to it.” He smiles, a choked chuckle huffing out his nose, his lips pouting. “It made me feel like I h
ad this otherworldly power … Like I had magic in my chest and with it, I could draw you in.”

  “You didn’t have to try that hard,” I admit, giggling.

  “The only thing is,” he starts to confess, “I’ve never heard yours.” I lift my eyebrows, touched. “I’m sure it’d be my favorite song, too.”

  “Music,” I say suddenly, inspired. “That’s something I’d like to introduce you to from my time. Oh, John … You would’ve loved the music of my time.”

  “Sing me a song.”

  I laugh, finding that hilarious. He does too. What am I afraid of? At the end of the world, there is no such thing as fear. This is our own personal apocalypse, and if we want to spend it singing badly, then we will spend it so. With the silver ever-twisting nether above our heads and the cliff’s rough edge at our backs, I proceed to mutilate every last one of my favorite songs. John listens and the smile never leaves his face. He laughs when my voice breaks and the notes are all wrong, but too soon, he’s joining in every chorus, singing along with me and embracing this little piece of my world that I share with him.

  After the song is ended, we kiss right then, a little nothing kiss. When we pull apart, the both of us are struck with awe by the abrupt change in the sky.

  “Winter …”

  “John …”

  Quick as that, he’s on his feet. So am I. The sky opens up for us, blue and furious and vivid. Strangely, I am not afraid. “We’re doing this with smiles on our faces,” he exclaims, his eyes burning bright.

  I’m blinded by the brilliance of the sun when I shout, “On the count of three!” The wind is blowing so hard, the world trying to steal away our words. The sun beaming down on us … It’s so hot, so incredibly, horribly hot.

  I clasp John’s hand firmly, never looking away from his eyes. He watches mine. We are not afraid.

  “One …”

  “Two …”

  Then we leap into the sky.

  E P I L O G U E

  I T S T A R T S W I T H A H E A R T B E A T

  Winter’s always the hardest time for me. I can’t say why, but I’ve never liked the cold.

  My mom thinks it’s the shorter days that bother me. “Why don’t you visit the gardens?” she suggests through the holographic screen, poking a finger at her glasses to keep them from falling off her face as she reads a book. “Really, sweetheart, I heard it doesn’t ever snow up there. You should be safe from all the gloom.”

  “I’ve never been,” I reason. “But I just bought myself this new dress for my presentation and … I don’t have money for a ticket,” I confess with a sigh.

  “Well, well.” My mother gives me that look. “You did that to yourself, didn’t you … Only one to blame is you, sweetie. Maybe your friend can take you, hmm?”

  Every north-facing wall of our condominium is made of glass from the floor to the ceiling, and I see it is a very light day for snow. Hardly any at all. I can see the golden spires of the Philosophy and History buildings from here. I even see the Trim Tree and the Courtyard Of Steel through the glass as clear as a summer day.

  “Thanks, mom.” I give her image a peck on the cheek, though my lips pass through it slightly, then swipe my Theories books from the table. “But not now. Tonight, maybe. I have to get to class!”

  “But tonight it will be dark!” she complains.

  I switch off the screen, disconnecting, and quickly flip through the notes on my device, sliding hurriedly with my finger through every page. Today’s presentation is so, so important. My roommate calls out from the other room, asking for help with her math homework, and I catch sight of myself in the large mirror by our front door. My smooth, pale-as-porcelain face stuns me somehow, as if I suddenly don’t recognize it. Framed with endless winter-white hair that I didn’t bother to style at all, I feel so unprepared to stand in front of a room full of my peers.

  So, I poke my head into her room. “Got any eyes?”

  My roommate lifts her head, revealing the nasty scar that runs across her whole neck from a surgery long ago. She squints at me suspiciously. “What for?”

  “My presentation. Hurry, I’m late.”

  “What color?” She pulls open her kit, presents me with a clear, crystal case of colors.

  My finger drifts along the selection, curious, hurried, impatient. I pass by Passion Ruby. I pass by Fate’s Ember. I pass by Icecap Blue. I pass by …

  “This one,” I say, choosing Gaea’s Navel.

  My roommate wrinkles her face. “Green? Really?”

  “Gaea’s Navel,” I stress, rushed and annoyed. I draw the color from the crystal case and, staring at myself in her mirror, gently lay the color onto my eyes one by one.

  Just before leaving, I stop and, feeling guilty for my attitude after all my roommate puts up with, I poke my head back into her room and say, “Marianne.” She lifts her pencil-thin brows, lips pursed. “Thank you.”

  She smiles, winks at me. “Good luck today, pretty.”

