[cw: romance]
Din Talin.
At first, they laugh when you suggest it. What would be the point, with zombies on the doorstep already?
Then the revelation arrives from Colby: there are two strains to the contagion. And you repeat, this time to an attentive audience, that the zombies are different in Din Talin.
And so the group is split in twain; Devo and Peregrine to remain while the Saint accompanies you to the city.
Your third, and final, visit to see her is once again marred by weaponry. Though that seems on theme, based on your fragmented memories of the war. The path to the city becomes ever more familiar. With some effort, you can pretend that she does too.
The weight of the pistol on your hip is foreign; while Juno’s work on your arm has done wonders, it still needs some time to settle the jitters before the rifle slung across your back is of any use. The patchwork of metal is less than subtle. But it has worked.
The glitches seem to worsen as the city’s haze comes into view. You see flickers of lit windows, shadows dancing; hear the faint strum of a busker’s guitar; smell fresh pastry caught in a breeze. And she is around every corner: you see the ripple of her dress disappearing around a corner; hear her laughter as a child runs past; feel her hand on your shoulder as she points out a waddling pigeon.
Your ghost of a smile is interrupted with a cough as the wind blows cold grey dust into your face. The Saint shows no emotion.
The outskirts are dead. The air is still. You listen for even a scurry but hear nothing.
Your feet find the way without instruction, winding the path which is as ingrained now as your walk to the local shop. If you remembered it. The Saint follows, in loud, crunching footsteps, safe in its invulnerability. You wince with each impact. The attentive barrel of its gun does not reassure you.
You hear the chimes first. Then the smell, the sweet decay of flowers mixed with blood. Your eyes find her quickly amongst the swarm. Her movement stirs something within you, a recollection waking, bleary-eyed, from its dormancy. A dance.
She smiles at you from across the field, or at least you fool yourself into thinking it’s you she’s smiling about even as her eyes pass over you. You knew her, in the way that everyone in the class knew each other. You’d spoken, once. In line for lunch, about this or that teacher that everyone hated.
And then at university, a chance meeting which leads to a drink. And then another. And then walking each other back at 4am, shivering but not wanting to be the first to say goodbye. An awkward embrace which turns into an awkward kiss.
And more, all bundled up into that face, those eyes, that smile, burning so brightly now that you don’t know how you ever forgot it all.
It would be foolish to hope that it can be the same. But the zombies are different in Din Talin. And there was something in those eyes. It would be worth getting infected to know for sure. At least, that’s the excuse. Your legs don’t quite believe it, cemented to the spot.
Eventually, it is the Saint’s gun at your back which forces you into movement. A nudge, friendly by its standards, but you can’t help but flinch. Pretending it’s about to shoot you isn’t a bad way to motivate your reluctant muscles as you creep forward, looking to lure one from the edge of the pack.
With dragging feet, you delay until Lulav has circled to the outskirts. Your foot shifts forwards. A pebble clatters off of the edge of the kerb.
She turns.
You step forward.
And she steps back.
Your sound? Your face? Your scent? Something has changed; somehow, you have changed since you saw her last. But the only thing you changed was taking the vaccine; a cure to her ability to harm you which, you realise, with a white-hot pang, comes with a serrated second blade, a cure also to your ability to close the distance between you and her.
You step forward again with pleading eyes but now she’s scrambling and when you meet her gaze you see nothing but animalistic panic. Any traces of recognition washed away in horror, in utter revulsion of you. It turns and bolts and now the feeling spreads, rippling through the ranks of the raiders as you approach, a wave of bodies parting before you. You start to run, your arm and your eye and your heart aching as she disappears into the crowd but they are fast and they are terrified and within seconds, the shrine is empty.
Empty, save for a line of bodies, arranged in a neat row in the back. On one end, though the white is now muddied into a lightish brown, is a figure in a labcoat.
In the still air, the chimes ring. It’s hollow, now. No more laughter or late night intoxication.
It’s over.
In remembering, you are forgotten. {[]}