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I'd forgotten about these. Jesus, I wrote this 5 years ago...and for some reason, I called it "I Could have Loved You".
When I look back with the benefit of hindsight, it was that first encounter that emptied me out. I may not be dragging my carcass through the streets, and I may not eat those whom I butcher but believe me I'm as dead as they are.
It's not as if I really even knew her that well. We both got the same train in to work, day in and day out. If I'm honest, I can't even remember speaking to her at all before that last week. If only I'd spoke to her sooner, maybe showed then some of the courage that my little troupe finds so admirable now, then maybe I'd have something to live for other than my simple instinct for survival. As it is, the ache of remembering her last words is worse than any zombie bite.
Perhaps I should clarify myself a little. My name is Andrew Watts and I think I'm 28 years old. I would be more specific, but to be honest I've had more pressing worries than the passage of time. Being so scared of becoming a midnight snack that you can't sleep more than 2 hours at a time…well, it rather takes the edge of any birthday celebrations, don't you think?
In my former life, I was a trainee accountant, that most dashing of profession, and I was 22 when I first saw her. I had just started my job at the firm and my astounding lack of any mechanical expertise precluded the use of a car to get me to work. (Now that I come to think of it, the look of terror on my driving instructors face almost matches anything managed by those I've seen lost since. Almost) I also lived over 20 miles away from the city, hence the train to work.
I didn't see her until my second week of travel and I am sorry to be so cliched but my heart simply stopped the moment I saw her. She was jostled onto the train in the midst of a gaggle of braying businessmen, and had I not fell in love with her beforehand then the way she rounded on them would surely have done it.
"Do you know, in all my 20 years on this earth the only person that has touched my @rse without prior permission has been my mum." At this point she raised the hand that she had presumably found planted there. I confess my initial thoughts of "Lucky b**tard" purely to save you the trouble of thinking them yourself.
"And you know, if you were my mum, she wouldn't be nearly as distressed at this;" And there was a blur of movement at about waist height, a strangled gasping noise and a rapid collapse on the part of the possessor of the wandering hand. I watched in awe as she heaved him to his feet and hissed a further threat at him through clenched teeth before dropping him and stalking away. Towards my seat. Towards me.
I suppose she must have thought I was non-threatening, and frankly who could blame her? Possession of a copy of The Guardian, spectacles, and a briefcase hardly marks one out as an aggressor. She took a seat next to me. It was than that I noticed that she was shaking, so I asked if she was okay. I single, curt "Fine" was all I received in reply, and so I returned to my paper and contented myself with sly glances for the rest of the journey. Come to think of it, I contented myself with that for the next 8 months.
She was beautiful, it was that simple. I remember her as being about 5 and a half feet tall with blonde hair and fair skin, a real English rose as my old mum would say. (Actually, my mum would say "Uuuurrrrrhhhhhh" and then try and take a bite of me but that's beside the point). She had grey blue eyes, or at least I think she did; to my shame I never plucked up the courage to look into her eyes until the end, and who knows if her eyes had always been that colour?
If I had to pick a fault with her (no easy task in my hormonal state, I assure you) it was her choice of morning paper. Having completed an Economics degree at a prestigious University, I fancied myself something of an intellectual, hence The Guardian every morning. She, on the other hand, used to read quite the most appalling s**te on our morning journey. Every morning I would despair as she chuckled along to The Sun, The Inquirer, and more women's magazines with lurid headlines about how to get better orgasms that I still blush to think of it.
And so I continued to live my life for the next half a year. I went to and from work and drank in her image every day. Whenever she wasn't there I would spend the day distracted and listless, a pit of gnawing despair eating away at my gut as I worried whether I would see her again. When she returned after those (thankfully always brief) absences my spirit did not so much soar as backflip across the room gibbering with glee all the while.
By now, it should be obvious that I am (well….was) painfully shy. I had never considered myself the finest looking chap in the world. Schoolyard teasing about my glasses had weakened my self-esteem. A few desperately disappointing University fumblings only served to destroy it. I never mentioned her to any of my friends, nor to my mother and father (I still lived at home, which was yet another nail in the coffin of whatever hopes I may have had of making her mine) I kept my longing to myself.
