by W. A. R.
A part of him wished he had the nerve to actually pull the trigger every single time he put the barrel to his head, which was more often than he was willing to admit, but the bigger part of him kept fighting until he could not fight anymore. He fought until his eyes finally closed in exhaustion, every single night. Over the past few months he had gotten damn good at it. Every night before he closed his eyes in restless sleep, his son’s face would flash before his eyes and a small part of him would die. Even on days whenever he thought there was no part of his old self left, he would feel something leave him and be replaced by anger and hatred. He was worried that rage would make him become one of the monsters he had warned his son about; the monsters that he had protected others from. And from there, a new face would appear and he would once again be subjected to the heartbreaking terror that was his own mind. Two people that were the most important to him and they were both gone. Was it fair? Of course not. Why couldn’t he just kill himself and end his misery? He had asked himself that very question every damn day. And every damn day, the answer reverberated through his warped mind. What if he could help someone else’s child, or help anyone? Would that atone for what he had done? Something kept pulling him towards those thoughts, kept pushing him to go on. He wasn’t sure what the answers were, but with such a longing to continue his life, he knew he would damn sure try.
Miles had witnessed the parasite do its damage on a few people he had come across. Once on a man named Carlos something-or-other and again on a woman that he did not know on any level. There were also many times that his mind drifted to these two, and he would always feel a pang of regret. Although he had not known them, his experience with them ranked pretty high; high enough for him to have nightmares about.
The man had been bitten whenever they ran across each other in what had once been a bar. Miles had been sitting at the bar, drinking what was left of a pint of José whenever Carlos stumbled into the bar. It had been about two weeks after he found his son was missing, and had been in an “I-don’t give- a-fuck” mood. He hadn’t even bothered to turn around whenever he heard the click of the hammer being pulled back. He knew that a gun was being pointed at the back of his head, and he had not even cared. He brought the bottle to his dry, cracked lips and tilted it back, taking a long swallow. The alcohol burned all the way down his chest.
“Go ahead. Kill me.” Miles had said lazily, as if during the demolition of the world, he had absolutely no cares. He guessed that he didn’t really have any at that point. He wasn’t even sure then why he even bothered with surviving. But the man behind him had survived, and Miles wondered briefly how he had done it. It was then that he turned around. He nodded at the man, who was bloodied and exhausted. “You’d be doing me a favor.” The man stood for a moment, uncertainty and pain reflecting in his cool brown depths. Miles analyzed him quickly, seeing him slightly favoring his left arm. His attire was dreadful, blood-soaked, and foul smelling, although after everything, Miles was surprised he could still make out the smell of death. His head was shaved, and on his left hand a faded gold band stood out against all of the dirt and grime covering the rest of his body. The man then lowered his gun without anything else said, bringing his left arm to his chest, and rounded the bar, reaching for what was left in a half gallon bottle of Vodka. Miles watched his actions silently as he took a long drink before slamming it on the bar, settling his gun next to it. He removed his left arm from his chest, where he had cradled it, unwinding the bloodied fabric from around his forearm. The shirt may have been gray at some point, and Miles thought he saw the design of a rose briefly before it moved. Miles would never know; and for some reason that bothered him, the fact that he would never know what color the fabric was or if the rose had actually been there. He would never know the man’s last name, but the fabric bothered him. He knew that at some point that that piece of fabric had been a beautiful article of clothing and it had changed into something quite the opposite; in his mind it was relative to his very own human nature. It saddened him. Miles saw the bite, the brutality of it screaming at him, and he noticed the sweat trailing across his flushed, dirt covered face. He took a long drink and stood from the bar, circling around to stand behind Carlos. Dammit all, he had felt sorry for the man. “Name’s Miles.” He offered by way of introduction. Carlos was the first living person he had come across since everything had started and he wasn’t too sure how to handle this type of situation. Hell, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. The man looked at him, his chest heaving with every painful breath he took.
“Carlos.” He offered before turning back to peeling the fabric from his skin. Miles nodded at him, watching every move he made and wondering if he should tell the man that he wouldn’t last much longer. Miles even considered just leaving Carlos in the bar, never looking back. He knew that he couldn’t do such a thing. It wasn’t the type of person he was. Miles’s attention focused once again on Carlos examining his forearm, or the lack there of. His arm looked as if it was rotting and Miles felt sick to his stomach, his insides clenching at the sight. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat.
“Do you need a hand?” he offered, gesturing to the Vodka bottle that sat on the counter. Miles assumed that the man had no idea what was going to happen to him, and was going to sanitize and cauterize the wound with the vodka and a lighter. The man looked across the distance that separated them at Miles sadly, shaking his head. Miles began to wonder what had happened to him, and with that thought, turned to look at the now closed door. Could he have helped him? Was there any way that he could have saved his life? Suddenly, a hundred ‘what-ifs’ came into play in his mind, and he winced at the thoughts they brought with them. Forcing the roaring in his head to leave, he leaned easily into the silence, once again examining the door. There were no other sounds outside the building, which eased Miles’s mind a little.
