#zombie!ghost

Lelia was quiet the next morning. She hadn’t come outside to get him, though he’d caught her peeking through the curtains when she first woke. A half hour later, she stepped out into the cold, bundled up and dragging a large pack laden with supplies.

“No,” he grunted, taking the pack from her and moving to head back inside, but she just stood in front of him and crossed her arms, chin notched and jaw set. He growled, frustrated. “Toooo much. You need!”

“Last night, you said there were people,” she replied steadily. “As in, more than one. They need food more than I do, and that’s not even half of what we have. I‘m giving it to them, and that’s final.”

Ghost snarled, looming over her. He wasn’t above scaring her into submission, not when it came to her safety. Maybe it was a blessing he’d been reminded of his place, last night. Dogs showed their teeth even to their Masters, after all. It was simply in their nature.

Drool dripped from his broken jaw, and Lelia’s face softened. She reached up and wiped it away, and the vicious sound coming from him cut off abruptly as he went rigid. Then, with a hiss, he turned around and began marching towards the house the other survivors had claimed as their own.

Fine. If she wanted to be stupidly selfless and give away all her food, the food Ghost had worked so hard to find for her, she could. See if he bloody cared.

He cared. He cared so much it made him fucking sick.

Won’t matter if she ends up leaving with ‘em, a voice in his head—cruel and crackly and sounding nothing like Johnny—whispered. Or invites ‘em back home… either way, you’re out, kid. You’ve lost her, an’ there’s no one to blame but yourself.

He didn’t look at Lelia at all, not even when they stopped, just a few houses short of their target. He held out the pack to her, staring over her head, into the distance. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it from him, struggling under the weight but managing to secure it onto her back.

She touched his arm lightly, and against his will, his gaze was dragged down to his dov— to Lelia’s sweet face. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he—they just looked at each other for a long while, until finally, she stepped away, hoisted the pack a little higher, and walked off towards the house.

If she thought that was a good enough goodbye, she’d be in for a sore surprise, because he wasn't leaving until she told him to his face she wanted him gone… or until she left him behind.

He knew, though, that even if she did either of those things, he’d linger. Follow her around like a bad smell. Just like he’d done in the beginning. He’d keep her safe, from a distance. And maybe, if she noticed, she’d sneak off every once in a while to feed him scraps of affection. It would never be enough, not after everything they’d shared, but like a dog, he’d live for it. Sit on his haunches and beg for it, if he had to.

Fuckin’ hell, he was pathetic.

When Lelia knocked on the door, she wasn’t sure what, exactly, she was expecting to find. Simon had said there were people, but not how many, nor if they were man or woman, young or old. So she felt that she was prepared for anything—until the door opened and there was a gun pointed in her face, and she abruptly realized she was, quite actually, prepared for nothing.

“Wait!” She squeaked, half to the man holding the gun, and half to Simon, who she knew was lurking just a few houses back. She had a feeling he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt the man if he thought she was in danger, and that was the last thing Lelia wanted. “Wait, please— I have food. I w-wanted to bring you food.”

The gun lowered ever so slightly, though her wide eyes remained fixed on its barrel. It looked to have been sawed off, and though Lelia had no earthly idea why someone would do that, she was not at all curious to find out.

“Who else is with you?” The man demanded, and Lelia jumped, fingers clenching the straps of the pack so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“N-no one! You’re the f-first human I’ve seen in months,” she stuttered. It was true, technically. Simon wasn’t human, technically. Simon was a zombie, technically.

It didn’t feel true. Simon was more human now than Andrew had ever been, zombie or not.

The man narrowed his eyes, and the gun raised again. Clearly, he didn’t believe her. Lelia’s heart started to race, and she flinched, squeezing her eyes shut and bracing herself to get her head blown off. She doubted even Simon would be able to save her in time.

