A Little More Dead

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  DAY TWELVE

  When Paul woke up the next morning, Sophia was stiff in his arms. Nonetheless, he hugged her even tighter. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered, grimacing with the smell. “This isn’t where it ends.” He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw white spots and tried to remember what she looked like when she was beautiful and full of life but all he could see was the teeth that tried taking a bite out of his cheek last night. He buried his face in her neck, agonizing over the fact that he didn’t have a single picture of her. His phone was long dead and no one carried pictures in their wallet anymore. At some point, he would have to go back to Des Moines and grab the photo albums tucked in a spare bedroom closet. He knew right where they were because they just moved into their house and he remembered seeing them when he was looking for the spare Jeep keys he never found.

  Sophia felt like a store mannequin in his arms. Forcing her sharp teeth from his memory, he recalled Colorado instead. The chateau they stayed at last month looked like a painting under the fresh snowfall and Sophia was just as stunning in her red coat and black ski pants. Her dark hair stood out against her faux-fur lined hood, turning heads wherever she went. He yawned and snuggled up closer to her corpse. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the Sophia he saw in his dreams last night. The Sophia he saw snarled and lunged, digging her claws into his back and pulling him to her needy mouth.

  Paul shook it off and went outside and peed on the back deck, smoke rising from his stream. Back inside, he found Dan staring at Sophia’s body on the couch, his hair all kinds of crazy. He met Paul’s eyes and acted like he wanted to say something – probably something about how sorry he was about Sophia or something about how things will get better or some bullshit like that. If he did, he decided against it and followed Paul into the attached three-car garage where they found a silver Porsche Cayman with no keys, some work gloves and two shovels. Up on the hill in the backyard, they dug a grave under a tall willow overlooking a valley of naked trees below. It must’ve been breathtaking in the fall. Today, however, it just looked dead.

  Wendy got stuck watching them dig on a fallen log, afraid to be alone. “It’s a beautiful spot.”

  Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet echoed inside Paul’s mind like thunder. Sweat coursed down his face as the sun slowly rose above them. There was nothing beautiful about any of this. The fact that he was digging his wife’s grave stole the breath his heaving lungs so desperately required. Dan stopped to wipe his brow and finish off a bottle of water while Paul dug harder, faster, wanting to put this behind him. All of it. What was the point? He should be with her, not with Dan and some two-bit stripper from whothefuckcares!

  “Do you guys want some more water?” Wendy asked.

  Paul stabbed his shovel into the ground like a lawn dart. “I swear to God, if you don’t shut the fuck up! Why are you even here?” He glared at her through bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles. Wet trails ran down his dirty face and shirt as the willow’s bare branches provided little cover from the sun.

  Wendy looked down at her sneakers and got quiet, picking at the decaying bark on the fallen tree.

  Paul sighed and ran a hand down his face, leaving a brown smear mark behind.

  “I’ll take some more water.” Dan offered her a tight smile and wiggled the empty bottle.

  She looked to Paul for approval and when he turned away she got up and brushed off the rear end of her new jeans. “Okay.”

  Dan watched her head back down to the house before turning to Paul, who grabbed his shovel and went back to work. Dan inhaled a deep breath of country air and wiped his forehead with the back of his glove before jabbing the shovel back into the earth and tossing fresh soil over his shoulder. “She’s just trying to help.”

  Paul kept digging while two squirrels chased each other around in the sunlight, oblivious to the apocalyptic changes around them and it irked him to no end. If they knew what was good for them, they’d be hiding, not playing like a bunch of jackasses. After gently laying Sophia’s body – wrapped in three blankets and a blue tarp – into the shallow hole, they returned the last shovelfuls of dirt to the ground. Dan dropped his shovel and stared at the fresh plot in front of him, chasing his breath.

  With a loud grunt, Paul threw his shovel into the valley of trees below. He wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve before planting a cross – crudely made from some leftover white trim found in the garage – into the dark soil. Dan watched him bend down and let the dirt slip through his fingers, just like he had done with his wife. Dan set a tentative hand on Paul’s shoulder, on the verge of saying something, and then walked away.

