What We Left Behind (19 page)

The greaves on Steve’s arms have saved him. One of them hangs from his wrist, torn and chewed. We’re both dripping with sweat. Our eyes meet and we smile, satisfied with a job well done.

I start to say something witty when a zombie emerges directly behind Steve.

Steve must see the look of horror on my face as his eyes widen with terror in that fraction of a second before the zombie strikes. Life unfolds in slow motion. I can’t move quickly enough. It’s as though I’m wading through quicksand. I scream as Zee sinks his teeth into the side of Steve’s neck.

“Nooooo!”

Steve drops to one knee. He lashes out with his hand, trying to push the zombie away, but the creature savages his forearm.

I swing with all my might. My bat connects with the zombie’s face, crushing his jaw, nose, and cheekbone. Zee flies backwards into shelving and I lunge at him, swinging again and again, crushing his skull. I’m lost in a frenzy. Blood, bone, and brain fragments splatter across the concrete.

Steve staggers away from the carnage. He has his gun out. He’s pointing his gun at the shadows, but there’s nothing there. He turns, trying to find an attacker that’s already dead. He swings through 360 degrees, checking all approaches in the narrow aisle but there’s no one else. Steve stumbles, struggling to stay on his feet.

“Oh, dear God, no,” I say, dropping my bloody baseball bat and rushing to his side.

Steve slumps against the shelving and slides to the floor, knocking several boxes into the aisle as he grabs at them.

“I—I.”

“Don’t say anything,” I say, pulling out my pocketknife and cutting away his shirt so I can get a good look at his wound.

“I’m so sorry, Haze.”

His neck is a bloody mess.

Blood drips from the torn muscle on his arm, falling with rhythmic precision to the concrete floor. In the silence, I can hear each drop strike as though it were the firing of a cannon.

“No, no, no,” I say, opening my canteen and pouring water on his wounds. “Please, not you.”

“Haze.”

I fall to my knees before him.

“It’s not a bad bite,” I say, looking at the teeth marks in his soft skin. “I can clean it.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. We both know I’m stalling. I’m in denial, refusing to accept the bitter reality. He’s already dead and deep down I know that, but I can’t give up on him. This is Steve. My Steve. For me, it’s inhuman to abandon someone I love, and yet I’m reminded of the warnings we were given by our teachers—emotions make us weak. They were right. I am weak. I’m a wreck.

Zee has no emotions and that makes him strong, but caring is what makes us human. I cannot help but care for Steve.

I pull a strip of bandage from my pocket and fuss with the thick material, making as though I’m doing something important. I’m not, but at the very least, I can make Steve comfortable. I use my handkerchief to daub at his wound, washing the bite tenderly with a little water.

Steve’s hand rests on my forearm.

“Please,” he says. “Go.”

Tears well up in my eyes. I can’t speak. I shake my head and continue cleaning the bite.

“Haze.”

“I won’t leave you. I can’t.”

“You have to. You must. You need to go.”

“Stop saying that,” I say. I pour the last of my water on his wound. Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m sobbing. My fingers tremble.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats over and over in little more than a mumble.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say, sniffing through the tears. “It’s my fault. This is all my fault. You shouldn’t even be here.”

His head rolls back and he looks up at the ceiling. A strange sense of calm washes over him. I’m frantic. My hands are shaking uncontrollably but Steve is relaxed.

“You know what’s strange?” he asks.

I can’t reply. I want to say something but my throat closes up and I can’t speak. I sob quietly. My chest heaves as tears stream down my cheeks.

“For me, there’s a today, but there’ll be no tomorrow.”

“Oh, Steve.”

“Please,” he says, squeezing my hand. “You have to leave me behind.”

I’m blubbering like a fool. Sounds come out, but no coherent words.

“Do this for me . . . Please.”

I nod my head.

“You’ve got to survive, Haze. For me.”

“I will,” I manage.

I wipe my nose with the back of my shirtsleeve. Looking deep into his eyes, I blubber aloud, saying, “I love you.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing my hand.

Steve doesn’t say those three words I long to hear, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, deep down I know why. If he said, “I love you,” I’d never leave his side and he knows that. The longing in his eyes speaks louder than any words, and I love him all the more for his strength when I’m so weak.