“Michael! Put the gun down,” another voice, a woman’s voice, called from further inside the house. Lelia opened her eyes in time to see a girl, maybe five or so years older than herself, shoving against the barrel of the shotgun until it pointed firmly at the floor. Lelia let out a huge whoosh of air, trembling from relief and leftover adrenaline. “She’s just a kid.”

“I’m twenty,” Lelia said, for some reason. Likely because terror had robbed her not only of her filter, but also all her good sense. “Or— maybe not yet. It’s hard to tell how much time has passed. Is it March yet, do you think?”

“Bloody Hell,” the man—Michael—muttered, stepping aside. He looked vaguely ill. “Get in ‘ere, kid. Don’t wanna attract the dead.”

“Right,” Lelia said as she stepped through the door, giving Michael a wide berth. She was still shaking a little, and the thought of being too close to him only made it worse. She wasn’t very happy to be coming inside, out of Simon’s line of sight, but she couldn’t say that she knew the village was clear without telling them how she knew—and she refused to put her zombie in danger like that. What if they didn’t believe that he could control himself, and tried to hurt him? What if they tried to kill him? The idea made her feel faint, heart thumping hard in her chest and her belly twisting. She let the pack drop from her shoulders, and it landed with a muted thud on the entry-way rug. There was a large, suspicious stain in the center of it, brownish red, and Lelia tried not to think about what had caused it. “I brought you supplies. Food mostly, but some water bottles too, and— and a first aid kit.”

She’d hesitated over including that last one, but she knew they would need it more than her. She was safe here in the village, with Simon. She’d only needed stitches the other day because of a dumb accident. She wasn’t constantly in danger like the other two survivors would be when they left.

And she was praying that they would leave. This was her home, the one she built with Simon, where they were safe from monsters—living and dead. This was their sanctuary. She didn’t want to give it up, the very thought made tears prick her eyes and the tip of her nose go hot—but if she couldn’t convince these people to go, then she’d have no choice. She couldn’t trust that Michael and the woman wouldn’t hurt her—or her zombie.

“Yeah?” Michael asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And why the hell would you do that?”

“It’s— it’s the right thing to do,” Lelia replied nervously, gaze darting from him to the woman, searching for support. She’d stopped the man from shooting her earlier, so Lelia hoped she’d be easier to convince. “And… I heard the gunshot the other day, so I knew there had to be people around. I— well, I thought that maybe if I came with a gift, you’d be less likely to kill me.”

The woman let out a soft huff of laughter.

“But why not just wait us out? Avoid us til we move on?” Michael continued, and Lelia reluctantly looked at him once again. “You took a stupid risk for no reason. Worse, you’re losing supplies. Makes no sense—unless you have some sort of ulterior motive.”

“You want to join us, don’t you?” The woman asked, face still hard but with a hint of pity. “You said you’ve been alone for months… you must be desperate to talk to someone.”

Join them? She might have been upset with Simon for lying to her, but she would never leave him. Never. In fact, that’s why she was so hurt—she couldn’t help but think that the reason he hadn’t told her of the other survivors was because he was afraid she’d leave, and it infuriated her. How could he think that, after everything they’d been through? Everything they’d shared? She loved him, she’d given herself to him, body and soul—how could he still think so little of her?

So no, she wasn't desperate to talk to them, let alone join them. Lelia was desperate for them to leave, actually, but despite being separated from other humans for several months now, she still retained her manners, and so said no such thing.

“It’s been… difficult,” she said carefully, voice quiet, gaze locked back on the floor. That wasn’t a lie, exactly. Everything had been difficult since the dead started walking, for someone who had grown up like she did. Even after marrying Andrew, they’d still had maids and butlers and cooks, so she’d not had to do anything for herself, really. Her only job had been enduring Andrew’s cruelty. Even in the safezone, she’d not been put to work, though her quality of life had decreased drastically, of course. No, it wasn’t until she’d met Simon that she’d ever had to learn survival skills—and, to her shame, several basic tasks. It was a miracle he’d never gotten angry with her over how oblivious she’d been—and how much she had yet to learn.