  A cardinal sang out a musical trill off in the distance. The wind ran over Paul’s wet hair. Tears and dirt blurred his vision. “I love you so much,” he whispered, soil filtering through his fingers. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He raised his head to see the same two squirrels wind their way up a nearby tree as if there was a magical spiral staircase around it. He stood up and looked from the grave to the breathtaking view stretching below. “I’m so sorry, babycakes.”

  He hung his head. It hadn’t even been two weeks since they abandoned their house and his beautiful wife was already in the ground. Maybe he was already dead and this was his Hell. Maybe he should eat a bullet and find out, just to be sure. When he turned back for the house, he saw Dan watching from the deck with a shotgun at his side.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dan and Wendy sat in the kitchen, munching on pretzels and chocolate chip cookies they found in the pantry. The house had some food but not much and, unfortunately, this was as close to comfort food as they were going to get. One floor above, Paul sat on the toilet in a Jack and Jill bathroom with his Beretta shoved in his mouth. Tears gave his soiled face a sadistic clown look that was anything but funny. With Sophia’s body buried in a stranger’s backyard and dead people trying to kill them, things had become too much for one person to process. And without Sophia, that’s exactly what he was.

  One person.

  Half of something else.

  He felt like even less.

  The gun barrel left a metallic taste in his mouth. His mother raised him to believe that suicide would get you a one-way ticket to Hell, but he was already there. The gun clattered against his teeth. He stared at a brightly colored pirate towel hanging against the opposite wall and shoved the gun harder into the roof of his mouth. His eyes dropped to a mermaid-shaped bottle of shampoo on the tub’s edge. The pirate decals plastered across the aqua-colored walls looked new and Paul could taste his own blood.

  The vibrant bathroom gripped the slick wheel in his mind with white knuckles and steered in new directions at will. He and Sophia would never have that baby together. Not now. Not ever. They would never steal another glance while reading Kindles and sipping hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night. Never share another story about their crazy day or laugh at another inside joke.

  Rebecca flickered through his mind and he curled a finger around the trigger because he deserved this. Whatever this was he fucking deserved it. Because of him there would never be a beautiful brown-eyed little girl chasing Sophia around the house with matching smiles and hair. Sorrow suffocated his will to live. He would never touch her again. Talk to her. See her. Breathe her in. He didn’t even have a picture. Not one single picture.

  This thought drove him more insane than the rest. Because as the cold steel scratched his teeth and tore open the roof of his mouth, he couldn’t assemble his wife’s features in his mind. He closed his eyes and tried to pull the picture together. It came and went with hollow eyes and cracked skin. His heart pounded. He couldn’t see her face. It was a funhouse of mirrors inside his head, stretching and compressing his memories. He couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe. He wanted to join her. Not fifty years from now. Not tomorrow. Today. Right now. There was nothing left of this world and it was time to go.

  Paul pulled the gun from his
mouth, a silver rope of saliva stretching between the two, and sat up straighter on the toilet.

  “Stop being such a pussy,” he whispered, pushing the barrel against his right temple and gritting his teeth.

  There was only one way he could see her face again, only one way this very minute. His index finger felt the engraved lines on the trigger. Clear liquids gushed from his eyes and nose, chest clutching with erratic breaths. His fuzzy gaze fell to the bath mat where a shark jumped from the rugged blue waters below it. How could they go swimming at the beach if she wasn’t there to go? She loved the beach. How could he take care of her if she wasn’t there to take care of?

  Just do it!

  A melancholy breath filled his lungs

  He held it, tensing for impact.

  Paul was coming home.

  Fuck this shit.