I want time to stop. I want this moment to live on forever, but it’s already passed. Our yesterdays are gone. Our tomorrows will never come. Now is over before I have the chance to breathe again. Time is cruel. Steve knows. He squeezes my hand, pushing me gently away. My head drops.

Getting to my feet, I know what needs to be done. I pick up my baseball bat. I can feel the gun nestled in the small of my back. I stand in front of him silently, not sure what to say. I never thought life would come to this. I’m at a loss for words. I hate this. I don’t want this. But my wants are meaningless in the apocalypse. Our eyes meet and exchange more than words could ever convey.

Steve has his gun sitting on his thigh.

“Six shots,” he says, pulling the small leather pouch from around his neck and laying it beside him. He’s moving slowly and deliberately. Steve pulls a single, lonely bullet from the pouch and stands it on the concrete. “When you hear the seventh, you’ll know.”

I nod, sniffing and wiping my tears.

I have a box full of shells in my pocket. I could give him a dozen rounds, but I understand what he’s doing. Killing a dozen zombies wouldn’t accomplish anything. Drawing in hundreds with a few shots, that gives me a chance to escape. Six shots are all he needs. And the seventh is personal. It’s a farewell. The seventh is the one shot Steve wants me to hear. That final shot will take courage. One last shot to deny Zee his prize.

I lean down and kiss Steve on the forehead. My hair falls over his face. This is the last time we’ll see each other, the last time we’ll ever touch. I cannot help but linger, and then it is time. I stand up and walk away. I can’t look back.

Tears run down my cheeks. My lips quiver, but I keep walking. I feel cold. I feel as though I’m betraying the man I love, but I tell myself he would do the same. He wouldn’t want to. He wouldn’t like it. But he would walk away just the same. Such is life and death in the apocalypse.

Zombies growl.

I can hear them behind me, staggering in through the open rolling doors.

I climb the stairs to the mezzanine office, hoping to escape through a window. The stairs are made from steel grates and are noisy underfoot, but I’m past caring about stealth.

A shot rings out, and I cannot help but count aloud.

“One.”

Another shot echoes through the warehouse.

“Two.”

With each shot, the number seven creeps closer. I’d rather not hear that seventh shot. I’d rather be so far away it is nothing more than a whisper on the breeze, but I know I’ll hear that final shot all too soon.

A knot sticks in my throat. I feel like giving up. What’s the point? Why bother with life if all we feel is heartache? What else is there for me beyond today? I know these next few minutes will haunt me for the rest of my life, consuming me with regret. What could I do? What should I have done differently? A moment’s inattention cost Steve his life.

The door to the office is unlocked. The office is surrounded by windows, allowing a view of the warehouse and the road outside. I can’t see Steve from here, but I can see Zee.

“Three,” slips from my lips as another shot shakes the air, rattling the windows.

I’ve got to get away from here, and fast. Each shot attracts more zombies.

Several zombies on the footpath outside press against the glass windows. Like the zombies in the hotel, they don’t understand this invisible barrier. They try to reach out for me, but end up clawing at the slick glass. I can hear their fingernails scratching at the window. Cracks appear in the glass.

There’s a door at the back of the office. It must lead to a parking lot out back. I try the door, but it has a locked dead bolt. Maybe there’s a key. I begin searching through the drawers as more zombies peer in through the windows. They’re snarling, growling at me.

There’s no key. I’m frustrated, slamming drawers and frantically searching through filing trays, knocking papers on the ground. Dust swirls around me.

“I’m trapped,” I whisper as dark eyes watch my every move. There’s no way out. I’m about to give up and retreat to join Steve. We could make a last stand together. It’s better to die with someone than to die alone, I tell myself. The warehouse floor is swarming with zombies, but it’s not Zee that prevents me from joining Steve. It’s me. It’s my conscience. I can’t go down there. It would break his heart to know I didn’t escape. I can’t do that to him. I can’t crush the last hope of a dying man. If I am to die, I will die here alone, taking these monsters with me.

I set the box of shells on a desk by the door, readying myself for one last stand. As soon as I fire, zombies are going to begin pouring through the shattered windows.

“Four.”

