It’s been over three months since I last saw Cole, and I no longer hold out hope he’s alive. If he were, he would’ve shown up by now, and surely if he couldn’t find me, he would’ve come to the mother lode of all food sources and found us anyway. He’s dead, which means Jase and Michele probably are too.
I thought I would break down, maybe give up and give in, but I’m still going. My heart’s not in it, but I’m not ready to throw in the towel and die. I don’t know what this means about my character, that I’m either a stone-cold bitch or a strong one. I guess, either way, I have proven I am a survivor.
We’re finally able to venture outside mid-March, and it’s still cold, but the weather has tempered down. The roads are covered in snow, with plowing a thing of the past, which means the elements will eventually bring the buildings and structures down around us, leaving a shell of the humanity that used to be its inhabitants.
It’s glorious to be out in the daylight, and we wander around the town once more, happy to stretch our legs and enjoy the sun on our faces again. Some days I feel like a vampire, hiding out from the sun, but now that the weather is turning warmer, we should be able to venture out more, I hope. We’ve pondered where we should go and if it’s wise to leave the haul we have behind, but it’s too plentiful to cart around in the truck we have now. I don’t know what the answer is, so we decide to stay until we do.
Per my watch, still ticking after all this time, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Where I would’ve once been drinking large cans of beer at a spring training game, I’m now on lockdown with Enzo in a Sam’s Club bored out of my skull.
So, when he suggests we have a few drinks to celebrate the holiday, I don’t argue even though several drinks later, I can physically hear myself slurring my words. Not only that, but my stomach is sloshing with alcohol and the world spins around me.
Enzo and I have attempted to dance a jig, dyed our beer green with packets of flavoring normally used in water, and dissected the origins of the leprechaun and the tantalizing pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—mine being something about religion, his that the leprechaun is a part of the Irish mafia.
We argued about the best baseball team of all time, and I chose the Mets to piss him off after he pronounced himself a die-hard Yankees fan.
We taste-tested all the whiskeys on offer, none of which did anything but make me want to puke my guts up, and then we laid down side-by-side and talked about anything and everything. I’m just drifting off to sleep when I stir at Manny’s name.
“ . . . story?” he asks beside me.
“Huh?” I slur, marveling at how stupid my brain feels right now.
“How did y’all meet Manny?” he reiterates, sounding much more sober than I. Dick.
“Not much to say, he showed up at Flag one day,” I say, a curl of regret flooding my limbs. Everyone I love is gone, and here I am, making me wonder once again what it’s all for. This?
“By himself?”
“Yeah.”
I turn on my side to look at him and ask, “Why?”
“Just curious,” he replies, still staring at the ceiling, his face all shadows in the flickering light.
I doze off after that, the slight buzzing sound of Enzo snoring waking me abruptly, but when I glance over at him, he’s still wide awake, and I realize that the annoying sounds are mine as I drift off again.
The morning brings one hell of a hangover, and I clutch my head in regret as I pull myself up from a sleeping position on the cold, hard floor. What was I thinking? Never again. Ugh. Sharp shards of pain echo in my brain every time I move, breathe, or think, and I take slow breaths in to try to minimize it.
Luckily, we’re in a place where there is a plethora of pain medication and anything else one could want in bulk. Grabbing the flashlight, I wander down the aisles to the pharmacy area, flashing the light over the bottles until I find one that will work. After, I grab a bottle of water from the pallets on the way back and settle onto my ‘bed’ on the floor before gulping both down.
Enzo steps over my head just as I lay down with my eyes closed, praying that I don’t throw up whatever might be left in my stomach.
With a soft chuckle, he crouches down and asks, “Feeling okay?”
His voice is loud in the quiet, and I wince, whispering, “Not so loud.”
He laughs again, which inspires thoughts of murder before he drops something soft on my stomach, and cracking open one eye, I spy a wrapped pastry. “Are these expired?”
“Twinkies; they last forever,” he says before standing up and walking away. I pick up the package and rip open the plastic covering, my mouth watering at both the thought of the sweet treat on my tongue and the inevitable vomit that’s still rolling around dangerously in my empty belly.
“It’s annoying that you’re not hunched over, wishing for death right now,” I toss back.
He chuckles again but doesn’t answer, disappearing into the aisles. I should get up and do something, but I don’t feel like it, and at this point, there isn’t much to do. We could venture out, get a little sun, and see what the town looks like. Maybe by some miracle, all the zombies died overnight. Yeah, that could be good.
Instead, I slowly snack on the sweet treat and rest my aching head on a pillow. Inevitably, my thoughts circle to Cole, and a dull ache rises in my chest. It’s been five months since I last saw him walking away from us in the dark with determination in his eyes. I know he’s dead because I don’t honestly think he wouldn’t come looking for me if he had the chance, but it doesn’t stop the painful hope that rises in my weaker moments.
I miss his quiet strength and the way just his presence made everything feel safer and better. We had so few opportunities for intimacy, and now, in the aftermath of this, I cling to those in the quieter moments, reliving how we came together. Maybe I’m torturing myself and should shut it down, but it brings a small sense of peace to drown in those memories.
I cling to those moments because that time was precious, and I want to drown in the memory of his hands caressing my face, his body writhing over mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress. For that’s all I have left of him.