The Whispers (22 page)

His voice is like ... coffee creamer. I don’t know what that means. It’s raspy, but flows like silk off his tongue. Maybe he was an actor when he lived, or an orator. Perhaps a poet. That feels the best, calling him a poet.

“Do you like poetry?” I ask him.

His face narrows for one perplexed moment. “I do.”

And with that, I agree to let him escort me to my quarter, which I learn is the first, west end. We carry on with small talk where I make quite sure not to ask too many questions regarding my New Life. I don’t want to talk about those things … Worrisome thoughts about what’s different, what’s lost, what’s never to be again. Instead, I want to feel normal for a while. I want to forget where I am, and assume that I’m on a very long vacation and have run into a nice, attractive man with which I’m enjoying a simple conversation.

It helps.

When we walk past a restaurant, I have to stop and laugh. A restaurant, when we don’t eat and have no need for food. I ask to go inside, curiosity taking the better of me, and we seat ourselves at a table in the back. Idly wondering why anyone eats or drinks, I come to the conclusion that everything in this world is indulgent. People drink not from thirst or necessity—they do it just because they can. Same with eating. They pretend, like they’re replaying their lives. I wonder if they miss the people they used to be … If they even remember them.

Finally we make it back to the cul-de-sac. There’s my little squeaky house, just as I’d left it. I have no idea how long I was out and it doesn’t matter. Time has no relevance anymore.

I wonder if it ever did, even when I was alive.

Grimsky has a curious reaction. “This is your house?” When I nod, he bursts out laughing, then says, “So you’re my new neighbor??”

I blink. “New neighbor?”

“That’s my house,” he says, pointing. “Right there.”

I stare at the house right next to mine. I’ve not been very observant, clearly. Until now, I hadn’t a moment to notice that, of all people, it was my cliff-savior friend who lived just next door.

“What are the chances,” I say, genuinely surprised. “On that first day when you brought me back, we parted ways before reaching my house. Otherwise we would’ve learned we were neighbors sooner.”

“Better now than never. I wouldn’t have made a good neighbor if I let you sit in that house for all eternity.”

I smirk at him. “Either this is a pretty remarkable coincidence, or you’re a not-so-subtle stalker.”

“Yeah, that’s it. I moved in next door so I could make sure you don’t run off to the cliff again.” He laughs. I try not to, hiding my face. “So tell me, did you enjoy your tour of Trenton today? I would’ve taken you earlier, but you seemed a little ... ah ...”

“I’m still adjusting,” I explain, excusing him from having to describe my clearly sulky and despondent nature. “The people are … interesting. Though I haven’t much else to compare it to, come to think of it.”

“There’s plenty to compare it to,” he says. “There’s a lot more out there you haven’t yet seen, Winter. Places left behind by humankind. I can’t wait to show it to you someday. The world’s changed since we were alive—whenever that was.”

I sit in the rocking chair on my porch, which creaks under my weight. “So what happened …? Did the zombie apocalypse come and go and the zombies won?”

“There are nice things out there, and some not-so-nice.” He grimaces. “I’ve only heard about a few things myself, the Deathless for one, but don’t know much about anything. As far as I understand, we’re safe here to live long and happy lives.”

“Seems like a big waste of time, doesn’t it?”

“Wasn’t Life?” He leans on the porch railing. “Not that either of us know yet. I still haven’t had my Waking Dream. I don’t know what my life was like at all ...”

“Me neither.” I pick at something on my hand. An entire fingernail comes off. “Oh, crap.”

“It’s okay. That’s what we have the Refinery for. Upkeep. This guy down the street, his toes keep falling off. He makes a trip to the Refinery once a week, not that I’m keeping track.”

“That’s ... awful.”

“Be thankful you were Raised with all your body intact. I hear some needed arms and legs when they were Raised … Can you imagine??”

“I’d rather not.”

Grimsky smiles, looks away. “I guess I’m going a bit fast for you, aren’t I ...”