It was on a wet Tuesday morning in November that everything changed in our relationship. We started to have one. She was sitting opposite me flicking idly through her morning rag (A week old copy of The Inquirer with a lurid headline that screamed "Dead Man Walking!!" and a blurred cover photo claiming to be that of a reanimated corpse somewhere in the U.S) when she looked up, as if seeing me for the first time.
"You're the bloke who tried to be nice to me after that @rsehole had a grope of me, aren't you?" She smiled, half nervously half defensively as if I was going to favour her with as abrupt a response as I had received. "I'm probably overdue with the apology I owe you for being such a b!tch…" She let her words hang in the air.
"Er…well yes, umm, no you weren't much of a b!tch (much of a b!tch?!? Hey Andrew, you old smoothie you), I mean you were entitled to be a bit…um…" She laughed at my fumbling attempt at a response and saved my further blushes. "A bit of a cow? To that s**t maybe but you were only being nice. God knows there's few enough decent guys around these days, and here's me scaring off the only one I've met since I got here." Another smile from her, another skipped heartbeat from me.
"Our stop I think. Look, will you be here again on the way back tonight?" I dumbly nodded affirmative. "Tell you what, d'you fancy going for a drink after work? There's a good pub 5 minutes away from my stop. What do you think?" If I carried on nodding the way I was she would know I was an idiot. " Cool. See you later." And with that, the train pulled up to its destination, and we disembarked in the city for what turned out to be the last time.
To say it was a strange day would be to say that the end of the world was somewhat peculiar. I arrived at work to find one of my co-workers (I worked for a large and prestigious firm. Being on first name terms with everyone was difficult, which is quite ironic, as there may not be that many people in the whole country now.) being bandaged by his secretary in the office. He was wincing in pain and pontificating at some length about what this government should do with "bl00dy tramps and ****ing wasters!", especially drunken ones that attacked him. I later found out he'd been bitten by what appeared to be a drunken tramp.
I didn't do much work that day, nor did anyone else. We were all glued to the television in the canteen. The reports that were coming in defied all rational explanation. All over the world and for no particular reason, corpses were getting up and walking. That in itself would have been disturbing. The fact that they were hungry and were most certainly not vegan did not help matters in the slightest. The Prime Minister had told parliament that all steps were being taken to stop the spread of the virus that was causing this (I wonder if he really did know what was causing it. It makes no difference really; I understand that the leader of the opposition made a very definitive political statement and ate the b*****d 2 weeks later.) and that there was no need at this stage for martial law.
And all of this, the end of all civilisation, it was all just so much padding in the day as far as I was concerned. Most people left early that day, but I stayed. I promised I'd meet her after work.
I arrived at the station at 5.30. I was still there at 11. Not that it made any difference. I don't think there'd been any trains since the morning. It wasn't too difficult to stay inconspicuous, bearing in mind most people were far more concerned with fleeing the city in a panic. It was then that I heard her scream. She staggered into the station, bleeding from a horrific gash in her neck. A man was chasing her, or at least that's what I thought it was. I ran toward her and reached her just as she collapsed and the man reached her. I kicked him away from her though in truth I don't really remember the next few seconds. Suffice to say that 22 years of repressed emotion found an outlet via the medium of a half brick and the easily yielding head of a walking corpse.
Christ knows what I looked like as I made my way over to her. She was barely alive, only her soft whimpering indicated any life. I gently turned her head and looked at her, though my tears of mingled anguish and rage blurred her features. I couldn't make out her final words clearly, but you've read the title of my little tale, so you know what I believe they were. What I hope they were.
And that was that. I wish it had been. I held her for half an hour, crying to myself at the injustice of it all. You may think that selfish. Others had lost loved ones; close family, friends but I really didn't care. I still don't if I'm honest. Can you imagine the rise of hope as I felt her stir in my arms? Can you begin to understand my joy at her apparent survival? It lasted less than a moment and when it was dashed by my realisation of what she had become, I was as dead as she was. I don't know where the strength to push her away came from, but the blow that ended her mockery of life came from the last embers of my soul.
When I look back with the benefit of hindsight, it was that first encounter that emptied me out. I may not be dragging my carcass through the streets, and I may not eat those whom I butcher but believe me I'm as dead as they are.
It's not as if I really even knew her that well. We both got the same train in to work, day in and day out. If I'm honest, I can't even remember speaking to her at all before that last week. If only I'd spoke to her sooner, maybe showed then some of the courage that my little troupe finds so admirable now, then maybe I'd have something to live for other than my simple instinct for survival. As it is, the ache of remembering her last words is worse than any zombie bite.
