Freedom by Sunrise

He died before the sun rose while I slept. 

The exhaustion had finally won. It had been tugging at my consciousness since I dragged him in through the door. I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, held in its embrace until the first tendrils of morning light worked their way into the room, draping themselves across the foot of the bed. 

I stirred, my limbs still heavy as I watched the light inch across the white blanket I had tucked around him in an attempt to make him comfortable. It felt like every other morning, except it wasn’t. This morning was different. This wasn’t our bed, this wasn’t our room, and this wasn’t our house. Slowly the memories of the day before unfurled, quickening my heart and stealing my breath. 

We hadn’t evacuated with the others when the first wave of the Canis flu reached our town. There was so much misinformation, I hadn’t known what to believe, but I had been scared. Anger had colored his decision to stay though. He refused to give up the home he had always known for the lies he said the news anchor spun. I had kept my lips closed, afraid to insult his pride. In the end, we were both fools.

The howls had ripped us from our sleep. He’d leapt from the bed right for the shotgun, adrenaline already burning the sleepy haze from his eyes. I followed him down the stairs and tried to still my quaking hands. They said it was like the flu, but I’d seen the news reports, I’d seen what became of those infected. They ran mad like crazed animals—no longer human, but some twisted imitation of man and dog.

A scratch at the door brought us both to stillness, him clutching the gun and me half hidden behind the recliner. Fear clenched my lungs, holding them captive against my pounding heart. 

“We should go.” I stumbled toward the kitchen as another howl sounded from right outside the front bay window. 

He grinned and shook his head. Always too proud to think about anyone more than himself. 

“I got this.” He turned from me and raised the shotgun to his shoulder. 

After ten years of marriage, I should have known he wasn’t the hot shot he thought he was. They shattered the door, and we ran and ran and ran until he stumbled. I hadn’t noticed the blood in our frantic escape. His shirt was soaked through and eyes already yellowing as he fell to his knees with a plaintive cry. I almost left him, almost kept running. It would have served him right. But some sense of compassion overcame me, and I wrestled him to his feet. It was luck this house was empty and unlocked. Luck the dogs hadn’t given chase. 

And now, we laid in a stranger’s bed, his blood staining the sheets as I watched the sun filter through the curtains. Entranced by the patterns the light cast, I couldn’t bring myself to move. From my position, I couldn’t see his face, and my nagging thoughts told me I needed to see him. In my gut, I already knew he was gone, his soul had departed in the night. His body was cold next to mine, even the blood soaking the bed was congealing into ice. 

Eventually, curiosity took me, and I stretched out on my side, clutching at the blanket tangled around me. Tilting my head, I let my eyes brush over his features still cast in darkness. He would wake when the light touched his skin, I told myself, tucking my hands beneath my chin to wait. 

I expected a barrage of emotion to choke me as I waited, but all I felt was peace as I laid in the quiet of the morning. This was the first time in years a suffocating sense of dread hadn’t weighed me down. Even before the flu, there was always a dark cloud looming, one I couldn’t escape. 

The shafts of light played with the shadows, chasing them as they crept across his form, finally touching the planes of his face, highlighting everything I had once found handsome. Everything the virus had twisted and left grotesque. His eyes were closed, hiding the yellow that had overtaken his sclera. Blood had seeped from the pores of his face, drying to a dark brown. If I squinted, I could almost pretend they were freckles.

The sun’s light finally reached his hair. The remaining patches gleamed red as the rays trailed over the strands, crawling up the headboard and the wall beyond. 

His eyes remained closed even bathed in the warmth of the morning. His chest was still beneath the sheet. Tentatively, I raised a hand, touching the skin of his face. It was cool under my fingertips.

He was gone.

I hesitated a moment before I pressed my lips to his cheek in a silent goodbye and slipped from the bed. Carefully, I crossed the room stepping on only the shadowy patches as I made my way to the door. I probably should have been more worried that I was sick too, but the world had gone to shit and now I was free. 

I paused and turned back. Sunlight streamed in through the tall arched windows, slipping between the white, gossamer curtains. His eyes were still closed, face slack and serene as if he were just dreaming. I tried to find some thread of remorse, some deepening sadness at the loss, but my heart continued to beat. The clouds that once darkened my horizons were banished with the morning light. 

Downstairs, the shotgun was still on the floor where I’d dropped it the night before in my struggle to carry him inside. I picked it up and slung it over my shoulder. He’d never taught me how to shoot, that wasn’t a woman’s place, but I’d watched him. I’d watched him for years. If this virus wasn’t going to kill me, I sure as hell wasn’t going to die at the hands of another dog. 

            I took a deep breath and stepped out into the sunshine.