I shrug. “What’s it matter? We only have all eternity. To do what, I have no earthly idea. I guess I’ll figure it out. Welcome to the End of Time, you said so yourself.”

I do realize I’m being a little short with him. Maybe my patience has been exhausted for the day.

“I’ve been Undead for five months and twenty-eight days,” he tells me in a quiet voice, like a secret. “There, I announced my age. How’s that for criminal?”

Despite the anger, I break a smile.

But no matter the kind words we share, I can’t lighten the heavy stone in my chest. Later in the evening when the sun has apparently fallen, according to Grimsky’s keen eye, I walk the inside of my house one hundred times. Staring miserably into the bathroom mirror, I find that smooth porcelain face that isn’t mine. The curl of my eyelashes, it’s fake. The striking blue crystals I have for eyes, they’re fake. Icecap Blue or Cerulean or Moonglow Azure, I don’t really care. I never did. Call me Winter. Call me Summer. Call me the Devil’s Doornail, I’m still a dead girl underneath. Even the subtle pink blush in my cheeks is a lie, pressed onto me, injected into me, just to hide the fact that I’m dead. That we’re all dead. That underneath all this prettiness, there lies corpses. Underneath our flawless complexions, fettering flesh that belongs in the earth.

I clench shut my eyes and try to remember my life.

I loathe what’s happened to me. Every cell in my body pulses with resentment so powerful, so vile, so passionate that I may as well be alive right now. But I’m not, and that is the greatest anger of all.

I want to be alive. So badly, I want nerves to pinch every inch of my skin. Blood should rush through me at the sight of the fetching Grimsky, my heart racing in his presence. What thrill would it be to even kiss him, if I haven’t a heart that races? Or blood to pump into my fingertips?—into my lips? I want my knees to turn into noodles, is that too much to ask? I want hairs on my neck that will stand on end when I’m frightened, when I’m tickled, when I’m turned on.

Maybe all Undead feel like this at first. Maybe they all ache and long for their senses, but I don’t care.

I want to be so hungry it aches. I want to fall in love so deeply it makes you squeeze a pillow in the middle of the day and cry. I don’t remember a second of my Old Life, but I know what it felt like to get ready for Prom. Like a friend I’d let go of centuries ago, I want it back, every good sensation and even every bad. I know the agony of stubbing your toe on a chair leg.

I’d do almost anything.

Weeks slowly, slowly, slowly pass. I’m growing used to Trenton. I even spot Helena a number of times, but she always seems preoccupied with something, and whatever it is always looks to be such a bother that she can’t possibly turn around and notice me. I tell myself she isn’t doing that deliberately.

One day, I run into two of the girls from the Refinery, the one called Roxie and the plump one who reattached my right arm recently. Her name turns out to be Marigold, like the flower or whatever. She always waves cheerily at me. There’s a group of men who always sit outside a furniture store playing cards. They’re pretty friendly, always seeming to interrupt their game just to say hi to me when I’m passing. I pretend not to notice them ogle me from behind as I walk away. I guess I don’t mind the attention. It’s more entertaining than anything else, seeing as what they’re ogling isn’t the real me. It’s Winter. The real me died however long ago, and I may never know who she is until I have my Waking Dream, or Death Dream, or whatever we feel like calling it today.

They say once you have your Dream, everything changes. With the memory of your Old Life suddenly assaulting you, everything is put into vivid and horrifying perspective. Most people, like Helena said, just toss their Old Life behind them, say good riddance and move on. Only a few can’t handle it. They seek help or go insane.

There’s a wise older lady named Jasmine who lives across from me. I took many of my difficult questions to her, ones I couldn’t ask just anyone. She was very kind to attempt answering the most of them, one of them being: When will I have my Dream thing?

Another: Is it true there’s no more Livings, anywhere?

Livings is what they call people who are alive, just in case that wasn’t obvious. Some more derogatory terms include Breathers, or Fleshes, or Rosy Cheeks (seriously), or ... and I regret to say this last one ... Humans.

I asked, “But aren’t we Human?”

