Pretty Much Dead Already, page 3
The dead are here, and I am alone.
For a long, elastic minute after Grayson leaves, I do nothing but stand and listen. The sounds outside my door are impossible to categorize—somewhere between a riot and a massacre. The screams are human, at first. Then, less so. Glass breaks, footsteps stampede overhead, the building itself seems to groan under the pressure of bodies colliding with walls and each other.
I try to count my breaths, but the corset is a fist around my lungs. It’s absurd—the mansion could be collapsing, the world could be ending, but I’m most likely to die of asphyxiation, strangled by a lattice of silk and whale bone. I clutch at the bodice, fingers seeking the row of tiny, cruel hooks at my spine, but they’re engineered for permanence. The harder I pull, the more my hands slip, the more the sweat makes everything slick and useless.
Somewhere on the other side of the door, a body slams into the wood with enough force to rattle the hinges.
The panic comes in waves. One moment, I’m calculating: How many exits? How many people between me and the street? The next, I’m a child again, cowering in my room while my parents screamed at each other two floors down. I want to sit, to curl up and hide, but the training says otherwise.
Vales don’t freeze.
They adapt.
I plant my back against the nearest wall and wedge my elbows behind me, trying to lever myself free from the gown’s death grip. The fabric bites into my armpits, the boning gouges my ribcage. I grunt, tears streaming down my face in angry rivulets. I try to imagine Grayson watching me—would he laugh? Would he find it tragic? I decide I don’t care.
Another crash, closer this time, and the shriek of metal as something claws at the doorknob. I dig my fingernails under the seam at my waist and pull. The stitches are strong, but I am stronger, or at least more desperate. The seam gives with a wet, popping sound, and the first layer of the skirt peels away, revealing the underdress: thin, slick, almost obscene in its bareness. I kick off the shoes, relishing the pain as they ricochet off the baseboard.
The veil is next. I rip the comb from my hair, dragging out a fistful of pins and snarled curls with it. The veil floats to the carpet like an exhausted ghost. I trample it underfoot, just to prove a point.
The relief is instant.
My lungs drag in air so sharp it feels like punishment. I gasp, the sound guttural, animal. My arms are trembling with the aftershocks, but already I feel more myself. Less ornament, more organism.
I scan the room for a weapon, any weapon. The best I find is a letter opener—a slim, silvered blade, more decorative than deadly. I grip it anyway, holding it like a talisman.
The noises in the hallway are thinning. The initial panic has migrated elsewhere, or resolved itself into silence. I listen for footsteps, for voices, but hear only the sizzle of distant fire alarms and the low, wet moan of something not so alive and very, very wrong.
I creep toward the door, bare feet silent on the thick carpet. The door is heavy, designed to keep things in rather than out, but it opens with a slow, oily creak.
The hallway is carnage.
Red handprints streak the wallpaper. Shards of glass crunch underfoot, littering the carpet with toothy fragments. A lamp lies shattered in the center of the corridor, its shade caved in, its bulb still flickering. At the far end, a staffer—her uniform torn, one shoe missing—runs for her life. Behind her, something follows. It’s dressed like a man, but moves with the lurching, arrhythmic gait of a marionette whose strings have been cut and retied by a lunatic.
I duck back, heart in my mouth. My mind races: How do you kill something that’s already dead? The letter opener is suddenly ridiculous, a child’s toy in a world of monsters.
But I have no choice. I edge out into the hall, keeping low, hugging the wall like a stain. My hands shake so badly I can’t keep the blade steady. I try to remember every self-defense class, every whispered warning from the Vale family’s private tutors, but all I can think of is how much I want to be anywhere but here.
There’s a thump behind a closed door. Muffled, but urgent. I creep past, resisting the urge to call out. If it’s a survivor, they’re better hidden. If not, I’d only be opening the door to a nightmare.
Another body lies sprawled near the top of the stairs. It’s the scent consultant, her suit jacket soaked through with blood. Her eyes are wide, staring at the ceiling in dumb disbelief. I try to step over her, but my foot slips in the spreading pool, and I nearly go down.
The stairs themselves are slick, littered with petals from an overturned bouquet. I descend slowly, using the banister for balance, the letter opener clutched to my chest. At the landing, I pause and listen.