“You expect me to believe some slip of a girl has kept herself alive this whole time? She’s not even got a damn weapon,” Michael said skeptically, no longer even looking at Lelia. She frowned. It seemed he had certainly forgotten his manners. Before his companion could respond, he continued. “You said it yourself, Laura, she’s just a kid.”

“Luck’s a hell of a thing, Michael,” the woman, Laura, answered, though her expressions wavered a little. “And this village has been pretty quiet, we’ve not seen a single undead since we got here. If she’s had this cache and a place to hide since the beginning, it wouldn't be impossible to have made it this long, even on her own.”

“No, no. I don’t like it. She’s got a group stashed somewhere, waiting to take our supplies. They send her in, all pretty and innocent and young with some big sob story to guilt us into taking her along. Next thing we know, she slits our throats in the middle of the night and makes off with our stuff like the cat that’s got the bloody canary.”

Laura blinked. Lelia blinked. Laura laughed. Lelia did not.

“You are one paranoid bastard,” Laura chuckled, shaking her head. “Don’t you think they would have sent her sooner if that were true? We shot that dog three days ago.”

“You shot a puppy?” Lelia gasped, tearing up at the very thought. She suddenly regretted giving these people any supplies, right thing to do or not. How could they do something so cruel?

“It wasn’t a puppy, but it was rabid,” Micahel said dismissively, not even turning to look at her. “Big teeth, foaming at the mouth, snarling like one of the fucking zombies… you would have shot it too, if you wanted to live.”

Lelia wasn’t so sure about that herself. She knew she was far too soft for this world, even after Simon’s lessons. The only reason she was still alive was because he stuck around protecting her, like a knight in shining armour.

“I don’t— just take the supplies and go, please,” she begged, taking a step back towards the door. Michael raised the shotgun again, and she froze, holding her hands up in surrender. “Please. You won’t let me join, that’s— that’s okay. But at least let me live. I haven’t— I haven’t done anything to you.”

“She’s right, Michael," Laura said. “You think she’s too much of a risk to take on, fine. But there’s no need to shoot the poor thing. If she really is alone, the undead will get her soon enough… and if she’s not, I doubt her group will take kindly to her losing them so much supplies. Either way, she’s not a threat. Just a death we’ll have to carry on our conscience.”

Michael stared at the woman intensely for a long moment. Lelia shuddered at hearing her death talked about so casually right in front of her. Simon would never.

“Fine,” Michael said after a long moment, and to her surprise, he even sounded a little relieved. It seemed he didn’t want to kill her almost as much as she didn’t want to die. She smiled tremulously. Her plan to get them to leave was working!  “She can come. But we sleep in shifts until I’m sure we can trust her.”

Huh?

“Wh-what?” She stammered, startled. Laura was already bending down to pick up the heavy pack of supplies Lelia had brought, the muscles in her arms flexing. “Erm— I don’t— what do you—?”

“Michael’s not actually a murdering arsehole,” Laura laughed, sending Lelia a conspiratorial wink. “He just puts up a tough front. It’s the big brother in him, you see. Thinks he gets the final say just because he was born first—but we both know it was me mum used to leave in charge when we were home alone as kids.”

“That’s not true!” Michael exclaimed, and Lelia gaped at the way his entire demeanor had changed, from a stoic, dangerous man on a hair trigger to a bratty little boy. Upon seeing her expression, he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders before trying again. “That’s not true. Now come on, we need to leave now if we want to find somewhere to lay low before dark.”

Oh. Oh, things had gone horribly awry at some point, and Lelia had no idea how or when. But she had to fix this, and quickly.

“Wait, I— I can’t go with you,” she rushed out, searching frantically for a believable excuse. “I’m— I’m too scared to leave the village.”

“We can’t stay here,” Laura explained softly, like she was talking to a spooked horse. “The supplies you had might have been enough for just you to wait out the end of winter, but between the three of us, it won’t last two weeks, even if we ration. We have to move on.”

