When The Light Goes Out (49 page)

"No."

"What?!" Malachi suddenly sounded alarmed. "Why?!" "I want to see her suffer."

And if her turning into a zombie, the way I'd seen that young girl turn way back during the first night of this catastrophe, wasn't just the one thing I wanted to see most in the world. The process had seemed so painful way back then, before I'd had any real experience whatsoever. It had seemed so terrible, so gruesome, and at the time I wouldn't have wished it on anyone else in the world. But now I was wishing it on the little bitch who was bleeding to death in her dead grandpa's lap.

Yes, it made me a murderer. Yes, the thought of being a murderer brought tears to my eyes. But killing that terrible man, watching this woman die, just to kill her again, I would have willingly made it my dying wish. I was, dare I say, happy. Except for the fact that I was disappointed that I couldn't do away with Luke as well. That had been done for me.

"Hey, Kai?" "Yeah?"

"Go get Blazs cane." "Why?"

I clicked the gun.

"Somewhere along the way we ran out of bullets. Either way, knifing her zombie body seems like it would be more amusing." And didn't it just?

Serena: Black hair, black eyes. Estimated age, twenty five. Deceased. Killed by way of zombie attack, disposed of by cane sword Excel and Malachi. Jared: Whitish blond hair, blue eyes. Estimated age, twenty six. Deceased. Killed by way of zombie attack, disposed of by cane sword Excel and Malachi.

Luke: Redish brown hair, brown eyes. Estimated age, twenty six. Deceased. Killed by way of injection of the RVirus administered accidentally by Serena, disposed of by bludgeoning Billy.

Wolfgang A.K.A Billy: Gray hair, brown eyes. Estimated age, dust

Malachi stabbed me roughly with his finger, appearing sorrowful for only a second when I cringed away and groaned. He'd been helping me write in my journal, originally doing the writing for me until I had a fit, and demanded I get to write it myself. I was the owner of the journal. Not him. We'd already decided that, depending on which one of us died first, the second would write a final farewell in the small notebook. I swear, we were about to move onto writing in blood, with the way I'd been taking notes. I'd written about every person I'd met on my terrible journey, detailed manners of death, and disposal. Everything we knew about the virus was documented, and we even wrapped the vials of "antidote" in a chunk of cloth, and attached them to the book for whoever found it in the future.

Watching Serena turn had been more enjoyable than I originally hoped. Except we didn't re-dead her as well as we originally thought, and she'd crawled over to bite Pixie when we weren't paying attention. You can imagine my heart break when we gave the young girl the antidote, immediately, but all she did was turn maybe ten seconds later. It was Malachi who came to the conclusion that, when Criss, or Serena or whoever identified the virus that was causing the zombies in their studies, in the first place, they hadn't made an antidote from it, just concentrated the virus. However, they'd also probably done this by accident. I almost died when we had to kill Pixie.

But now we were sitting there, Malachi reading over my shoulder, as we documented the dead bodies in the room around us. "Well," I demanded, "How old do
you
think he is?"

"Mark him at sixty."

"He
has
to be older than sixty."

"Fine then, range him sixty to seventy." "Better."

Wolfgang A.K.A Billy: Gray hair, brown eyes. Estimated age, sixty seventy. Killed by gun shot wound to the forehead Excel.

Rowan A.K.A Pixie: Red hair, green eyes. Age eight. Killed by accidental injection of the RVirus administered by Excel, disposed of by cane sword Malachi.

I closed my eyes, deciding I didn't want to write anymore just yet, and willingly handed over the book so Malachi could finish. I was hungry, but neither of us were willing to resort to cannibalism. Not with infected bodies, first of all. And secondly, we didn't want to be like the zombies. Living zombies. No, neither of us could do that knowingly. The very thought churned my stomach, and I would have thrown up if not for the fact that there was nothing in me
to
throw up.

"How much longer do you think we'll make it?" I asked quietly, laying on the arm that didn't burn. The bullet wound, Malachi had decided, was infected. But, the regular pus filled kind, not the exceptionally gross, "you're going to be a zombie soon," kind. Except I probably was
infected
, even more so than I had been. Blood had probably gotten into the open wound while sleeping on the floor. We didn't have the materials to sew it up, so I decided it was fine the way it was, covered in a strip of cloth. "How much longer do we have?"

"Not long." "Good." "Good?"

"No one is going to get here, and save us," I explained. "All we are is fresh meat for the zombies out there. I've had to kill my friends. We've had to kill our friends. And the only thing keeping me from taking you out of your misery, the only thing keeping you from taking me out of mine, is that fact that neither of us want to outright commit suicide."

"I figure," Malachi joked, "If there's a heaven, why fuck your chances of getting in even worse than you have, right?" "Right."