Silence. Then, the sound of something heavy, dragging itself across the tile in the entry hall.
I remember the side exit, the one used by staff and deliveries. It’s a straight shot through the kitchens, then down a ramp to the loading dock. I don’t know if the path is clear, but it’s the only plan I have.
Something moves at the edge of the hallway: a maid in a starched uniform, picking her way through the wreckage with a slow, measured tread. For a split second, hope sparks—another survivor. I rise, about to call out, but the words die in my throat.
She’s wrong. Every movement is staccato, jerky, like she’s being yanked along by invisible fishing wire. Her skin is a shade I can’t name, and her hair hangs in ribbons across her face. When she turns, I recognize her: the maid from last night’s turn-down, the one who’d offered me a glass of warm milk and a shy smile.
Now her lips are shredded, pulled back into a grotesque leer. Her jaw hangs loose, wet with blood and trailing saliva. She lurches, arm snapping up, fingers clawed.
I freeze. All my training, all my breeding for calm, and I am a statue.
The maid staggers forward, trailing a slurred moan. I edge away, backing into the wall, heart knocking against my ribs so hard I think it will bruise them from the inside.
Her eyes lock on me—blank, milky, but still somehow knowing. She moves faster, arms flailing behind her. I duck behind the nearest curtain, pressing myself into the folds, praying the pattern of peonies can shield me like a charm.
She passes within inches, the reek of her rot so thick I gag. Her hands drag along the wall, leaving a snail-trail of blood and shredded skin. She disappears down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the general din.
I exhale, barely a whisper.
The hallway ahead is blocked by a fallen chandelier, crystal shards sparkling in the gloom like evil snowflakes. I pick my way through the debris, careful not to slash my feet. Every nerve in my body screams at the idea of leaving footprints, of leaving any trace for the monsters to follow, but I have no choice.
The servants’ stairs are locked—a security measure I curse, even as I realize how ironic it is. I have to double back, retracing my steps to the main vestibule.
On the way, I pass through the ballroom, or what’s left of it.
The transformation is obscene. Chairs are overturned, white covers splattered with red and yellowing fluids. The aisle runner is in tatters, clawed by shoes and worse. The string quartet’s instruments are abandoned mid-song, bows scattered like broken bones.
At the far end of the room, the cake table has collapsed, three tiers of white fondant smeared across the parquet in a parody of celebration. In the middle of it, a hand—severed at the wrist, fingers still curled—rests atop the cake like a garnish.
I pick my way through, feet slipping on sugar and blood. My legs shake with every step. I want to cry, but the tears are spent, dried up somewhere on the staircase behind me.
The doors to the side terrace are chained shut. I scan for options, mind racing. My eyes land on a serving cart, one leg splintered but otherwise intact. I drag it to the window, wedge the metal frame under the sash, and press with all my weight.
The glass resists, thick and triple-glazed, but the latch is old. With a heave, the window shudders open, just enough for me to squeeze through.
I crawl onto the ledge, legs scraping on the stone. The drop is farther than I’d hoped, but there’s a boxwood hedge to cushion the landing. I clamber out, inch along the sill, and leap.
The impact drives the air from my lungs, but I’m up in an instant, propelled by terror and sheer animal instinct.
I run for the garden wall, my grip on the letter opener almost religious. I don’t look back.
The only sound is my own breath, ragged and sharp, as I sprint for the last exit.
The world beyond the estate is burning.
The lawns of the Westbrook estate are supposed to be sanctuary—miles of clipped emerald, rose gardens plotted with surgical precision. Today, they’re just an open field of death, and I’m the only prey foolish enough to cross it.
I burst from the hedge with the momentum of a cannonball, blood streaking my knees, hair plastered to my scalp with sweat and horror. The world is noise: the crackle of distant flames, the endless keening from the house, the wet slap of my own feet against the grass.
I skirt the reflecting pool, veering wide to avoid a cluster of corpses tangled at the water’s edge. Some are guests—gowns and tuxes shredded, faces blue and slack. One is a child, limbs twisted at impossible angles, jaw gnawing rhythmically at a strip of garden ribbon. My stomach inverts, but I keep moving.
