The house was cool and silent, when the power eventually went out, the house would be like an oven. He went to the linen closet and pulled out primrose sheets. He knew Christa would like that. Going into the bedroom, he wrapped his wife tenderly in her burial shroud. Lifting her slender form up, he carried her out into the yard. He placed her on the ground and then jumped down into the grave. Carefully, he gathered her once more in his arms for the last time and hugged her close to his body, rocking back and forth. His soft sobs filled the still air around them and then he laid her into the grave.
“This is the best I can do, honey. I’m sorry that it isn’t what’s normal, with a casket and all. But you’ll be safe here.” He choked and wiped his face. He wanted desperately to lay down with her.
Climbing out of the grave, Brian picked up the shovel and began to fill the hole. It was faster filling the thing, than it had been to dig. After he’d finished, he went back into the house and grabbed a beer and his Glock 17. Going back out to the back yard, he sat by the patio table. Sipping at his beer, he looked around the large back yard. He and Christa had spent many happy hours back here, tending her roses and landscaping. It had been a sanctuary during her recovery from cancer and chemo.
They’d also had many parties with neighbors, and his beloved grill. A soft smile creased his features at the remembrance. Christa had been the perfect hostess. Her wonderful laughter and beautiful smile. She made everyone feel welcome.
He wondered idly if he should dig himself a grave. Who would fill it in? He wondered. Why waste the energy? The Glock was cool in his hand and his fingers idly stroked the weapon as he sipped his beer. He looked up into the clear blue sky, his eyes squinting against the glare. He saw sparrows gliding on the wind above him. He knew there was a nest nearby. He wondered idly, if his wife’s soul was even now, ascending to heaven?
His head turned at the sound of the gate door opening, and saw Cooper, his next-door neighbor’s four-year-old son. He was surprised, the child looked like hell. He set the beer aside on the table, along with the Glock.
“Come here Coop.” He waved the boy to him. The child walked to him and climbed up into Brian’s lap, and that startled Brian. Coop was a quiet child and shy. He’d always given Brian shy smiles, behind his parent’s legs, peeking around.
“I’m hungry.” The child said softly, his small hands fingering the buttons that ran down Brian’s shirt. The child felt thin; Brian could feel the child’s ribs under the bright orange T-shirt. The child smelled horrible, apparently the boy hadn’t been bathed, nor had he wiped his behind very well. Brian looked down into the cornflower blue eyes and noted that the child’s eyes were dull. He ran a hand through the stiff blond hair.
“Where’s your mommy and daddy, Coop?”
“Sleeping. I’m hungry.” His small voice plaintive.
Brian grunted and got up. He carried the child into his kitchen and set the boy on the quartz countertop. He washed his hands and arms, cleaning the dirt and blood from them. He took a washcloth and lathered it up with warm water. He went to Cooper and began to wipe the child’s face and hands. The boy sat quietly while he did this, his eyes closing when Brian smoothed the cloth around his face. He smiled down at the child and then went to the refrigerator and pulled out bacon and eggs. He also pulled out a loaf of bread. For the next ten minutes, Cooper sat quietly and patiently on the kitchen counter watching Brian’s every move. Brian raked the scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate and then carried Cooper into the dining room, the boy’s small thin arms twinned around Brian’s neck. He set the boy down at the table and then went back for orange juice.
“I’m going to check on your parents, you sit here and eat. Don’t leave, okay Coop?”
“Okay. I’ll stay.” The child said, his cheek bulging with scrambled eggs.
Brian walked out of the kitchen and went back out to the back yard and retrieved his Glock. Going through the gate, Brian walked over to Cooper Lane’s home. The kitchen door was standing wide open and Brian could already smell decomp. He held his hand over his mouth and nose and walked in, his dark eyes scanning the room. There was canned food on the floor, boxes of empty cereal. There was a carton of milk on the floor, empty as well.
He walked into the living room, looked around. The TV was on, but there was only static and snow. It had been that way for two days. He’d lost the TV’s satellite signal. There had only been a warning banner before that. It had been a little over two and a half weeks since the virus had hit the United States with such devastating efficiency. He’d tried to use his cell phone to call his parents and Christa’s folks, but there was no service. He’d given up all attempts to contact the outside world when Christa had begun to show the first symptoms of the Vermilion Strain.
Brian made his way to Shafer and Jillian’s bedroom. The door was open and the stench that issued forth nearly sent Brian to his knees. He gagged, backing up. He saw two forms on the bed and hundreds of flies buzzing around the forms. The room hummed ominously, loud and relentless. The sheets
