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 cant stop bleeding for the life of me. Doesnt 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, theres this damn throbbing. Like theres 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. Ive seen it happen enough theres no doubt in my mind how all this is gonna end. The only thing that keeps me guessing is how much longer Ive 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 theres 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 Ill be stuck somewhere between life and whatever happens once youve turned.

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

Everythings so clear now. Everythings so beautiful.

I suppose as far as last words go you cant do much better than that.

When her body went limp, I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldnt 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 wont be anyone around to do me the same favor. It was just me and Josie by then and Ive been traveling alone ever since. Maybe if I wouldve 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 wouldve happened. After all, having someone to watch your back usually aint such a bad thing.

But I was tired, ya know? Tired of getting to know people, tired of hearing about the pain theyve been through and the loved ones theyve 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 youre 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 hadnt knocked that tin can over or if youd been just a little more alert. Or a little quicker hopping over that wall. You try to sleep, but the questions dont 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 thats already begun to settle across their eyes. I reckon thatll be me soon enough, though.

But as long as I keep thinking it takes the edge off the pain a bit. Maybe thats 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 aint 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 its draining out of you nice and slow then theres not really much call for rushing through. So Im just gonna lay here and let my mind wander for a spell. Ill lay here and bleed and try not to moan too loud when the pain gets bad. And maybe, just maybe, Ill find that little piece of perfection Josie told me about or maybe Ill end up tasting the barrel of my pistol and painting the wall with my brains. Guess Ill 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 cant see me, that he doesnt even realize Im here. I tried to call out to him once. I shouted as loud as I could, Carl, its me. Josie. Im here sweetie. Im 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 dont mean simply the weight hes lost from going so long on so little. Its something else: almost as if theres something more than just blood leaking out of him; its like hes deflating right before my eyes and theres nothing I can do.

For what must be the thousandth time, I think this isnt the way its supposed to be. Carl shouldnt be here in this old shack with dust motes turning lazy circles in shafts of sunlight. His life shouldnt be spreading across the floor in an ever widening puddle and he shouldnt be dragging all the clothes from his rucksack in some feeble attempt to last just a few breaths longer, a few minutes more.

Id 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. Im not even sure places like that exist anymore but, if they do, thats exactly what Id wanted for him. And now I have to face the harsh reality: hell never be able to obtain that type of life. Or any life at all, for that matter. Hell end up like me. Or worse.

Im no fool. I know why he cant see me. I know Im 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 wouldnt 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.

Id 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 Id begin the entire cycle anew. And who knows? Perhaps, eventually, I may have.

But for a while there was only the darkness; Im not sure how much time had passed in this realm while I was sleeping in the great unknown. I only know that at some point I began to feel a tugging. When I was a child, there was a stream that ran through my backyard and I used to dip one leg into the cold water, just up to the kneecap, and feel the current as it surged around me. The sensation I felt in the void was similar to that, like there was a force acting against me, pushing from one direction while pulling from another. Thought began to return and there was a joy that cant be described to anyone still trapped within their fleshy prison: surely, my time had come I was being reborn.