Perhaps I should clarify myself a little. My name is Andrew Watts and I think I'm 28 years old. I would be more specific, but to be honest I've had more pressing worries than the passage of time. Being so scared of becoming a midnight snack that you can't sleep more than 2 hours at a time…well, it rather takes the edge of any birthday celebrations, don't you think?
In my former life, I was a trainee accountant, that most dashing of profession, and I was 22 when I first saw her. I had just started my job at the firm and my astounding lack of any mechanical expertise precluded the use of a car to get me to work. (Now that I come to think of it, the look of terror on my driving instructors face almost matches anything managed by those I've seen lost since. Almost) I also lived over 20 miles away from the city, hence the train to work.
I didn't see her until my second week of travel and I am sorry to be so cliched but my heart simply stopped the moment I saw her. She was jostled onto the train in the midst of a gaggle of braying businessmen, and had I not fell in love with her beforehand then the way she rounded on them would surely have done it.
"Do you know, in all my 20 years on this earth the only person that has touched my @rse without prior permission has been my mum." At this point she raised the hand that she had presumably found planted there. I confess my initial thoughts of "Lucky b**tard" purely to save you the trouble of thinking them yourself.
"And you know, if you were my mum, she wouldn't be nearly as distressed at this;" And there was a blur of movement at about waist height, a strangled gasping noise and a rapid collapse on the part of the possessor of the wandering hand. I watched in awe as she heaved him to his feet and hissed a further threat at him through clenched teeth before dropping him and stalking away. Towards my seat. Towards me.
I suppose she must have thought I was non-threatening, and frankly who could blame her? Possession of a copy of The Guardian, spectacles, and a briefcase hardly marks one out as an aggressor. She took a seat next to me. It was than that I noticed that she was shaking, so I asked if she was okay. I single, curt "Fine" was all I received in reply, and so I returned to my paper and contented myself with sly glances for the rest of the journey. Come to think of it, I contented myself with that for the next 8 months.
She was beautiful, it was that simple. I remember her as being about 5 and a half feet tall with blonde hair and fair skin, a real English rose as my old mum would say. (Actually, my mum would say "Uuuurrrrrhhhhhh" and then try and take a bite of me but that's beside the point). She had grey blue eyes, or at least I think she did; to my shame I never plucked up the courage to look into her eyes until the end, and who knows if her eyes had always been that colour?
If I had to pick a fault with her (no easy task in my hormonal state, I assure you) it was her choice of morning paper. Having completed an Economics degree at a prestigious University, I fancied myself something of an intellectual, hence The Guardian every morning. She, on the other hand, used to read quite the most appalling s**te on our morning journey. Every morning I would despair as she chuckled along to The Sun, The Inquirer, and more women's magazines with lurid headlines about how to get better orgasms that I still blush to think of it.
And so I continued to live my life for the next half a year. I went to and from work and drank in her image every day. Whenever she wasn't there I would spend the day distracted and listless, a pit of gnawing despair eating away at my gut as I worried whether I would see her again. When she returned after those (thankfully always brief) absences my spirit did not so much soar as backflip across the room gibbering with glee all the while.
By now, it should be obvious that I am (well….was) painfully shy. I had never considered myself the finest looking chap in the world. Schoolyard teasing about my glasses had weakened my self-esteem. A few desperately disappointing University fumblings only served to destroy it. I never mentioned her to any of my friends, nor to my mother and father (I still lived at home, which was yet another nail in the coffin of whatever hopes I may have had of making her mine) I kept my longing to myself.
It was on a wet Tuesday morning in November that everything changed in our relationship. We started to have one. She was sitting opposite me flicking idly through her morning rag (A week old copy of The Inquirer with a lurid headline that screamed "Dead Man Walking!!" and a blurred cover photo claiming to be that of a reanimated corpse somewhere in the U.S) when she looked up, as if seeing me for the first time.
"You're the bloke who tried to be nice to me after that @rsehole had a grope of me, aren't you?" She smiled, half nervously half defensively as if I was going to favour her with as abrupt a response as I had received. "I'm probably overdue with the apology I owe you for being such a b!tch…" She let her words hang in the air.
