markson721

I thought that in order to break up the monotony of my blog posts of the zombie serial novel I am working on I'd post the original story that got me started working on the zombie serial. I guess seeing as how this is actually the story that started it all its not exactly a diversion from the zombie story but something new with different characters. This was originally submitted for a local short story contest with the local alternative press. I was not one of the finalists who was featured in print but i still feel like its a decent story. The short story contents had only one requirement, that the topic be inspired by two simple words, "the end." I hope you enjoy.

Staring out across the expanse of wet sand the iconic rock pillar of Cannon Beach beckoned like the curled finger of a mistress. It called to me to hold it like a child clutching its mothers hand. It begged me to follow it to hell. The devil doesnt have any horrors down there worse then what Im living in this moment. Why dont we have a drink first I think.
I walked with the stumbling footfalls of an out of practice drunk down the beach. My grip on sanity is not nearly as firm as my grip on the wine bottles in my right hand. They are my only companions on this trek. One bottle is dry as a bone, the other sloshing the last quarter of its contents around with every staggering step. The waves rolled in and out creating an unintelligible murmuring crowd. A party, for me? What a sad thing to celebrate. The grey clouds churn above my head like a washing machine. Has heaven already started grieving or is that soon to come?
The rain came in the night and washed away any trace of existence. A bleary eye cast about the beach proves mine are the only tracks to see. December on the Oregon coast was like that. Abandoned. The murmur of the waves grows louder as I marched in a meandering line towards the surf. The wind blows in the closer I get, the salty air drying my mouth and lips as it fills my lungs. A strong gust knocks me backwards. I fall into a sitting position on the sand. The bottles clanged together but remained upright. The ocean keeps pushing the surf towards my feet but fail to grasp me with their cold hands. The waves continue to struggle against the celestial chains of the moon and her pull on the tide. I pulled the yellow paper from me pocket. It is perfect, I have spent enough time writing it but I need to see them again. I need to fill myself with the courage that these words give to me.
For us it happened on Christmas Eve. We had been running from the plague for weeks. We had abandoned our home and traveled to the Tri-cities, then Portland, and finally the coast. Having escaped the metropolis of Portland and the growing number of plague drones there we felt safe for the first time nestled against the shores of the coast. The tourists had long since left Cannon Beach. We thought that most of the surviving locals would have gone inland to find refuge. Where they were they werent here. We were alone or so we thought.
We were scouring the hotel looking for food and other supplies when my wife was bitten. It was a small bite but the fangs of those wretched creatures carried a disease we couldnt cure. My wife wore the shocked mask of a person confronting the Reaper even as I bashed in the skull of that sub-human thing. She looked through me like a window as I stared at her. I couldnt hide the pity in my eyes. The sadness there, the knowledge of what was coming for her. The terrified look on her face said she wanted to run from her fate. We both knew she couldnt.
We had taken our first vacation after marrying on the Oregon coast and had stayed in this hotel. We found the honeymoon suite empty and we settled in. I wanted to continue looking for supplies but she wouldnt let me out of her sight. Tears silently cascaded down her cheeks every time I made a motion towards the door.
Dont leave me, she said, I dont want to wake up alone or as one of those things. Just stay.
My wife, who through our short marriage had asked for so little from me; was asking me just to be with her. To be near her as the minutes of her life slipped away to the quiet ticking of my watch. The watch she had bought for me our first Christmas together. I told her Id stay until she fell asleep like I did when I use to work nights.
She fell asleep in minutes. Her breathing was normal, not the ragged convulsive breathes of those on the brink of dying. I got up off the bed and slipped out barring the door from the outside. I didnt find much on the hunt. Extra pillows and blankets mostly. The hallways were devoid of light but filled with the stench of spoiled food and decomposing bodies I moved towards the basement. I hadnt noticed the smell of the dead before but then I had only been thinking of my wife and the agony painting her face.
Reaching the kitchen and store rooms I finally found food. Canned fruits and vegetables but no meat, hell even spam would be a treasured find at this point. There were candles haphazardly scattered across the counters and a large wine refrigerator left open. We had ordered wine the night we stayed here and I found nearly a dozen bottles of the vintage. I grabbed one. I grabbed some spare silverware and headed back upstairs with my haul.
