by K. Massari
no cars, no people, no one. The shadows were gone now, too. One last look, one last kiss as he stopped the car. A quick peck. She waited. That was it. The love of her life.
“Is this what you want?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “This is my story.”
“Okay.”
He let her go. He did not hold on. She rushed out over the parking lot and into the restroom, which was not locked. She leaned against a wall and closed her eyes. She knew she would be alone again from now on.
Time passed. It was past midnight outside. She washed her hair in the cold water by the light of a dim, stained lightbulb. She washed it without any shampoo. Patting it quickly with paper towels, she rubbed until her hair was close to dry. Then she sat down on the cold tile floor. She slept, her head against the wall.
Tracey woke up with a stuffy nose and a headache, a cold coming on. Her bones ached from sleeping in an uncomfortable position on the floor of a gas station restroom. She braced herself against the sink. Counting to twenty, when she was ready, she opened the door, which thankfully was still not locked, and wondered what the world outside would be like, now that the dead had been regurgitated into the midst of the living. Would everything be destroyed?
It was a hazy, overcast day. The sky had bled rain, and lots of it, overnight. The cars were stuck, their contents spilled onto the highway. Some drivers were on the rooves of their cars, others were lying on the tarmac. It was a horrific scene, and Tracey suppressed a scream. The walkers were nowhere. That was good news. Then, further away, she realized a man was standing next to his sedan, arms folded over his chest.
It was Roger. He seemed to be waiting, waiting for her. What should she do? Was he the only man left on Earth? Tracey had to laugh despite her situation. She limped towards him, grateful to have found him. When he saw her approaching, he turned and got in his car. Tracey tried to move faster, to run even, but Roger was ready to go.
She reached him and asked, breathlessly, jokingly, with one hand waving to get his attention:
“Hey Mister, please, can you give me a ride? Roger? Roger! It’s me … don’t you …?”
“Not today,” he answered and drove away, down the country road, away from the highway, towards Ford Road.
He left Tracey behind him, standing with her mouth ajar, to fend for herself. She watched his car grow smaller and smaller, then she turned, wanting to find food in the store, but the gas station had been torn apart, literally. Perhaps she could pilfer a candy bar, so she went back, and started her search.
But as she stumbled towards the pumps, walkers emerged from a copse of birch trees, blood-smeared, blood-hungry, lunging towards her. So she turned on her heels and headed towards Ford Road, too, in a hopeless gesture, because she simply didn’t know what else to do.
THE END.
