Almost Alive (The Beautiful Dead Book 3) by Daryl Banner

Author:Daryl Banner [Banner, Daryl]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Frozenfyre Publishing
Published: 2015-04-23T23:00:00+00:00

C H A P T E R – T H I R T E E N

S C A R

The Whispers, sometimes also referred to as The Scar in addition to its many, many names, is a big stretch of dead, horrible nothing. Geographically it is quite narrow, but The Scar extends immeasurably to the east and the west. One golden nugget of information that Megan lent me back at the city was: the rain never seems to touch here. As we follow the endless length of the Whispers, happening periodically on a stray spider leg or a cricket leg or some unidentifiable insect wing or long antennae, we know we are safe from Mother Nature’s murderous breath and tears.

“It’s very dark,” mutters John to me. “Even the sky.”

“I’m sure the sun’s due to rise soon. The night can’t last forever … not even in the Whispers.” I shiver, wishing the surroundings could be less gloomy for our journey. There isn’t even any conversations happening behind me; everyone’s marching so sullenly, you’d think we were headed to a funeral. Maybe we kinda are.

“I can picture us living in that little house.”

I try to smile, but the heaviness in my chest won’t seem to let me. “You weren’t always so kind. Sometimes you were kind of mean. You were a very brooding person when you were alive.”

John chuckles. “Brooding. Maybe I was in a bad mood because I was hungry all the time.”

I laugh, the smile coming more naturally now. “I don’t remember what being hungry feels like,” I say. Then I’m considering whether Claire even knew hunger. Whenever she wanted something, she got it.

The thought is a depressing one. Have I ever known hunger? Do I even understand the concept of starving? Of wanting and not having? Of craving and never being sated? In a way, I might imagine I do. Even the sordidly rich and spoiled know the agony of not getting what they want, in their own way. Claire demanded and demanded and demanded, but the things she truly needed—a friend, a companion, a lover—these things never graced her short, horrible life.

“I’d live in a tiny house like that with you,” says John, drawing me out of my darkness.

I turn my head, noticing Jasmine. She’s come closer now, daring herself within proximity of the little Lock who, ever since we left Old Trenton, has not uttered one syllable of speech. “Hey, Jazz.”

She nods. “You are wise, Winter Steel.” She gives a papery wink. “Following the pieces of insect.”

“A true detective,” I agree with a snort. “Do you remember After’s Hold?”

“Of course, rabbit.”

“That city was massive,” I point out. “Full of people, granted most of them turned into Grim’s Green Army. But I wonder … Why didn’t everyone go there instead of the place-of-nightmares Necropolis?”

Jasmine shakes her head with pity. “After’s Hold is no better than Old Trenton, I’m afraid. It’s been cracked by nature, broken and crumpled. A jungle of cement and tall trees, if you can imagine it. It rains there the most frequent.

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