“Don’t worry. This happened about two miles back.” He said gesturing to his arm, the corners of his mouth lifting into an amused smirk a little as he did so. Miles’s attention flew to the man and he felt a new wave of sympathy and nausea hit him. Miles cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting on his feet. Carlos looked up at him.
“Looks pretty bad, huh?’ he asked, smiling. Once again, Miles felt like reaching out to the man. He wasn’t sure why, because at that point he had thought that what had been left of his compassion died about two weeks before. It had surprised him then; although, even after a few weeks after Michael’s disappearance he still clung to a small piece of it, even though most of it had been whittled away to almost nothing. He stared at the young man who was smiling, in spite of his fate. He had to tell him.
“Did you watch the news before all of this went down?” Miles drawled before he could stop himself. He leaned his hip against the bar, shoving his hands into his pockets. Carlos stopped what he was doing and easily spread both palms across the counter, one hand holding the fabric. Fresh blood from his hands smeared the granite countertop, staining it; Carlos leaving his mark forever on that bar and he had no idea he was doing it. It had reminded Miles once more how fragile things were since…well, since the end of life as they knew it. Carlos lowered his head on a sigh and Miles stared at him, unable to move.
“I lost my wife a few weeks ago. We hurried down to get our daughter from school when all of this began, but her life was taken…from our 8 year old daughter who had gotten bit that morning. The school was in chaos and she was too late. I was too late.” His voice was void of any emotion, but whenever he looked at Miles, everything that couldn’t be said was there and Miles felt his heart twist, the pain almost overwhelming. “To get my daughter and the three other monsters that were eating my wife…” he paused, emotion causing the crack in his voice. His eyes were squeezed shut tightly, tears now streaking across his cheeks. He shook his head vehemently, his voice raising an octave. “I had to kill my own daughter. I just shot her and pulled my wife to our car. I drove her to the house, and while I listened to everyone scream
outside, I held her until she died. And then…I shot her too.” Miles watched as Carlos replayed every moment in his mind, like a video playback. Carlos straightened his stance and looked Miles directly in the eye, exhaustion obvious, and his eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, any light they had once had was completely gone. “I know I have maybe an hour left, tops. And I know you do not owe me, hell, you don’t know anything about me, but I have to ask you to do me a favor.” He reached for his shotgun and slid it to Miles along the counter, along with a knife and a Smith &Wesson .380 auto caliber he retrieved from a holster on his hip. From the other holster, he pulled a matching pistol from it, holding it out to Miles. Miles stared at him, never once looking at the gun. A battle raged in Miles’s mind as they stared at one another.
“As long as it is within my power.” Miles replied softly before pulling his hands from his pockets grabbing the gun from Carlos’ shaking fingers. The words came naturally; from his life spent pleasing others and he immediately regretted saying them. Carlos nodded before grabbing the bottle of vodka and taking a big drink. He released a heavy breath, lowering his gaze to the floor.
“I saw you come in here an hour ago. That’s why I came in here. You seem like a capable man. Kill me. Shoot me in the head before I turn. Let me go my own way to my wife and daughter.” It was a plea, and Miles saw that, nodding in agreement although he wasn’t sure he could handle the aftermath. But, he knew he had to, so whenever Carlos finished the rest of the bottle in one breath, and got down on his knees with his arms spread in acceptance. Miles swallowed hard, knowing what it was he had to do; tears pricking the back of his eyes as he stared down at this stranger who had entrusted him with his death. He couldn’t find any words of solace for him, and so Miles forced himself to watch the life leave his eyes as he pulled the trigger.
The only other living person he had come across was someone he hadn’t really made contact with. It had been almost a week after Carlos, and he was on the fifth floor of a building, searching for a safe place to stay that night when he heard a scream from the street below. The streets were bright with the orange slivers of light cutting through the buildings with the sunset. He hurried to the window and watched as a woman was struggling to get away from a Biter. It gripped her ankle as she tried her best to pull away, dragging it slowly behind her. She finally lost her balance on the stairs to the building and he got a good grasp on her, biting into her calf muscle. She screamed louder in pain, bringing the heel of her foot into its face. The Biter let her go, but not without another problem. Her screams had alerted other Biters, and they were coming quickly in large crowds. He watched as she ran into the tall building next to his, running as fast as she could until she ended up in an office across the way from where he was. He had felt his heart hammer out the regret he felt at not being able to help her, and at not being able to assist her at all at that point. It was too late, and she was a lost cause. He could not bring attention to himself, and she would die anyways.
He watched in pity as she gathered any furniture in the room and barricaded her room with it. It was then she turned to the window and saw his figure in the shadows of the next building. He stepped towards the window, and saw the pleading look in her eyes as she pressed her palms against the window. He knew what she was asking. She was asking if there was any way out for her, if he could help her. Slowly, so slowly it hurt him, he shook his head in response. It seemed as if time slowed down. She eased from the window, a look of realization washing across her face. In that moment he took in her appearance, noticing how she seemed not to have any weapons and her clothes were only mildly worn. Her hair was messy from the struggle it seemed, but otherwise, pretty organized. She wouldn’t have lasted a day, if that were in fact, how long she had been out. He figured she must have hid away for the past few weeks, or something of the sort, and was now on her own. And she would die that very same day.
