The Dead-Tossed Waves (20 page)

“I’ll pass it to you then, I guess,” he says. I blink at him, wondering how I can know what he looks like, how he sounds. “What do you mean?” I ask him.

“The light. The beach. They’re yours now. If you’ll have ’em.”

My chest squeezes a little at the responsibility. I shake my head. “They’re my mother’s,” I tell him.

When he smiles it’s wistful, lines crinkling at his eyes from years squinting into the sun. “Nah, it was never hers. She wanted this.” He spreads his hands out wide, wider than they should be, and skims them over the waves. “She just wasn’t ready to let go of the rest. Wasn’t willing to stop waiting.”

I shake my head, trying to figure out what he means. “Waiting for what?” I ask him.

He looks at me as if expecting me to answer my own question. As if I should somehow already know what he means. “For everyone,” he finally says. “For them.” He points at the waves with his chin.

I look down into the water and that’s when I see them dancing under the surface. The people. They stretch and glide and twist, just as Mellie did before she was infected. I pull back into the boat but it’s not enough—I can’t get away.

Their hands flutter under the water. I open my mouth to scream but it’s laughter that comes out. I try to scream louder but I keep laughing and laughing. Roger leans his head back and laughs with me and I want to grab for him, beg for help, but nothing happens except the laughter.

The bodies in the water rise higher and higher, bubbles pouring from their mouths. When they pop to the surface it’s not moans that I hear but whispers. Then their hands are reaching over the rails, are trailing along my skin. They pull me out of the boat and into the water and I wait for the teeth.

They slide their lips over my skin, whispering whispering whispering. They tell me their names, they tell me their lives,
they tell me their pain. Roger stands in the boat and looks down at me, his face a shadow against the bright blue sky. I can’t struggle, I can’t stop laughing, I can’t resist these people-who-once-were.

I wake up fighting to breathe and I realize that I’m still on the gallery and rain is crashing down around me. I pull myself into the lantern room, the memory of fingers grabbing me in the dream causing me to rub my hands over my body to erase the sensation.

Lightning streaks across the horizon, a spark in the heavy gray morning. I glance down at the beach, where the waves are already starting to churn. A storm usually means Mudo dredged from the ocean; it means more Mudo than I can take care of alone.

I just want it all to go away. I’m too tired. I don’t want to deal with any of it anymore. Thunder reverberates under my feet and I sigh deeply. Pushing strands of dripping hair out of my face, I start making my way downstairs, not bothering to change into dry clothes before draping an oilskin poncho over my shoulders and trudging through town to ask the Militiamen for help clearing the beach.

In the center square, decorations hang limp in the rain—lanterns dripping and water pooling under brightly woven banners. The stage is draped with swaths of cloth in the colors of the Protectorate. The Recruiters’ visit is always a cause for celebration for those who aren’t leaving with them. It’s Vista’s chance to shine, to prove it still deserves its place in the Protectorate. But today it all looks muddy and soggy.

I skirt the activity, avoiding eye contact as I tug my hood low over my face and walk to the guardhouse by the gate. Daniel sees me before I get too close and he limps out to meet
me, his mouth pulling into a slow smile. In the damp gray it’s easy to forget last night, how dark his face looked as shadows crept about it when he leaned over me, Elias’s knife gleaming between us.

“How’s your mother, Gabrielle?” he asks.

I try to smile as well but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Better,” I tell him. “Though with the storm coming in I think we’ll need Militia help on the beach.”

He nods and I think about my dream, about the whispers of all the dead. I tap my fingers against my leg with agitation. I wonder now if I shouldn’t have told him about the Soulers. If I should have waited, given Elias a chance to explain it all to me.

“Listen—” I have to clear my throat before I can continue. “About the Soulers and what I said last night—”

Before I can go on he cuts in, his eyes gleaming. “You were right,” he says, almost bouncing with excitement. “About what you saw from the lighthouse. It was the Soulers.”

