by Daryl Banner
“There, there,” she directs me.
I try pushing through the door, but it’s locked. I slap my face against the glass of the window to the bread shop and bang, bang, bang my steaming fist against it. “John! Helena! Let me in, it’s Winter and Megan!”
Their faces lift up from behind the cash register. The sight is one of the most beautiful in the world, the two of them. My Reaper and my heart.
“Hurry!” I shout, feeling the eyes of Grim on me, feeling him everywhere. “We gotta go! Now!”
They rush out of the store and, together now, the four of us run down the street. If we continue on, we’re well on our way back to Trenton in just the same way we came. Such a shame we couldn’t enjoy the hospitality of this place a bit longer. I’m sure before it was taken over by Grimsky that it was, in actuality, a decent place. You know, something you might have found in a travel brochure.
When we break from the edge of the city and begin to cross the shattered slabs of highway, I realize we’re alone. Helena’s noticed the same. “Why aren’t they pursuing us further?”
“Likely because we’re out of his range,” I say, coming to a stop. The whole city carries the Undead’s colorful haze of rainbow-fire.
“Whose range?”
Better now than never. “Grimsky’s.” I turn to look at Helena, finding her eyes wide with surprise. Clearly she wasn’t expecting that answer. “Grimsky’s behind all of this. He’s something of a Warlock now, I guess. Except he’s Undead, so … well, that so-called Army Of Fire is his. They’re under his control. And he’s trying to … annihilate all life on the planet, or something.”
“Of course he is. And why wouldn’t he? Sounds like a downright pleasurable pastime.” She glares, then adds, “It was a mistake to show him mercy.”
As if I don’t already feel horrid enough.
“What about Gunner?” asks John between inhales. I forget sometimes how inconvenient being a Human can be, especially when we seem to be running for our lives all the time.
“What about him,” grunts Megan bitterly in my ear.
“And Jasmine!” I point out, alarmed. “I need to go back! This is all my fault, John, Helena. I should—”
“She’s fine,” says John, wheezing. “She has to be fine. We are not going back in there.”
And Ben! “And the wagon of food!” I go on, unable to help myself. I’m in hysterics. “A-And our steel!”
“There is no wagon of food. There never was,” bites back Helena, annoyed. “Those fire-nuts burned it all. Their Humans too, all of them. Dead now, I guess. They stole our steel. We were morons. The Chief and I are stupid and we made a stupid deal. We shouldn’t have trusted anyone, neighbors or not.”
“They’re not dead,” I tell her. “The Humans who lived here. Grim is Raising the Humans he kills. He wants to turn the remaining world Undead so there’s no Living things left. Even the plants, the trees … everything.”
“Undead trees. Never thought I’d live to see—Oh, I made a joke.” Helena sears the sky with her glare.
The haze of colors seems to be deepening, brightening and glowing and rising. I guess that’s the nature of a fire; it burns and burns, and anything in its way burns too.
“This is not good,” says Helena, her voice suddenly calm. “They’ve disarmed us, Winter. Now when these Neo-Deathless raid Trenton, we’ll be defenseless.”
“They won’t raid Trenton,” says a voice.
All of us turn. Gunner stands on a tall slab of cement, his crossbow slung over a shoulder. His hair’s a mess and there’s a nasty cut running down his face and neck.
It makes me feel guilty that for a split second I was hoping it was Jasmine or Benjamin.
“We’ll think of something when we’re back,” says Gunner, “but we’d better hurry and go now.”
I step forward, eyeing him. “Did you see the others? Jasmine? Another Undead who may have been with her?”
“Jasmine and I were running together,” he says, “but we got split up. I don’t know what happened to her.” He squints at me, his oily eyes full of focus. “I’m certain a woman with her smarts and her cleverness will find a way out. We can’t just wait here for her, though.”
Studying his face, I am so conflicted. Do I trust him? Has he really changed, like John insisted? Or is Megan’s hatred of him justified? After Grim’s speech about second chances, and then proceeding to try and capture and kill my Living friends … I find my capacity to trust anything shot beyond repair, even to trust that the ground beneath my feet will still be there if I keep standing on it.
