by A. J. Ramsey
“We can be told the fire is hot, but don’t we all still want to feel the heat of the flames?”
The dead man stares open mouthed at his executioner. The cart creaks on, bumping over hard, still half frozen dirt. A hawk cries somewhere in the distance as it flies away from the coming storm.
“Then, one day you actually get on the other side. You have that feeling in your chest, like a weight pressing down trying to crush you, telling you it is wrong, that doom is coming. The myths and legends and rumors will come and drag you away. Make you one of them. And yet . . . all you see is beauty. Open spaces. Clean air.”
The woman Guardian glances at the tall man. Her expressionless mask almost appears perplexed. She decides to say nothing, turning away and resuming her scan of the empty horizon. The dead man waits for more from the tall man, but he is done. The condemned man decides to break the silence again.
“Yes, it is beautiful. Don’t let me darken it for you. You don’t want my death on your hands. Take me across the river, and I’ll never return.”
The tall man slowly turns his head back to the dead man. The silence is sharp and bitter, like the breeze now that they are not surrounded by the walls.
“You are the seventh person I have led on the march. We all take turns, but I’ve personally lead seven of you. One woman, about your age, an older man . . .”
The dead man doesn’t say anything as the other trails off. There is still a glimmer of hope in his mind. A sliver of a chance he might be let go. Perhaps this is all a show. March people right out of the city, leave their fate to the imagination.
“Seven times now, and every time we cross through the gate, the bravery vanishes. We all hold our heads so high, walking past the crowds. Courage and defiance in death. Then, we cross the wall and poof.” The tall man opens his fist, as though releasing seeds into the wind. For a moment he watches the imaginary seeds scatter. “You know what I think? I think bravery isn’t for ourselves but for others. Alone, in the dark, when the fears enter our minds, we can tremble in fright. But, when our lover clings to us in the night, in the grips of nightmare, we are brave. That is when we are sure things will be okay. So, we soothe and comfort. Faces hollowed masks. Meanwhile, under the surface, we all share the same fears.”
The dead man opens his mouth under the mask. Wanting to say something, but he can say nothing. He wants to scream and shout. But, for what and to who? He rolls back over to face out the back of the wagon. Tears begin to cloud his vision. Directly above them the sky is cut in two where it changes from light blue to gathering dark clouds that descend over the city.
The gates in the distance are now just a blurry patch of brown in the long line of gray wall. The gates are closed to him. The man closes his eyes, feeling every bump of the cart as they travel over the dirt road. His muscles are sore, and more than just his cheek are twitching now. A calf muscle is burning. His chest feels tight. He can feel the weight the man with the flames spoke of. He tells himself these are a result of being chained to a bed for three days, marched miles through town, and now tied again in a wooden bed. Not the result of something else.
The wagon comes to a rise two miles out of the city, and for the next hour they move slowly up and down over smaller and smaller hills, the land descending toward a wide river. A small stand of trees springs up. Pockmarked with brown pine, still dead from winter, but greening in places from the warming weather. The road leads them in a slight winding pattern until he can no longer see any part of the city wall behind them through the trees. Another mile and they are back into open land. Low, green brush dots the brown grass.
Exhausted, the dead man falls asleep and is rudely and fearfully awakened when the wagon comes to a sudden halt. He opens his eyes to a dark sky. Clouds have finally beaten back the sun and a light rain begins to fall. The rope is untied from the ring. The woman removes it from where it wrapped around his ankles, but it remains around his wrists. He stretches his legs, trying to regain some comfort after the rough journey. Turning his back from where the city should be, he is surprised to find they have stopped in front of a small building. Here in the middle of nowhere.
Surrounded by a group of smaller pines, is a plain two story wooden building. Two small windows on the ground floor reveal a flickering candle and movement from inside. A man is silhouetted in the doorway as he makes his way outside. He waddles his way to them, huffing and puffing from the effort. As he comes closer, the dead man is surprised to see the fat man is wearing the uniform of the Guardians. It is ruffled, wrinkled, and stinks of unwashed sweat and spilled alcohol. The man is wearing a mask, but it doesn’t sit right on his face. It’s as if his thick fingers couldn’t figure out the straps.
“This . . . this the guy?”
The man hiccups or burps. The dead man wants to laugh at this charade, but he is horrified instead. Is this the man who will kill him? Some overweight slob, living in a cabin by himself?
“Bring me a torch,” the tattooed man says.
The fat man huffs as though protesting, but goes back inside briefly before coming back with two torches, one lit and the other unlit. The tall man rips the unlit one from his hand and lights it using the second torch. Without another word, he grabs his rifle, throwing it over his back. He grabs the other end of the rope still attached to the dead man. Following, the dead man looks back to see the others unhooking the horses, leading them to a smaller building to the side of the large cabin. Apparently, his death will be a very intimate affair. After all the parading through town, being the center of attention, it will be just him and the tall man at the end.
Chapter Six
~
The man with the tattooed flames on his neck, a torch in one hand and the rope in his other, walks ahead. There is a narrow trail leading through the pines that surround the cabin, and after a few hundred feet of trees they emerge into open landscape again. The dead man follows behind, trying to come up with something to say. Anything that might convince the other to let him go, but his mind doesn’t feel right. Everything had happened so fast.