The silence was thick, and it was the fact that most of the zombies seemed to have retreated from the stuffy building we were in. There were just three or four weak sounding creatures outside our door, sounding even more weak and pitiful by the second. We weren't willing to risk opening the door though. Several times, I'd attempted to get up to the window, but I was entirely unable to stand for such a long period of time, Malachi always told me there was nothing suspicious outside, so we didn't need to worry.

"Oh," I muttered, "What I wouldn't give for a pigeon right now."

The young man laughed, but other than that he kept writing. Lifting a hand above my head, I was able to latch onto the windowsill, pulling myself to my knees over the course of ten minutes. I was in so much pain from my wounds, from infection, from malnutrition, that just rising to a slightly higher level than my ass was an extreme challenge. I needed to see outside though. Groaning as I tore the skin of my knees by shifting around to look, I almost got to glance outside when I started tipping.

It was the grace of God, (or, rather, Malachi's hands) that kept me from falling completely, and with a sigh he helped me to straighten up and look out. My eyes widened at what I saw, dead bodies littering the streets like plastic bags, or old news papers. We couldn't have been stuck inside a full week, and already things were absolutely atrocious out there. It was like an apocalypse. Yes. That's what it was. An apocalypse. But something caught my eyes. A face that, even several stories up, I could not mistake.

"Oh my God." "What?"

"The zombies are dying." "What?!"

"The zombies are dying. All or most of those down there are fucking zombies. And they're dead. There's been no one out there to kill them, we would have noticed. No one could have killed them in that large a number anyway."

"How do you know they're zombies?"

All I did was extend my arm, eyes misting over as I felt myself begin to cry. I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know if it was a good, or bad thing, but somehow I managed to keep my hand steady as my finger rested in the direction of the body of a young man.

"That's my brother."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Epilogue

Maybe it was the fact that the room was cold. The fact that there were eyes, so many eyes staring at him. The fact that he was about to speak about a rather touchy subject. Regardless of the reason behind it, Allan Brechvon shivered, almost refusing to get up on stage in the first place. It was at these times that he hated people looking up to him, expecting him to know what to do. It was at these moments that he resented trust, because what if he wasn't trustworthy? What if his sources weren't trustworthy?

He clutched the paper manuscript tightly in his right hand as he adjusted his tie, stepping up under the lights, before the eyes, and cameras. The original journal had been destroyed after several people in bio-hazard suits finished transcribing it, word for word. All misspellings, and crossed out words were transcribed as well. This was a story that needed to be told, but the actual book, with it's attached vials of what was noted to be the RVirus, held risks no one was willing to take, not after what had happened only across the border.

"There are very few documents from within America concerning the terrible events of the past week," Allan began speaking, face kept entirely emotionless, save for the traces of appropriate sorrow. "Many that have been recovered are confidential government documents that are not being revealed to the general public. I'm sure everyone's seen the
Youtube
videos, and heard the radio broadcasts. However I'm here today to tell inform you that new information has been released recently, in the form of a manuscript of a young woman's journal."

There was but a moment of silence, the sound of papers being turned. Everyone was anxiously waiting to hear what was to be read. Trying to figure out the tragic story of the super power that had been America. It was true, they'd been given very little information. Aside from theories, amateur videos, and the distinct lack of America, there was little proof that anything had happened at all. Everyone was dying to know what had managed to completely destroy American in less than fourteen days. But then a throat was cleared, and all

eyes were drawn to the spokesmen.

"'My name is Excel Johansson,'" the man read, raising a hand to loosen his tie as he tried to get himself in a mind frame that would prevent him from feeling what it was he was reading. A young woman's Will. "'I'm a twenty one year old woman, and a former student of a small city college. As a general description, my hair is brown as are my eyes. My skin is light, and I have freckles. If you're reading this, the chances are great that I am currently dead, or a zombie. I'll hope for the former. I'm keeping this journal to record the events, and facts of my final days. I hope that one day this journal will be found, and shed knew light on the American epidemic. I hope that these entries will tell the true story of the effects of the Rvirus, given that's the actual cause of all of this. 'Outoftowners' may believe so, but those of us stuck in the middle of it all aren't so sure. I'm not sure where to begin my story, so I'll just start at my beginning of it all. It all started with my older brother.'"

Pausing to take a sip of water, the man tried to quietly clear his throat. To read such a journal was hard for anyone. No matter how you prepared yourself for such a thing, it was difficult. It was apparent that there simply
wasn't
a mind frame that would make the reading less painful for him. It is absolutely gut wrenching to know that you were expressing a strangers final thoughts to a group of people who neither knew, nor cared about the writer. The man placed his cup back on the stand, and looked back at the crisp, and clean manuscript, wondering what exactly the original journal looked like before it was destroyed.

"'You see,'" he read. "'The problem wasn't that he died. The problem was that he didn't stay dead...'"

Love of mine sweet love of mine I'll soon return

To the land to make room for the new

I'll give hell my worst and good to this earth

As for heaven it was found in you

“Until the Last Light Fades” - Mandolin Orange