“She knows her way back,” John agrees quietly. “She’s the town forager, after all. She knows the lay of the land.”
“I came with another friend, too,” I say. “Benjamin. Did you see him?” Gunner shakes his head no.
“Good old Ben made it out of the damn Necropolis without an inch of our help,” Helena points out. “And that was without legs. I think he’ll manage.”
“Let’s go,” calls Gunner, leading the way. John and Hel follow. I watch them for a while, uncertain, pained. I don’t share any of their confidence. Maybe Grim’s words are still affecting me. Maybe a part of me is genuinely swayed by his vision of the world … painless, lifeless, no worries, no fears … no tempting blood …
I look behind me at the burning city, almost admiring the spread of sickly beautiful colors that threaten to touch the sky. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to them, hoping Benjamin and Jasmine are, in fact, not in that city, and that my apology is in fact falling on vacant ears.
As we’re walking down the shattered highway, Megan leans into my ear from behind, still clinging on tight, and says, “Maybe someday I’ll be more than Human. Maybe someday I can help put a stop to it all.”
“You’ve done enough for a lifetime,” I say back.
“Winter, we still have the other Warlock’s Eyes. Don’t you remember?”
Long ago, Megan had found three green stones near camp and gave them to me thinking they might grant us leverage during the Battle For Trenton. I kept one for myself—which literally saved my existence. Of the other two, one was given to the old Judge Enea, who sadly was killed anyway, and the other to Jasmine. In theory, they protect us from the powers of a Warlock, and if worn by the right person, can bestow powers … apparently such as in the case of Grim, to whom I gave my own stone. After the Battle, the one from the short Human Warlock was claimed as well, totaling three currently in our possession.
I kept Old Judge Enea’s stone. Jasmine’s stone and the one that was taken from the short, metal-legged Warlock we’d killed were taken back and are being kept safe in the Town Hall Treasury.
“Yes,” I admit, reflecting on them all. “I remember.”
“That’ll save Trenton! We just need to use the Lock-Eyes!” she exclaims, like she has it all figured out.
“No, sweetheart. It’s more complicated than that. We have tried many times, to no avail.” I even remember Marigold popping one of them into her socket. She didn’t suddenly become capable of anything extraordinary, except when she blinked it made an awful squishy sound. We tried the Warlock Eyes inside several different people and nothing made a difference. They’re just dull green stones now, dead as the dead. Whatever connection Grim seems to have with his, it’s bequeathing some strange otherworldly abilities on him that I cannot explain.
“Oh. Too bad.” Megan sounds gravely disappointed that her idea to save Trenton has already been squished by big bad Winter. There’s not much I can do about that. My own heart is too heavy to believe in any miracles, let alone green stones that won’t even glow in our presence anymore.
I really can’t get to Trenton fast enough.
Megan slips off my back finally, giving my hand a squeeze, and joins the others ahead. As I follow, I choose to leave behind my labyrinth of emotions, which feel more like tattered threads on the sleeve of some ruined dress … like a red one, for instance, with a hole through its stomach. Like Hilda’s bes
t dress, impaled by the steel sword. Like Claire’s red prom dress, impaled by my mother’s kitchen knife.
Grimsky in a tower somewhere in that burning city, impaled by the blade of a brave Human girl.
Feeling a mild sting, I bring my hand up to inspect it. It’s still steaming, even now. Frowning, I slide John’s steel ring off, wondering how Grim’s wound could possibly still be lingering on my palm … and notice the skin under the ring is charred black.
I stare at the ring now, pinched between the thumb and index finger of my other hand. A new tendril of smoke, soft and airy, begins to rise. When I drop the ring in alarm, my fingertips are still hissing.
C H A P T E R – T E N
S K I T T E R
It’s actually kinda funny. As we’re walking through the barren landscape, breaking into what I’ll lovingly call the No-One-Lives-Here Woods, and trekking over a dusty lowland that might have once been a swamp that I’ll hereby name Gross-Things-Underfoot-Don’t-Look-Down Dry Lands, I have my own chant going through my head:
I am not Deathless.