Lelia shook her head, backing away again. There was no one between her and the door. She could just—make a run for it. Simon would follow her—

But what if they saw him going after her and thought he was trying to eat her? They’d shoot him for sure. And she couldn’t risk that.

You were a scientist who understood exactly what was happening to yourself—the stages of glucose depletion, the slowing of your metabolism, the way your body was consuming itself to keep your heart beating.

Simon stood by the window. He didn't need to eat. He didn't feel the bite of the frost that seeped through the floorboards. To look at him, he was perfectly preserved—the same blue sweater, the same neat hair you combed for him every morning.

He was a monument to a world that had ended, while you were a flickering candle running out of wax.

Simon spent hours just watching you. His clouded eyes followed the shallow rise and fall of her chest. He knew something was wrong; he could smell the change in your chemistry, the sweet-sour scent of ketosis.

He tried to help in the only ways his stalled brain remembered:

He would bring you empty cans he found in the pantry, placing them in your lap with a hopeful, jerky tilt of his head. He would tuck the blankets around your feet, though his touch was as cold as the air around them. He stopped moving entirely, standing over you like a gargoyle, as if his sheer presence could ward off the shadow creeping over you.

"It’s okay, Simon," you whispered, your voice barely a thread of sound. You reached out, your hand trembling. You didn't have the strength to sew his clothes anymore. "You’ll... you’ll be okay. You don't need what I need."

Simon let out a low, mournful vibration. He knelt beside your chair, his movements uncharacteristically fluid in his desperation. He took your hand—so small and frail now—and pressed it against his own gray cheek.

For the first time since he turned, a single, thick drop of moisture gathered in the corner of his milky eye. It wasn't a tear in the biological sense, but a leaked bit of the soul he had fought so hard to keep.

He watched your eyelids flutter and close. He stayed there as the sun set and the room turned to ink. He didn't move when your hand went cold, matching his own. He simply waited, the silent protector of a house that was finally, truly empty, holding the hand of the woman who had spent her last days making sure he looked like a man.

—

The world had been a series of blurred shapes and muffled echoes for a long time. To Simon, time wasn't measured in hours, but in the temperature of your skin and the specific vibration of your voice against the quiet of the house.

He felt the static in his brain—the white noise of the virus that had tried to eat his mind and failed. It was like looking through a frosted window. He could see you, but he couldn't quite reach you.

He watched you now, slumped in the chair. You were so small. Every time he tucked the blanket around you, you seemed to take up less space, as if you were evaporating into the cold air.

He didn't feel hunger, but he felt a different kind of void. It was a hollow ache in the center of his chest where his heart used to beat—a phantom limb of the soul. He saw the way your breathing had changed, turning into a shallow, jagged rhythm that reminded him of a bird with a broken wing.

He knelt. The floorboards didn't feel cold to his dead nerves, but he knew they were. He knew you were freezing.

He wanted to tell you not to go. He wanted to tell you that the blue sweater was itchy, or that the tea you tried to make him weeks ago smelled like the spring they met. But the muscles in his throat were like rusted iron. Every thought he had turned into a low, dry rattle before it could reach his lips.

He pushed. He fought the fog in his head with a ferocity he hadn't used since the day he was bitten. He gathered every scrap of who he used to be—the man who bought you lilies, the man who danced with you in their first kitchen, the man who promised forever.

He took your hand. It was transitionary—no longer warm, but not yet as cold as his.

Your eyes flickered open one last time. They were dull, unfocused, searching for him in the twilight.

Simon leaned in. He forced air through lungs that didn't want to move. He broke the rusted locks of his own throat. It felt like glass tearing, like a mountain moving, but he forced the sound out into the silver silence of the room.

It wasn't a groan. It wasn't a vibration. It was your name, clear and heavy with a decade of unspoken devotion.

Your lips curved—just a ghost of a smile, a tiny exhale of relief. You closed your eyes, your head lolling against the chair.