"Er…well yes, umm, no you weren't much of a b!tch (much of a b!tch?!? Hey Andrew, you old smoothie you), I mean you were entitled to be a bit…um…" She laughed at my fumbling attempt at a response and saved my further blushes. "A bit of a cow? To that s**t maybe but you were only being nice. God knows there's few enough decent guys around these days, and here's me scaring off the only one I've met since I got here." Another smile from her, another skipped heartbeat from me.
"Our stop I think. Look, will you be here again on the way back tonight?" I dumbly nodded affirmative. "Tell you what, d'you fancy going for a drink after work? There's a good pub 5 minutes away from my stop. What do you think?" If I carried on nodding the way I was she would know I was an idiot. " Cool. See you later." And with that, the train pulled up to its destination, and we disembarked in the city for what turned out to be the last time.
To say it was a strange day would be to say that the end of the world was somewhat peculiar. I arrived at work to find one of my co-workers (I worked for a large and prestigious firm. Being on first name terms with everyone was difficult, which is quite ironic, as there may not be that many people in the whole country now.) being bandaged by his secretary in the office. He was wincing in pain and pontificating at some length about what this government should do with "bl00dy tramps and ****ing wasters!", especially drunken ones that attacked him. I later found out he'd been bitten by what appeared to be a drunken tramp.
I didn't do much work that day, nor did anyone else. We were all glued to the television in the canteen. The reports that were coming in defied all rational explanation. All over the world and for no particular reason, corpses were getting up and walking. That in itself would have been disturbing. The fact that they were hungry and were most certainly not vegan did not help matters in the slightest. The Prime Minister had told parliament that all steps were being taken to stop the spread of the virus that was causing this (I wonder if he really did know what was causing it. It makes no difference really; I understand that the leader of the opposition made a very definitive political statement and ate the b*****d 2 weeks later.) and that there was no need at this stage for martial law.
And all of this, the end of all civilisation, it was all just so much padding in the day as far as I was concerned. Most people left early that day, but I stayed. I promised I'd meet her after work.
I arrived at the station at 5.30. I was still there at 11. Not that it made any difference. I don't think there'd been any trains since the morning. It wasn't too difficult to stay inconspicuous, bearing in mind most people were far more concerned with fleeing the city in a panic. It was then that I heard her scream. She staggered into the station, bleeding from a horrific gash in her neck. A man was chasing her, or at least that's what I thought it was. I ran toward her and reached her just as she collapsed and the man reached her. I kicked him away from her though in truth I don't really remember the next few seconds. Suffice to say that 22 years of repressed emotion found an outlet via the medium of a half brick and the easily yielding head of a walking corpse.
Christ knows what I looked like as I made my way over to her. She was barely alive, only her soft whimpering indicated any life. I gently turned her head and looked at her, though my tears of mingled anguish and rage blurred her features. I couldn't make out her final words clearly, but you've read the title of my little tale, so you know what I believe they were. What I hope they were.
And that was that. I wish it had been. I held her for half an hour, crying to myself at the injustice of it all. You may think that selfish. Others had lost loved ones; close family, friends but I really didn't care. I still don't if I'm honest. Can you imagine the rise of hope as I felt her stir in my arms? Can you begin to understand my joy at her apparent survival? It lasted less than a moment and when it was dashed by my realisation of what she had become, I was as dead as she was. I don't know where the strength to push her away came from, but the blow that ended her mockery of life came from the last embers of my soul.
I did?
Aw, cockbeans...thought I'd never posted this one before.
Had I posted t'other one as well? And the other 2 I've dug out?
Aw, cockbeans...thought I'd never posted this one before.
Had I posted t'other one as well? And the other 2 I've dug out?
I really like this one but you have posted it before. Still it was a pleasure to read it again after all this time.
I'd forgotten about these. Jesus, I wrote this 5 years ago...and for some reason, I called it "I Could have Loved You".
When I look back with the benefit of hindsight, it was that first encounter that emptied me out. I may not be dragging my carcass through the streets, and I may not eat those whom I butcher but believe me I'm as dead as they are.
It's not as if I really even knew her that well. We both got the same train in to work, day in and day out. If I'm honest, I can't even remember speaking to her at all before that last week. If only I'd spoke to her sooner, maybe showed then some of the courage that my little troupe finds so admirable now, then maybe I'd have something to live for other than my simple instinct for survival. As it is, the ache of remembering her last words is worse than any zombie bite.
