The Whispers

by Daryl Banner

  To my shock, another line of trees appears in the far distance where we’re headed. To my subsequent relief, these are actual trees and not another army of pursuing blood-eaters. The other end of the Whispers, I realize as we approach. We can lose them in those woods, I convince myself, encouraging my fast-moving feet.

  “To the woods!” I shout out, John and Mari trailing behind, Corpsey at my side. “We lost them once, we’ll lose them again!”

  “There’s a town in the woods!” shouts Corpsey. “An abandoned town! You can hide in it! You’ll be safe!”

  The next instant, we’re bursting past the threshold of the woods, scurrying down a path that cuts through the dead, thorny trees. “Hurry!” shouts John from behind. “They’re catching up! Hurry, Jennifer!”

  The wide-opened gates of the town lie ahead, coming forth to greet me like a friend. My feet carry me under its ancient, yawning archway, narrowly dodging a steel sign that hangs loosely from it.

  A sign that reads: Trenton.

  “Hurry, hurry!” I cry out behind me, thrusting myself down a thorny, bramble-ridden road that had once been overgrown with vines and greenery, long since died and petrified. Each root and stony tendril threaten to pull at my feet as I stumble over them, my running slowed by the uneven ground. Corpsey leads the way, beckoning me as I race down the winding streets of this long forgotten town, my heart slamming against my ribcage and my feet and legs screaming in agony, fire and acid burning them from within.

  Our running comes to a stop when we find the road dead-ending at a brick wall where Corpsey stands. I heave, catching my breath for a second before lifting my chin to our Undead companion and shouting, “Where do we go now?? It’s a dead-end!”

  John and Mari have come to a rest beside me, too. The three of us stare at Corpsey, whose expression slowly darkens, his face twisting with malice.

  “No,” I breathe, realizing my error at once. “You lured us here. You … tricked us.”

  His sullen, stark eyes confirm my accusations.

  The flooding of footsteps fill the air as the countless Dead race down the street, then slowly come to a stop, forming a Dead blockade of blood-hungry creatures. A disquieting silence falls. Behind us, Corpsey and a great brick wall. Flanking us are the wooden, windowless sides to two buildings. In front of us, a hundred Dead who are hungrily deciding which of the three of us to eat first.

  From the crowd of a hundred Dead, the bald sister of Corpsey takes one challenging step forward, a victorious smirk on her face. That one single ghostly eye of hers squints at us, the creepy, colorless pupil darting hungrily back and forth between John and I, appraising us.

  In a fit of foolish bravery, I whip out my device and brandish it, my trusty weapon, its bright light illuminating the dark alley like a great digital torch.

  “If you come near us,” I threaten, my shaky voice betraying me and deflating all the dumb courage I’m trying to show, “I will burn you with my steel!”

  The sister, undaunted in the least, takes a few more steps towards us. I turn to threaten Corpsey, only to find that he’s circled around us to join his sister, the noose hanging loosely from his neck and dragging along the weed-filled cobblestone. There’s but ten paces remaining between us and the wall. Ten paces too few. Ten useless, empty paces.

  “I’ll do it,” I promise Corpsey now, waving my device at him. “I swear it! I’ll burn you all and I will feel no pity!”

  Corpsey comes up to me, slow and quiet as a cat, then reaches fearlessly for my device. For whatever reason, I don’t flinch or retreat from him. His fingers wrap around it, then pull the silly, harmless thing from my grip.

  He called my bluff. There’s nothing steel about it. He likely knew all along.

  “Why’d you betray us?” I ask him, defeated.

  “I fulfilled my part of the deal,” he reasons. “I brought you to the Whispers, and reunited you with your friend.” His eyes turn dark, bottomless, and hungry. “You expect me to betray my sister? My sister, with whom I’ve existed alongside for centuries and centuries? Look,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Look at all the Beautiful Dead you’ve awakened. Coming out of their slumbers. Emerging from their eternal, dark dreams. Aren’t we all so … Beautiful?”

