mattered but each other’s pleasure and happiness.
Sometime in the middle of the night, long after they’d fallen asleep, Jubal vaguely registered Fiona getting up and going down the hallway to the bathroom, coughing the whole way. Then he drifted back to sleep, afloat on the memory of their beautiful lovemaking.
3
September 3, 2048
When he awoke, Jubal looked over at Fiona, who had scooted to the other side of the bed. All he could see of her was a strand of hair sticking out from beneath the covers. He smiled, patted her bottom through the blanket and got out of bed. He wanted to surprise her with breakfast so he slipped on his robe and tiptoed out of the room.
As he scrambled eggs and brewed coffee in the little kitchen, Jubal wondered what their next steps would be. They could not go north to Carlsbad; that was for sure. Maybe they could go east through Texas or south into Mexico. Maybe the farther away they got from Serenity, the better Fiona would feel. Maybe there was hope somewhere, after all.
He set two plates of hot eggs on the table and poured two cups of coffee. He set one cup next to a plate of eggs and carried the other down the hallway towards the bedroom.
“Breakfast is served, my princess,” he called.
Fiona didn’t move.
“Lazy old cow,” Jubal said jokingly.
He went to her bedside and whipped the blanket off her head. He nudged Fiona’s shoulder with his? nger.
He stopped.
Her shoulder felt wrong. And she wasn’t moving.
Jubal dropped the coffee. The hot liquid splashed across his bare feet, but he didn’t feel it. He placed three? ngers against Fiona’s blistered neck.
“No…”
He took her shoulders and shook her hard. Her head lolled from side to side and back and forth, but she did not awaken. He did this for some time before he?nally made himself stop.
That’s when he noticed the empty vial of his mother’s sleeping pills on the nightstand next to a glass of water.
Jubal snatched the glass and sniffed it. Not water. Vodka.
She must have taken them sometime before he woke up.
“Wake, up, Fee, baby!” he shouted into her unresponsive face, knowing deep down that it was no use. “Please?”
Tears flooded his eyes; he could barely see. They spattered against his dead lover’s face.
Jubal took the pill vial and threw it across the room, where it ricocheted off the wall. Beneath the vial had been a small square of the scratch paper his mother kept next to the phone in the kitchen. There was writing on it.
Jubal read through tears:
Baby,
I didn’t want to burden you with watching me slowly die and turn into one of those things. I wanted us to end on a happy moment that we both could treasure forever, no matter where we were.
I dreamed again about the dead army last night and their leader in red. Their leader is not one of them. He is not dead. And he’s not from here. He’s from a darker world. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. It’s as real and true as my feelings for you.
I hope this helps in some way, but I can’t imagine how. I wish that you would read this and flee. Go far from here.
I’m sorry it had to be like this, my sweet, sweet Jubal. But I had been thinking about it and knew it was the only way for me-and you.
Please forgive me. And I’ll see you again in some happy place.
I’ll be waiting.
All my love,
Fiona
Jubal pressed the note to his lips, dripping tears on it, and placed it on the nightstand.
He reached down and drew the blanket up over Fiona’s face.
Picking his clothes off the?oor, he put them on slowly as if performing a sacred ritual. Then he took Fiona’s note and slid it into his uniform’s shirt pocket, over his heart, patting it after he was?nished.
He went to the living room and strapped on his Glock. He arranged the shotguns neatly on the coffee table and stacked the ammo next to them.
He removed a stack of sewing magazines from the seat of an old wooden chair that had always sat next to the front door and set them on a chair in the living room. He carried the wooden chair to the doorway of his bedroom where he set it down gently and sat on it, facing the bed.
He removed his Glock from its holster, crossed his legs, and waited.
He wasn’t completely convinced it would happen, but it didn’t take long. As…
Fiona.
…the blanketed?gure on the bed began to rise with a muf?ed groan.
It only took one shot.
Hours later, Jubal emerged from the house carrying the shrouded?gure and a shovel.
He looked at the sky; the sun’s heat caressed his face. It was going to be another hell-hot day.
Jubal carried Fiona’s body to the backyard, and though the ground was dry and hard, he set her down gently and began digging near a cactus plant she had always admired.
A few hours later, Jubal was standing over the fresh grave, dripping sweat, grasping for a few words to say. But he really couldn’t?nd any except, “I love you, Fee.”
He heard a footstep in the yard behind him.
Swinging around, shovel in hand, he saw three zombies walking quickly toward him. He recognized all of them.
One was old Pops Perez, his straw hat still perched jauntily on his head. The other two were a fat woman named Bertha Benson and her husband, Bob. They looked hungrily at him with their horrible red-yellow eyes.
Jubal reached for his Glock, but realized he had left it in the house, on the?oor in his bedroom. He had lost track of it after…doing what needed to be done there.
Charging the undead intruders, Jubal slammed the blade of the shovel against the side of Pops’s head, wincing as he did so. After all, this was the nicest old man in the world.
Was.
Pops did a spin on one foot and toppled to the ground.
The fat Bensons were still coming at him.
As the Bensons groped for him and Pops got back to his feet, Jubal ran around them and out to the front yard.
Glancing up and down the street, Jubal saw that the whole town had turned up for a visit. Old neighbors, friends and acquaintances shuf?ed about, some falling over as if not able to control their bodies. One or two noticed Jubal and turned towards him, moaning to others, who turned towards him as well.
“At least these fuckers are slow,” he said to no one, as he ran into the house, slamming the door behind himself. “And I’m talking to myself again.”
With reluctance, he went to the bedroom of tragedy for his Glock. Someone-some thing was pounding on the