Perhaps I should clarify myself a little. My name is Andrew Watts and I think I'm 28 years old. I would be more specific, but to be honest I've had more pressing worries than the passage of time. Being so scared of becoming a midnight snack that you can't sleep more than 2 hours at a time…well, it rather takes the edge of any birthday celebrations, don't you think?
In my former life, I was a trainee accountant, that most dashing of profession, and I was 22 when I first saw her. I had just started my job at the firm and my astounding lack of any mechanical expertise precluded the use of a car to get me to work. (Now that I come to think of it, the look of terror on my driving instructors face almost matches anything managed by those I've seen lost since. Almost) I also lived over 20 miles away from the city, hence the train to work.
I didn't see her until my second week of travel and I am sorry to be so cliched but my heart simply stopped the moment I saw her. She was jostled onto the train in the midst of a gaggle of braying businessmen, and had I not fell in love with her beforehand then the way she rounded on them would surely have done it.
"Do you know, in all my 20 years on this earth the only person that has touched my @rse without prior permission has been my mum." At this point she raised the hand that she had presumably found planted there. I confess my initial thoughts of "Lucky b**tard" purely to save you the trouble of thinking them yourself.
"And you know, if you were my mum, she wouldn't be nearly as distressed at this;" And there was a blur of movement at about waist height, a strangled gasping noise and a rapid collapse on the part of the possessor of the wandering hand. I watched in awe as she heaved him to his feet and hissed a further threat at him through clenched teeth before dropping him and stalking away. Towards my seat. Towards me.
I suppose she must have thought I was non-threatening, and frankly who could blame her? Possession of a copy of The Guardian, spectacles, and a briefcase hardly marks one out as an aggressor. She took a seat next to me. It was than that I noticed that she was shaking, so I asked if she was okay. I single, curt "Fine" was all I received in reply, and so I returned to my paper and contented myself with sly glances for the rest of the journey. Come to think of it, I contented myself with that for the next 8 months.
She was beautiful, it was that simple. I remember her as being about 5 and a half feet tall with blonde hair and fair skin, a real English rose as my old mum would say. (Actually, my mum would say "Uuuurrrrrhhhhhh" and then try and take a bite of me but that's beside the point). She had grey blue eyes, or at least I think she did; to my shame I never plucked up the courage to look into her eyes until the end, and who knows if her eyes had always been that colour?
If I had to pick a fault with her (no easy task in my hormonal state, I assure you) it was her choice of morning paper. Having completed an Economics degree at a prestigious University, I fancied myself something of an intellectual, hence The Guardian every morning. She, on the other hand, used to read quite the most appalling s**te on our morning journey. Every morning I would despair as she chuckled along to The Sun, The Inquirer, and more women's magazines with lurid headlines about how to get better orgasms that I still blush to think of it.
And so I continued to live my life for the next half a year. I went to and from work and drank in her image every day. Whenever she wasn't there I would spend the day distracted and listless, a pit of gnawing despair eating away at my gut as I worried whether I would see her again. When she returned after those (thankfully always brief) absences my spirit did not so much soar as backflip across the room gibbering with glee all the while.
By now, it should be obvious that I am (well….was) painfully shy. I had never considered myself the finest looking chap in the world. Schoolyard teasing about my glasses had weakened my self-esteem. A few desperately disappointing University fumblings only served to destroy it. I never mentioned her to any of my friends, nor to my mother and father (I still lived at home, which was yet another nail in the coffin of whatever hopes I may have had of making her mine) I kept my longing to myself.
It was on a wet Tuesday morning in November that everything changed in our relationship. We started to have one. She was sitting opposite me flicking idly through her morning rag (A week old copy of The Inquirer with a lurid headline that screamed "Dead Man Walking!!" and a blurred cover photo claiming to be that of a reanimated corpse somewhere in the U.S) when she looked up, as if seeing me for the first time.
"You're the bloke who tried to be nice to me after that @rsehole had a grope of me, aren't you?" She smiled, half nervously half defensively as if I was going to favour her with as abrupt a response as I had received. "I'm probably overdue with the apology I owe you for being such a b!tch…" She let her words hang in the air.