“Oh” is all I can say. He waits for my enthusiasm but I can’t muster it. His eyes narrow.

He steps closer to me; only a few drops of rain are able to penetrate the space between us. “The Protectorate values loyalty,” he says, his tone a little sharper. He feels too near and I drop my hand to my hip out of habit, a defensive stance.

He glances down and sees my fingers resting on the hilt of the knife. I know he recognizes it from last night: the Souler knife. He cocks his head to the side. “And to be honest, the Chairman’s always questioned your mother’s, since she’s an outsider. Claiming to be from the Forest, no less.”

His hand closes over mine, over the knife, and I try to pull away but he tightens his grip. I wonder if the other Militiamen
are watching us, if they have any idea what Daniel’s saying. I wonder what would happen if I called out to them, if I shouted for help. But I don’t trust that they wouldn’t just ignore me, leave me to Daniel’s whim.

“There’s no reason for the Chairman—or me—to doubt
your
loyalty too, right?”

I stare at his narrowed eyes. I never knew him that well growing up. He’s older and was friends with boys who all left in the past few years to join the Recruiters. I’ve always wondered if being left behind because of his leg made Daniel angry, bitter against the Protectorate. I can’t tell if his warning is because he’s unquestionably loyal to the Chairman or because he cares about me.

A part of me wonders if I could tell him the truth. I want so badly to be able to trust someone and have them say that everything’s going to be okay. I wonder if maybe I’m too suspicious of Daniel. But his fingers bite into my wrist and nothing in his expression betrays his emotions.

Just then there’s a shout from the head Militiaman, Wesson, who’s standing on a platform with a view over the Barrier. Daniel eases away, the tension between us popped like a bubble.

Militiamen begin to crowd around the gate as it grinds open, and Daniel steps in front of me, shielding me from the world beyond.

“What’s going on?” I ask, but he’s no longer focused on me.

“Stand back just in case,” he says, placing a hand against my stomach to push me farther behind him.

More Militia begin to crowd around and I feel their agitation—it vibrates in the air. They clench weapons tight in their fists and stand poised on the balls of their feet.

The gap in the gate widens enough that over Daniel’s shoulder I can see down the old road. I recognize them instantly: the Soulers. They’re being led by a group of Militiamen from Vista, their black shirts soaked and the blades of their scythes and axes gleaming in the rain.

The Soulers walk slowly, purposefully. Each wears a white tunic. The hems of their pants and skirts are thick with red mud, and most of them are so thin that they seem almost emaciated, with gaunt cheekbones and sunken eyes. Even in the dull light it’s easy to see how worn they look, how brittle their bodies appear.

They look nothing like they did last night, menacing in the dark shadows of the moon. Now they appear harmless and weak. Except for the Mudo they tug along behind them on rigid leashes.

I swallow against the tension buzzing along my arms as I scan the faces of the Soulers, wondering if Elias is among them. I feel stupid. I know I should want him to be captured, I should want him to pay for being part of a cult that could do what I saw last night. But I can’t forget how gentle he was with me—how he saved me on the beach.

More Militiamen rush through the opening, crowding around the group and creating a chaos of shouts and moans.

Daniel spits on the muddy ground, still holding his arm across me, his flesh heavy against my body.

They’re too far away for me to see if Elias is there, and my irritation is hard to hide.

“What’ll happen to them?” I ask.

Daniel shakes his head. “They’ll be quarantined,” he says simply. “The Protectorate may allow the Soulers to go settlement to settlement preaching their filthy lies wherever they
want, but it’s
our
right to quarantine anyone seeking entrance to Vista.”

As the Soulers draw closer even more Militia pour out of the gates, their weapons held ready. The sky vibrates with thunder and lightning. I stare at first the Soulers and then the Militiamen, the strain and tension of the moment filling the air.

One of the Soulers steps forward, an older man, slightly stooped, his eyebrows shot through with gray. Attached to his wrist is a rigid leash leading to a jawless and toothless Mudo.

