had transpired. This eerie awareness of Ian’s shortcomings was actually guilt that filled Ian. His freshly undead friend was truly just a zombie with only one need or care, to feed. But guilt is a powerful thing.
Even though hardly a week has passed, his memories of the living Grant have faded quickly. When people you love are alive and reachable for an afternoon conversation, it’s easy to think of all the times you’ve been together and all of the fun you’ve had on other occasions. But as soon as they have left the living world, only tidbits of their life and what they meant to you bubble to the surface of your memory. It might be a unique gesture, an oft-repeated phrase, or a scent that clung to them. Ian is having difficulty remembering any of it.
In an effort to recall something more than Grant’s anger in the end, Ian pulls his legs in tight, rests his forehead on his knees and wraps his arms around his body. He closes his eyes and searches his memory.
• • •
Tell us, Ian. What did your best friend look like?
“He had very dark hair, blacker than black if that is possible,” Ian says into the darkness. “He rarely washed it. It was oily and shiny, like crow feathers. He was tall. My Mom measured us both at our house since Grant’s mom didn’t do nice things. He had five inches on me. The features of his face were chiseled. When he smiled, lines formed at the corners of his mouth. He could pass for 25. I think his fake id said that anyway. He used it for beer.”
• • •
Grant had been handsome before he was dead. More handsome than Ian. The girls at school chased Grant, but always regretted it. They labeled him a “jerk” or a “total asshole.” He was loyal only to Ian. Ian, with an extra twenty pounds on his waistline, was not the pick of the litter, but he was a much nicer person than his friend. Regardless, the girls he liked never liked him back. You might get a half decent guy if you combined Ian’s personality with Grant’s body. Separate they were nothing, which is partially why surviving without him was extra difficult for Ian.
He lost half of himself when Grant died, when he killed him.
• • •
How did you kill him, Ian? We’re supposed to be talking about that. You won’t make any progress if you avoid the story. How did it start?
“I was sitting next to his body, waiting for it to move again.”
• • •
Grant had been killed once and now he would rise again. How quickly Grant would turn, Ian wasn’t sure. There wasn’t a science to it as far as he knew. So he sat down on the floor near him and looked around at the shitty house in which his best friend had just died. There on the floor, Ian could feel a draft of cold air coming under the back door. He got to his feet, grabbed the dusty tablecloth from the unused dining room and rolled it into a long tube. It fit the breezy gap well and helped cut down on the wind significantly.
They had talked many times in the past about the proper way to kill one another in the event of infection. A blade of any kind was too personal and messy. Both agreed on a gunshot wound to the brain, effective and easiest for the living party. Only Ian hated guns and he didn’t have one anyway. Any gun they’d found was useless to them.
• • •
So, you were going to leave him? Let him rise and walk alone, forever in this house?
“I knew there had to be a better house than this one, maybe even in the same neighborhood. But it was cold outside and getting colder. I was scared of going out with no one to watch my back.”
You decided to stay and take care of it.
“He would have done the same for me. I needed to find something to re-kill him with.”
• • •
Ian wandered the first floor of the house in search of a weapon that would be easy to wield and tough enough to break a skull with minimal effort. This would have been a normal time for him to cry, but he was in shock and there was still work to be done, so he had
Even though hardly a week has passed, his memories of the living Grant have faded quickly. When people you love are alive and reachable for an afternoon conversation, it’s easy to think of all the times you’ve been together and all of the fun you’ve had on other occasions. But as soon as they have left the living world, only tidbits of their life and what they meant to you bubble to the surface of your memory. It might be a unique gesture, an oft-repeated phrase, or a scent that clung to them. Ian is having difficulty remembering any of it.
In an effort to recall something more than Grant’s anger in the end, Ian pulls his legs in tight, rests his forehead on his knees and wraps his arms around his body. He closes his eyes and searches his memory.
• • •
Tell us, Ian. What did your best friend look like?
“He had very dark hair, blacker than black if that is possible,” Ian says into the darkness. “He rarely washed it. It was oily and shiny, like crow feathers. He was tall. My Mom measured us both at our house since Grant’s mom didn’t do nice things. He had five inches on me. The features of his face were chiseled. When he smiled, lines formed at the corners of his mouth. He could pass for 25. I think his fake id said that anyway. He used it for beer.”
• • •
Grant had been handsome before he was dead. More handsome than Ian. The girls at school chased Grant, but always regretted it. They labeled him a “jerk” or a “total asshole.” He was loyal only to Ian. Ian, with an extra twenty pounds on his waistline, was not the pick of the litter, but he was a much nicer person than his friend. Regardless, the girls he liked never liked him back. You might get a half decent guy if you combined Ian’s personality with Grant’s body. Separate they were nothing, which is partially why surviving without him was extra difficult for Ian.
He lost half of himself when Grant died, when he killed him.
• • •
How did you kill him, Ian? We’re supposed to be talking about that. You won’t make any progress if you avoid the story. How did it start?
“I was sitting next to his body, waiting for it to move again.”
• • •
Grant had been killed once and now he would rise again. How quickly Grant would turn, Ian wasn’t sure. There wasn’t a science to it as far as he knew. So he sat down on the floor near him and looked around at the shitty house in which his best friend had just died. There on the floor, Ian could feel a draft of cold air coming under the back door. He got to his feet, grabbed the dusty tablecloth from the unused dining room and rolled it into a long tube. It fit the breezy gap well and helped cut down on the wind significantly.
They had talked many times in the past about the proper way to kill one another in the event of infection. A blade of any kind was too personal and messy. Both agreed on a gunshot wound to the brain, effective and easiest for the living party. Only Ian hated guns and he didn’t have one anyway. Any gun they’d found was useless to them.
• • •
So, you were going to leave him? Let him rise and walk alone, forever in this house?
“I knew there had to be a better house than this one, maybe even in the same neighborhood. But it was cold outside and getting colder. I was scared of going out with no one to watch my back.”
You decided to stay and take care of it.
“He would have done the same for me. I needed to find something to re-kill him with.”
• • •
Ian wandered the first floor of the house in search of a weapon that would be easy to wield and tough enough to break a skull with minimal effort. This would have been a normal time for him to cry, but he was in shock and there was still work to be done, so he had
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