Simon didn't stop holding your hand. He didn't move when the last of your warmth faded. He simply stayed, the name still echoing in the hollows of his chest, finally understanding that his "forever" had just begun.

—————————

Those were his favorite dreams, dreams where he got to hear your voice, your laugh, anything that involved you. He especially loved seeing the way you would look at him, as if he was the most important person in the world, even though you had to remind him several times that he did, in fact, deserve the love, you gave him and more. Simon Riley will do whatever it takes to see that look on your face again, even if it is just one last time. 

It has been two months since the world came crashing down; a new bioweapon was released that turns people into terrifying and disgusting creatures who are no longer human once infected. They become monsters that will stop at nothing to fulfill the unstoppable hunger coursing through their veins for blood and gore. No one ever thought they would see the day when zombies would actually walk the Earth. Simon remembers when he first heard the terrible news; he was just getting back from a relatively easy mission when he got the news from Price. 

—-

“There’s nothing we can do anymore, Simon. This might just be the end of the world as we know it.” Price said, sounding hopeless, something that Simon had never thought he would hear from his strong-willed Captain before. 

The thought of you at home or at work alone, on the other side of the country, so far away from him. If something were to happen to you, he didn’t even want to think about it for fear of speaking it into existence. He pulled out his phone, his hands shaking as he called you. Simon’s heart was pounding in his ears, making the ringing of the line barely audible. He began to hold his breath; the longer it took for you to answer, the seconds felt like centuries. On the fourth ring, you answered the phone, not even able to greet him before he was already giving you orders, something he never does, hating to let you see that side of him, but when your life was on the line, it was something that had to be done. 

—---

That phone call was the last time Simon had heard your voice as he walked through the broken streets of your once lively neighborhood trying to find you, hoping with everything he had left that you listened to him and stayed safe. All you had to do was barricade yourself in your shared home; Simon was always a worrier when it came to your safety, teaching you how to correctly defend yourself with guns and knives should the need ever arise, making sure the house was constantly stocked full of emergency supplies such as first aid kits, nonperishable foods, and bottle water, something you always poked fun of him for asking if he was ready for the zombie apocalypse, little did you both know that a simple joke would soon quickly become a reality. In the back of his mind, he was very thankful that you, at the very least had enough supplies to last you a long time and keep yourself safe until he could get to you. 

As he walked closer and closer to your shared home, broken glass crunching under his heavy boots, Simon thought about the long journey here. After the last phone call he shared with you, it was too long after that electricity, the internet, and everything quickly stopped working all over the world. The only source of communication was radio transmission, but only if you were lucky enough to find a working generator hooked to a  radio station or one that was run on solar panels. Luckily, he did not need any of that to locate you, knowing exactly how to get back to you no matter what it takes, even if he has to walk the whole way by himself. 

Simon promised Price that whenever he was able, Simon would try to contact him and that once he found you safe and sound, he would meet Price and the rest of the task force at the safe house Gaz was at to regroup and create a haven for themselves and other survivors they should find along the way. Though, if Simon was being completely honest, he didn’t really care about finding or helping anyone else, at least not until he found you, the only thing still keeping him going, his light in the darkness. Even though he was fairly used to walking long distances, combat, and guerilla warfare, the more that got in his way to reaching you felt like another nail in the coffin. Sometimes, though Simon was lucky, he would find a car in working condition that still had a bit of gas left in it, so he was able to speed down the damaged roads covered in corpses, cars, and monsters. 

Simon sees it now, the place you both called home; over the last two months, the agriculture has run wild, the weeds and grass growing tall in the yard, your once carefully looked after garden of flowers and small fruits and vegetables destroyed by what he can only hope was wild animals. The familiar wooden steps groan under his added weight as Simon slowly ascends the stairs. He grabs the worn door handle to find it locked, taking that as a good sign, hoping you are safe inside, he reaches into his hidden pocket underneath his tactical vest and pulls out the small house key that you painted black with a tiny little ghost in the center telling him ‘it matched his aesthetic more’ his heart clenches at the memory afraid of what he will find behind the closed doors. 

