Last Kiss

He swirled the last bit of vodka around the bottom of his glass. The ice cubes, shrunken to the size of dice, clinked pleasantly. He downed it quickly and placed the glass in the built-in holder on the left arm of his chocolate brown recliner.

The television buzzed quietly, the screen filled with black and white static as it had since the last emergency response public service announcement had gone off air. Three days ago, he thought. No, Ellen was bitten three days ago, so the screen went blank four days ago. Shame washed over him as he remembered how she’d gotten bit. He pushed that thought away.

“Michael, please come here.”

The words were faintly audible from the bedroom despite the eerie quietness of the apartment. His eyes darted to the shotgun lying on the dining room table, the break-action open at the hinge. Next to it a box of shells, 2.75-inch slugs, lay opened on its side, with several shells missing. No, it’s not going to come to that, he thought.

“Coming, dear,” he yelled. Grabbing the adjustable arm on the side of his chair he leaned back and then forward, using his momentum to close the footrest into the base and propel him up. The wooden frame groaned in protest.

As he waited for the brief vertigo to pass, he heard footsteps creak above his head. Stanley Jones in apartment 3B. The absence of insulation between the floors annoyingly amplified every sound. One blessing of losing access to cable was that he no longer had to listen to Stanley yelling at his TV. Michael smiled but then remembered that thing upstairs wasn’t the Stanley he used to know.

He had secured a kitchen chair under the bedroom doorknob, just in case. He yanked it out, turned the knob and slowly pushed. As the door swung open, he gagged from the fetid smell of putrefaction. It was like rotten garbage laced with formaldehyde. He waited a few seconds to let his eyes adjust as the only light was what spilled in from the living room.

His wife lay on her back on the left side of the bed. That was his side, which they both knew, but that didn’t really matter anymore. Her skin was sallow and shrunken tight against her skull, sweat soaked through her nightgown and beaded on her forehead.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and picked up her hand. It was cold, the paper-thin skin taut across fragile bones, blue veins rope-like along the top. He tried not to look at the wound on her opposite shoulder but couldn’t help glancing over. The soupy blackness, easily visible through the sheer nightgown, bubbled with pus. Its outer edge pulsed with subtle movement from the maggot-like creatures that infested the wound. He had stopped trying to clean it a day ago.

Her eyes fluttered open; she looked up at him through squinting eyelids. “Hey, I’m really thirsty,” she said. Her voice was quiet, hoarse, tired.

Grabbing the mug from the side table he gently placed the straw in her mouth. She sucked in a small mouthful of water, licked her dried lips, and lay back on the pillow.

“Michael, promise me you’ll take care of it when it’s time, then go” she whispered.

He wiped tears from his eyes as he shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, honey. Let’s just get you better and then we’ll figure out what to do.” His throat was suddenly dry.

“Promise me!” she said, somehow finding the strength to lift her head and quietly yell.

Nodding, he looked down at his hands and said, “I promise.”

Ellen’s head dropped back on the pillow. Her mouse-brown hair had a half inch of gray visible at the scalp line. It was disheveled and spread across the pillow, and gave a soft shushing sound as her head rocked fitfully from side to side. With her eyes now closed he couldn’t tell if she was still awake.

Leaning in, wrapping both of his hands around her cold left hand, he spoke quietly. “Ellen, I love you.” He paused to choke back a sob, swallowed hard and continued, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I am so sorry for..for..everything.” The last came out as a kind of squeak, his voice breaking. He leaned further over and kissed her forehead. The salty taste of sweat was bitter on his lips.

Her head stopped rocking and a shallow smile crossed her mouth. As he pulled away, she began rocking again.

Michael stood and walked quickly out of the room, wiping his eyes on the brown checkered sleeve of his flannel shirt. After closing the door, he propped the top edge of the kitchen chair snuggly under the doorknob. He double checked by wiggling the chair. It was secure.

Pausing in the living room he looked quickly at the shotgun, bit the side of his bottom lip with his top incisor and heard Stanley aimlessly shuffle across the floor above. He went into the tiny kitchen, trying to recall the last time he’d had anything. A half-eaten can of chili sat on the Formica counter. Dinner, last night, he thought. The awful smell of the bedroom lingered in his mouth. He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat and grabbed the half gallon bottle of vodka, now nearly empty.

