One last kiss, my darling
By Adam Patterson
Copyright 2012 Adam Patterson
Cover design by Ping Pictures
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
"I've got to be strong."
His words filled the room. There was nothing to compete against it other than the tapping of rain against the window. The cigarette had almost burnt to the tip, but Frank Collins Jnr lifted it to his lips anyway, inhaling deeply, relishing in whatever the tobacco could give. He had a task to do - the hardest task of his life so far - and he had to be strong.
Lying across the floor with her head cradled in his lap was his wife, Cheryl. Her eyes were shut and she looked as though she was sleeping, but Frank knew better. He used to enjoy watching her while she slept - especially in the early days before his busy working life rendered him too tired to do so - because she looked so peaceful. So innocent.
Finally he dropped the burnt-out tip into an empty soda can before reaching awkwardly around his body for the rapidly diminishing cigarette packet. Four months ago (was it really only four months ago?) he and Cheryl had both kicked the habit together. They had done this only two weeks before the virus outbreak. What bad timing, eh? But now, what was the point?
Frank sticks the new cigarette in his mouth with total automation before lighting it, although he now no longer bothers to draw from it but lets it hang limply from between his lips. His eyes could not help but gaze down at his wife. Yes, she looks so peaceful. So innocent. Except for the large hole in her throat, she was the perfect picture of tranquillity. He reached down and brushed a few strands of her dark brown hair from her face. Her skin was slightly warm still, for it was not long ago when she?
Frank looked away, up at the window where the rain ran in tiny, neat rivulets. Normally he would hear gunshots echoing from all over the city of New York, but today it seemed abnormally peaceful, as if the whole world was in mourning. Maybe, because of the bad weather, most people were lying low rather than be out hunting, although the living dead had no such qualms about the rain, the wind and the cold. The living dead never seemed to be bothered about anything. Except for hunger.
Was that a twitch he felt? Frank's eyes darted down to the body of his wife and he studied her keenly for what seemed an eternity. No. It was just his imagination. Or was it rigor mortis? How many hours did it take before that natural process set in? He did not really care to know. All he knew was that he had a terrible task ahead of him, and he had to find the courage from somewhere to do it.
Finally, Frank drew deeply from the burning cigarette, sucking in a lungful of tobacco. He wished he had alcohol. He wished he had heroin or coke or anything stronger in order to do what he had to do. God, she looked so peaceful. How could he do it to her?
As he began to reach out for the knife on his left, Frank's mind returned to the time when they had spent the first night in their new home together two weeks before they got married. Their house was a far cry from the apartment where he now sat, even in its undecorated state. He remembered with a pang of sorrow how they had both worked hard to make that house their own, and how they had transformed it into a home of their dreams. A weak but definite smile managed to brighten Frank's face at the memories of their first night snuggled in their new bed - a bed that embraced the passion that only lovers could give.
Now he drew the kitchen knife slowly away from the floor and around her head, as if he did not want her to see. If he had a gun, then it would be so much easier. Yet again, even if he only had to press a button from fifty miles away to do the task, he would still find it hard.
How could he do it? How could he drive a knife into his beautiful wife's skull with his own hand to stop her turning into?into??
Into one of them.
The knife that slowly and unsteadily rose towards her head suddenly collapsed back onto the worn carpet with a light thud. His brain was spinning now, spinning with a jumble of thoughts that screamed out at him like opposing devils and angels, some willing him to continue with his grisly duty, some begging him to refrain. These last few months, Frank had 'killed' the living dead so many times that he could not even estimate the number he had shot, beheaded or burnt. Like in the countless horror movies he had endured in his bachelor days, the only way to stop these reanimated corpses from returning was to destroy the brain or separate it from the body.
At the beginning, during the first two weeks of running and hiding in fear across the city with his wife, he was reluctant to confront the walking dead. Even the thought of killing a human being, although already officially dead, seemed impossible to stomach. But one day Frank, Cheryl and a small band of survivors became trapped in a high-rise building after a horde of them broke through their barricade. He then had no other choice but to hack, stab and shoot his way to freedom. Even his wife, armed only with a fire axe, had dispatched a number of them as she followed him down the stairwell. It was a simple case of kill or be killed, and shortly afterwards they had both joined a team of hunters that roamed the city in vehicles or on foot to 'clean' the streets.
Frank suddenly realised he was crying again. There were no tears this time, unlike when he first dragged the bleeding, writhing body of his wife up the steps to this very apartment many hours ago. After what seemed an eternity of suffering, Cheryl finally passed away cradled in his arms as he sat in the same spot as he did now, feeling helpless and hopeless as he sobbed and wailed like a child. Just before she died, she looked calmly up into his eyes and asked him to take care of her when she was gone - to not allow her become one of them. Then she told him that she loved him, and although he was desperate to tell her that he loved her too, Frank's larynx had become so rigid that he could barely breathe, let alone speak. All he could do was hold her tightly as the tears, saliva and snot ran down his face and the back of his throat, his face burning red from the heat of his blood.
He only knew the moment she died when her body completely relaxed, her face becoming a portrait of peace as she continued to gaze up at him. What seemed like hours later, when he was finally able to stop sobbing, he slid a hand from under her head and gently brushed her eyelids closed.
Now Frank's eyes were clear for him to look upon Cheryl's face yet again, even though he was crying. Could one become completely drained of tears? He now believed so. These days Frank could believe in anything.
The near burnt-out butt of the cigarette dropped from his mouth and landed onto the carpet where its glowing tip slowly died. He had completely forgotten about it, his attention focused solely on his wife's face. She was still beautiful, even in death. Her eyelids were still tightly closed, and once again, Frank marvelled on how she appeared to be sleeping.
Maybe she was. Maybe they were both sleeping someplace, huddled together while he was having the worst nightmare of his life.
Somehow, his mind began to drift back in time again. Now he was reliving the sad day when Cheryl miscarried at three months. They were both devastated, and since then she never fell pregnant again. Frank found himself wondering how things would have been if their child - a son - had lived. Maybe some of the pain and loneliness to come would be easier to endure with another loved one - somebody who was a part of her. Yet again, how could he have taken care of a child who would only be a few years old? How could he protect one so vulnerable if he could not even protect Cheryl?
No, it was better this way. This was no longer a world in which to raise a child. This was now a world filled only with death.
Before he even realised wh
at he was doing, Frank snatched his hand upwards again and brought the tip of the knife to Cheryl's left eyelid. DO IT! DO IT! DO IT NOW! His mind screamed at him from deep within his head like an alien voice, willing him, commanding him, tormenting him. DO IT AND IT WILL ALL BE OVER! JUST?!
Oh, but how could he mutilate the one he loved so dearly? How could he do such a thing to her? How?
Frank's hand, shaking violently now, collapsed weakly back to the floor again. The weapon rolled away from his sweating palm and came to rest by his outstretched foot. He then threw his head backwards, knocking the base of his skull against the wall, sending stars exploding across his vision. He opened his mouth and emitted a long, torturous wail as he continued to bash his head again and again until he was sure he would