My neighbor Jasmine, she just smiled endearingly and said, “Oh, poor child ...”

Undead. Gotta remember that for my next job résumé. Name: Winter. Gender: Female. Race: Undead.

It must be a month and a half since my Raising, and I lean over the railing to spy on my favorite neighbor’s book. He pulls it away, grinning. “Get your own copy!”

“Hi, Grim.” I smile at him. “You never did get me that drink at the tavern.”

“I’m never good at making a first move,” he admits coyly. “Can I call this a date?”

“Call it what you want. I’ll be in town browsing Hilda’s new line of dresses. Maybe I’ll pick something up and meet you at the tavern?”

And so it’s a date. Just like that.

Down at the Singing Seamstress, which is Hilda’s little dress shop downtown, I find myself a sleek little red thing that, according to three giggly women, looks simply perfect. “You’d stop hearts if they weren’t already!” one murmurs, inspiring breathy chortles from her friends.

I guess I have myself a winner. “What do I owe you for the dress?” I ask Hilda at the door.

“Every detail about how your date goes, including how he looks at you in that splendid red thing,” she says, her giggling eyes overjoyed at seeing me in her creation.

I take a spin in front of a mirror. I look like someone else, but maybe she’s a little more familiar to me now. Maybe I hate her a little less than I did on my first day.

Maybe Winter’s growing on me.

When I arrive at the tavern, it’s already bustling with activity from drunken men and women, cackling over tabletops and stumbling around the bar spilling drinks everywhere. I smile and nod at a few familiar faces, all of whom seem to regard me like some sort of celebrity. This little red dress is really doing the trick, it seems. I wonder what effect it’ll have on my fetching maybe-poet friend.

Seated at a table, I wait for said fetching friend to arrive. Every person that comes into the tavern isn’t him. I’d check a clock but, you know, there isn’t one. Telling time in any way is forbidden or whatever. Makes for planning things—like a date—a little troublesome.

Honestly, I’d kill for a watch right now.

After a while, I slip into the women’s bathroom—a tight-spaced little box—and poke at my face in the mirror, deciding I could use a little touchup. I pull out a small Living Red lipstick that Marigold gave me one day. It’s for your Upkeep, she told me in secret. I rub a little of it on my lips, air-kiss my reflection like an actress. I can play this role, this Winter role. A sultry seductress who wins the unbeating hearts of zombies everywhere. Oh, excuse me, I said the horrible awful word. I meant Undead.

I ask my reflection, my living dead reflection, “Can we do this?—for the rest of eternity, can we do this?”

Then I hear a shriek in the tavern and something crashes against the bathroom door. I jump, whip around to face the noise. I hear another scream followed by what sounds like a bottle shattering. Someone with a deep voice shouts out a bunch of things I can’t make out. There is a lot of shuffling on the wooden floor, vibrating even the soles of my own feet.

A bar fight. Yes, that’s all I need. A bunch of intoxicated Undead men fighting to prove each other’s manhood. I’d never considered whether Undead men could even get intoxicated until now. Maybe they pretend, just like they pretend everything else. Clinging to the memory of a bar fight they experienced when they were alive. Let’s recreate it. Let’s relive it.

The Living Dead world, you come to learn, is just a bunch of actors, and a regretfully bad show of acting. Maybe life was like that too. Actors, playing the role of themselves. Life’s greatest contradiction is also death’s.

Closed up here in this tiny bathroom, I just shut my eyes and wait for the show to end. The shouting, the scuffle and kicking of feet against floor, the crashing and smashing of bottles, I just shut my eyes and wait it out like I would an annoying person I wish would shut up.

Thoughts entangle me like a web. I find myself staring at my face in the mirror, puzzled, captivated by … I’m not sure … Am I remembering something?

Am I remembering me?

Then without warning, a young man quickly slips into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, pressing his body flat against it.

I wasn’t expecting this.

His panicked eyes, his warm brown eyes, they find mine—and horror fills them at once. Why he has this reaction at seeing me, I don’t know.

“You’re in the ladies,” I decide to tell him.