Dead Remnants

Chapter 5 (Part Two) : THE DEAD AIN'T SPECIAL

With each footstep, the distance between the morgue and whatever final destination Ashen was being escorted to stretched. They passed industrial buildings and parking lots until the streets gradually evolved into neighborhoods, the rows of identical homes defined against the skyscrapers of downtown.

Layered over existing architecture, the ethereal outlines of buildings that had been demolished long ago wavered with the same purples, reds, and greens that Ashen had witnessed near the hospital. Houses that used to inhabit the city stood proudly once more until their colors dimmed, revealing the dull dwellings beneath. Then, as quickly as they vanished, the vibrant translucent skin reappeared, the visual history altering the cityscape every time she blinked.

The cowboy said few words as they walked side by side. Even though he appeared calm, his hurried steps left Ashen with the distinct impression that he was annoyed—as if she slowed him down—so she quickened her pace to match his stride, ignoring the flaring heat in her calf muscles.

Breaking the silence, Ashen asked, "What's with all the buildings?"

"These here with the colors? They're what I call phantom bricks. An imprint of structures that existed once upon a time."

One of the houses flickered, dissipating into the evening sky, then burst back to its full form. "Umm, are they alive or something?"

Macajah shook his head. "They're connected to a person's emotional currents. If the walls of a place was saturated enough, well, that current remains attached, and that building lingers on long after it's been destroyed. But I reckon they're only an echo. They fade away before coming back again, akin to a memorial."

The flames licking at the cuffs of her jeans glimmered, and in the yards they passed, each tree and blade of grass glowed with the same intense hues as the phantom bricks. But she noticed neither diminished.

"They remind me of the Northern Lights."

The cowboy cracked a smile. "They're awful purdy, ain't they? The Aurora Bor-ree-alis. Signs from God. Some tribes like the Cree call them the 'Dance of the Spirits.' I reckon that moniker's the most accurate."

The stars twinkled over the Rockies as Macajah recounted a story about one of the phantom bricks—a saloon he used to frequent named "The Stray Horse"—and how he'd gotten thrown out after struggling to break up a fight. While he recited his yarn, ranting on about good-for-nothing blowhards that can't insult or throw a punch properly, they reached South Valentia Street, close to where the bus had wrecked. Close to where she had died.

The edge of Fairmount Cemetery came into view. A wisp of light between the headstones—the form of a woman, pale and translucent, wandered, oblivious to them as they approached. The woman opened her mouth in muted wails, her shoulders heaved as she trod in a repetitive pattern. Sorrow washed over Ashen. She didn't notice that she had stopped walking herself until she felt Macajah's duster brush her side.

"Mighty glum, ain't it?"

"I don't understand," Ashen said, watching the woman through a wrought-iron fence. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's a Drifter. Caught up between the spiritual and material. Since they can't rightly control how and when they appear to the living, they're the ones that most often get seen."

"So, she's a ghost?" she asked.

"That's what the living would say, I reckon."

"Why is she like that? Why isn't she like us?"

Macajah leaned against the fence. "You and me, we're aware of who we are and what we are. A Drifter, like that lonesome lady yonder, is different. Some folks can't fathom their death or plain don't want to believe it. So they roam about forever, either where they passed on or where their bones were laid to rest."

"Is that why you said I had to accept it?" she asked, swallowing hard. "Being dead?"

He nodded. "Over time, you could have become like her. An empty husk."

The Drifter circled around to repeat her sequence of motions again, sobbing in the moonlight without a sound escaping her lips. An eerie, silent recording projected on the statues and headstones.

"Could that still happen to me?"

"Little Missy, I don't believe you've got to worry." Macajah tugged on her sleeve to urge her to follow. "You're a mighty strong spirit, but you need to keep it in your noggin that being strong doesn't make you invulnerable. Never forget that even the mightiest souls can crack and break."

"So," she asked, turning her gaze from the Drifter. "What happens to all the bad people?"

The cowboy's eyes darkened and sent a shiver through Ashen. "All folks have a choice to make upon their passing," he said, the foreboding tint of his eye fading. "Most choose to move on. Some stay. Even the evil ones."

Before she could ask what he meant, he started down the road and added, "We've loitered long enough. We best skedaddle."

Ashen had more questions, but attempting to make sense of everything had made her mind exhausted. The cowboy shoved his hands deep within the folds of his duster, whistling a tune as he walked at a quick clip along South Valentia. When she caught up to him, he threw a sidelong glance at her, golden eyes gleaming, his whiskers sticking straight out from his puckered lips.

Even though the sad woman in the graveyard haunted her, Ashen couldn't help but snicker. His song disturbed, Macajah asked, "Now what, pray tell, is so darned amusing?"

"Oh, it's nothing."

"Well, you got me all interested now, so you best explain."

Shaking her head, she smiled. "Okay, okay. I was thinking that your whistling was ... nice. And also that you look kinda like a sea lion."

"I read about those, but I ain't never laid eyes on one," he said. "I ain't the seafaring type. Though I imagine being any kinda lion is good, so I will accept both your comments as well-deserved compliments."

"Seriously, though," Ashen laughed. "I like it. It's reassuring."

"Why thank you kindly, ma'am. Do you have any particular requests?" he asked, then grimaced. "Nothing too modern. I don't much care for some of that highfalutin music they've got now-a-days. It's a grist of commotion to my ears."

"I don't really know many old songs. But don't start singing, 'Clementine.' That song gives me the creeps."

"That there is an old one, true enough. Who taught it to you?"

"When I was a kid," she said, "I saw something that looked like that shadow thing on the bus. It sang to me. Right before it tried to drown me."

The cowboy's jaw steeled. "It sang 'Clementine' to you?"

"Yeah, but I found out later that it got some of the lyrics wrong." She let out a nervous chuckle. "Like instead of, 'Oh, my darlin,' it sang, 'Oh, my Clema.' Anyway, I've hated that stupid song ever since."

The cowboy's eyes shimmered, but whatever it had been vanished as quickly as it appeared. For the rest of the journey, Macajah didn't whistle.