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Fuck. Jean thought as he tossed an empty box of ibuprofen to a random corner. Fucking place has been wiped clean. Now I have to –
A faint shuffling sound behind him alerts Jean of another being’s presence. He quickly grabs his pistol and turns to point it towards the source of the noise.
He freezes.
An undead figure stands between him and his way out.
And it’s not just some undead figure.
It’s Marco.
-
“Hey, don’t worry. You've landed such an awesome job. The pay is good, they’ll provide you a place and your co-workers have to be demons to not like you.”
“But I’ll miss you.”
“We’ll Skype each other, all right? Stop crying. I’ll text you so much that you’d want to chuck your phone in some ditch. We’ll call each other and talk our ears off and hell, we could even write each other letters. I bet your cheesy ass you would love that. We’ll do that every day and before we know it, you’ll be right back here.”
“But… I’ll still miss you.”
“I know, I will too.”
-
Marco, or what used to be him, Jean corrects himself, slowly staggers forward. The zombie seems to have no intention of attacking although it does make a gurgling noise in what’s left of its throat. It limps toward Jean and curiously eyes the muzzle of Jean’s gun.
-
“What the hell, Jean! Stop poking me!”
Jean only laughs at this, ignoring Marco’s complaint. “I swear, Marco. These are new.” He muses, taking another playful jab at the freckles littered on his boyfriend’s shoulder.
“Okay, so maybe I missed a spot when I was applying sunblock.”
“You should’ve just made me do it, dork. I would have been thorough.”
“Thorough, eh?” Marco grins teasingly as he shifts to crawl towards Jean, his face only a few inches away. “How thorough, exactly?”
-
Jean’s eyes sting as tears form around his eyes, whether it be from the stench of rotten flesh or the pain clawing at his heart, Jean is not sure. He keeps his stance steady, silently praying the zombie would lose interest in him.
But prayers are not heard in this godforsaken world.
The decaying body inches closer, its barely audible steps contrasting the heavy pounding in Jean’s ears as his finger trembles around the trigger, his gun feeling like dead weight in his hands. He wonders why the zombie hasn't attacked him yet and consequently berates himself for not doing so either.
-
“Jean, sweetheart, I love you. Don’t forget that, okay?”
Jean bites back the sob threatening to escape his lips. He adjusts the phone on his ear, the gadget hot on his skin. He knows both their batteries are dying, he’d be able to charge it when he returns to the safety of their camp, but Marco didn't have that privilege.
“I love you too, Marco,” Jean chokes out, “to infinity and beyond.” It sounds like they’re saying goodbye, and as his phone notifies him that his battery is a few seconds from dead, they might as well be.
“Nerd.” He hears a chuckle on the other side of the line before it completely goes off.
Jean never hears from Marco again.
-
Jean trains his gaze towards the zombie’s brown eye, non-reminiscent of the warmth it once held. Its blank stare crushes all naive hope that perhaps, his Marco is still there.
He quietly expels the breath he’s been holding and forces himself to really look at the rest of the figure in front of him.
The freckles he once adored are mottled with what could only be guts and dried blood. Above its right cheek, an empty socket gapes at the death-filled atmosphere. The eyes that needed no words to express their love are gone. The lips that were once fixed in an endearing smile are now plastered in an eternal grimace, its taste now only living in Jean’s memories. There is almost nothing left of the flesh of the upper right half of its torso. He wrinkles his nose as the smell of death pierces his nostrils and Jean’s brow furrows as he tries to remember what his Marco smelled like.
Jean laments as he realizes that this moment will haunt him for however long he’d survive this hellhole.
He brings up a picture of Marco from his memories, remembering the way they cuddled and the way they looked at each other like they’re the only people in the world. Marco smells like vanilla, Jean recalls. He used to tease Marco for his taste in perfumes, a luxury he no longer has.
The zombie hisses at Jean, bringing him back to reality, and it nudges its head at the gun.
Jean eyes the undead creature, its existence an insult to the wonder that was his lover.
This isn't his Marco, he finally decides.
And pulls the trigger.