Seven days ago he had a runny nose, sore throat, and fever. He had tried to cover the symptoms for a few days, but someone had noticed the sweaty forehead. Or maybe he had blown his nose one too many times. Someone had reported him. The nurses, with their permanently smiling faces, had come for him at work. He had gone quietly enough, allowing himself to be strapped into that bed, sure that time would show them it was only a cold.
The second day they had given him a blood test, but they hadn’t told him the result. Though, it was obvious now what the results were. After being sick for a week, marched through the streets, strapped to a wagon and now marched some more, it was too much. His brain was tired. He couldn’t connect his thoughts.
The rain was coming down much harder now, making the torch flicker as small flames went out, only to ignite again from the oil that soaked the rag. The dead man felt his eyelids fluttering, felt his muscles screaming out. He wasn’t a Guardian. He didn’t train for long marches.
The rain was cold on his skin. While he was shivering through his soaked clothes he was also on fire with fever. He could feel the heat pouring out of his head, his hands, his feet. He imagined steam pouring out the hood, even as he shook and his teeth rattled. This was all too much for his tired body. The earth went out from under his feet.
They had reached the edge of a drop off. The land suddenly sloped steeply, down twenty feet to where the slope became gentler. The dead man tumbled forward past the tall man, bumping and scraping along the hard, rocky surface. He collapsed in a pile with a groan as the rope was pulled taut.
Every muscle in his body tensed. His toes stretched in his shoes, his arms tried to straighten out against the cuffs that still held them in place. Neck muscles bulged and threatened to burst through his skin. His face contorted into an involuntary grimace as muscles twitched and stretched. Stars danced in his vision. Flames flickered in his mind and in his eyes.
Afte
r a few seconds, the tall man helped him back to his feet once again.
“It isn’t much farther,” he said.
In the distance is the sound of rushing water, but he can’t see it. The light is fading and the little halo the torch provided blinds his night vision. The rain is still coming down, soaking his thin robe. It clings to him, as does the hood.
He realizes he is missing one of his boots now. His bare foot keeps finding hard stone as he stumbles on. His muscles are weak and shaky as they slide down the slope toward the river. Though he can’t see it, he knows the great river is ahead.
The rush of water grows louder when the tall man stops, holding his torch up high and in front of himself. The dead man gasps as a giant hunk of rusty metal looms out of the darkness. An old bridge that spans the fast moving river.
The tall man finally removes the dead man’s cuffs, giving him a moment to rub his wrists together. Curious, the man moves toward the edge of the bridge. Dirt and grass has spread over the years, merging with the base of the bridge. It appears like a giant metallic tree has grown out of the side of the land and collapsed across the river. He allows his eyes to adjust to the light, and he can just make out the other end of the bridge. Two hundred feet across the raging water.
Taking a few steps onto the bridge, his heart leaps in his throat as he nearly falls into a gaping hole. Twenty feet below, dark water splashes around a jumbled hunk of metal. Just past the support beams, a section of the bridge has fallen into the water below. Leaving no way across. The man hurriedly takes a few steps back to safety.
“Beautiful in its own way, isn’t it? The bridge, I mean.”
The dead man jumps at the sound of the other’s voice. He quickly remembers why he is here, and he turns to face his executioner. “Is this where you kill me?” he asks. His voice resigned.
The tall man clutches the torch in his left hand. With his right, he drops the rope trailing the other man and removes his rifle from his shoulders. The dead man flinches at the movement but the man is simply adjusting its position, putting it over his other shoulder.
“No one is going to kill you. Unless you want it,” the man of flames says.
For not the first time that day, the dead man can think of nothing to say as he watches the other man move past him. No one was going to kill him? Since when?
At the left edge of the bridge, the tall man places the torch in a holder on the side of a metal strut. Flames cast shadows into the growing darkness beyond. The light reveals a rope, twisted around a handle on the same strut. The tall man unwinds the rope, it pulls tight as the last of it is removed, as if it holds a weight. Slowly, the man lets rope slide through his gloved hands.
He can hear rope brushing through the man’s palms but also the creaking of wood. From above them, drops a wooden plank. It settles over the gap in the bridge, creating a narrow path across. The rope is drilled through a hole on the far end of the plank, allowing someone on this side to raise and lower it at will.
The dead man turns to ask what it all means, and he finds the tall man has moved next to him. He flinches again as the other man raises his hands toward his face. Unsure of what to do or what was happening, the dead man remains still as the other removes the hood.
Rain falls directly on his face, washing blood and tears away. The rain is cool and hard. It is the best thing he has felt in days. As he leans his head back, his muscles fail him once again. They tighten and stretch. He falls to the ground, writhing in agony. It lasts longer this time. Over a minute.
“Why me?” the dead man asks as he lay on the ground.
“You are not the first to ask, and I doubt you’ll be the last.”
“But—”
“Get to your feet. There are words that need to be said while you are still capable of hearing them.”
