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“So,” Betty says, “V.”
Veronica is on her tiptoes twirling. She doesn’t seem to hear.
“So,” Betty says again, stretching her lips around it, eating it up, licking off the glitter.
“Did you say something?” Veronica asks, spinning around, her hair swinging, glossy, untouchable, and Betty kisses her square on the mouth, comes awake.
--
She has been asleep for several weeks now. Or: not asleep, in limbo. In stasis. Hiding. Retreating. She holds court in her own mind.
“Betty,” Veronica murmurs, “hey, girl, hey.”
“Hey,” Betty replies, and Veronica frowns, and Betty likes nothing better in the world than Veronica frowning, her face tiny and exaggerated, cartoonishly lovely, her personhood falling apart right in front of her eyes.
“Do you… do you remember what happened with Archie?”
“No,” Betty lies, and she lets Veronica tell her again.
--
Archie is dead, and Betty did it. Or something. Also, there are zombies, but Veronica doesn’t seem to care much for them. That’s fine. Betty remembers fine.
“You didn’t mean to,” Veronica says earnestly, “you thought he had it; you were in a dark rage. Your dad, you thought he was there. Your eyes were…”
“My eyes,” Betty agrees, and she remembers the red spill, the sink, the smell, the smile.
Jughead emerges, skinny, ashy. “Pack it up.”
They travel light. “It was your idea,” Veronica reminds her, “really, I said what if I needed to sell something and you said that no one’s going to buy anything if no one has anything. You’re a regular Engels, B.”
Betty nods, thinks about burning up, thinks about burning Veronica with her, branding her, keeping her. Engels, really? Betty’s a possessive bitch.
--
Veronica’s the one who kills them. The zombies, that is. Betty isn’t to be trusted around knives.
“You,” she begins as she sees Veronica for the first time (the fortieth time) with a switchblade in her hands. “Where?”
“Jughead,” and Veronica twists and nods toward him. “He’s a prodigy.”
“More of a prodigal son.” Jughead throws a knife. It gleams as it turns through the air, lodges itself firmly in a Lodge’s prey.
--
“I think you’re rubbing off on me,” Betty says. “I thought about Sylvia Plath the other day. The one with the insane girl.”
Veronica inclines her chin. “The mad girl? The stars waltzing? The world dropping dead?”
Betty shuts her eyes. The Earth keeps on spinning.
--
Food is scarce. In a limp, anemic voice, Jughead offers to be eaten.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Veronica scoffs. “We’ll find… let’s call them victuals.” She pats Betty’s arm. “We’re a team.”
--
Woods. Not woods, really, more like small discrete patches of trees and no water. Almost mathematically tortuous. X being a variable short for Extremely Dehydrated. Betty doesn’t feel much like laughing.
Cheryl finds them, or they find her. “Welcome” (a plume of smoke escapes her lips, or she blows it out, bids it farewell, ever the ungentle hostess) “to Thornhill.”
“This isn’t,” Betty begins, and Veronica smiles sweetly, says “thank you.”
Cheryl is holding a tea party again. The tea is maple syrup in hot water, of which Cheryl seems to have endless supplies. “The tea,” Cheryl says, “is from the Indies.”
Betty makes a jerky motion toward the tree. Jughead shakes his head.
“Oh, no, you misunderstand.” Red lips. “We’re in the Indies. Right now.”
--
The four of them walk together now. Their roles: Veronica leads, Jughead helps, Cheryl gives, and Betty tries not to go crazy. Once, she sees a zombie that she thinks is Kevin, and she needs to hit herself on a tree. A pole. Whatever it was.
“I think,” Veronica tells her once, “that what you really need is a manicure.”
She helps Betty file her nails, then she scrubs her head. No water. Just Veronica’s fingers. No water. Just her scalp.
--
They find a mountain. More of a hill, really. Veronica and Cheryl take the time to tan, sniping at each other and the zombies whenever they come near. They set up camp.
Arbitrary blackness fails to come to Betty. She is excruciatingly awake.
--
Betty’s getting restless. Veronica’s glowing with nervous tension, glowing in general, and Betty finds herself glutting on stolen glances, nauseous with their closeness. She sees Jughead watching them both too, holding his breath. His stare is envious, not libidinous; he has lost, she thinks, this sort of want. Maybe she took it from him.
“I think I should leave,” she tells Veronica. “I don’t do anything for you.”
Veronica’s mouth twists. “You’re my best friend. You’re abrogating your duties.”
“Abrogate,” Betty says, “yours.”
“At least bring Cheryl.”
She leaves. She brings Cheryl. They try to find Thornhill again.
--
“Cousin,” Cheryl says. Red hair. Orange fire.
“I give you all that is mine,” Cheryl says. Big smile. White teeth.
“They call it self-immolation,” Cheryl says. Very prim. Very proper.
Betty pats her hand, helps her descend into the flames.
--
An old house. No roof. Betty is still, very still, lying on the carpet. It’s plush; it gives. Nice things are so hard to come by nowadays, she thinks absently. But this is a nice thing. This is a nice house. The ceiling, if there ever was one, must have been beautiful.
Her hair spread around her, grey-golden, Betty Cooper begins to count the stars.