by Daryl Banner
“Who else can Megan practice on? Don’t worry, I’ll send Marigold to look over her,” Helena decides, making all the choices today, apparently. “She’ll be safe, then. The Chief will have to convince Megan’s parents that she’s being kept busy in the Town Hall to distract her from, say, running off on another deadly adventure with her troublemaking best friend Winter. They’ll buy that one.” I shoot Hel a stinging look.
“I don’t want to be kept busy,” Megan complains. “I want to help. That’s the whole reason I—”
“And that’s precisely what you’ll do,” snaps Helena, rising off the curb to face the little one. “You’ll practice on Brains, to see if there are any powers in that eye. Might as well make do. But rest first. Winter, I suggest you bring John to the Town Hall. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Okay.”
Hel puts a hand on Megan’s back, guiding her off. Megan peers back at me over her shoulder, sadness in her eyes. Sorry: in her eye. I watch with a sickness brewing in me. The sight of that little girl and how she completely mutilated herself, all for the purpose of … what? For all we know, she may not be capable of anything. After all the failed attempts we made at using those Lock-eyes …
“Winter …”
“Go.” I can’t even look Ann in the face. I can’t look at the lung-bag of a boyfriend Jim either, nor can I face Collin at my back. “Please. Spare me.”
“But, Winter …”
“I SAID GO!” I cry out, Ann jerking back. Without another moment’s hesitation, she takes Jim’s hand and rushes off, disappearing into town. Behind me, I hear the doors open, then gently shut, the doctor silently excusing himself from my explosion of anger. I would too, if I were him and had any sense.
The gentle breeze still passes through the alley. I feel the quietness and the aloneness swallow me up. I peel off my stupid gloves and toss them away. Who was I kidding?
Nothing can touch me.
I stare at the ground, seething, my icecap blues feeling more like fiery reds at this point. I’m staring at some weed that’s sprouted from a crack in the cobblestone road. I don’t remember seeing it before. It’s an ugly thing, that weed. Gnarled, half-alive, half-dead, like most of us.
When I finally abandon my perch and walk home, I keep feeling like there’s raging flames behind me. I imagine it to be Grim’s army, slowly advancing on us. Even with the hint of fire growing in the distance, we will be taken over, ravaged, pillaged, destroyed, sucked into eternal lifelessness. I can’t even say confidently that Grim’s whole plan for a peacefully Dead world is still intact after our confrontation in After’s Hold.
Taking a different route, I pass down the street with Hilda’s Singing Seamstress. The sight of its unexpectedly quiet, vacant storefront sends a chill and half a lost memory through me. Further down the street, I pass the schoolyard where I first met Ann. At one point, I had wondered if the day would come when the Humans at last accepted us, finding their place in our society, and the children of a new generation begin attending the schools together—Human and Undead. I remember how I felt when I watched them fight alongside one another in the Battle For Trenton. You couldn’t tell them apart.
Human and Undead. Undead and Human. We fought for a common cause and we triumphed … we triumphed.
So why does it feel like we lost?
Suddenly, I realize I’m not walking home. I’ve made my way to another house entirely: Benjamin’s house. I push through the door and stare into the stagnant room. He’d left one of his windows a crack open, a quiet hum sneaking its way in through it, a wind song. On the table, I see the candle still sitting there, the one we let burn halfway down before running off on our adventure.
Why am I here?
I pluck a match from the table, strike it against my jaw—why not?—then gently bring it to the wick. It catches, glows red, purple, then green and blue, and suddenly I’ve created a tiny world of colors.
I watch the colors, feeling myself drawn into a trance of nostalgia. Benjamin and I at the Necropolis, pondering the future. Helena, me, Megan in a cage to the other side. All of us, united that day, never knowing that we’d paved our futures in that moment. That Benjamin would last until he met his end at the thrum of a quiet crossbow in a Town Hall, chatting about victory and plans and weapons. That Megan would get out of there alive too, help overthrow a city, then transplant her own eye.
We were united in doom. And we will be ripped apart just the same.