Simon slides the key into the lock and turns it, causing it to click into place, again, he grabs the handle, turning it to push the door open only to be met with resistance. Looking through the small crack of the door, he sees the heavy wooden bookshelf, ‘you just had to have for all your trinkets and books’ shoved against the door, blocking entry. A rush of pride fills his chest that you listened to him and blocked the entry points of the house with furniture. Using all his might, Simon slams his shoulder into the door, trying to push it open along with the bookshelf. 

“Love! Are you here? Answer me?!” Simon's deep voice cut through the silence of the house as he squeezed through the small gap in the door he was able to make. Once inside, he reached back and slowly shut and locked the door, not wanting to have any surprise visits from anyone or anything else. Still not hearing any response from you, Simon begins to make his way through the house. Looking at the small, cozy couch where he first worked up the courage to tell you that he loved you, though a whisper at first, scared of your reply, fearing it would ruin your relationship, until you threw yourself in his arms saying it back much louder than he had, it was now propped up against the wall as a makeshift barrier covering the window that looked out over your garden. 

Simon walks into the kitchen with his gun raised just in case, already fearing the worst. The kitchen that was once filled with your joyous laughter as you covered him in flour from an impromptu baking idea you got after watching one of those silly baking shows you liked to watch when he was away on a mission. Now, nothing but his heavy breathing and footsteps can be heard. A muffled cry reached Simon’s ears, causing him to whip around in search of the source of the sound. Heading towards your shared bedroom, the door slightly ajar, letting him see somewhat into the room, memories flashed behind his eyes: the bed where he held you close at night, where you moaned out his name in pleasure, the bed where you comforted him after harsh nightmares that seemed too real. 

Using the tip of his gun, he pushed the door open quickly checking the corners of the room for danger, finding nothing until another muffled noise could be heard coming from the closet. Slowly, he walks toward the closet, he reaches out his hand, shaking from what he might find, and rips open the closet door, aiming the gun. Only to find you huddled in the corner of the closet shakily holding one of his hunting knives while tears stream down your face while you cover your mouth trying to hold in your sobs. 

Upon seeing you, Simon drops to his knees, whispering your name, ripping off the mask from his face. Through the tears in your eyes, you see Simon kneeling in front of you, and you leap forward, throwing yourself into his awaiting embrace, the knife now forgotten on the floor beside you. You loudly sob as you tuck your face into his chest, Simon's arms tighten around you to the point where it almost hurts, but it is a good kind of pain. His face is tucked in the corner of your neck; his breathing is shaky and labored. You both sit in the opening of the closet, holding each other as close as you can, until Simon pulls back from you and grabs your face, holding it carefully in his hands, his eyes searching your face, before leaning forward and placing his forehead against yours closing your eyes. 

He lets out another shaky breath, “I am glad that I was able to make it in time to see you one last time.” 

Your face fulls together in confusion, putting your hand overtop of his, “One last time? Simon, what are you talking about?”

Simon feels you pull your face out of his hands, but still holding his hands, he opens his eyes to see more tears now streaming down your face as your eyes focus on the bite mark on his left arm, the ripped shirt covered in blood as he tried to fight off the spreading infection as best he could with a tourniquet. Simon tried so hard to make it back to you unscathed, but he was ambushed and attacked by a horde of zombies just yesterday. Everything happened so fast that he didn’t even realize he had been bitten until later. When he realized, he thought about killing himself right then and there to protect you, but he couldn’t, not yet anyway, he wanted to see you again. He had to, he had to know that you were ok. Plus, he couldn’t stand the thought of you never knowing what had happened to him, making you spend the rest of your life worrying about him. So, he decided he would find you and see you again for the last time. 

“no, no, no, no. Please no! Simon, I just got you back you can’t leave me. Please don’t do this to me..I… can’t do this anymore.” you are sobbing uncontrollably now. 