I say the word in response to the deafening boom from the warehouse floor. I don’t want to think about how each shot brings that final, seventh shot closer. I try to ignore the numbers, but I can’t. Four—three shots remain.

I swallow the lump in my throat. My fingers instinctively close around my own necklace, feeling at the bullet beneath the leather. We’ve all thought about this one bullet. It’s impossible not to. But I don’t think any of us ever really believed it would come to this. I only hope David and Jane made it, but that’s wishful thinking. This was only ever going to be a one-way trip. Stupid. I am so stupid condemning my own friends to die for my stupid quest. Their loyalty, their friendship, it should have never meant their deaths.

“Five.”

I spoke, but involuntarily. It was instinctive, a reflex in response to the deafening crack of another shot.

I look up and see the old zombie—the watcher that stood on the grassy corner. All this time, she never moved. Not since we first laid eyes on her with the binoculars. Not with the cars and trucks screaming through the intersection. Not even when we came down the hill in the Caddy. But now there’s gun fire, she’s come over by the window and is peering in, watching me.

She stands to one side, well apart from the other zombies. Her face is gaunt. Green mold clings to one cheek. Her nose has been torn off. Her lips have peeled back and her gums have receded, revealing elongated, dark, stained teeth. She looks at me and then snarls, turning to face the horde. Without looking at her, they respond to her growl in unison and begin smashing the windows. Glass explodes inward, scattering across the floor.

I fire.

I fire again and again, killing three zombies within seconds. They fall out of sight only to be replaced immediately by more mindless monsters. I’m not counting my shots. I’m counting for Steve, not for myself. I’m waiting for his sixth and seventh shots. I keep firing until my gun runs dry and the hammer strikes at a spent shell.

The first of the zombies clambers through the broken window, climbing over the fallen bodies outside.

I eject my spent shells and grab six more rounds from the box on the desk. I’m past feeling. I’m a machine. I’m as inhuman as Zee. My hands play out a well-rehearsed routine, slipping six more rounds into the cylinder of my pistol without any regard for the zombies closing on me. I’m going to die. I know that. I accept it, and somehow that allows me to focus.

Three zombies have made it inside. Flies buzz around them. The zombies stink. They’re filthy. Their clothes are torn and dirty.

An elderly man, a young boy, and a middle-aged woman advance on me. Dried blood mats the hair of the woman, causing it to clump into putrid dreadlocks.

The woman is already on her feet. The other two zombies struggle to get up after tumbling through the window.

Three shots ring out.

Three bodies fall.

Blood pools on the floor.

Another zombie climbs through the window and I shoot him in the face. Blood and fractured fragments of bone fly out the back of his head, splattering across the window frame.

Two more zombies crash through a glass window, tumbling into the room beside me. I kill one of them with a shot to the back of the head, but my next shot is high and to the left, only wounding the second zombie. His shoulder hangs low as he straightens up. Blood oozes from the fresh bullet wound.

I hit the ejector rod on my pistol and six more brass casings bounce across the floor.

I can hear someone climbing the metal stairs from inside the warehouse. A zombie appears in the doorway and a shot rings out, but it’s not from my gun. I’m still slipping rounds into the block of the pistol.

“Six,” I say coldly.

Zee keels over the railing and falls from the stairs.

I snap the cylinder of my gun back in place as the wounded zombie lunges at me. I’m marching backwards, bumping into office furniture, firing one, two, three times before killing him. No sooner has he fallen than another zombie steps in behind him. I fire again, but I miss. I don’t think I’m afraid, but I must be because the gun shaking in my trembling hand says nothing of courage. I squeeze the trigger again, feeling another bullet explode out of the barrel, and Zee drops.

An eerie silence falls over the office. I can see zombies running toward the broken windows and I steel myself for another assault.

“Seven,” I say, but I’m not counting a seventh shot. I’m willing a seventh shot to occur. The report of that one final shot never comes. “Oh, please let there be a seventh.”

There’s no reply other than the growling of zombies climbing in through the shattered window. I should have taken the time to reload, but I’m distraught. I’m distracted by Steve. I care too much, I know that, but I can’t help myself. Even in death, I want him to be the Steve I knew and loved—strong and resilient. But there’s no seventh shot.