Almost Alive (The Beautiful Dead Book 3) Read Free Page A

dead. But alas, the sky is still a permanent turmoil of greyness, and the shadows and the light I think I see are just another of this world’s ample illusions.
    Like life, like death.
    As I cross through the forest—and being thankful as ever that the way to Trenton is a simple straight-shot down the path, as these woods have become otherwise entirely unrecognizable—I realize that my innocent footfalls are not killing the grass as they used to. Anything natural—like water or, say, tulips—is usually repelled or killed utterly by the presence of an Undead. Even touching a piece of fruit would cause it to rot instantly.
    Perhaps Earth has, at long last, decided to embrace the Risen Dead. The mere thought lifts my spirits at once.
    Smiling, I dare a glance at John. He’s looking around curiously as if he were just a baby taking in the sights of the world for the first time. I know it’s him. It’s the man I love. But I also see the First Life vanished from his eyes, and I have to wonder, is John really in there … or has he gone away forever?
    “What’s that?” he asks curiously.
    I look ahead. What I see before me does not inspire a jolt of happiness. The gates of Trenton are opened and bent inward as if bashed by some giant’s fist, hanging desperately off their hinges. As I slowly pass through the gates, I find the streets littered with paper, with broken glass, with filth. Tiny sprouts and weeds poke through the shattered cement and stone roads. Thick vines crawl up the faces of buildings like great green serpents, and the broken windows of nearby storefronts give the buildings an eerie disposition, as if they each have eyes, and they are all dead … dead eyes staring me cold in the face.
    I resist a sudden, stupid urge to call out for someone. Something tells me there isn’t a soul here at all and hasn’t been for quite some time. My only tiny comfort is how amazing it feels to hold the love of my unlife in my arms.
    “Is this your hometown?” he asks.
    “Used to be.” I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know a single damn thing.
    “Which one’s your house?”
    “None of them.” It’s nearly impossible to step another foot into this nightmare. My hometown, Trenton, now a home only to the howls of winds. A home to nothing. Overgrown by nature, consumed as though the green fingers of the planet are slowly pulling the town down into its earthy, sodden mouth. A ring of purple flowers grows on a fallen lamppost like crumbs on a chin.
    I have to be sure there’s nothing left.
    I force myself to make way down the main drag that leads to the Square where the pink building called the Refinery squats patiently. Nothing that makes sound or breath finds us, save the wind. When I lay my eyes on the Refinery, I find it not so pink anymore. Boarded up, silent as a tomb, the building stares back at me with the same dead eyes as the others.
    Pushing through its creaky door, a ghastly curtain of dust and death brushes past our faces. When I move into the room, I find the exam table missing, the table upon which I was laid when it was my first day and I required a fixing up. The cabinets are all open and empty. It’s like someone scavenged the place of all valuables. Even the enormous machine that Marigold would use to create fake flesh is gone. It’s like she … It’s like they all …
    “Moved out,” I finish under stolen breath.
    John leans his head against my arm, as if snuggling. I squint down at him, meeting his eyes, and he grins. With half his face sagging, the effect is not cute. “It’s dark in here,” he complains.
    He’s pretending to be alive. Already, hardly minutes out of the grave and he’s already a Pretender. “Our eyes don’t regard light in the same way the Living’s do. You’ll never fear the darkness again,” I say, feeling prolific. Then I spot a cockroach scuttling toward my feet and lose all composure, screaming, just as it slips through a crack in the