It was brief, the moment she felt everything come crashing down around her, the moment she knew she would become one of them. Just as quickly as that self-pity had come, it had left, and she glanced down into the street below. Miles mirrored her action, his eyes widening at the sight of at least seventy Biters clawing at her building. He swallowed hard, knowing that he could not leave now, and could not leave for a while yet, until things had died down. The sudden sound of glass shattering made him jump. He jerked his gaze to the woman and watched as the file cabinet fell to the Biter covered street below, amongst shards of glass. Two Biters suffered from the impact of the file cabinet, hitting the ground as if they had never been standing. He then stared at her, her shoulders heaving with every breath as she sobbed. Everything happened in just a matter of seconds, her emotions running rampant; anger, sadness, relief, realization, acceptance, and denial each tugging at a part of her, wanting release. After a long moment, she then pulled a chair to the edge of the window and sat. Miles lowered himself to the floor, and he sat too.
And they waited.
He could tell the exact moment she died. After a few hours, she stared across the way at him. Her eyes had sunk into their sockets, her hair drenched with sweat. Her cheeks had sunken in, as if she had lost a tremendous amount of weight in only a short time. Yet, she had not moved…not one single muscle, until she looked up at him. The entire time she had watched the activity of the Biters below the building, still clawing and moaning to reach her. It had taken him by surprise, the amount of trepidation that weighed on his conscience as she smiled warmly at him.
‘Thank you’ she mouthed silently to him and with that, he watched her head lull to the right and rest there. He wasn’t sure what she had been thanking him for; and his optimism made him believe that it was because he sat there with her until the end, although he couldn’t help her. It took a few minutes, about fifteen or twenty, and he stood as he watched her head rise back up, eyes yellow and lifeless, as she snarled and looked around her. He knew what he had to do; he had known it all along. He stood, watching as she sat, looking around her. He shoved one hand into his pocket, and raised his fist to the window. He knocked…he knocked three times, not too loud, but loud enough for her to hear. She jerked her head to the sound, and stood, seeing him as he shoved his hand into his other pocket. She took one final step; the step out of the broken window, falling five stories, her temple connecting with a corner on the file cabinet. She never moved again.
Those, however, were just vivid memories from the first month of the outbreak, and now, months after those incidences, Miles walked along the Center Ridge Mall in Takilma, Louisiana simply easing his way around the retail stores that were there. He was sure he could find a few things that would be of some use. He needed a change of clothes, and maybe a few more weapons, if he could find any. Anything would come in handy, really; he was creative, and could make something out of nothing when most people couldn’t. It was something that he prided himself on. His truck, a gray Chevy Silverado, was parked directly facing the doors of JC Penny’s and it contained numerous, random items, ranging from food and guns, to yard long metal rods sharpened on one end to a fine point. He had chosen a bigger town for many reasons. One was that a bigger town had more stores and homes, which led to more provisions that he could stack up on for later purposes in case he ever needed them. Another reason is that, although there are far more Biters in a city like Takilma, there was the challenge, and he needed to challenge himself every day if he was going to make it out of this epidemic alive, and possibly help others, if in fact, there were any others left. He hadn’t seen another soul in months, not since the woman in the building, and the thought bothered him immensely. Surely he wasn’t the last person around. Someone else had to have been expecting the things that happened.
Someone had.
Someone had expected this outcome and he knew that she was the reason for his roaming. He refused to accept the fact that she could possibly be dead too, wandering the streets, hungry for flesh, like his lost son. He couldn’t accept it and so, he needed to know. He needed the as
surance that she had made it. He had decided that he was going to go back to the small town and find her. She had to be alive; he wasn’t sure he could handle it if she weren’t. He thought that if that were the case, there would be no more reason for his existence; if both she and his son were gone from this world, he would never again find solace in the world. His mind then drifted to the faces of others, others that haunted his dreams every night. He quickly shook off the negative thought and returned to his meandering of the halls of the abandoned mall. This was his last stop for supplies and weaponry before heading to the small town, and he needed everything he could get.
After glancing around and doubling back through the store, he saw a fountain in the middle of the mall, next to a carousel, with stale water resting in it. He pursed his lips, glancing around and seeing many clothing stores, and stores that would have some bathing necessities. He felt relief consume him, and he became giddy at the thought of being able to bathe and wash the stink of death off of his body, donning clean clothes afterwards. Sure, the water wasn’t the best, but it was something, and at that point, he would take whatever he could get. So after going about the stores, and finding new clothes, shoes, and bathing supplies, he peeled off his foul smelling, filth covered clothes and set them aside before climbing into the cool water. He kept an eye on his truck, which was in direct view of the fountain. He had not been able to bathe in months, since right after the outbreak and the opportunity to rid himself of the stench and sight of blood, dirt, and grime was simply heaven. While he was in the water, he also cut his now long hair, back to its previous, shorter version, feeling instantly better. After over half an hour of getting himself thoroughly clean, he dressed, went to the bathroom with a handheld razor and shaving cream and shaved his beard from his face.