  His finger squeezed the trigger and just before the hammer fell, he saw her face as clear as day. Sophia smiled at him from across a table at some dimly lit restaurant, a lone candle flickering against her soft features. Her face sparkled in the cozy light and she was so damn beautiful. Her warm hand took his and squeezed. She mouthed the words, I love you, Paul, and the way she said his name breathed life back into his soul.

  “I love you,” he whispered back. “I’m so sorry.”

  Her smile fell. Sophia shook her head, face dramatically sobering in the jittery light. You’re not done here.

  Paul furrowed his brow and couldn’t find his voice.

  Her hand slipped from his.

  He tried to grab it but she was already floating backwards into a vapor before vanishing altogether. The fog cleared and he found himself staring at the fucking pirate towel again. He jerked his gaze around the bathroom, desperate to reconnect for just another minute more. His shoulders sank.

  She was gone.

  But he could still see her face, unlocking a river of air that flooded his lungs. He could see her. Feel her. Hear her.

  You’re not done here.

  He lowered the gun and dropped his head between his shoulders, unable to fathom what she meant because he most certainly was done here. Blood oozed from his lips to the floor between his shoes. They would be together again but not like this. She was right. Paul took a deep breath and blew it out. Getting to his feet, he wobbled and holstered the gun before blowing his nose into the pirate towel.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  DAY THIRTEEN

  Morning pushed its way inside the house, casting too much light on the couch. Sophia’s blood stains had turned dark red overnight and were rough against Paul’s cheek. After sleeping the rest of yesterday away, it was time to leave. He could see it in Dan’s eyes, hear it in his voice. Paul made a play to stay here which fell on deaf ears. There was nothing here but haunted memories that Dan knew would render Paul useless so Dan finally got the something off his chest he’d been wanting to say but couldn’t. Something about how sorry he was, and how things will get better and something about something else. But it was Sophia who finally convinced him to go, not Dan.

  Paul circled the house’s location on a map he found inside an upstairs office plastered with Dallas Cowboys memorabilia. Slices of sunlight crept across the floor, reaching Paul’s shoes as he sat slumped in the armchair and stared at his wife’s dried brains on the sectional. Gunshots rang out behind him but he didn’t flinch. Dan and Wendy laughed as they took some last minute target practice on the back deck. Their laughter fed Paul’s throbbing headache. He balled his hands into fists, hating himself for giving Wendy that pink gun but that’s what Sophia wanted so he did. Still, it wasn’t right. The thought of leaving her alone up on that hill hurt the most. She’d never been to Texas before and no one would ever visit her grave. His beautiful Sophia would be alone under that willow tree without a single connection to anyone or anything for hundreds of miles around. No one would lay flowers on her grave. No one would know she was there. So he vowed to come back and visit no matter how many of those things stood in his way. That much was for sure.

  Wendy and Dan came back inside with anxious looks imprinted into their faces. Their tip-toeing around Paul only pissed him off more. He took one last look at the soiled couch before getting up and leaving the room while his legs still somewhat worked. Every muscle in his body ached. His back screamed with each step. Digging his wife’s grave had taken a toll in more ways than one.

  In the backseat of the cop car, Paul twisted around and watched the large white house slowly disappear behind a gentle hill. His eyes clung to the chimney stack for as long as possible and then, just like that, Sophia was on her own. Left to fend for herself in a cold drizzle. He turned back around, fighting the tears welling in his eyes. She didn’t deserve this. None of them did and someone had to pay.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Trees and houses and abandoned vehicles whipped by in a dizzying blur. Dan glanced into the rearview mirror at Paul, who was sitting alone in the back. Paul snorted, not believing his wife wasn’t in the car with them. How did they get here? It was a miracle any of them were still alive.

  Or a curse.

  Through vacant eyes, Paul watched the foreign land unfold before them, regret taking him by storm. This was a mistake. He should go back. Who cares if Dan and Wendy needed him? Mentally and physically exhausted, Paul couldn’t imagine another gun battle. Not now. His legs throbbed and his head pounded and he wasn’t sure he could even stand, let alone shoot. He slid on a pair of sunglasses to block out the gray light stinging his eyes. It hurt to even breathe.