"Er…well yes, umm, no you weren't much of a b!tch (much of a b!tch?!? Hey Andrew, you old smoothie you), I mean you were entitled to be a bit…um…" She laughed at my fumbling attempt at a response and saved my further blushes. "A bit of a cow? To that s**t maybe but you were only being nice. God knows there's few enough decent guys around these days, and here's me scaring off the only one I've met since I got here." Another smile from her, another skipped heartbeat from me.
"Our stop I think. Look, will you be here again on the way back tonight?" I dumbly nodded affirmative. "Tell you what, d'you fancy going for a drink after work? There's a good pub 5 minutes away from my stop. What do you think?" If I carried on nodding the way I was she would know I was an idiot. " Cool. See you later." And with that, the train pulled up to its destination, and we disembarked in the city for what turned out to be the last time.
To say it was a strange day would be to say that the end of the world was somewhat peculiar. I arrived at work to find one of my co-workers (I worked for a large and prestigious firm. Being on first name terms with everyone was difficult, which is quite ironic, as there may not be that many people in the whole country now.) being bandaged by his secretary in the office. He was wincing in pain and pontificating at some length about what this government should do with "bl00dy tramps and ****ing wasters!", especially drunken ones that attacked him. I later found out he'd been bitten by what appeared to be a drunken tramp.
I didn't do much work that day, nor did anyone else. We were all glued to the television in the canteen. The reports that were coming in defied all rational explanation. All over the world and for no particular reason, corpses were getting up and walking. That in itself would have been disturbing. The fact that they were hungry and were most certainly not vegan did not help matters in the slightest. The Prime Minister had told parliament that all steps were being taken to stop the spread of the virus that was causing this (I wonder if he really did know what was causing it. It makes no difference really; I understand that the leader of the opposition made a very definitive political statement and ate the b*****d 2 weeks later.) and that there was no need at this stage for martial law.
And all of this, the end of all civilisation, it was all just so much padding in the day as far as I was concerned. Most people left early that day, but I stayed. I promised I'd meet her after work.
I arrived at the station at 5.30. I was still there at 11. Not that it made any difference. I don't think there'd been any trains since the morning. It wasn't too difficult to stay inconspicuous, bearing in mind most people were far more concerned with fleeing the city in a panic. It was then that I heard her scream. She staggered into the station, bleeding from a horrific gash in her neck. A man was chasing her, or at least that's what I thought it was. I ran toward her and reached her just as she collapsed and the man reached her. I kicked him away from her though in truth I don't really remember the next few seconds. Suffice to say that 22 years of repressed emotion found an outlet via the medium of a half brick and the easily yielding head of a walking corpse.
Christ knows what I looked like as I made my way over to her. She was barely alive, only her soft whimpering indicated any life. I gently turned her head and looked at her, though my tears of mingled anguish and rage blurred her features. I couldn't make out her final words clearly, but you've read the title of my little tale, so you know what I believe they were. What I hope they were.
And that was that. I wish it had been. I held her for half an hour, crying to myself at the injustice of it all. You may think that selfish. Others had lost loved ones; close family, friends but I really didn't care. I still don't if I'm honest. Can you imagine the rise of hope as I felt her stir in my arms? Can you begin to understand my joy at her apparent survival? It lasted less than a moment and when it was dashed by my realisation of what she had become, I was as dead as she was. I don't know where the strength to push her away came from, but the blow that ended her mockery of life came from the last embers of my soul.
When I look back with the benefit of hindsight, it was that first encounter that emptied me out. I may not be dragging my carcass through the streets, and I may not eat those whom I butcher but believe me I'm as dead as they are.
It's not as if I really even knew her that well. We both got the same train in to work, day in and day out. If I'm honest, I can't even remember speaking to her at all before that last week. If only I'd spoke to her sooner, maybe showed then some of the courage that my little troupe finds so admirable now, then maybe I'd have something to live for other than my simple instinct for survival. As it is, the ache of remembering her last words is worse than any zombie bite.
Perhaps I should clarify myself a little. My name is Andrew Watts and I think I'm 28 years old. I would be more specific, but to be honest I've had more pressing worries than the passage of time. Being so scared of becoming a midnight snack that you can't sleep more than 2 hours at a time…well, it rather takes the edge of any birthday celebrations, don't you think?
In my former life, I was a trainee accountant, that most dashing of profession, and I was 22 when I first saw her. I had just started my job at the firm and my astounding lack of any mechanical expertise precluded the use of a car to get me to work. (Now that I come to think of it, the look of terror on my driving instructors face almost matches anything managed by those I've seen lost since. Almost) I also lived over 20 miles away from the city, hence the train to work.