  A stone settles in my stomach. A fist squeezes within my throat, choking out all my dumb, inadequate, Human words. A lightning bolt dances its way down my spine.

  “Y-You did this to yourself,” I whisper.

  The Dead stare at me, all of them turned to stone. John’s breath is the only thing I hear. It’s the only sound in the whole world.

  “The only … The only one left … left to blame …” I start to say.

  The sister’s expression changes, her one ghostly eye flashing. Her hands drop to her sides, all the fight having left her, and she steps forward, gaping at me with wonder. It’s like she’s listening suddenly, waiting for my next words, studying me as though I’d suddenly turned into some fascinating, glittering fountain of green gems.

  “The only one left to,” I go on, “… t-to blame is …”

  The sister whispers one word: “Winter?”

  I freeze. My eyes gloss over with fear and wonder, as if all I have left to look forward to is my impending death. My body knows it. My nerves sense it. My heart is racing towards its final, fateful beats. Minutes remain of my life; that’s what my body swears it knows.

  “Winter?” Her voice is as light and innocent as a little girl’s lost in the woods. “W-Winter? Is that—Is that you?”

  I shake my head, uncomprehending.

  “It’s me,” she says, bringing a hand to her chest. I swear, if the Dead could cry, tears would be filling her one, ghostly eye. “Winter. Don’t you recognize … Don’t you … Don’t you see …? It’s me. M-My brother,” she says, a hand moving to Corpsey’s shoulder. “You never met. You never had the chance to meet him. He was dead already, but … y-you saved me. Remember? Tell me it’s you. Winter, tell me it’s you. Please. Please.”

  Then, another swirling of sound approaches, like a storm, but this storm is not made of twisting fogs and unrested whispering. From above, a great metal bird emerges—four times the size of the one we crashed—its nose casting a light down on our street, toward which all the Dead stare up at, grunting and moaning in protest, shielding their faces from the gusts of wind that pummel down from the bottom of the hovercraft.

  “Winter!” cries the bald woman through all of the deafening noise. “Please! It’s me! It’s me!!”

  A ramp slides down at our backs, slamming against the cobblestone. Men and women rush down the ramp with guns aimed, dragging Marianne up, then John, and finally reaching for me.

  “Winter!!” cries the sister, rushing forward to catch me, to grab me, to keep me from leaving her. But the guns come between us, and up the ramp I go.

  That’s when the realization attacks me. “My device!” I shriek, pulling against the authorities who are trying to rescue me. “No!! That’s my only proof!! I NEED IT!!” I reach fruitlessly for the brother who took it out of my hands. “GIVE IT BACK!!” I’m furious with myself for letting it go, furious for letting him take it right out of my grip. I thought I was about to die. The words ring hollow in my ears. I thought I was facing the last minutes of my life. I thought I was … I thought …

  Then I’m at the top of the ramp as it lifts from the earth, pulling away from the bald sister and her brother who watches me ponderously, a curious, otherworldly expression on his face.

  “Tell me it’s you!” the sister still cries, even all the way from the ground. “WINTER!” she screams into the sky.

  “I’m no Winter,” I murmur to her sadly, staring down with a heavy heart. “I’m just the doom girl.”

  The hum of the hovercraft is all I hear for hours. Wrapped in a soft blanket with a cup of warm tea in my hands, I sit next to John, and across from Marianne and a trembling Connor Easton, the four of us in utter silence as the craft gently carries us over the ocean. Mari w
ouldn’t touch the food they offered us, even refusing the tea, which is her absolute favorite. Still …

  “She’s my friend,” I tell the nurses when they enter our cabin—or should I say airborne prison cell in the sky—a sweet-faced boy and a long-faced girl with a hook nose. “She won’t eat or drink when she’s upset. I know her.”

  “We need to get fluids into her,” reasons the male.

  Mari’s bewildered eyes meet mine. She wouldn’t even let them touch her for a proper medical exam.

  “In time,” I assure them. “When we get home, I’ll …”

  It suddenly occurs to me that we may not be headed home. We might be heading straight to the courthouse to be judged for my crimes, or worse. I guess the upside is, we’ll be fed in prison, including Mari.

