William Rose - The Dead & Dying

Damn, but those bastards can put a hurtin’ on ya. Fucking things tore out a chunk of my side before I managed to pop a couple rounds in their heads and now I can’t stop bleeding for the life of me. Doesn’t seem to matter how much pressure I apply: these old t-shirts just keep soaking up the blood like drought-cracked earth hungry for rain.

Hurts like Hell, too. Imagine something rips a hole in your flesh about the size of a dinner plate. Then imagine tiny shards of broken glass get sprinkled around inside the wound before having rubbing alcohol splashed all about the gash. On top of all that, there’s this damn throbbing. Like there’s some sort of giant heart below all that torn meat and tissue, pounding as if it could somehow break free and plop right on out of my body.

Course, I know what this means. I’ve seen it happen enough there’s no doubt in my mind how all this is gonna end. The only thing that keeps me guessing is how much longer I’ve got: twenty minutes? A day? Never seen anyone last more than a couple of nights, no matter how hard they fight. Sooner or later those chills are gonna set in and then there’s gonna be a few moments where the pain just melts away. My body will be dead before my brain even knows what happened and for that brief bit of time I’ll be stuck somewhere between life and whatever happens once you’ve turned.

Just before Josie took her final breath, she said it was like she’d finally found the nirvana she spent her entire life looking for.

“Everything’s so clear now. Everything’s so beautiful.”

I suppose as far as last words go you can’t do much better than that.

When her body went limp, I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to see the light in her eyes flicker out. I pulled the trigger, felt the pistol kick, and tried to ignore that little tickle gunpowder puts in your nose. I wanted to remember her with that spark in her eyes, with the glow that somehow seemed to radiate from her pale skin, the corners of her lips turned slightly upward into a knowing smile….

‘Course, there won’t be anyone around to do me the same favor. It was just me and Josie by then and I’ve been traveling alone ever since. Maybe if I would’ve hooked up with some of the people I met on the way, maybe that Chinese fella or the little group that said they were heading to Paris Island; maybe then none of this ever would’ve happened. After all, having someone to watch your back usually ain’t such a bad thing.

But I was tired, ya know? Tired of getting to know people, tired of hearing about the pain they’ve been through and the loved ones they’ve lost and such. You share your stories with these people, you end up crying yourselves to sleep together, and sometimes even laughing when you can steal a moment. You share blankets and food and every emotion you feel throughout the day. Before long, you care about them. They become like family. Hell sometimes, like with Josie, you might even find yourself falling in love, as unlikely as that may seem. And for what? To see them pulled down by a mob of staggering corpses? To hear their screams as you’re torn between the urge to help and the instinct to run?

That first night without them is always the worst. You replay the whole thing again and again, trying to figure out if there was something you coulda done different. Maybe if you hadn’t knocked that tin can over or if you’d been just a little more alert. Or a little quicker hopping over that wall. You try to sleep, but the questions don’t stop and you keep seeing their faces, that expression that seems to plead for help and accuse all at the same time. And then you think of them out there, shambling through the darkness as they look at the world through the film of dust that’s already begun to settle across their eyes…. I reckon that’ll be me soon enough, though.

But as long as I keep thinking it takes the edge off the pain a bit. Maybe that’s why so many people talk to the dying when they have the chance. Not because they think the words can honestly reassure the person, but because they somehow know that any distraction is welcome. Shit, for a moment I found myself trying to count the cracks in the wall… but that ain’t quite the same. Got to about twenty-five before it felt like those teeth were ripping away at my skin all over again.

Maybe if you die quick, your life really does flash before your eyes; but if it’s draining out of you nice and slow then there’s not really much call for rushing through. So I’m just gonna lay here and let my mind wander for a spell. I’ll lay here and bleed and try not to moan too loud when the pain gets bad. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find that little piece of perfection Josie told me about… or maybe I’ll end up tasting the barrel of my pistol and painting the wall with my brains. Guess I’ll just hafta wait and see how this all plays out, ya know?

It breaks my heart to see him lying over there in so much pain. I wish I could wipe the beads of sweat off his brow or hold his hand and tell him everything is going to be okay; but I know he can’t see me, that he doesn’t even realize I’m here. I tried to call out to him once. I shouted as loud as I could, “Carl, it’s me. Josie. I’m here sweetie. I’m with you.” But all he did was press that bloody shirt tighter against his side and grit his teeth through the pain.

And he looks so much smaller now. A lot more so than when I first met him; and I don’t mean simply the weight he’s lost from going so long on so little. It’s something else: almost as if there’s something more than just blood leaking out of him; it’s like he’s deflating right before my eyes and there’s nothing I can do.

For what must be the thousandth time, I think this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be . Carl shouldn’t be here in this old shack with dust motes turning lazy circles in shafts of sunlight. His life shouldn’t be spreading across the floor in an ever widening puddle and he shouldn’t be dragging all the clothes from his rucksack in some feeble attempt to last just a few breaths longer, a few minutes more.

I’d hoped he would eventually make his way somewhere that resembled the way things used to be. A fortified town where he could have a little house and spend time gardening in the Spring, perhaps. I pictured him sitting on a porch swing at night, looking up at the stars overhead, and maybe thinking about how he had finally found the kind of life we had always dreamed about. I’m not even sure places like that exist anymore… but, if they do, that’s exactly what I’d wanted for him. And now I have to face the harsh reality: he’ll never be able to obtain that type of life. Or any life at all, for that matter. He’ll end up like me. Or worse….

I’m no fool. I know why he can’t see me. I know I’m dead. I remember when he closed his eyes and shot me: the way his hand trembled and the single tear that cleared a swath of clean skin through the grit and grime on his face; his bottom lip quivered and I remember being afraid that he wouldn’t actually be able to do it.

I was trying to part my lips, to let him know that it was okay, when he lowered his head and stiffened his body. The void washed over me instantly but I could hear my thoughts echoing, as if they were receding down an infinitely long tunnel: Thank you, my sweet… thank you….

I’d always thought I would be reincarnated when my time in this body had come to an end. I thought my spirit would inhabit another shell and I’d begin the entire cycle anew. And who knows? Perhaps, eventually, I may have.