Ahead, the path curves past the marble angel. Once, I spent an entire afternoon posing beside it for the engagement photographer, Grayson’s hand on my waist. Today the angel is spattered with red, wings fractured, a mockery.
I hear the grunts and yells before I see their owners—security, still in their black suits, moving in a tight phalanx across the croquet green. They’re not human anymore, not really, but their sense of purpose lingers. They chase a lone gardener, who sprints for the gazebo, a trio of undead in slow, a steady pursuit.
I veer left, using the border hedges for cover. My dress snags, the fine mesh catching on every thorn, but I yank it free, uncaring of the rips. Behind me, something howls—a sound so loud and full of teeth it vibrates my molars. I duck behind a statue, heart jackhammering, and glance back.
One of the security men has broken off from the group, drawn by the sound of my passage. His face is a ruin, cheek gorged to the bone, eye socket packed with black jelly. His walk is a lurch, one leg dragging behind like an afterthought. I hold my breath, press against the cold stone, and will him to keep moving.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he stops, lifts his ruined head, and sniffs the air.
For a moment, I’m twelve again, crouched behind the rose arbor while my father’s Dobermans hunt me for sport. I remember the way they’d freeze, nostrils twitching, the sense of doom thickening with every second I went undiscovered. I count to three, then six. The security man takes a step, then another, then lurches toward my hiding spot.
I run.
No subtlety now, no grace, just raw speed. I tear through the hedge, thorns slicing my arms. I can hear him behind me, the scrape of his shoes, the wet suck of air through his shredded throat.
The only weapon I have is the letter opener. I round the corner of the hedge maze, duck behind a sundial, and brace for impact.
He finds me, fast—too fast. His hands reach for my throat, fingers black at the tips. I jab upward, aiming for the ruined eye, and the blade sinks in with a slurp.
He collapses on top of me, pinning me to the ground. The weight is suffocating, the smell worse. I gag, wriggle out from under him, and stagger to my feet, legs quaking.
My dress is beyond saving—bodice split, skirt hemmed in gore. I wipe my hands on the tattered fabric, smearing it even more. For a moment, I allow myself the luxury of sobbing.
A crash from the perimeter wall snaps me back. I see it: a guest’s limousine, driven straight through the wrought-iron gate, now wedged in place, glass spiderwebbed, doors flung open. Beyond, the street—a river of chaos, bodies clogging the road, smoke billowing from burning rooftops.
I sprint for the wall, dodging around another shambler—this one a bridesmaid, tiara still glittering in her hair. Her face is unmarked, eerily beautiful except for the blood crusting her teeth. She reaches for me, nails raking the air, but I sidestep, trip, and roll down the last slope to the gate.
The limousine blocks most of the gap, but the crash has buckled the metal enough for me to squeeze through. I wedge myself into the opening, sharp edges tearing at my arms and thighs. The pain is immediate, hot, but I force myself onward, dragging my body until I collapse on the other side.
I lie there, panting, feeling blood well up and trickle down my arm. I flex my fingers, checking for damage—none permanent. My legs are scraped raw, but I can move them.
I stand, just in time to see the first of the creatures lurching through the gap behind me. I fumble for the letter opener, but it’s gone—lost somewhere in the meat of the last corpse.
It doesn’t matter. There are too many, and they’re moving too fast.
I run.
The city is unrecognizable. Fires burn unchecked, cars abandoned in the middle of the street, alarms blaring from every direction. People run, or limp, or stagger in blind panic. Some fall, never to rise; others rise changed, shuffling with the same hungry intent as the ones that brought down the mansion.
I keep to the shadows, staying low, using parked cars for cover. My heart is a snare drum, my breath a sawtooth rasp.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’ll find at the end of this flight. But for the first time, I am not a bride, not a daughter, not a product engineered for anyone’s comfort but my own.
I am alive, and the world is ending, and I have never felt more free.
I run, torn lace trailing behind me like the slipstream of a shooting star, and the city howls its welcome.