  The nurses seem to accept my half-sentence, moving on to East to rebandage the third red eyebrow across his forehead, which has become something more of a cherry-black grimace.

  I look up at Connor, struck with a realization at once, and whisper, “Dana?” to which he merely shakes his head and looks away.

  That’s my last interaction or exchange with anyone for hours. I’m left to interpret what the hell that shake of his head meant. Regardless of Dana’s fate, I know one thing for certain: I’ve been vindicated. The crew on this hovercraft saw the Dead with their own eyes, the Dead from which we were fleeing. I may have left my device behind—and all my notes and proof with it—but the crew on this ship know my truth, and they cannot deny it.

  The Beautiful Dead do exist.

  Long after the hot tea’s been consumed and all I’m holding are John’s hands, I lean my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes for just a moment’s rest. That moment’s rest turns into a five-hour dreamless slumber.

  “Jennifer Steel.”

  I open my eyes. A tall woman in white-plated armor stands before me, a gun strapped to her belt and a red emblem on her chest. She holds a long gadget, waiting.

  “Confirm your identity,” she states. “Jennifer Steel.”

  “That’s me,” I choke, my voice waking up late.

  The gadget in her hand glows, a little screen showing the wave output of my own voice, then issues a beep at the woman, who nods in response. I guess I’m confirmed?

  Moving on to John, the woman lifts the gadget again. “Confirm your identity.”

  “John Mason,” he answers.

  The gadget glows. The gadget beeps. The woman moves on.

  “C-Connor Easton,” says the boy, his eyes shining with tears for some reason. I can’t tell if he’s happy to be home, or sad. When he lifts his bright eyes to meet mine, I see a sudden flicker of anger in them, taking me aback.

  “Confirm your identity.”

  Marianne, who still has yet to utter a single damn word since we found her, simply stares at the gadget as if it were the most frightening thing in the world.

  “Confirm your identity,” the woman repeats.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am?” I interject. “That’s my best friend, Marianne Gable. She’s undergone some serious trauma and hasn’t eaten anything or drank a drop or spoken a single word since—”

  “Fine,” says the woman tiredly, putting her gadget away. “Long damn day anyway. Get ready to disembark.” With that, she struts into the main cabin, leaving us alone.

  In the peace of our separate cabin, I consider our mutual silence broken and venture to speak. “East?” I say, my voice soft. “What’s wrong? You look angry.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” he mutters darkly.

  I frown. “We’re heading home. We’re rescued, East. You’ll get to sleep in your own bed tonight. You’ll—”

  “No, I won’t,” he retorts. “And neither will you.”

  I glance at John, who returns my stare with a quizzical one of his own. “What do you mean?” I ask the boy.

  “We’re all suspects. Criminals. They’ll hold us in a cell and question us. My brother shoplifted a bracelet for his girlfriend when I was seven. I know how this goes down. I didn’t see him again until my tenth birthday.” East scowls at the wall, his arms folded tight against his chest. “My life is ruined.”

  “You’re innocent,” I assure him. “We’ll all say the same thing. Mari, John, and I will all tell the truth of it. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. You got wrapped up in a plot that—”

  “No, I was precisely at the correct place at the correct time. At my job, doing my duty, just as I should have been. You’re the one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, I’ll bring shame to my family. My parents will think I’m no better than my brother, no matter the truth of it. They’ve had three days to ponder why I would’ve helped assist in the abduction of school property. ‘Oh, he’s just like Cole,’ they’ll say. ‘He’s a thief just like his thief brother.’ My life is ruined.”

  I sputter for a moment before saying, “No, East. No, no, no. They won’t say that. Your name will be cleared. We’ll all make sure of that. East, if it wasn’t for you—”

  “My name is Connor,” he declares suddenly.

  “I know. But listen to me. If it wasn’t for you and your bravery in filling that satchel, we’d all be—”

  “Dead as Dana?” he finishes.

  I sit back in my seat, the words having pummeled me in the stomach. “She … She’s dead?”