“The Third Order of the Soulers begs entrance to your city, that we may spread the word of God and the truth of his salvation through resurrection.” He spreads his arms wide as he talks, his tunic plastered to his skin. The movement jostles the leash and the Mudo he’s holding stumbles slightly, reaching toward a Militiaman.

Daniel tenses in front of me and I cringe as everything seems to happen at once. The Militiaman swings his blade at the Mudo. A young Souler woman jumps forward to stop him. The Mudo moans, reaches, his jawless face dripping rain.

And the ax slices across the Souler’s chest.

Blood seeps through her tunic, a spray of red. Everything’s still for that moment. The woman wobbles. In her hand she holds her own leash, attached to a Mudo next to her. Her fingers go limp and the chain slips from her grasp.

I recognize her—she’s the woman from last night, the one who held the boy as he turned. She’s the one I wanted to rip to shreds for what she allowed to happen to him. But now, seeing her standing there with the blood, the disbelief in her eyes, everything changes.

She looks so different now. Frail where she was strong, round where she was sharp. She looks older, more hunched over, as if the weight of everything has finally grown too much. She collapses to the ground.

The scent of her blood hits the air and saturates the space around her. I know the instant it reaches the Mudo. They erupt, their moans high-pitched and fevered. They all stumble toward her and the Soulers try to yank at their chains to keep them at bay. They tug at their collars as if they might tear through the air, pull themselves to the woman.

The Militiamen explode, screaming and shouting. They swing at the Mudo, the Soulers begging and pleading for mercy, afraid that another one of them will be hit. The rain intensifies and people slip in the mud.

The Mudo the woman was leading is the boy who sacrificed himself. His teeth are gone, as is his lower jaw. And now that he’s free, now that the chain is loose, he reaches for the woman.

If he had teeth he would devour her. But instead he just pushes himself against her, eternally hungry.

The Militiaman with his ax dripping blood swipes again, embedding the blade in the Mudo boy’s neck, and he falls over the woman. She screams and clutches at him, the vision so similar to that of last night—but so horribly different.

Bile rises in my throat as I watch the woman reach for the Mudo boy’s face. She shoves her fingers into what used to be his mouth, frantic, as if she might somehow infect herself before her injury takes her. I step back, wanting to run, wanting to get as far away as possible from what’s happening. From the screams and shouts and moans and blood.

The Militia decimate the Mudo, decapitating them even as
the Soulers plead for them. The Militiamen push the Soulers away, forcing them to kneel on the ground. Everything’s out of control and wrong.

“We’re members of the Protectorate!” one of the Soulers shouts. His voice shakes as he cries out. “You’re required to offer us protection! We’ve done nothing wrong! We’re here for peace; we’re here for God!”

No one listens. I should want the Soulers to pay for what they did last night but seeing them like this, weeping in the mud, I don’t know what to think or how to feel. The woman who was hit with the ax falls slowly back until she’s lying prone, staring at the sky with blood everywhere. The dead Mudo boy lies across her lap, his spinal cord severed at the neck.

In the chaos I look for Elias, terrified that he’s in danger, unable to reconcile this feeling. I don’t see him, though the Soulers have begun to look alike, covered in mud and streaked in red, rain dripping down their faces like tears.

“I don’t understand,” I say to no one.

Daniel finally steps away from me and joins the rest of the Militia massacring the Mudo. I know it’s best; I know the Mudo are monsters and should be killed. But something about it feels wrong. The joyful savagery in the Militiamen’s eyes …

This is my fault. I caused this. I told the Militia about the Soulers. Unable to watch anymore I turn and run back to the lighthouse, leaving everything behind.

B
y the time I get back to the lighthouse, rain is coursing in from the ocean, the waves rolling hard against the sand bringing more and more Mudo to the beach. It doesn’t take long for the Militia to arrive, and I can feel the energy radiating off them from the recent confrontation. I try to avoid speaking with them, though when a few ask about my mother I tell them she’s ill and in bed.