Too wound up to sleep that night, she took out her whetstone, sat on the couch, and sharpened her double-edged sword, the first time she had done that since her grandfather had shown her how. She hoped the task would help distract her mind from her troubles.
Not only did she have feelings of guilt to deal with, but what lay ahead terrified her. Would she even be able to survive draugar attacks until she got to Colorado Springs? At least she didn’t face the prospect of becoming infected like George.
She missed her boyfriend, but not as much as she expected under the circumstances. A zombie apocalypse must have a way of ending relationships. If it was as pervasive as Saint Michael had stated, if it wasn’t all in her mind, then her boyfriend was most likely infected or dead. She felt depressed just thinking about it, but she had to admit to herself that she didn’t really miss him. She thought the lack of his companionship would have been difficult to deal with on her vigil, but it hadn’t been.
What she needed then, and what she desperately needed now, was a companion, any companion, someone to share this horrifying experience with. She didn’t wish this experience on anyone, but someone out there must be going through hell. She wanted someone, anyone she could rely on to help her get through this.
Her eyes teared as she thought about how her grandfather would have fulfilled that role well. It was a great mercy he died without having to deal with an apocalypse.
And then there was his daughter, her mother. Although Jocelyn didn’t share the special bond with her that she had shared with her grandfather, Jocelyn loved her mother for giving her the comfort and support she needed. Her mother would never tolerate Jocelyn blaming herself for her father’s abandoning his family. “Betrayal” was the word she used to describe what he had done.
His new wife was younger than Jocelyn.
Jocelyn hoped this disease hadn’t spread as much as Saint Michael implied. But she knew there was a likelihood that her mother too was probably a draugar or dead. Jocelyn screamed and threw her whetstone across George’s living room, denting and cracking the plaster wall.
Jocelyn awoke in a daze. She didn’t remember falling asleep.
Where was she?
Right. George’s house. The couch. The blood.
She must have fallen asleep with her sword in her lap. She breathed heavily a few times, orienting herself in the present.
A horrifying present, but the present, nonetheless.
The light was dim. She got up and stood her sword up against the couch, retrieved her whetstone from across the room and placed it where she had slept. She shambled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face in a grimy sink.
In the mirror above the sink, her reflection stared back at her grimly. She appeared old. Bags under her eyes, creases at the corners of her mouth—she looked more like her mother than herself.
Oh, god, her mother . . .
You can’t save the world, said a voice.
So, the voices had returned.
Saint Michael is not real, said the second one. He’s all in your mind.
You killed five innocent people, said the third one. You’re evil.
There’s only one way this will end, said the first one. You will die and take a lot of innocent people with you.
The only thing that makes sense, said the fourth one, is to kill yourself.
You’ll spare a lot of innocent people, said the third one.
Go ahead, said the second one. Draw a bath. Take a nice, soothing bath. Bring your knife.
Many times, she resisted the voices, but this time they made so much sense. What could she do in a world like this other than make things so much worse?
She undressed, leaving her clothes on a heap on the stained linoleum floor. The floor was cold as she walked over to the tub. How nice it would be to just sit in the tub and drift off in the warmth. She turned on the water, switched from shower to the tub spigot.
Not too hot, said a fifth voice. Just nice and warm. Soothing.
Suddenly the tub was full. She must have dozed off kneeling down. She shut off the water and put the tip of her index finger in. The temperature was just right. She placed her whole hand in.
Ah. Soothing. This would feel very nice.
A very nice place to die.
Remember, said the first voice. Bring your knife.
She had a knife on her multi-tool in her backpack but she didn’t want to leave; she wanted to keep her hand in the water, wanted to put her whole body into the warm embrace of the water.
But she had one last task.
She brought her hand out of the water and into the unpleasantly cool air. Oh, how she wanted the warmth of the water.
She pulled herself up and walked out of the bathroom and into the living room where her backpack was. Sitting down, she reached into a small front pocket with her wet hand and fumbled around until she found the multi-tool.
Her multi-tool was mind-bogglingly useful. Now she would have one last use for it. She pulled the knife out and locked it open, admiring the blade that would be her final release before she walked back to the bathroom.
She climbed into the tub, wanting nothing more than to immerse herself in the embracing warmth.
It’s time, said the third voice. Put the edge of the knife in the center of the wrist at the base of your hand.
She did as instructed and felt the pressure of the edge.
