You know, just in case I’m wrong. Which, as we’ve discovered, so rarely happens.
For a moment, the two of us lingered in the moonlight. Still gripping my wife’s hand, I scanned the surrounding woods. Every rustling shadow alerted my “spidey sense,” making me wish we’d stayed closer to the van. But a gentle breeze and the far-off sounds of a burbling waterway were all I could hear.
Otherwise, the forest was eerily quiet, seemingly devoid of life. Although numerous zombies likely roamed across Homochitto’s vast acreage, it felt as if all the native creatures—from the crickets and squirrels to the wild turkeys and white-tailed deer—had fled long ago. Just as I’d noticed on the bayous south of Gonzales.
Recalling the awful sight of an eviscerated cat in a pet store back in New Orleans, I couldn’t really blame them for running away. When it came to devouring flesh, innards, and brains, undead humans weren’t picky—or biased. But, oddly enough, as fascinating as I found the idea of a mass exodus of freaked-out fauna, it wasn’t the topic uppermost on my mind.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you and Jill were attacked,” I whispered, squeezing Clare’s hand.
She nodded glumly. Though she likely believed my guilt was sincere, she knew it wasn’t for Jill’s sake. I simply felt bad because my wife was suffering, grieving an unspeakable event—even if it hadn’t happened yet.
Clare and I had always empathized with each other. If I felt stressed and overwhelmed, she did, too—and together, we’d try to solve the problems plaguing us. Both of us had always believed that anyone who failed to harbor such deep, intertwined emotions toward their significant other was likely in the wrong relationship.
After a silent moment, she leaned against my chest, resting her head on my right shoulder. In response, I merely held her tight, waiting for her to unload the burdens in her heart. When she finally spoke, though, she didn’t say what I’d expected.
“I really thought you were dead.” Her voice wavered. “Felt like my heart was gonna shrivel up and die. I just couldn’t imagine life without you.”
We’d already had a similar conversation back at Jill’s house, but I didn’t blame her for rehashing it. The same thought had been whirling around my brain since waking up in my courtyard on All Souls’ Day.
“Me neither.” I kissed the top of her head. “If I hadn’t gotten to you in time, I’m not sure what I would’ve done.”
Although I’d always been a survivor at heart, I knew I couldn’t have endured her death either—especially not in such a hopelessly undead world.
Still, I figured her mother’s impending doom was presently her main priority. It genuinely surprised me that it wasn’t.
She giggled, turning her face toward mine. “You always said if I died, you’d go on a rampage, killing as many evil people as possible. And that Azazel would be your sidekick. She’d even have her own little Uzi.”
I snorted. “I said all the stupid people. That may, or may not, include the evil ones. Course, evil would be a close second on the list.” Abruptly, I recalled the murderous hicks who’d almost offed me in Ray’s neighborhood—and the depraved people of Gonzales who’d brazenly killed a slew of hapless motorists as well as their fellow citizens. “On second thought… maybe evil first, stupid second.”
She grinned. “That’s the misanthrope I know and love.”
Then, she reached up and gently scratched my goatee. “I think you have a bit more gray than you did before Halloween.”
Her comment didn’t offend my vanity. I knew that my wife, rarely critical of a person’s appearance, wasn’t displeased with my salt-and-pepper beard. Rather, she was troubled by the stressful, near-death, hair-aging experiences I’d endured in the past three days.
While I no longer possessed the lean body I’d had when Clare and I met, the goatee had been a near-permanent fixture throughout our relationship—and my wife had always loved it. Frankly, that still surprised me. Most women I’d known, even those who’d seemed to like my goatee, expected guys to shave off their beards when they finally “grew up.” But Clare and I had been together for seventeen years, and she’d never once asked me to remove it.
In fact, a few years after getting hitched, I’d made the mistake of shaving my entire face. We were living in Los Angeles at the time, and thanks to a lengthy heatwave, my goatee had grown itchy and uncomfortable—so I decided I’d be cooler without it.
But when I exited the bathroom, sporting a smooth, clean-shaven face, Clare screamed. And not in a good way—not the kind of screaming you’d hear during the throes of passion. No, it was more like a screech, the sort of shrill cry my wife typically unleashed whenever she spotted a giant cockroach skittering across the kitchen floor—or, worse, crawling up her leg.
Three weeks later, much of the goatee had returned—and I never made the same mistake again. Just trimmed it once a month. Nothing more.
And now, Clare was gently running her fingertips through it, staring into my eyes and reading me as only she could.
“I know I’m repeating myself,” she said, lowering her hand. “But I still can’t believe this whole thing really happened. Everything Samir said was true.”
“Yeah, except for the timing.” I sighed. “Really wish we’d had that extra week… we’d already be up north.”
“And maybe Mom wouldn’t be dying,” she lamented, pressing her cheek against my chest.
I squeezed her more tightly. “I’m so sorry, baby. Really I am.”
And I meant it. For her sake. And she knew it.
“I just can’t believe…” She sniffled. “Mom’s a pain, I know, but she’s still my mom.”
I didn’t