I remember how Benjamin nailed himself to the wall. He wanted to protect himself from the world. I wonder if I ought to do the same. I bit John while we kissed. I still can’t believe I let that happen. At least I haven’t seemed to progress from nibbling.
Watch out, world; I’ll nibble you into submission.
I’ve held the match for so long, my hand’s caught fire. I lift it up, curious, feeling nothing, and observe how the flame doesn’t quite touch my skin. It almost seems to burn the air around it. What sort of magic makes this possible …?
The next moment, I’m blowing out the match and the tiny flame on my fingertips. I don’t care.
I don’t care.
The streets are just as quiet and horrible when I leave Benjamin’s house. I force myself to smile because I’m tired of all the gloom and bad news. If Grim were to show up without any warning and burn the life out of every last Living and tree and blade of grass, when he finally comes to me, I want him to see me smiling. I want him to know he can take the life around me, but can’t take my smile.
Because contrary to what he might firmly believe, he cannot burn my spirit.
John’s on the porch, watching me as I approach. The steps creak as I ascend them, then the wood beneath my shoes creak some more as I sit in the chair next to him, a rocking chair. I stare ahead blindly. I don’t even hear John when he greets me, until he asks: “Did you find it?”
I reply, “No. But Megan did.”
C H A P T E R – F O U R T E E N
O N S L A U G H T
The air is calm. Too calm.
The Undead that inhabit the city walls have all been given steel projectiles, feeling it to be the best defense against an onslaught of fiery Undead that presumably—or rather, hopefully—are just like Deathless incarnate.
I try to picture Grim being assaulted by a rain of steel arrows, and suddenly Grim’s face becomes Benjamin’s, and then suddenly I see Grim looking the way he did on the very first day we met—fine black dress shirt, perfectly-cropped hair that cut down his face in tiny spikes—and all the stomach I thought I had for this is gone in an instant.
“How is Megan?” I ask Helena that evening when the Humans have all turned in for the night, and she just gives a roll of her eyes and says, “You can hand anyone a seed, doesn’t mean they’ll have you a garden by morning.”
We’ve made Megan a thick, warm bed in an unused office of the Town Hall. The Chief has convinced us that the parents have been taken care of; in fact, they’re downright pleased with the circumstance, thinking it rather resourceful and clever. “Keeping her busy will certainly encourage her not to … you know,” explained the father Ken, and Bonnie, clinging too tightly to her husband’s arm, nodded and smiled just as stiffly.
There is yet another interesting and just as unsettling development: Gill, the man whose wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl before expiring within feet of me, has been released back into the public. The Chief thought long and hard on it and had many discussions with the man, who convinced him ultimately that he was alright. Of course, he’ll never truly be alright, as he’s lost the only woman in the world he could ever love. Sweet Laura, he kept calling her. Sweet, sweet Laura. Two close friends of Gill had been caring for the newborn feeding her milk substitute powder. I suppose the Chief felt it was cruel to keep a father from his daughter, even despite the fact that Gill was clearly unstable. He’s apparently regained his senses and only wishes to spend time with his little nameless girl, especially considering how precious time has s
uddenly become, what with the impending invasion at hand. I heard he still refuses to name his daughter.
The day after he’s released, the air grows even calmer. The calm does nothing to rest my restless bones.
Another unit of Undead have taken to sealing the wall in the Burned Quarter, ignoring the fact that we really should have done something about it before now. One foolish Human that had come among a group to observe the work joked that if we can’t finish the wall in time, we ought to simply stack the bodies of the Undead high enough to make one. Two other idiots found that funny, their laughs turning to mist in the cold air, until I quietly informed them that that was, in fact, exactly the way the walls were built at the Necropolis, except I was quite sure not all of the heads were made of Undead. Their laughter died in their throats, and I felt a sick satisfaction from it.
