B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

“What’d he say?” Morgan asked.

I smiled at her. “‘Run for the Border.’”

Morgan’s lip twisted, and she let out a little snort.

I wasn’t sure, but it looked like we were moving into a rougher part of town. Distinguishing upper class from lower class in a rotting corpse of a suburb wasn’t an exact science. But the large rotting houses were making way for small rotting houses. We passed a high school with twelve-foot chain-link fences circling it on all sides. It reminded me of my school, actually, but with a rougher edge. E.J. Beryl High—I’d never heard of it.

“What is all this?” Morgan asked, echoing my thoughts.

When Morgan answered her own question in Puck’s voice, I felt a shiver ripple down my back.

“It’s just a dream,” Morgan said. “But not by the living.”

I frowned, but Zack asked the question for me.

“What does that mean?”

Puck’s shoulders popped up in a shrug. I stared at the back of his head, as if to draw answers from the tangled shock of gray hair.

“The Grey is where the dead dream,” Morgan/Puck said. “Or more accurately, it is the bed from which the dead dream of life.”

“Wait,” I said, and jogged up to him. “This is a dream?”

I could see, as I passed him, that Puck’s face was drawn. His mouth sketched a line on his face, and his eyes were narrow. He looked at me with sympathetic eyes. Over his shoulder, Morgan spoke for him.

“‘No. And yes,” Morgan/Puck sighed. “It is a dream from which there is no waking. As real as life, as inescapable as death. It is the home we chose.”

I grabbed the front of Puck’s shirt, and he stopped walking.

“I didn’t choose anything,” I said.

Puck shook his head, his sympathetic eyes unchanging.

“We all choose, Lucy,” he said, with Morgan’s voice. “We choose to accept, we choose to deny, or we choose to overcome.”

“Death?” I half-laughed it out, incredulous.

Puck and Morgan nodded. “There is always a choice.”

“Stop talking in fucking riddles .”

Puck stepped back, and the glint in his eyes changed. He drew up his thin frame and raised his chin. His long slender fingers re-wrapped the blood-red scarf around his slender throat. After a long beat, he pointed forward, over my shoulder. I didn’t bother turning to look.

“The longer we chat,” Morgan/Puck said in that monotone voice. “The more time the broken souls have to sniff out your friends. They’ll flock to us, and then they’ll take their memories, their lives, and their souls. They’ll devour them, for all eternity. And then they’ll feed on us, you and I, for the stolen essence. Do you understand that? Do you understand that if we don’t get out soon, we die? Forever?”

I backed up, my hands clutched together. My mouth went dry.

“Come on,” Morgan/Puck said, and brushed past me. “The train station isn’t far.”

I listened to the scrape of his shoes on the sidewalk for a few long moments, looking into the distance. Zack and Morgan, standing together, in the middle of a broken grey street. The remains of a grey abandoned suburb spiraling out behind and around them, framing them as solitary motes of color. I could feel them, I realized, as I took in slow breaths. The heat baking off of them, and the smell. Just breathing, softly, trying to calm the fear and the rage and the despair, I could taste them.

Like a pungent but delectable spice. Something I didn’t have a name for.

Morgan crossed the gap and wrapped me in her arms. She pressed me against her, and I relented. My face against her shoulder, rogue strands of golden hair tickling my ear. Her neck, just underneath my nose. Her skin burned, and as I breathed deep, I felt the cold trickle in my body ripple, like someone tossing a stone into a still pond.

I tasted the image of two little girls hugging in a sandbox surrounded by blacktop, one of them, the dark-haired one, cradling her hand. A splinter the size of a crochet needle, at least to a five-year-old, stuck out of her thumb. A little path of bright red blood streaking down her wrist, living little rubies in the tiny sand dunes. The blonde little girl shushed her, cradling her sobbing form.

I opened my eyes. I wasn’t surprised to feel tears on my cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

I felt Morgan tighten her grip around my back.

“What for?”

“Nothing,” I said, knowing I’d accidentally stolen that memory from her. Maybe forever. “Everything.”

“Let’s go, Luce,” she said, her fingers tangling in my hair. “We’ll get out of here and we’ll figure this all out.”

I smiled and wiped the tears self-consciously from my face. Zack, God bless him, looked far too interested in the dilapidated high school beyond. He only turned back to face us when I cleared my throat.

“So,” Zack said, his hands in his pocket. “Are we uh, going?”

“Yeah,” I said, and smiled at Morgan.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Morgan said, and marched after Puck. She raised her voice. “And no more talking through me unless you ask, got it?”

Puck flicked a hand over his shoulder. The gesture equivalent of whatever , I imagined.

We found the train tracks before long. They snaked off in opposite directions, long grey parallel lines against the grey earth. Most of the wooden ties looked intact, but more than a few had been crushed, cracked, or simply rotted through. On our right, the tracks streaked off, maybe forever. They became a dot in the distance, indecipherable from the landscape.

On the left, the tracks went maybe another half-mile before ending in what had to be a train station. A large, domed structure, squatting over the tracks. It looked to be in better shape than its surroundings—I could make out a mural on one of the high walls facing us. The colors hadn’t faded very much, but from that far away, the shapes were indistinguishable.

“I guess that’s the station,” Zack said, echoing my thoughts. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I don’t think it’s really a train station,” I said. “Right?”

Puck nodded and began walking left, down the tracks.

“I don’t like metaphors,” Morgan said, suddenly, rubbing her hands together.

We struck off down the tracks. The mural I’d seen from far away depicted a grotesque-looking pilgrim festival—the artist had painted terrible proportions, people with giant lips and skewed faces, like they’d been made of clay and squished between fingers. Like someone’s horrible dream of what people might look like. I decided I didn’t need that particular brand of nightmare fuel, and looked away. We crossed around the side of the station and almost walked straight into a train.

The tracks split as we rounded the corner. They diverged into three separate tracks, all with loading platforms beside them. One of the tracks was empty, and stretched off into the distance. The other two housed trains. A pair of locomotives stared us down with their yellowed eyes, dead and unused. Their slatted iron cowcatchers, just like out of an old cartoon—or a nightmare—gave the impression of toothy, frowning faces.

The number on the first locomotive was “0315-96.” The number on the second was “1128-95.”

I knew the first one right away. But I didn’t even get to share what I considered to be a startling revelation before Zack snorted derisively.

“That’s my birthday,” Zack said, pointing to the second one. “Holy shit.”

Morgan walked up to the front of her train—the first one—and put her hand on the wide iron bars of the cowcatcher. She ran her hand down one and whistled. When she turned back toward me, her face looked almost serene.

“Mine too. What is this?” she asked, her voice sort of…zonked out. Dreamy, almost.