Half-asleep, she smiled at the idea. Her mother had accused of wanting to be a hero when she applied to the Academy. Tearful, the woman had called her only child a would-be martyr. It had been absurd, Bunny had thought. She had no desire to die and had never understood why her mother said that.
Unless it had been true, of course. In her first two years, Bunny had been awarded several medals for valor and bravery. While others waited for backup, Bunny had charged in, almost heedless of the danger. Almost as if she had no fear of death.
Almost as if she sought to embrace it. Almost, she thought now, as if she had wanted to die.
"Silly," she muttered to herself.
Was it? she wondered, as she thought of how things had gone. Maybe she’d always known, somehow, that things would go as they had. Perhaps, she thought, it was possible that in the back of her mind, she had wanted to die a hero, in a way no one could touch or diminish.
Maybe, she thought as she stared at the sky, she really had wanted to be a martyr for her own private cause. If so, it was a little late for it now, when the whole world had gone down the crapper, and there was no one left to notice.
"Stupid," she mumbled to herself. "I'm so stupid."
"Won't argue with you there," someone answered.
Bunny blinked, rolling her head back slightly, drawn back to the here and now by the voice. Standing over her was the man with half a face, the dead man from earlier. He was blood-spattered, but in mostly one piece, or at least, the same number of pieces he'd been in earlier.
"I'm a fool," Bunny told him groggily. "A stupid, selfish, fool."
The dead man crouched down and looked at her. "Why's that?"
"Trying to die, to be a hero, with no one left to see, or care," she told him, feeling tears form in her eyes. "Trying to live up to what I always wanted to be. A fucking martyr."
He nodded slowly. "To be a martyr, you must have a cause. One that will change the world. What was yours?"
Bunny sniffled a bit, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Me. I'm my cause."
"I don't follow."
"My mother, her dream for me, you know what it was?"
He shook his head. "Can't say I do."
"To marry a rich man, like she had. To be pretty." Bunny laughed then coughed. "That's all she wanted for me. Her pretty little Bunny. To be an arm ornament. To be like her."
"You wanted more," the dead man stated.
Bunny swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I wanted to matter."
The dead man smiled at her, a terrifying gesture. "Do you matter?"
"I don't know," she admitted.
He looked away, back in the direction they’d come, where the horde of hungry dead had been. "Why did you want to matter?"
"To prove that someone like me could," she told him, not even sure why, wondering if maybe she was dreaming it all.
“Someone like you,” he mused. “You seem pretty ordinary to me. No offense meant, of course. I’m just saying.”
Bunny laughed. “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the problem. I never wanted to be ordinary. I don’t know anymore. I don’t even know who, or what I am, or why I’m alive when everyone else is dead. I don’t know why I’m different.” Somewhere in her ramble, she had started crying, the cruel truths she hid herself from spilling out of her.
He chuckled at her. "Well, what can I say. Looks like we're in the same boat. You got a name?"
"I told you," she said. "I'm a pretty Bunny. My mother's little Bunny."
"Bunny, huh?" the dead man said as he ran a hand through what was left of his hair.
"That's me," she told him with a wan smile.
"I'm Marco. Nice to meet you, Bunny," he said as he stood, holding out his hand to her.
She looked at his hand for a minute, then back up at his mangled face. "Are you going to eat me, Marco?"
"Nah," he said. "I'm on a diet."
Bunny took his hand. Marco lifted her up then swung her into his arms when she stumbled. He held her there, looking into her azure eyes with his single good yellow one. She saw there, not hunger, but sorrow, and seeing it, she laid her head on his shoulder.
"I'm tired, Marco," she whispered.
"Sleep a bit. I'll carry you," he replied softly. "It's not far now."
Bunny woke in a dark room. She lay still for a minute squinting her eyes, letting them adjust, as she looked around, taking stock of her environment. The faint sound of voices came to her from the other side of the door, but she couldn't make out what they were saying.
She saw she was in what looked like a hospital room. Then she remembered, the dead man, Marco, had told her to go to a clinic. It was only two blocks away, he’d said, but she couldn't recall getting there.
She remembered a strange dream, talking to Marco, remembering things and thinking things she normally didn't allow herself to think or remember. Or had she? She wasn't sure.
Sitting up, pain shot through her head, making her wince and groan. Reaching up, she found her head had been bandaged, and the blood cleaned off her face. Someone had tended her injuries while she’d been out.
The door clicked open, illuminating the room. In the doorway stood a woman with chestnut hair, and Marco. As soon as they saw her sitting up, the woman moved to the bed, making an exasperated sound.
"You shouldn't be up