Chapter Three: Sanctuary's Edge
Lira
Fort Hope appears at the horizon as little more than a bruise of light and geometry, a smear of hope against the broken bones of the city. I make the last mile on legs so stiff with exhaustion that I’m convinced the walk will end me before anything undead can. Every step is its own negotiation. My skin is slathered in city grime and sunburn, the taste of blood, diesel, and what passes for wind on the tip of my tongue. My wedding dress is now a weaponized flag of distress: torn high on one thigh, the white turned gray and pink by dust and blood, the trailing hem caked with a city’s worth of rot. The jacket I’m wearing is not mine—it’s two sizes too big, navy blue, and smells like someone else’s cigarettes—but it’s the only thing staving off the bite of dusk.
The boots are mine, or at least, I earned them. I traded a bloodstained clutch purse for them to a woman at the interstate underpass three nights ago, and she took my lipstick as a tip. The boots are steel-toed, military grade, and they clash with the dress in a way I hope signals irony rather than defeat.
At the approach to the Fort, the land is scalped: every tree hacked to a stump, every bush razed down to mud and barbed wire. The perimeter is not a wall but a sequence of fences—chain-link, razor wire, a final palisade of stacked shipping containers stenciled with warnings in block capital letters. There are floodlights mounted on every third pole, powered by the groaning, prehistoric generators I hear before I ever see them. The light burns out the horizon, casting everyone in the intake line into a kind of nuclear afterglow. No shadows here, not unless you count the ones lining up to get in.
I watch the line for a minute from the shadow of a derelict bus stop. There must be a hundred people, all shapes and states of desperation, queued up behind crowd control barriers salvaged from a sporting arena. The guards—men and women in a patchwork of old Army fatigues and scavenged riot gear—pace the line with automaton precision, herding people forward with barked instructions and, occasionally, the flat of a nightstick. There are no children playing tag, no lovers holding hands, only bodies pressed together, eyes fixed on the checkpoint as if staring could will them through.
The chain-link fence vibrates with a low, inhuman moan from the other side. It’s almost drowned out by the engine noise and the shouts, but every so often, a gap in the crowd opens up and I see them: a half-dozen infected, faces slack and oily with fever, clawing mindlessly at the mesh. Their hands are dark with blood, their fingers worn down to blunt, animal tools. It’s clear they’ll never be allowed inside, but still they batter the fence, compelled by some residual, ugly memory of wanting.
I check my hands. They tremble so hard I can’t zip up the jacket, so I ball them into fists and will myself forward.
The crowd’s rhythm is tribal, all push and cower. When I slip into the line, a woman in a shredded office suit tries to wedge her shoulder between my ribs and the next body. Her face is all cheekbones and eye shadow, the latter smeared into a raccoon mask by sweat and tears. She mutters something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—and for a second our eyes meet, twin studies in abject need. I let her pass. It costs me nothing, and she probably has children buried somewhere in the clot of people behind us.
Up close, the intake line is its own kind of ecology. There are the preppers, faces ruddy with sun and vitamins, wearing four backpacks each and scanning the soldiers for signs of corruption. There are the suits, still holding onto the tattered remnants of class, collars wilted, ties hanging like nooses. There’s a group of what might once have been teenagers, now feral, painted with dirt and ink, eyes ringed in permanent insomnia. We move as one, every step forward a tiny referendum on whether we’ll survive the next hour.
The man directly in front of me wears a neon windbreaker and nothing else but shorts and socks. He keeps turning to look at my dress, as if he can’t decide whether to leer or apologize. “You come from a wedding?” He asks finally, voice threaded with the accent of someone who’s never left the city.
“Something like that,” I say, and he snorts, then lapses back into the posture of the damned.
Someone screams ahead—a sharp, popping noise—and the line moves, everyone pressing forward, a thousand hands clutching at backpacks and children and old, folded photographs. The night air tightens. I can see the checkpoint now, a table set up under halogen lamps, two guards with rifles watching over a third who scans IDs and rifles through meager belongings. When the next group shuffles up, I see the process: hands out, a swipe of a thermometer, a glance at the whites of the eyes. One man protests, waving paperwork in the air, until a guard cracks him across the jaw with a practiced, efficient swing. He crumples, is hauled aside by the armpits, and the line inches forward as if nothing happened.