As he passed the large mirror on the living room wall, edged by a rectangular frame made from a series of interlocking waves painted faux gold, he looked at himself. Balding, overweight, but not too bad considering he was 72. Then he noticed the sagging flesh of his jowls. They spoke of too much worry and not enough to eat. Turning, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and plopped back into the recliner. The vodka jostled but didn’t spill.

He lit his cigarette using a Bic lighter emblazoned with the dark royal blue logo of the NY Giants. Inhaling deeply, he paused for a second and exhaled forcefully through his nose. She hates it when I do that, he thought, but it doesn’t really matter, I guess. As he gently leaned back into the chair, his hand landed on the arm rest with the cigarette still burning and his eyes slowly closed.

He and Ellen were outside the apartment below them, knocking on the front door. “Is everything okay?” he yelled. “Dr. Patel, are you okay?”

“Oh, Michael, I’m worried. Let’s just try to break it down.” Ellen had on her apron which she always wore when cooking dinner.

He laughed, imagining his back after smashing down a door. He’d be lucky to be able to walk up the stairs. “I’ll get the crowbar. Wait here.”

As he pried open the door, the jamb splintering with a loud crack, they heard an animal moaning sound from the apartment. He paused, looked at Ellen, who shrugged, and yanked on the crowbar one last time. The door popped open and slammed against the inner wall.

Dr. Patel, an emergency room resident at NYU, still wearing green scrubs, lurched at them from the middle of the room, arms outstretched. He’d transformed into one of those things after being bitten at work. Michael stumbled backward, horrified, and swung his arms wildly. He pushed Ellen forward in his haste to get back to the stairs. It was an accident, he tried to tell himself, but he knew that wasn’t quite true.

The thing bit Ellen in the shoulder; she screamed and flailed at the creature. Michael came to himself and crashed the crowbar into its head. The first blow caused it to freeze, denting its forehead. The second blow exploded through the skull halfway to the jaw. It tumbled backward onto the floor and stopped moving.

Bang!

Michael jolted awake with his heart racing. For a second he couldn’t remember where he was. The cigarette in his finger burned with a microscopic flash of orange red as the last of the tobacco was consumed. A thin spiral of smoke drifted lazily up toward the ceiling.

Bang!

Someone was pounding on the bedroom door. He snatched the glass and gulped a mouthful of vodka. Wiping the excess on his sleeve he scooted forward and lifted himself from the chair. The glass dropped from his hand and two tiny fragments of ice skipped out onto the carpet and melted.

He picked up the shotgun, loaded it carefully and snapped the barrel shut. It clicked loudly, ominously, giving a sound of grim finality. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed. Placing the gun back on the table he pressed his palms against his face and wept. Ellen, I am so sorry, please forgive me. Please, please, please forgive me. The silent cry echoed within him.

Bang!

Inhaling deeply he clenched his teeth and wiped his eyes one last time. He picked the gun up quickly and went to the bedroom, ripped the chair from under the doorknob and yanked open the door. The thing that used to be Ellen stood there staring at him with bloodshot light blue eyes. Evil, hostile eyes. It waited briefly, startled by the suddenness of his appearance.

Michael looked at her and hesitated. I can’t kill her. Oh Ellen, I can’t do it. Then she moaned, a low, growling, inhuman moan. Rage billowed up. He raised the gun and blasted it with both barrels. The headless thing crashed backward against the chest of drawers, darkness thankfully hiding most of the destruction.

He closed the door carefully, walked slowly back to his recliner dragging the smoking tip of the gun in one hand along the carpet and sat again. In the quiet he heard pounding from somewhere outside. Suddenly, a shattering of glass was followed by heavy footsteps in the hallway. Those things must’ve heard the blast of the gun. “Figures,” he whispered sardonically, speaking out loud.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He reached down and picked up the glass where it sat on the floor. Grabbing the bottle of vodka, he emptied it into his cup, wishing he’d gotten a couple more ice cubes before sitting down. He’d promised her he’d go and he was messing that up, too. Shaking his head, suddenly exhausted, he leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes. Vaguely he wondered how long it would take them to break through the front door. Who cares, he thought, she’s gone.