I am not Deathless.
I am not Deathless.
If there’s anything my First Life has taught me, it’s that denial is the most powerful force we are capable of. If any semblance of science existed in this world, I’d argue that the reason we don’t remember our First Life when we wake as an Undead is because we’re in instant denial that we are dead at all. At once, we deny our existence, deny what’s happening to us, deny that we ever lived …
Horrified at our new self, we’d sooner believe that this is a Second Life than we would that we ever had a First.
“You alright?”
It’s John who scares me out of my thoughts. He lifts a brow, noticing he jostled me. “Yes,” I say, reassuring him quickly. “I’m still a bit preoccupied with … you know.”
“Jazz and your friend Ben, I know.”
Yes, I’ll let him think that. I won’t mention the other two things that haunt me. Grimsky, for one. And my sudden and inconvenient steel-allergy development.
After another hour of walking, Gunner and John say it’s time for a rest break. Even with the Undead stamina of Hel and I, we’re both as exhausted from the recent events as any Human might be, and a rest sounds downright necessary. My body might be able to walk for all eternity, but my mind is blown to pieces.
Gunner makes a spot against a slanted grey tree to redo his bandages while Megan curls up next to Hel, who is uncharacteristically rubbing Megan’s back like she were a daughter or a favorite niece; I’m thinking she’s just a step away from braiding her damn hair.
John and I share a mound of twigs, peeking through the leafless branches into a swirling grey sky. His shoulder is pressed against mine and his hand is close by. I hope he doesn’t notice I’m no longer wearing his ring. With present circumstances considered, I doubt he cares much; Jewelry’s not forefront on any of our minds.
“We can’t stay here long,” says John.
“I know.”
He sighs, rocking his head to one side, resting it on my shoulder. I lean into it and try to smile, ignoring my worries. I don’t want to calculate whether or not Grim has already left After’s Hold with his army, or how long we have before we’re descended upon. Maybe Grim is feeling patient and won’t think to claim the Humans’ lives in Trenton. Surely his self-proclaimed “calling” can wait a day or two in the very least.
The whole way walking, I stared at Megan’s hair as it swung left and right with her every step, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how easily and effortlessly she struck that blade through Grimsky’s chest. I keep telling myself it isn’t my fault that she’s capable of such horrors; it’s the world’s fault.
We have no other measures left to take but desperate ones. It’s all we have, the whole desperate lot of us.
John’s fingers fumble around a bit before suddenly I find him holding my hand. I glance down at our entwined fingers, feeling empty and far away. “We need to evacuate the city,” John whispers to me.
“The Chief would never allow it.”
“Helena will back us up. She is, after all, half the ruling power of Trenton. I can find Garden.” He squeezes my hand, shifts himself on the ground to get comfortable. “I didn’t think I’d need to pursue it again, since we had Trenton. If that green-eyed madman is going to invade anyway, then—”
“I won’t let that happen.” I’d told them everything that transpired at the top of that building. It already feels like it happened weeks ago. “Get some rest, John.”
“We should be home by now. That madman and his whole burning army could be—”
“We may not have a home anymore.” I release my fingers from his and climb to my feet.
He peers up at me. “Winter?”
“I need a moment.” When I see the look on his face, I lift a hand. “I’m alright, I’m fine. I just … I need a moment to gather myself. I’m fine.”
With that, I walk away. I would love nothing more than to curl up with John and cuddle in the middle of nowhere, but every dead part of me is revolting against the peace. I hear no further protests from him, so I figure I’m okay to wander the area a bit while the Livings rest.
That and I can’t stop the guilt from torturing me.
I kick a rock and listen to it skipping through the woods, finding a new home somewhere else. Likely what we’ll need to be doing soon. All this fighting we have endured the last six months simply to make Trenton habitable and harmonious between Human and Undead, and it’s all going to waste because Grim has some selfish vision he must fulfill. I’m so angry at him I feel like my whole body could burst into green flame itself.