Simon pulls you into his chest again and rubs a soothing hand down your back. “I am so sorry, love. I hate to do this to you, but I needed to see you. I had to know that you were safe.” His voice rumbled against your face. “You won’t be alone; I wouldn’t do that to you. I was able to contact Price earlier today and told him and he is on the way to you. He will be here within the coming week. The safe haven they create isn’t too far from here. They all promised me they would keep you safe.” Simon feels his control wavering, but he needs to stay strong for you; crying right now would not help you. 

—

You both stay like that, slumped on the floor, holding onto each other with everything you have because you know when you let go, it will be for the last time. “How much longer do you have left?” you whispered out, your voice raw and strained from all the crying. 

Simon let out a deep, painful breath, “A day at most, the infection moves at a fast rate. But I am not taking any chances; I’m doing it tonight. Price will be here soon, and you’ll be ok.” 

He feels you shiver in his hold at his words. Simon knows that you understand his meaning without having to say it. Simon knows he is already risking so much by coming back to the house to see you one last time, but just for once he wants to be selfish and make all of his suffering worth it, holding you in his arms makes him feel complete once again even though you both know that time is running out. He grabs your face and brings your lips to his uncovered ones, kissing you, trying to show you that everything will be ok, that you are going to be ok, trying to say everything that he is too scared to say through your last shared kiss. Salty tears can be tasted on your lips as you wrap your hands around his neck, running your fingers through his hair like you always do. Simon pulls back from you just a bit, though your lips still brush against each other with every word he whispers, “I love you. No matter where I end up, I will always search for you to keep you safe.” 

He gives you one last peck against the lips as he slips out of your hold, walking to the door and closing it behind him because he knows if he stops now and looks at you, he won’t be able to follow through with his plans, and he has to do this. He has to keep you safe, even if it means breaking your heart in the process. Your sobs echo loudly throughout the home that was once filled with so much happiness. Tears fill his eyes, but he keeps on walking, squeezing through the gap in the front door, pulling it shut, locking the door back, hoping that you will move the bookshelf back in front of the door. The key feels heavy in his grasp as he rubs his thumb over the small ghost painted on it. He bends down carefully, placing the key under the doormat for Price to find. 

Simon walks around to the edge of the house where the tool shed still stands with overgrown weeds covering it. He prys the door open till he finds what he is looking for, pulling out the heavy wrench from inside the toolbox. The metal feels cool in his grip. Simon rolls his shoulders back, raising the hand that holds the wrench above his head before bringing the wrench down onto his jaw with as much force as he can muster. Pain explodes across his face, but he won’t stop not until he knows for sure his jaw is broken. He refuses to take any chances of coming back as one of the disgusting zombies and potentially end up biting or hurting you.

 It took three blows before Simon could feel his jaw hanging limply from his face. The pain was one of the worst pains he had ever felt in his entire life, but to keep you safe, he had to do it. Plus, the physical pain he was experiencing was nothing compared to the pain inside his chest. Simon slides down the side of the shed, sits down in the grass, pulls his gun, places it on the side of his head, closing his eyes, picturing your smiling face in his mind, the life you both should of had together flashing throughout his mind as he pulls the trigger, the last thing he sees is you standing before him the day you meet smiling brightly at him. 

—-----------

Four days later, when Price arrives at you and Simon’s home, he walks up the steps leading to your door when something catches the corner of his eye off to the side of the house. Price sees the tool shed with a slumped figure sitting in the shadow, walking over to it with his weapon raised; bile raises in the back of his throat that he has to force back down at the sight of you covered in blood wrapped in Simon’s arms your face tucked under his broken jaw. In your hands, Price sees a note. He reaches down and pulls the note from your hands, opening it.

 ‘I am sorry, John. I couldn’t leave him all alone here.” He places the note back where he found it, looking down at his friends as tears fill his eyes. He refuses to let them fall because he knows wherever they are, they are together. 

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