Locket of Life, Locket of Death

Driving north on Highway 99, two miles out of Monroe, Jack’s ATV suddenly began bucking and groaning, black smoke rolling heavily from the exhaust. It was nearly dusk, and he knew the undead would become more active. The last place he wanted to be was in the open, where he would be especially vulnerable to attack by the living or the dead. He gunned the throttle one final time and silently prayed. He rolled into town, coasting to a halt in front of a large brick home at the end of a cul-de-sac; a final death rattle emitting from the Polaris.

A small group of zombies staggered toward Jack from a few yards away, in a panic he sprinted toward the house. The door was, of course, locked, and he had no time to force the door. Quickly scanning his surroundings, he noticed the garage door was open a couple of feet and darted toward it. Dropping to his knees, then to his belly, he was squeezed under the door as rotting hands were groping his ankles and calves. His running shoe was wrenched painfully from his right foot.

Jack turned to a seated position, kicked the rotting fingers back, and slammed the door onto the ever-reaching arms. Much to his horror, the disfigured fingers continued to search blindly for their quarry. He had to shut the door completely.

In the dim light, he found a golf bag leaning against a nearby work bench, grabbed a 9 iron, and beat the putrefying limbs back until he could secure the door. Jack then instinctively remained silent and still on the cement floor until the creatures wandered away.

Having little to eat for three days, Jack decided to enter the home to search for much-needed supplies. As he explored with, 9-iron in hand, he was happy to find the building was unoccupied and nothing had apparently been ransacked. He was amazed to find a virtual treasure trove of food in a dimly lit pantry. He chose a can of chili and a warm bottle of beer for his dinner, settled into a recliner in the windowless den and wolfed down his meal in peace. His stomach satisfyingly full, he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

Sometime late in the night, he was awakened by tapping coming from the kitchen window. He grasped the golf club tightly and eased his way toward the sound. By the light of the full moon, he was startled to see the living dead corpse of a middle-aged woman peering intently through the window, wearing a simple white dress. A glob of bloody phlegm dripped from her chin and onto the windowsill. He was terrified, thinking she could see him and would break through the glass with a few of her ghastly brethren. He relaxed slightly when he realized she could not see him in the darkness of the unlit room.

Around her neck hung a gold heart-shaped locket, comprised of angel’s wings enfolding what he imagined must be precious contents. He was mesmerized by it. It reminded him of the silver locket he had given his mother on her 40th birthday.

Thinking of that locket and his mom, and the overwhelming trauma of living in an apocalyptic world of hunger, fear and loneliness, he suddenly felt the warm sting of tears sliding down his face.

After she eventually wandered away, he went back to the den. He tried to sleep but found himself thinking only of the woman outside. Had she lived in this house? Did her decomposing brain still contain memories and thoughts of her previous life? What was inside the locket? He decided to give her a name. He settled on Gladys; it was his mother’s name.

Gladys came the next night, as well, looking sadly through her window. As Jack stared at her from the darkness, he felt an incredible drive to learn more about her. He felt a strange connection with her, as she was the only “human” contact he had had in weeks. He decided to search for evidence to see if she had indeed lived there.

In a large cedar chest in the master bedroom, he found hundreds of family photographs. He located the image he was looking for within minutes. Gladys stood smiling between two other women, a wine glass in her right hand, and the heart-shaped locket hanging elegantly above the plunging neckline of her Lamé evening dress. On the back of the picture, written neatly in black ink, read, “NYC, 2019, Carol, Josephine and Anne. Friends forever.”

Josephine it was. It was a nice name. Fitting. Probably more so than Gladys.

Rifling deeper through the chest, he found other pictures, with Josephine always smiling, a man with an equally wide grin at her side. Was this her husband?

Jack eventually went back to the recliner to get some rest, finding his slumber constantly interrupted with thoughts of Josephine. She looked so sad and lonely at her window, like she was searching for her long absent family.

By late afternoon the next day, he had become obsessed with the idea of putting Josephine down to end her pitiful and miserable existence. It would be a dangerous endeavor but ending her suffering would be the humane thing to do.

As the sun dipped below the horizon the following night, Jack tightly grasped the 9-iron and carefully eased the back door open. At a low crouch, he crept off the back porch and stood behind the long dead remains of an azalea bush in a ceramic pot. There were roughly a dozen zombies lounging around the back and side yards but they paid him no attention as long as he was motionless. He knew the best place to wait for Josephine was near the kitchen window, where she would surely return.

