Underground (A Fahrenheit 451 Alternate Ending)

Underground

No! Montag held to the windowsill. This way! Here!

The procaine needle flicked out and in, out and in. A single clear drop of the stuff of dreams fell from the needle as it vanished in the Hound's muzzle.

Montag held his breath, like a doubled fist, inside his chest. (Bradbury 131)

The Hound, pursuing Montag's scent, ran through the sprinklers and jumped through Faber's window. Montag watched in horror as the window shattered into thousands of glittering pieces.

Montag's scream was heard only by the silent room around him, but Faber's echoed through the alleys and in Montag's eardrums. He couldn't see his friend, but Montag knew the media would've taken that as a signal of the fugitive's death, and concluded the search for Guy Montag.

His ears were ringing, the images and sounds from the past minute replaying endlessly, like a broken record in his mind, until he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

Montag spun around, appalled at seeing the familiar candle-like face but refusing to believe it was actually her. He blinked. Again and again, and she just waited, patient and understanding as ever. He rubbed his eyes, kept them shut tight for a moment, and opened them again, but she was still there.

Impossible, he thought, Millie said she was dead. Killed by a car, she'd said. He was convinced she was dead. Why wouldn't she vanish from his mind? Why was she still there?

"Cl-Clarisse?" He murmured, as if any louder would've made her disappear from her place in front of him. She smiled the smile he'd grown to love, what seemed like a lifetime ago, that he'd reminisced over every day since. He could feel the tears, but didn't dare breathe. Any movement, any sharp breath, might make her vanish from his view, and he didn't dare risk losing her again.

He realized there were tears in her eyes also, something he'd never seen before, but they were still gentle, like everything else in her. As one of the tears escaped and flowed down her cheek to the floor below her, she breathed deeply, and spoke in the same cautious way as he had.

"I'm sorry," her delicate whisper barely reached his ears, "I shouldn't have let this happen to you...or Faber."

"It wasn't your-How do you know Faber?"

"He was one of my uncle's oldest friends. When my uncle died, Faber took his place as my educator. He taught me much more than my uncle could have. Though my uncle loved the written word, Faber was the one who knew what it all meant, and my uncle did not. Faber saw the grand scheme of things, so when he began educating me, I became part of a secret world right under the nose of this society."

She seemed as if she'd wanted to say more, but she was interrupted by the sound of planes looming overhead. She grabbed Montag's hand and dragged him towards the door. Her voice became strong and urgent, a sound Montag wasn't used to, but suited Clarisse just as well as her softer tone, "We have to get out of here!"

"Why? What's going on?"

"Those planes are carrying bombs, they're going to destroy the city, and us, if we don't get out of here right now."

As they ran, Montag realized that Clarisse was different than the last time he'd seen her. Less delicate, less innocent, still just as perfect as before, but different. She was strong, she was philosophical, she was a leader. Her gossamer hair was in a messy yet professional side braid, and she wore ragged pants, a light sweater, and power was embedded in her every action. She wasn't a seventeen-year-old girl with strange ideas anymore, but a woman with a purpose and all the tools she needed to turn her brilliant ideas into reality.

Montag was both proud of her, elated from seeing her again, and sad. Sad that a girl of seventeen had needed to become a revolutionary, an outlaw. Sad that she couldn't have remained the way she'd been when they'd first met. But mostly, Montag was sad that he couldn't have been a guide, or a help, but that she had needed to guide and help him through it all.

He realized they were running through the forest, about a mile from the city, towards the sound of a river. A river?, he thought, There's a river near the city? Why hadn't I noticed? His thoughts were interrupted by voices. They were the voices of men, a few of them probably Faber's age, most of them Montag's age or younger.

They reached the clearing and Clarisse dropped Montag's hand as a signal for him to stop. His ears were ringing, his heart pounding, and his breaths drowning out the sounds around him. That was why he didn't realize Clarisse had introduced him until the men by the fire began to approach Montag and shake his hand.

"Mark Twain, at your service."

"Ray Bradbury, pleased to meet you."

"J. R. R. Tolkien. Without me, Rowling wouldn't have had a story for her first three books!"

After the men had introduced themselves as authors Montag knew to be long-dead, Clarisse whispered to him, "These men are masters in the art of remembering. Well, more like triggering memories. They introduced themselves based on the books they are in charge of remembering for the group. The man who called himself Ray Bradbury is convinced that I wasn't supposed to end up here," she rolled her eyes and shrugged at Montag, "Something from a book he read convinced him that I was supposed to be long-dead by now."

"Bradbury" piped up at that. "Well, you were! Montag was supposed to come here alone, being pursued by one of those beastly hounds! I was supposed to be the 'leader' here!"

"Honestly, Granger-"

"Fine, I'm glad you're alive and here, Clarisse, but it's obnoxious when the one story you know the ending to doesn't turn out the way you knew it would!"

"Yes, but, still-"

"You're just a young girl, you don't know enough to keep us alive, anyway! I've been in this group for years and a teenage girl is a better fit for the job than I? Discrimination, I say! Reading is a sacred art, and the last who know that are led by a hormonal child who only got the job for being the prettiest and having a dead uncle who used to-"

"Granger!" Clarisse's voice was overpowering, stunning everyone there into complete silence. Yet, she wasn't conveying any emotion that would confirm Granger's opinions of her leadership. She was firm and demanding, but also calm. "I don't need to stoop to your level, you need to rise to mine." At that, Granger was not only bewildered, but utterly stunned. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, and he made no moves to fix that.

Clarisse continued, "As it is, I am the leader here, and Montag has joined us with news of the outside world." Montag opened his mouth to speak, but Clarisse filled the silence yet again. "Montag is believed to be dead, the bombs will be dropped in a moment on the city, and Faber is dead."

She let everyone digest the information in the hollow silence, and when she spoke again, she was gentler, and everyone heard the emotion in her voice. "We can't bicker amongst ourselves. Not when our numbers are dropping every week. We need to stay strong and work together to preserve our knowledge. Jefferson read a book about the bombs that are being used in this war and, as far as I understand what he told me before he passed, we are safe from the impact that will come."

Each man, Montag saw, seemed to be mourning the loss of their friend and hoping with their entire beings that they would be protected from the destruction bound to come. Then Granger spoke, humbled by Clarisse's words. "Well, whatever happens, I'm grateful to be here with all of you, hoping for a future in which books become valued again."

No one said anything, staring past the fire into worlds of their own imaginations. Montag agreed with Granger. He was glad he had been able to learn what he could before now, and that he had learned the truth about Clarisse and the utopia she was seeking before his life was gone. He was at peace, come what may.

END