  I slip out of the glass doors of our condominium and race down the smooth, chrome steps. The sun burns from behind the silvery city skyline, blinding me delightfully as I hurry down to the street. My shoes clap lightly against the clean, shiny metal plates that line the roads where hundreds upon hundreds of other students and adults are hurrying to their classes. I bump into three separate people, clenching my Theories books tighter to my chest each time.

  The Floating Fountain runs, which is unusual this time of year. Even hurrying as I am, I give it my due admiration through the side of my face for keeping the city’s water clean and pollution-free. Society has come a far way in such a short amount of time. Nothing comes from the planet that isn’t, in some way, returned.

  Reciprocity is the philosophy of Humankind. Oh, I should use that in my presentation. I poke my device and whisper into it: “Reciprocity is the philosophy …”

  The auditorium is already full when I arrive. I slip unnoticed to the first available seat in the back, careful not to draw anyone’s attention. Scanning the room full of people, I begin to feel the true nerves hit me. My heart races, causing my hands to tremble, and sweat forms on my palms. I really hoped that it would be a small class today, but instead, it seems everyone in the world has shown up. I clench shut my eyes, listening to the drone of the professor as he spills words from his face.

  I clench my hands to keep from shaking. I swallow several times, tasting this morning’s breakfast in the back of my throat. I inhale deeply and exhale deeply, which inspires a look of annoyance from the person to my left.

  “And now,” says the professor, “today’s presentation. Please welcome to the stage, your peer: Jennifer Steel.” The professor leads the class in steady, soft applause.

  I rise to my feet and, very carefully, descend the steps to the front of the auditorium. As I come before the class, overwhelmed by the four-hundred-plus faces ready to judge my words, my eyes are stung by spotlights. In the wide monitor up above, I see myself as the video feed records and broadcasts. I look like a piece of elegance. The red dress is a work of art that splits right in the center to create a large teardrop-shaped hole at the abdomen. It glistens under the light, giving it the dazzling sheen of liquid rubies. If only my words can be as stunning.

  “Thank you,” I say, the macroprojector on the floor carrying my little voice to the whole room, bright and resonant. Some students listen on their earpieces they’ve plugged into the consoles under the desks. “Thank you very much.”

  The applause ends. I open my first Theories book and place my device upon its opened page. I lick my licks and swallow, but it doesn’t matter, my mouth is still as dry.

  Focus. Reciprocity is the philosophy …

  “My presentation today is on …” I tell myself it’s their turn to listen now. I’ve listened to their drivel all year long. I clench my fingers underneath the book, then unclench them. “My presentation is about …”

  I swallow again. My hands are shaking so horribly, the device is tappin
g against the page of the book, and its little sounds are slapping through the auditorium.

  Gently, I set the book onto the floor, then I bring only my device up to my chest and hold it there, ensuring that I won’t shake any longer. Silence fills the room. I take another breath and release it slowly, the sound of my own breath filling the room now. Yes, I realize it’s been sixty seconds and I still haven’t uttered a complete sentence.

  “My presentation is about the Beautiful Dead.”

  There is a soft tittering that floats across the room. Most of the heads are completely shadowed in the dark of the unlit auditorium, but some faces in the front row are catching the spray of brightness from the spotlights, and I see that they’re laughing, thinking I’d uttered some joke.

  “There is a reason,” I say as the tittering gently dies, “why … why the world is broken in half. Have you ever wondered why our side of the world thrives while the other side is in permanent blight?”

  In the shadows of the front row, I see him watching. It’s the poet with the pale face and piercing black eyes. I’m still swimming in the words of his presentation when he recited poetry and argued about the human necessity for passions and wiles and recklessness …

  Don’t be distracted by him. “I read in A Theory Of Cycles & Lines that there was a time long ago, the author claims, when the dead walked the earth. They were like us. They could speak and … and they could think.”

  I continue to present my findings from the Theories book, citing that the author supposedly descended from a person who lived in that time who spoke of a band of Undead who selflessly, singlehandedly saved the planet from a certain end. What a strange and brutal irony, that after the Humans destroyed the world, the Dead gave it back to them.

  “Isn’t that a strange and brutal irony?” I ask of the class. The shuffling of feet and a few rolls of eyes is the response I get.

  “Split Infinities and The Immortal Dead,” I go on, citing another book, “says that, um …” I scroll through my device, looking for what it says. I know I recorded it, I even remember the page number. “Everything is a … a balance of good and bad,” I start saying from memory, still scrolling. “Our lives are … are infinite. Our efforts, infinite. We are a series of little efforts toward a greater whole, from this life to the next.” I give up, staring at the room full of shadowed heads and say, “What the author says is, no matter if you’re the one who nudges the tower or topples it, you are as vital.”