They lived in a generic looking apartment building a little south-east of Coolidge Corner. It was nothing special compared to some of the others in the area, but it was a step up from ours. As we were approaching, I noticed the top floors of the building looked burned out, as if someone had set fire to it, possibly to destroy an infestation. All the windows on the top floors were blown out, the streaks of soot rising from them a testament to the fire's intensity. This impression was only enhanced by the way certain strategic windows on the bottom floors seemed to have be broken in for ventilation. Whoever did this really knew what they were doing.
My friends had lived on the second floor, so I hoped they had avoided the inferno at the very least. The windows leading to their apartment were broken in, not out, and the whole block seemed abandoned, even by the zeds. Despite myself, I was filled with hope they had somehow managed to make it safely out of the city, or had found a place nearby to hole up with some other survivors.
That's when I saw her. No. I have to keep reminding myself, I didn't see her. I saw a corpse. I saw a walking corpse. Sure, it was a corpse that looked, and even, in the subtlest of ways, moved like she used to. But, this was not her. Her life and what made her a human being faded long before this encounter.
I tried to remind myself of this as I stared through the windshield, down the street. Despite myself, for a moment I saw her sparkling blue eyes, at once mysterious and welcoming, staring back at me. I saw her beautiful auburn hair, parted to allow it to playfully obscure part of her face. I saw her skin, delicately pale with a subtle, healthy pink glow to it. I saw her striking features perfectly showcasing a smile that could melt your heart and dispel your troubles.
But no, as I continued to look, her eyes had grown pale and lifeless. Her hair was cast in to disarray, with patches ripped out from some unknowable trauma. Her skin was now a sickening pale bluish-grey, ripped and torn and in places hanging loosely from her once toned muscles. Her face was in ruin, torn asunder by fighting and feasting. As her stare continued, her mouth dropped open, and let out that ever spine-chilling moan.
I saw Ian turn to see where the moan was coming from and yelled for him not to shoot. He looked at me, that characteristic inquisitive half-smirk spreading across his face, and shrugged. I stopped the truck, far enough away from her that it would take her some time to shuffle over, and told Ian to watch out for other zeds and eliminate them as they appeared. I would handle this myself. I had to handle this myself.
I secured the parking brake, left the truck running, and opened the door. I stepped out on to a street I had walked many times in the past, standing now amidst broken glass and the scattered remnants of lives burned and abandoned. I know Ian had little idea what was going on, as he had never known her or my other friends in this area. Once, long ago, there had been plans to make the introductions. That time was long past.
I don't know if this is a common trait among survivors, or just a product of my own odd sensibilities. I've never asked Ian, though no doubt he will read this and comment to me on it later. However, whenever I go out on any mission, I always bring with me one particular gun, which I almost never use, and hardly even need to have. To most it would look like a secondary back-up, but even in a case of extreme life in death where no other option presented itself, I would hesitate to use it. It is better maintained and more cherished than my usual guns, though I keep spectacular care of those as well. It has only been fired a few times so far, and most of those shots were at the range to get the feel of it and make sure it was in proper working condition.
The bullets loaded in to this clip in this gun are each special. I've engraved a little saying on each of them that I will not include here. Each bullet is being saved for someone special in their time of greatest need. It is saved for the people in my group, should they ever fall, so that they are not cursed to wander after their deaths. It is saved for me, should my time ever come, so I can protect others from my own horrid rebirth. I now realize it is saved for something else that, though I knew it could happen, I had hoped never to experience. This gun, meant to prevent the turning of incredible people in to unspeakable monsters, would now also be an agent of cleansing for those I had found too late.
I leveled the gun, and took careful aim. This was my best weapon, both in quality and familiarity. I would not miss. I could not miss. As I put a light pressure on the trigger, her features shifted one last time to those I once knew and loved. I said goodbye. The gun discharged and I watched the bullet enter dead center on the forehead. She fell, blown back by the force, and the horrible moan died.
I walked over to the fallen creature, and pulled her in to the park across the street from what was left of her old home. Having moved her from the street, I now walked back to the truck, killed it, and dug out an e-tool we keep stored there, just in case. I told Ian to cover me, and the truck, while I took care of this. I saw him take up a strong defensive position, while I began to dig. Good old Ian, reliable as always.
The work was long an hard, but I endured, laying the body finally to rest and covering it over. I went over to her apartment building and knocked off a few appropriately sized pieces of metal, weakened and purified by the fire. I used them to fashion a crude cross to place at the head of the grave, and then, dirty, tired, and worn down, I went back to the truck. Ian, who had a relatively easy job of defending me while I worked, hopped in, and we started to wind our way back. We rode in silence, as I could not speak, and Ian knows me well enough to know when not to ask. We killed the truck as we got close, and Ian broke the silence by radioing for them to open the gate. We coasted the truck in and parked it.
I looked at my friends -- no, my family -- and tried my best to smile. I'm sure I failed. I turned before anyone could say anything and made my way inside and up here, locking the door behind me. I'm not sure what Ian will tell them, but I think he'll get the important parts. He may never understand what she meant to me, or what any of them mean to me, but he knows me well enough to guess.
It's taken me a while to compose this part of the story, hence how late it is now. I was able to calm down a bit when writing the first part, and get that out clearly and succinctly. This part of the story, however, provides no distraction or comfort. I can't get the images to stop playing in my head. I can't get her to stop shifting from life to un-death and back again. I've found some pictures of her out on the net, and have them open to try to lock in to the memories and forget the horror, but I'm not sure it is going to work.
Today was a hard day. We've had many hard days. Hopefully tomorrow will be peaceful and I can regain my strength and forge on. At least there's now one more soul in Boston that can rest peacefully, buried in a playground she used to look out on fondly everyday, in an improvised grave with no name to mark the person buried there.
If someone finds this grave, and wonders who it was, and if they should find their way here someday and read this story, her name was Rose, and it's a shame you never met her.
- B
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