When In Doubt

Prologue

I watch in horror as the undead sinks its rotting, yellowed teeth into her left arm. I can see the flesh of her forearm ripping and tearing open, beginning to bleed. I can only watch as the blood soaks into her clothes, turning them a sickening shade of red. The once pale grey, long-sleeved shirt she's wearing is torn from the undead's teeth; it's splattered almost entirely with blood—both her own bright red, and the undead's gruesome maroon. Her faded blue jeans are speckled with little flecks and splashes from droplets of blood, splatter from the undead, and splash from the original bite.

I try to call out, to do anything, but no sound escapes me, and my muscles do not budge. I am stuck in a jar of molasses, my thoughts sluggish and my movements halted. My mind seems to be in shock, which only makes thinking more difficult than it was before. She screams in pain, and a wave of agony crashes into me as if I am the one being bitten. In my stupor, I somehow determine the cause of my pain. It's because I know that she will die, and I know that I will have to bury my best friend. I am beginning to grieve before she has even died.

One. A list of scenarios run through my head, my distraught brain attempting to deny the truth. Denial.

She brings her hunting knife up and makes quick work of stabbing it through the undead's left temple. It releases her arm and crumples to the ground in a heap of rancid flesh. After a few moments, I come back to reality, my mind snapping back to attention. I rush forward and catch her just before she collapses. She's clutching the bite on her arm in an attempt to stop the profuse bleeding, but it has little effect. I hold her close to me as I fall to my knees, tears burning just behind my eyes, blurring the edges of my vision. Upon seeing my pain, she ignores her own and weakly looks up at me.

"Chess," She feebly mumbles, "Chess, look at me."

Two. I train my gaze at the perfectly blue sky, knowing that I will forever hate the sun. It seems to mock me, as if it is laughing. The breeze runs through my hair, ruffling it out of place, teasing me. I can feel the rage boiling in my veins, but I still do not look at her. Anger.

She places her bloody right hand on my cheek, turning my face towards her. There's a long silence where I just examine her. Her face is grimy and bloody, but her eyes hold their usual brightness. However, upon closer inspection, I find it slightly dimmer than usual—not a good sign, nor is it comforting. She is smiling, but I can tell that she's just putting on a brave face. I've always been able to see her true emotions, even if she doesn't want me to. Of course, it doesn't help that she has a few tears rolling down her cheeks. She knows what is going to happen—I can tell. Her eyes hold this sort of desperation that I've never seen in her before. I find myself hanging on each of her next words.

"Chess, I'll miss you; you were the best friend I ever had. You know what to do when... when it happens. I-I wouldn't trade these last moment for anything. I know you'll do g-great things in t-t-the future. M-make me proud..."

Her voice trails off, as her breathing shallows. Her hand falls limply at her side, and her body goes limp. Her eyes are glazed over, no longer their vibrant blue, and her gaze is vacant, as if she's staring into nothingness. Her sleek hair seems to have lost its shine in exchange for a dull coating of mud, dust, and blood. I try to smooth it down, knowing that she hates having messy hair.

"You'll be fine," I state, bleary-eyed, but I know it's a lie, "We'll get help. It'll be okay."

Three. I come up with an immeasurable number of options. Anything will work. Anything except this. Bargaining.

Four. With tears in my eyes I lay her gently on the patchy grass. I look away for a brief moment, composing myself. I draw my pistol and aim with shaky hands at her head. I, choking on each breath, let my hands drop at my sides. I cannot bring myself to do anything aside from cry, sobbing rather unattractively for several minutes. The hotness of the tears makes my face flush an uncomfortable shade of tomato red. I frantically rub at them in an attempt to clear them away, only succeeding in making my face hurt, causing it to become sore and raw and puffy. The sleeves of my sweater are wet from wiping at the salty tears, but I still clutch to the baggy sleeves, because she gave me this sweater. I can taste the saltiness, bitter and dry, as the tears continue to fall down my blotchy cheeks, pooling over my lips and into my open mouth, as I gasp for breath. And I am gasping, choking and wheezing, because my nose is so snotty that it makes it near impossible to breath, and my lungs are burning in pain—just like the rest of my body. There is buzzing, ringing in my ears, and I only now register the raging headache that has found its home behind my forehead. It is like someone is drilling a hole through my right temple, pounding waves of pain pulse through my head, and I can feel my heartbeat pulsing in sync. Somehow, I can only concentrate on the one thing that's causing me this pain, even though the more I think about it, the further I can feel I spike drive it's way into my already burning heart. Depression.

I look back up at the sky, then steel my nerves, composing myself. I wipe away the remaining tears and inhale deeply—or at least, as deeply as I can. I examine my pistol with a newfound curiosity, though I know in my heart that I'm just stalling. I have to force self to make sure the safety is off, and even this tiny action early shatters my resolve. I cock the gun, my hand shaking, so I grip the gun with both hands so tight that my knuckles turn white. I aim, fiddling with the trigger. I squeeze my eyes shut, and at the same time, I squeeze my finger down with all my willpower backing me up...

The gunshot rings through the air, scaring birds from the trees, causing squirrels to bolt. I get a shovel from the truck. I stand in the field for a moment, trying to keep my composure in check, even though I know that's it's a lost cause. I go to the shade of a large oak and begin to dig.

I look from my hands to the freshly filled hole, then back to my hands. They are covered in blood, her blood, the blood of the only person I had left in this wretched, ruined world. The day is hot, but the breeze is just cold enough to bring a chill to my bones, causing a small shiver to work its way down my spine. I look up at the cloudless, sunny sky, fighting back the inevitable wave of tears. The invisible dam that holds them back is riddled with a web of cracks, splintering off and intertwining with one another. I can still feel the light touch of her hand on my cheek, as she breathed her last breath. I had to shoot her even after that; I couldn't let her turn. She didn't deserve that fate, and we'd both worked too hard to let any of the undeads slip by us. I'm sure that—despite my previous breakdown—I still have a bloodied, dirty handprint on my face from our last embrace.

I buried her in the shade; I'm sure she would have liked that. She always used to talk about how much she enjoyed reading in the shade; it only seemed right to bury her there, despite the pain it caused me. I keep find myself thinking back to all the good times we had—after all, we were childhood friends.

Digging the hole seemed to take an eternity, and I simply wanted it to be over, but filling the hole seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and now that it's over, I can't seem to move an inch from my original position. I'm still standing in the spot where she died. There are two little pools of blood where she'd been laying—one from the bite, the other from my bullet. I turn away, retching, heaving up anything left in my stomach.

Five. I know that the hole in my heart will never be filled now that she's gone. Even though I hate to, I acknowledge the fact that she is gone. There is no getting her back, at least, not the way she was before.

Acceptance...

They say that acceptance is the fifth stage of grief, but I don't like that at all. I accept the fact that she's gone, but it doesn't make it any better. I still feel like someone ripped my heart out with their bare hands.