The Square has been effectively shut down, along with all the markets and kiosks and other things that made life feel “normal” in Trenton. All of it has been replaced with stations manned by Human and Undead. Though, admittedly, the Undead seem to only be working alongside other Undead, and the Humans, bundled up in coats and scarves, only sit among their own. There are stations for threading steel to the tips of wooden arrows. Stations for melee training, should the gates or walls be breeched, where even the young Humans are taught basic defense and offense using our limited weaponry. I hear an old man telling his grandson: “No matter what, if it’s one of them and one of you who’s in trouble, you protect yourself and your kin first. No single one of us is gonna die for one of them, you hear me on that? They’re already dead. If there’s no other lesson you—” He draws silent as I pass, his eyes following me. I’m sure he isn’t meaning to glare, any more than I’m meaning to eavesdrop.
The air remains calm as a winter’s breeze, quiet as the dead. Another day drifts into night song and the snoring of Humankind as I crouch at the top of the northern wall. I scan the brim of the Dead Woods, searching the ever-sprawling lands of nothing. Where are you, Grim?
I search the night sky, which is really just the same as the day sky, and cannot find the ghost’s rainbow. That’s what we Undead have officially named it: the ghost’s rainbow. The great fire that once stained our sky and brought with it a haunting promise of doom. I hope Grim’s happy, as we’ve named him too: Sergeant Green.
Well, I guess they weren’t really serious about that.
The Chief has asked me many, many questions since our return. How many did Grim have with him? Do I think After’s Hold was corrupted and occupied before we got there? How long had Grim been gathering his forces?
And now, he asks about Ben: “I know he wasn’t one of the … one of the Deathless beforehand,” the Chief goes on. “He even helped during the Battle For Trenton. He’s handled lots of steel, enough to prove himself. When did that change? Was it something at After’s Hold?”
“It was before then,” I admit. Part of me is saying I should lie, protect myself, hide the fact that I was an accomplice in keeping Ben’s secret, but what would that earn me? The Chief has been reasonable so far, even with Megan’s outrageous recent act; he will be reasonable with this, too. “It was at Jasmine’s party. Ben’s hands burned when he held a fork to … to eat Marigold’s frightening excuse for a cake.” I wince apologetically. “I didn’t know what to do. We both knew what he wasn’t. We have no idea why he … why he …”
“And now we won’t,” the Chief finishes for me, his voice heavy and full of regret. “Gunner is quick, and he needs to be. But I’m afraid he was too quick this time. We could’ve used Ben a lot more alive. Well, you know what I mean.” He finishes his apple with a savage, toothy bite.
The next morning, I wake in John’s arms. We’d fallen asleep on a bench in the back of the Town Hall, right outside the room where Megan sleeps. Well, he’d fallen asleep while I closed my eyes and continued my little day dream of a life, trying with every dead bone in my body to keep away the evil thoughts—like Claire’s life, and Claire’s death, and all the wonderful and horrible things I couldn’t let myself experience back when I used to do interesting things—y’know, like breathing. When I try to slip out from John’s arms, he squeezes, not letting me go. I have to smile, struggle a bit, then manage to free myself.
The Square is quiet and peaceful in the early morning. Humans are already up and about, some of them at their stations, a circle of them at a cooking fire where, I guess, this morning’s breakfast is being prepared. I’m spotted by a few of them, and it doesn’t take an extraordinarily bright individual to deduce that I am not welcome in their circle.
The day goes by with little happenstance. A sleepy old woman burns her tongue on a ladle of soup. A man with humungous eyebrows gets into a quarreling match with an Undead boy who strolled too close to a bucket of water, the man worried the boy might contaminate it somehow and render it undrinkable. Two men and a lady instruct a chilly coated-up group in how to best utilize the collected rainwater to care for the vegetables in the greenhouse. A little boy among them, who stubbornly refuses to wear shoes, trips over a stray shovel and lands face-first in the cold dirt. Two women come to console him, one of them muttering that an Undead left the shovel there on purpose. I’m even glared at before I leave, as though I were that very Undead of which she spoke.
Things aren’t polite. There’s no love in the air, only suspicion and worry and anticipation. No Burning Army invades today, and I’m almost disappointed.
