Proper Burial

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The ticking of the clock had become so monotonous that to Max it was just another blip on the radar of his new life. Why care what time it was when it didn't matter? Nothing mattered anymore.

Well, Adam mattered. But his presence had felt less like a human lately and more like a cat that comes and sits on your lap when it can sense you're sad. He wasn't a someone, he was a something. Another something as insignificant as the gentle ticking of the clock.

Max rolled over, squinting in the darkness to make out a faint seven thirty on the analog timepiece hanging on the wall. Had he really not slept at all? It's not like anyone would notice, though. GaLm and Smarty and Ze refused to look him in the eyes since that day. Maybe it was better like that. Then they couldn't see his bruise-like eye bags, so purple they stained his skin brightly.

His routine felt boring, just like everything else. The only feeling he relished was the choking smokey air filling his lungs as he took off his gas mmask outside. They would never have to know Gassy did that. It gave the same kind of high as taking a drag of a cigarette. More importantly, though, Adam would never know he did that.

It felt selfish to take the gas mask if he wasn't going to wear it. All he did was raid convenience stores, gather lots of junk food, then smoke on the sidewalk for a few hours until he came home. Max managed to go through a pack each outing if he put his mind to it.

Adam would throw a fit if he knew. They were trying so hard to stay alive, and Gassy was there killing off himself and other people. But the feeling of that nicotine high was too much to ignore.

He clambered out of bed, glancing at his sleeping husband in the bed beside him. He gulped and shook his head, thinking of how affectionate he had been last night. What a load of garbage. Adam would say that he loved Max more than anyone yet avoid him like the plague and go to sleep early so he wouldn't have to see him.

He pulled on his boots and dressed himself, splashing a bit of water on his face in the bathroom. The fluorescent lanterns they had hung flickered with the last bits of electricity left in them. They cast a too-bright whiteness onto Max's face that made him cringe at his own reflection.

He looked insane. Bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair, messy beard, dark circles, just the whole nine yards. No wonder his friends couldn't look at him anymore. He took his gun from the countertop and tucked it into the waistband of his pants, looking away from the mirror. His face horrified him.

The man left the bathroom, putting on the gas mask before he left. It was an elaborate ruse that was partially for himself, and partially for the benefit of making the group think he was still sane. After he had walked about a block away from the apartment building, he came upon what he was looking for.

Just like any other store in the city, it looked like it had been burnt and abandoned for years and years. At one point, Max assumed, Allen's Home Goods was a thriving little place to pick up anything you needed. Now it was just lifeless. He pushed himself over the counter and clambered over to the cigarette section, grabbing himself a pack and a fresh lighter.

As he moved from behind the employee's counter, he spotted something that made him pause. Gasoline. It had a sign on it that read "1 gallon for 10$!", which lead him to believe it had probably been rationed pretty heavily before everyone dies. He grabbed a few containers and threw them in a shopping cart alongside some rope.

If people still were left in New York, Gassy would've looked like a crazy person, walking down the street with a gun in his pocket, smoking a cigarette and pushing a shopping cart full of gasoline. He shoved the cart along until the real destination appeared in front of him.

The man wasn't really familiar with the name of the park, but it had probably been very beautiful back before the world went to crap. A pile of overturned dirt about 7 feet by 3 feet in area sat fresh near the entrance, marked by a poorly fashioned wooden cross.

Chilled's grave.

Gassy unloaded his shopping cart, which also contained piles and piles of newspapers he had picked up at a stand on the way there. He scattered them all over the grave, thoroughly covering it and then dousing the papers with gasoline. The man then trailed the gasoline-dipped rope away from the body site.

The fire burned quickly when he lit it, but it was bright and ever so satisfying. Max felt more ecstatic than he had in a while. As the fire slowly began to fade down into embers and ashes, Gassy unholstered his gun. He stared down the barrel of it, almost laugh. It was nothing.

This gun was just metal. Yet it was going to kill him. He chuckled, wiping his teary eyes. As he squeezed his eyes shut, he placed it underneath his chin. He just had to squeeze the trigger.

5..4..3..

"Max?"

"Max! What the hell are you doing?"

His eyes blinked open. The voice, he recognized it, but he hadn't heard it in a long time.

"Max!"

He swiveled his head around, setting the gun down. And suddenly, the face was in front of his.

"Ohm?"

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Hello again! I hope you guys enjoy another chapter of this story! I'm super happy I'm bringing it back!

Thoughts? Comment anything you have to say, including suggestions, corrections, or just whatever you want! Thank you for reading, and as always, go ahead and add this to your library!

~ S.J.

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