The worst part is, I know how unhappy I’ve been. With the small and precious exception of our final day in Trenton, John and I were not getting along. Most of the Humans never got to trusting us Undead, preferring us to stay as far away as possible. In many of their minds, we were the ones who didn’t belong in the town, as Trenton was originally owned by Humans back in the time of the Old World … before our kind even existed. I can’t say for sure which faction I sided with, for all the bitterness that I harbor for my own kind.
I guess self-hatred doesn’t look pretty on anyone, no matter how you wear it.
My foot kicks into a dead tree branch. Peering down at it, I jump back and my eyes grow double. It is not a tree branch. For several seconds, I can’t even process what it is because I’m too busy telling myself that it isn’t what it looks like. Reluctantly, I crouch down to get a better look, still keeping plenty of distance.
It’s a three-foot-long insect leg.
I glance to my left, then to my right. I peer up into the trees, but there’s nothing there. No spiders, no spider webs, nothing. Without touching it, I check the—thing—again. It could be the leg to a cricket, maybe. A very, very, very, very large cricket. Or a cockroach, perhaps.
A very, very, very large one.
I tap it with a foot. Nothing. Tentatively, I kick it. The thing still doesn’t budge. I was pretty sure every ounce of my squeamishness in this world was dead … until now.
I hear a quiet skittering. I look up.
And that’s approximately when a tarantula the size of a human drops on my head.
The thing that bursts out of me to save the day is not bravery or courage, no sir … It’s a blood-curdling glass-shattering scream. The second thing is a desire to run like some wild forest animal, throwing my legs in whatever direction they care to take me while swatting blindly at the monster on my head. All I see is my own white hair and three dangly, nightmarish spider legs.
Quite suddenly I stop. That, or I just ran into a tree.
The spider-monster-thing flies off my head finally, landing heavily on the forest floor. For one wild minute, it’s like we’re facing off; me and my two terrified eyes locked onto the giant arachnid and its … six billion eyes. I feel like a warrior—without a sword.
Then I’m screaming again and running in the oppo
site direction. Quickly, I happen across the huge cricket leg thing, and I find myself picking it up by one end. Yes, this now becomes my weapon, and I brandish the huge cricket-leg-thing to battle the huge spider-eyeball-thing.
This is happening.
It leaps at me. I shriek and swing the leg like a baseball bat, but I miss completely and hit a nearby tree instead. The spider circles me and I swing again, grazing two of its legs ineffectively. You’d think I were trying to gently massage the thing for as clumsy as I am handling my improvised cricket weapon. To be fair, cricket-weapon swordsmanship is not a skill I include on my resume.
The thing scuttles to the left, to the right, surveying me with all its gross little eyes. With sudden and psychotic conviction, I charge at the spider and thrust my weapon in a glorious arc, clubbing the spider squarely on its head. It bounces, lurching expertly to the side. My weapon, being a hairy, thorny cricket leg-thing, I find it exceptionally uncomfortable to hold, and suddenly I’m doubting the effectiveness of it at all. The spider is still dancing around me—the subtle sound of its giant feet brushing and playing at the crispy, gritty ground is all I hear. The thing neither hisses nor squeaks … only tittering and clicking.
I throw my weapon aside. Why not. Casual reminder: I’m Undead. I lunge at the spider because my next plan of attack is, apparently, to grapple it into submission.
Yes, this is now happening.
The enormous spider-thing definitely makes an effort to evade me, but after three quick attempts at grasping its prickly—ugh, never again—legs, I get a firm grip and pull it toward me. I can’t arm myself against it, so I figure my best technique is to disarm it. Literally. I wrestle with the critter as it wriggles, fighting my attempts at pulling off its arms. It strikes its massive pincer-like teeth into my arm, then pulls off again—retreat, jab, retreat, jab. Finally I hear a snap, managing to dislodge two of its legs. I toss them into the air like boomerangs I pray will not return.