Once, you scratched my nickname into two bullets and handed one to me saying, “Honeybee, if the time comes, these are for us.” Then, I scratched “Thumper” onto two bullets and handed one to you.
That night, the shit came down. With one zombie left, I ran out of ammo. All I had left was my Thumper and my Honeybee but I didn’t use them. Instead, I coiled my hands around its throat and squeezed until the snarl faded from the loose gray flesh of its face, a process I like to call "going bareback." The feeling of it was orgasmic.
I asked you if it was wrong that I enjoyed it. But you just grabbed the back of my head, hard enough to give me that good pain, and pulled my face into yours.
It was different when I was with Roseline.
She had this idea that there was something inside of those things that was still human. She told me that the more I killed, the more like one of them I became. We argued about it up until the day that a zombie closed its jaws on her neck, and her eyes blew me that long kiss goodnight.
Around her, I always took point. I was the last to sleep, the first to rise. I never gave her two bullets to set aside. When she asked me, “what should we do if the time comes?” I lied and told her, “I won’t let that happen.”
But you and me, we slept in shifts, took turns at the wheel, had loud sex in wide-open spaces. And when we fought, I put my back to yours and fed on your rage. You gave me clarity, like sliding a bullet into the chamber of a gleaming forty-five and feeling everything snap into place.
Last night I saw a zombie petting the coat of a gray coyote while they shared the meat from their human kill.
Eugene, I’m sorry I ended it. But I’m tired of being as vicious as my enemies. If it’s any consolation, they’re all around me now. And all I’ve got is your name waiting in my chamber.