I gently nudged my wifes shoulder until she woke up. Her skin was growing cold, a sign that the disease was progressing. With spare pillows I propped up her leg hoping to slow the poison and added two blankets over the beds comforter. We dined by candlelight, a picnic at the end of the world. I fed her peaches from a can and held the wine to her lips so she could drink until she said she was full. I didnt bother eating. I wasnt hungry.
Honey, she said in a gentle but strained voice. I had never heard that sound pass her lips before. It wavered like the flames of the candles around the room. My eyes started to water at the pained sound of that sweet voice. Honey, please dont let me become one of those things.
We had talked about this before on our fight for survival. The creatures, whatever they were had lost their humanity. They feed on blood, their faces carved by starvation, eyes sunken in with the torture of existing without a soul. What they were we didnt know. Not zombies, they still had some semblance of intelligent thought left but they werent human anymore. Her words asked me for something we had both been willing to do during hypothetical discussions over the smoldering embers of a fire. During those nights I knew if it came to it id be nearly impossible for me to release her. I was even less sure now, because it was her and I didnt want her to go.
Its going to happen soon, She said. I dont want to have memories of fighting against inevitable death. I want the memories of our first and last meal as husband and wife to be the ones I die with. Her voice wavered slightly, was she having second thoughts or was she afraid of how easy it was to ask for this?
I didnt want to get off the bed. The time stretched on for who knows how long.Tthe hard impact of her open palm against my chest finally waking me from my paralysis. Her eyes begged.
I got off the bed and went to my pack. I pulled out the gun, something stolen off a dying man weeks before. There werent many bullets left. Holding the cold metal in my right hand, feeling the crushing weight of what I was unwilling to do but couldnt stop myself from doing squeezing the last visages of humanity out of my body. I returned to her bedside. I couldnt deny my wife anything she asked for. Even this thing.
Her eyes were sad. For herself, for me, for us both? She knew how much I loved her though I hadnt said it enough in the few short years wed been together. I Knew Id be saying it for the last time. She pressed a pillow over her face more for me then for her. The gun was in my right hand. It trembled uncontrollably. More than a small part of me fighting against her dying wish. Were my trembling hands some divine sign to turn away from this plan? No, god would have spared us from the evil trappings of the world we were living in if he existed.
Afraid of missing, afraid of causing her pain when her request was about ending her suffering I brought my left hand up and grabbed the gun. The metal steadied in my hands. I will always love you, I said. I closed my eyes turned my head away. The gun pointing at that pillow would not be the last memory of my living wife. I pulled the trigger. A second later another angel float to heaven freed from the sorrow of this imperfect world.
Over the course of the next week I wrote. By the time I was done the hotel floor was littered with balled up discarded messages only vaguely able to capture my thoughts. I spent my nights sleeping next to her. I couldnt leave her. Not until I was ready.
This is not a confession. Not an admission of guilt. I am weighted down by sadness but my conscience is clean. Im writing this so you will understand that when I looking at the end of my world I saw no reason to continue. At the end of the world I was afraid to be alone.
I spent last night getting drunk out of my mind on the wine my wife and I had shared our first night as a married couple and our last night together. Two of the bottles rest in the wet sand next to me. The ocean continues to rumble in my ears even as it beats a slow retreat. The flecks of water from the clouds or the ocean sting my face. Salt fills the air and my nostrils. I grab the bottle with precious little wine left and swallow the rest in three healthy mouthfuls. I let it fall to the sand. Littering is the least of my concerns now. I grab the second one and start marching towards the water.
The harsh bite of the cold Pacific steals the warmth in my muscles the wine had fueled. I dont stop until I am waist deep in the water. I grab the bottle and set it between my ribs and my elbow like a vise and pluck the cork out of the top.
I pry off my wedding ring and drop it down the bottles throat. The reverberating ping is satisfying in my ears. I roll the yellow paper with my message up like a cigar and stuff it violently down the bottle neck. I replace the cork and slam it down the throat of the bottle with my palm. Holding the bottle by the neck I toss it end over end into the dark waters of the ocean hopeful that somewhere someone is still alive to read my story and care about gentle lives lost.
My penance complete I pulled the gun from my pocket with the speed of a sober man. The gun is against my head. My finger on the trigger. My eyes close on a nothing filled world.
The gunshot echoes up the coast, the sharp crack of the gun an exclamation point at the end of my sad existence.