He picked up a handful of river rock from the decorative dry creek bed next to the porch, pitching one at the nearby metal garden shed, where it clanged loudly. As soon as the monsters heard this and stumbled toward the shed, he moved to the next shrub. He repeated this action four times before he reached the laurel bush near the kitchen window. He sat on his haunches and waited.

Having nothing to do but sit, he contemplated his life before the apocalypse, when he was happily married to his childhood sweetheart, Zoe. They never had kids, only two small dogs. He never truly appreciated what he had until it was over, and he had literally lost everything. He felt the tears coming, again, and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

He finally saw Josephine stumbling toward her kitchen window from the side yard, her gold locket glistening in the moonlight. Jack tensed and began to rethink what he was doing. Was it really his right to end her existence? What if things went sideways, and she attacked him, devouring his flesh as he screamed in pain and terror, leaving him to become what she already was?

In the end, he decided the risk was worth it. After all, what did he have to lose? More importantly, who did he have to live for?

With a death grip on the club, he slipped around the bush and inched closer to her from behind. Josephine, thankfully, was oblivious to his actions and continued to stare into the window. Glancing side to side, he ensured none of Josephine’s companions were aware of his presence. Just to be sure, he threw one last rock at the shed, now a good 30 feet away. With a final throw of a rock, the nearby zombies staggered toward the sound, giving Jack at least a few minutes to complete his goal.

He raised the 9-iron over his shoulder, as if he were a baseball player standing at home plate. He chose his target, which was just over her right ear, and took a home run swing. The club struck its mark with a dull thud, and Josephine fell instantly to the lawn on her right side. The locket’s delicate wings rested on the ground next to her chin, an apt memorial to her passing.

Jack dropped the club and worked quickly to drag Josephine behind the laurel bush, where he would leave her temporarily until daylight, and he could give her a proper burial. He picked up the 9-iron and threw it, with all his might, disgusted at the sight of the killing instrument.

He turned and promptly headed back to the safety of the house, shaking with fear and adrenaline. He had accomplished what he set out to do, but with mixed feelings. On one hand, he had taken away her pain and would memorialize her passing. On the other, he knew it was inherently wrong to take a life.

He crumbled to the floor and cried, trying to stifle his grief by placing his hands over his mouth. He had kept so much inside for so long; it was all coming out in waves. Now, for the first time, he mourned the losses of his wife, pets, family and friends.

He stumbled into the den, where he knew there was a decent bottle of single malt scotch tucked away in the liquor cabinet. In a desperate attempt to kill his emotional pain, he placed the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Eventually, he passed out on the floor, blissfully unconscious to the world around him.

When morning came, and with no zombies in sight, Jack once again slipped out the back door. He briefly scouted the area and found a good burial site in the garden behind the shed. The ground was soft, here, so would be relatively easy to dig.

Jack next headed to the laurel hedge to retrieve Josephine’s body. Placing his arms under Josephine’s armpits, he dragged her to the garden and carefully placed the body on the ground next to where he planned to dig. There were cherry trees nearby, as well as large azalea and rhododendron bushes. “She will finally be at peace, here,” he said softly to himself.

He knelt next to her and gently removed the necklace from her rotted neck. He gently turned the locket in his hands, noting its delicate detail and elegant beauty. He opened the golden wings and saw Josephine’s smiling face on the left. The photo on the right was an ultrasound image of a child, still in the womb. The engraving read, “James Joseph Waterson, 12-20-85 to 12-20-85.” Jack’s eyes glazed over with tears once again, this time mourning the death of Josephine’s infant son.

He intended to construct a makeshift cross to mark Josephine’s grave, and would place the necklace over it. Until the hole was dug, he decided to drape the necklace over his head for safe keeping.

Jack entered the garden shed, in search of a shovel. He found an entire rack of tools against the rear wall. A potting shelf had fallen in front of the rack, and he bent to move it.

He never heard the beast move out of the shadows behind him until it was on him, jaws clenched tightly around the back of his neck, tearing it into shreds. Jack choked wetly on his own blood, gurgling as he collapsed to the floor.

Four weeks later, Sean, another apocalypse survivor, discovered the brick home at the end of the cul-de-sac while on a scavenging mission. It was late, and he wasn’t inside very long before he heard the tell-tale sounds of zombies on the hunt outside. He was forced to spend the night in the house.

At around midnight, he heard a light rapping from somewhere in the kitchen. He had been in the den, sleeping in the recliner. He crept across the carpet and into the darkened kitchen. In the moonlight stood a zombie, staring intently into the room. Around his neck was a heart-shaped locket.