Get this over with, Grim.
That evening, we are all surrounding a table in the lobby of the Town Hall. John sits at my side, Helena on the other. Across from us is the Chief, Gunner, Marigold and Megan. Set in the center of the table is the remnants of a plate of food the Humans shared for dinner while Helena and Marigold and I discussed a plan for tomorrow. Now the Chief is weighing in his opinions while John reports the status of the wall in the Burning Quarter.
Helena is in the middle of recounting—in the most boring of drawls imaginable—our food and supplies when suddenly the front doors swing open and a skittish sort of Human quietly steps in to say: “E-Excuse me?”
A short series of quick things happens: the Chief rises, Marigold leans to the side and Helena spreads her arms, all in an effort to keep Megan from sight. Or, at least, the little green secret on her face.
“Yes?”
The man seems occupied for a moment, studying our grouping at the table, before finally saying, “Judy and the Bransons and I would, uh, like a word.” His eyes are still all over us, curious, prodding.
“I will meet you in the Square, as soon as our meeting is concluded.” The man accepts the answer, though he seems to take all the time in the world just to turn around and leave, his snoopy gaze lingering far too long.
As soon as the doors swing shut, the Chief rounds on Marigold, eyes maddened. “I thought you locked up?”
“I had!” she insists cheerily, his fury lost on her.
The Chief rushes to the door, locking it. “I will see to him once we’ve finished our business here.” It is an effort, but the Chief regains his composure and returns to the table to finish hearing Helena’s inventory.
Once we break for the night, Helena gets with Gunner to discuss the Undead positioned along the north walls, Marigold and Megan get lost in a conversation about Brains and something she did today, and the Chief makes his way out to the Square. That leaves John and I in the waiting area where he’s sitting so close I can feel his heartbeat reverberating through my body.
I wish I could always be this close to him. “I’ve made my point to the Chief,” John’s in the middle of telling me. “Several times, and he keeps putting me off.”
“About Garden?”
“Yeah.” He huffs, fed up and frustrated as a boy who keeps getting sent back to bed. “We wouldn’t even have to worry about any of this. No fighting for our lives. No scrounging the deadlands for scraps. The cold is here, and it’s only getting colder, and … Do you think Grimlock’s starving us out? I
think we’ll starve before we’re even met by his Army Of Fire. What a cruel joke. A paradise of food and fruit and life beyond our wildest imagination, and we sit here in the cold and wither.”
I want to tell him: Grimsky. It’s Grimsky, not—but I hold my tongue and instead I say: “We could go right now, if you wanted.”
Pressing into his side, warmed by the hope, I notice Gunner stealing a quick glance at us, even from across the room where he’s discussing things with Helena. I realize that broadcasting our little relationship might be risky, considering the Human-Undead relations thing, and I find myself slackening my grip on John’s arm.
“Steal supplies and make a run for Garden?” John snorts derisively. “That’s exactly what I did the last time, back at camp. Took supplies and headed off in pursuit of the dream. Oh, the luck I had. That’s how I ended up here.” He peers at me coyly through the side of his face.
Yeah, I remember every detail of that day. I remember hearing John’s heartbeat from across that tavern.
“Maybe in time, the Chief will see the sense in it.” I sigh. “It doesn’t change the fact that Grim is out there, his green eye set on anything alive. Garden will be his target, whether tomorrow or a month from now or a year from now. Until someone stops Grim …”
“Everything will slowly die,” John finishes.
At that moment, the door to the Town Hall opens and my favorite Undead in the world right now, Ann, rushes in and slams shut the door. Clearly heated and in no nice mood, she rushes up to Helena to talk to her. The words are hushed but furious. After a short exchange, Helena lifts her pointy chin to me. “Winter. We have a problem. Mister bright-as-can-be Jim has—”
“Jim told his parents,” Ann finishes through gnashed teeth. “About Megan and I told them it wasn’t true, but now they’re telling other people, and the Chief is getting in the middle of it—the Bransons, the Greys, Larry, Lena and Margie, Willis—”