  Dan pushed against the steering wheel and cracked his back.

  “You want me to drive?” Wendy asked.

  He looked over to her in the passenger seat. “Maybe in a little while.”

  They passed a newer looking RV that had smashed head first into a telephone pole now leaning at an awkward angle. The RV’s side door hung on a single hinge, like something had ripped it open. The more miles they tucked under their belts, the more it sank in. Sophia was dead. Paul looked out the back window. How far were they from her now? Would she be okay by herself at night?

  “Soooo, what happens once we get to the ocean?” Wendy finally broke the silence as she stared out over the empty roadway ahead. Stationary oil rigs, longhorns and brown grass sprinkled the vast terrain on both sides of the road.

  “I’m not sure,” Dan said, glancing at Wendy. “We’ll find a beach house and gather some supplies with the ocean protecting our backs.”

  Wendy snorted. “Or trapping us.”

  The sound of tires turning on asphalt filled their ears, lulling Paul’s tired mind back to Carla, Mike and Matt. He could still hear Sophia telling the boys they’d be playing volleyball on the beach in no time. They should’ve been here and it was Paul’s fault. They trusted him with their lives and he failed them. The scoreboard does not lie. Herds of longhorns looked to them for help from within their enclosures as the state patrol car flew by without a wave. Paul rolled down the window and let the wind run through his matted brown hair. He leaned back and closed his eyes, a light drizzle cold on his face. God, he missed her smile. The termination of the car’s soothing buzz opened his eyes. He squinted at the rundown gas station out in the middle of a flat stretch of nowhere. “Where are we?” he asked, peering through the cage.

  “Probably a few hours from the Gulf,” Dan replied, surveying the area. “Not exactly sure but we need gas.”

  “What! How long was I out?”

  “A few hours.”

  Paul sank into the backseat, unable to believe it. He had just closed his eyes a minute ago, two tops.

  Wendy twisted around. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Fantastic,” he replied between the booming claps of thunder exploding inside his head. There was a storm brewing behind his bloodshot eyes. A bad one.

  Dan nodded to a light blue mini-van parked next to an old payphone. The van had a rusty dent in the back bumper from where someone carelessly backed into a pole – back when things lik
e that mattered. Dan pulled alongside it and stopped. “You want to stay in the car for this one?”

  Paul pushed his shades up the bridge of his nose and opened his car door. “I got this.”

  “Paul, we can…”

  “I got this!”

  “Alright,” Dan breathed, climbing out and hitting the car’s sirens in the process. The alarm rang out in a rapid rhythm as if they were in hot pursuit of a stolen vehicle at ninety miles an hour.

  Outside the car, Paul hunched over in pain, trying to cover his ears while holding a shotgun at the same time while Dan dove back inside and fumbled with the switches on the dash. The siren ricocheted off the gas station walls and bay doors, slicing Paul’s head in two.

  “I can’t find the switch!”

  Paul’s vision blurred. Snot ran from his nose, or maybe it was blood. Wendy yelled something he didn’t understand and then the blaring scream stopped. The screech of a nearby Blue-Jay cut through the siren’s wake.

  Dan popped up over the roof of the car. “Sorry about that.”

  Wendy eyeballed the gas station, pink sidearm at the ready. “Nice one, Dan! You just rang the dinner bell.”

  “Then we better hurry.”

  Paul bent over and threw up into the dirt lot, splashing his new sneakers with half-digested cookies and chips. He dry-heaved a few times and wiped his mouth, catching Dan and Wendy trading a wary glance behind his back.

  “You okay?” Dan asked.

  “I’m fine.” Paul spit to the ground and leaned against the car, letting sprinkles fall on his face.

  Attaching the siphon to the minivan’s gas tank, Dan turned to see how his cover looked. Wendy stood ready with Sophia’s gun pointed at the ground. Paul wore sunglasses and could barely stand.