  “Probably, by now.” Noting my confused expression, East sighs irritably and clarifies himself. “When the craft came to the city and found us, Dana told me she’d never return to the land of the Living, not now that she’d found her ‘true home’. She went crazy, Jennifer.” His eyes grow teary and his words bite with accusation. “The woman thought she’d belonged in the land of the Dead all along. She wanted to stay. Something’s wrong with her. No one in their right mind would choose to live there in that unlivable place. I’ll give her a week, tops. She’ll die. None of those others will help her, I can guarantee that.” East’s eyes flood with tears. “She’ll go through that s-s-satchel of mine in a day and s-starve until her last breath.”

  With those dark words uttered, Connor Easton shuts up, turning away and allowing his tears of frustration to fall without restraint. Listening to him choke and sputter as the sobs erupt like earthquakes from his chest, I let the conversation rest and lean into John, pained by the boy’s words. I can’t believe she wanted to stay, I think to myself, trying to imagine it. On one hand, it’s totally believable. But on the other, how can I not see that as some far-reaching form of prolonged suicide?

  I’m the reason for the suffering of everyone in this craft. Even the men and women who came to rescue us. I’m the reason they put their lives in danger, just to save the totally unworthy life of me, and the totally worthy lives of my brave and loyal companions … or rather, my now-eternally-damaged companions.

  The disembarking process is smooth and quick. Upon passing down the ramp, escorted by the armed authorities every step of the way, the tired sunlight from a waning evening pours over our faces like warm honey. There is no mistaking it: all four of us pause in our tracks to drink in the light that we’ve so missed for the past few days. The little bit that shimmered in through the windshield of the hovercraft did not suffice.

  As we’re brought out of the sun, I realize with a start that it’s the president’s building into which we’re being led. For some reason, I’d expected to be ushered to the disciplinary, if East’s fears could be founded. As we walk down the long tiled halls, I see a look of surprise on his face, too; he wasn’t expecting a visit with the president of the university herself.

  The four of us are seated in a waiting room of sorts, watched over only by two armed men in those clean, white-armored uniforms. I study the pair of them who guard the president’s door, curious if they go through a gallon of starch and bleach every laundry day.

  The door opens. “John Mason,” announces a young man without even looking up from the chrome tablet in his palm, tapping on it and causing it to chirp.

  J
ohn gives me a look, then squeezes my hand before rising from the bench and moving to the door, which gently closes behind him.

  I breathe evenly and stare across the aisle at Mari. She doesn’t stare back, her eyes glued to the fluorescent light in the ceiling. I whisper her name and she doesn’t react. I hiss it again, trying to get her attention, but poor Mari, she’s trapped inside her own head of horrors, and anything I do to get her attention is lost. I lean back on the bench, feet aching, and wait for my name to be called.

  Ten minutes later, the door opens. John steps out, but he doesn’t return to me. His eyes locked on mine, a guard escorts him down another hall and out of sight. A million words stick in my mouth. Where are they taking him?

  The young man stares at his tablet. “Marianne Gable,” he announces.

  “Excuse me,” I say, rising. “My friend’s been through so much that she won’t utter a word, not even to me. I don’t think she’s going to be able to communicate to the president properly. May I go in with—?”

  “No,” he says, eyes still glued to the tablet. “Marianne Gable.”

  I look at my friend, who still stares at the light above and doesn’t move an inch. “Mari,” I say, nudging her with my voice. “They’re calling for you, sweetheart. Mari?”

  One of the armed men comes up to her side and places a hand gently on her shoulder, coaxing her off the bench and toward the room. Trapped in that eternal daze of hers, she moves. The door closes behind her.

  I drop back in my seat. And then there were two. East picks at his nails. I wish I could say something to calm his anger, to make things better between us, to recapture any sort of kindness he might’ve felt towards me … but every stupid word that crosses my mind is as futile as the last. The only one of us he seemed to connect with was John, whom he looked at as a protector. I stare at East across the aisle, longing for him to show me some sign of care or forgiveness. I’ll be staring forever, at this rate.