The tall man doesn’t offer to help this time, and the dead man carefully climbs back to his feet, facing the other. The tall man begins to speak with that emotionless voice of his.
“You have been tested, and you have been found infected. For the preservation of our people, you have been purged from the city and brought to the river. Because we are not without mercy, we are providing you with a choice.”
A choice? A choice of how to die? What choice can they truly give him now?
“The change is already coming over you. You can feel the fever, the muscle spasms. Soon, you will lose your mind and you will become rage, hate, and pain. You will become one of the others.”
The dead man shivers again. It is painful now, his muscles are on fire.
“Your choice is this. If you so wish, I can kill you now. The pain will disappear and perhaps you will find peace in another life. The second choice is that you may cross the river. You may cross and we will not pursue you. You can become an other, if you survive the transformation. You will be pain itself. Your mind will be lost. But, you will be physically alive. You have thirty seconds to choose.”
The dead man stands stunned. He had been sure he was coming to his execution, but here he was, being given a chance to leave. Though leave to what? He was turning wasn’t he? He could feel it in his muscles, in the fever that was gripping him. He may be physically alive if he changed, but would he be aware? Would he want to be aware? He was better off dead.
But, what if he survived the transformation? Surely, the infection didn’t kill everyone. Maybe he could survive. Maybe there were others out there like him. Those that had chosen to change and then had not. Perhaps they weren’t giving him the choice of death. Maybe they were allowing him a sliver of hope?
He had to give himself a chance. No matter how small.
“I’ll cross the river.”
The tattooed man just nods. Unsurprised.
The dead man feels he should say something but is again at a loss for words. Instead, he turns toward the narrow path that stretches across the opening. It is difficult to see in the dim light of one flickering torch. He places his right foot on the beam and finds it stable. Though, he still hesitates to place the next foot on, to fully commit. He glances back.
The other man stands by the torch, leaning against the beam, just watching. His rifle is still on his back, and his mask is still lifeless, though flames dance on the reflective eye holes. Combined with the flames on his neck, his entire head appears to be on fire.
The man moves his left foot onto the beam, then moves his right foot again. Shakily, he moves across the chasm. He wants to rush as he nears the other side, but instead, he is careful. Every step measured. He doesn’t want to fall. They are letting him go.
He may still have a chance, even if he is infected. Reaching the other side, he takes a deep breath and is racked by another series of coughs. He stumbles to his hands and knees, thankful that the bridge is fully intact here.
He regains his feet. The tall man stands directly opposite him, across the wooden beam. The dead man briefly thinks the other is contemplating joining him. Of leaving the city behind.
“Thank you,” the dead man says to his executioner.
“Don’t thank me. You are not the first who has chosen to cross. This is the custom.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“No,” the tall man says sharply. “You should get moving.”
“How do you know I’ve turned?” The dead man asks anyways.
“Start walking.”
“I mean, I’ve never been on the other side of the wall until today. I shop in the same markets and walk the same streets as fifty thousand people. I take my vaccine every morning, just as we are taught. If the virus is inside the city, how am I the only one who got infected?”
“Walk.”
“Haven’t we always been told the virus is the most contagious the world has ever seen? Then where is the outbreak? Why have I not made others sick?”
“WALK!”
“Just think,” the dead man says, then turns away, not wanting to risk his chance of getting away by antagonizing the man any further.
Where will he go? First, he should find some shelter. Some place he can warm up. He can use the river for water, then he can worry about food. He is filled with hope as walks away from the man of flames, away from the city, away from his old life.
He doesn’t know how long he has until the virus reaches that critical point, but he has a sliver of hope. Maybe he won’t change. Maybe he can survive on his own. Maybe the test is wrong. Maybe—
The dead man never feels the bullet that enters the base of his skull, blowing out his lower jaw. He simply crumbles to the rusted metal of the bridge. A wet mass of sweat, rain, blood, bone, and tissue.
The tall man places the rifle against the side of the metal strut, grabs the torch, and quickly makes his way across the narrow plank. The dead man is finally truly dead.
The tall man pulls a small bottle of oil from a pocket. He sprinkles it over the crumbled corpse. Taking a few steps back, he tosses the torch onto the body. With a rush of air, flames instantly spark. The rain is still falling, but the support structure of the bridge above helps shield the fire.
The tall man strips off the coat he has been wearing, tossing it into the flames. He drags the long rope across and adds it to the pyre. He removes his soaked shirt and tosses it along with his gloves, into the fire. Anything that came in physical contact with the man is tossed in the flames.
In only his pants, boots and mask, the executioner stands for a long time as he watches the flames flicker from drops of rain, then spark again when they find fuel. The fire crackles and pops as it burns through flesh.
Through the masked eyes, the man stares. That other man had been dead from the moment the test came back positive for the virus. He could deny it to himself, but it wasn’t a matter of if he would turn, but when.
He feels nothing for the dead man. He has done this too many times now, and the dead always want to know why them. Of everyone in the city, why them?
He knows instead of thinking on the last words of dead, he should be thankful that he has never been infected himself. After years traveling outside the walls, protecting borders other people don’t even know existed, he has had plenty of contact with the maneaters. Yet, he has never been infected.