I didn't see her until my second week of travel and I am sorry to be so cliched but my heart simply stopped the moment I saw her. She was jostled onto the train in the midst of a gaggle of braying businessmen, and had I not fell in love with her beforehand then the way she rounded on them would surely have done it.
"Do you know, in all my 20 years on this earth the only person that has touched my @rse without prior permission has been my mum." At this point she raised the hand that she had presumably found planted there. I confess my initial thoughts of "Lucky b**tard" purely to save you the trouble of thinking them yourself.
"And you know, if you were my mum, she wouldn't be nearly as distressed at this;" And there was a blur of movement at about waist height, a strangled gasping noise and a rapid collapse on the part of the possessor of the wandering hand. I watched in awe as she heaved him to his feet and hissed a further threat at him through clenched teeth before dropping him and stalking away. Towards my seat. Towards me.
I suppose she must have thought I was non-threatening, and frankly who could blame her? Possession of a copy of The Guardian, spectacles, and a briefcase hardly marks one out as an aggressor. She took a seat next to me. It was than that I noticed that she was shaking, so I asked if she was okay. I single, curt "Fine" was all I received in reply, and so I returned to my paper and contented myself with sly glances for the rest of the journey. Come to think of it, I contented myself with that for the next 8 months.
She was beautiful, it was that simple. I remember her as being about 5 and a half feet tall with blonde hair and fair skin, a real English rose as my old mum would say. (Actually, my mum would say "Uuuurrrrrhhhhhh" and then try and take a bite of me but that's beside the point). She had grey blue eyes, or at least I think she did; to my shame I never plucked up the courage to look into her eyes until the end, and who knows if her eyes had always been that colour?
If I had to pick a fault with her (no easy task in my hormonal state, I assure you) it was her choice of morning paper. Having completed an Economics degree at a prestigious University, I fancied myself something of an intellectual, hence The Guardian every morning. She, on the other hand, used to read quite the most appalling s**te on our morning journey. Every morning I would despair as she chuckled along to The Sun, The Inquirer, and more women's magazines with lurid headlines about how to get better orgasms that I still blush to think of it.
And so I continued to live my life for the next half a year. I went to and from work and drank in her image every day. Whenever she wasn't there I would spend the day distracted and listless, a pit of gnawing despair eating away at my gut as I worried whether I would see her again. When she returned after those (thankfully always brief) absences my spirit did not so much soar as backflip across the room gibbering with glee all the while.
By now, it should be obvious that I am (well….was) painfully shy. I had never considered myself the finest looking chap in the world. Schoolyard teasing about my glasses had weakened my self-esteem. A few desperately disappointing University fumblings only served to destroy it. I never mentioned her to any of my friends, nor to my mother and father (I still lived at home, which was yet another nail in the coffin of whatever hopes I may have had of making her mine) I kept my longing to myself.
It was on a wet Tuesday morning in November that everything changed in our relationship. We started to have one. She was sitting opposite me flicking idly through her morning rag (A week old copy of The Inquirer with a lurid headline that screamed "Dead Man Walking!!" and a blurred cover photo claiming to be that of a reanimated corpse somewhere in the U.S) when she looked up, as if seeing me for the first time.
"You're the bloke who tried to be nice to me after that @rsehole had a grope of me, aren't you?" She smiled, half nervously half defensively as if I was going to favour her with as abrupt a response as I had received. "I'm probably overdue with the apology I owe you for being such a b!tch…" She let her words hang in the air.
"Er…well yes, umm, no you weren't much of a b!tch (much of a b!tch?!? Hey Andrew, you old smoothie you), I mean you were entitled to be a bit…um…" She laughed at my fumbling attempt at a response and saved my further blushes. "A bit of a cow? To that s**t maybe but you were only being nice. God knows there's few enough decent guys around these days, and here's me scaring off the only one I've met since I got here." Another smile from her, another skipped heartbeat from me.
"Our stop I think. Look, will you be here again on the way back tonight?" I dumbly nodded affirmative. "Tell you what, d'you fancy going for a drink after work? There's a good pub 5 minutes away from my stop. What do you think?" If I carried on nodding the way I was she would know I was an idiot. " Cool. See you later." And with that, the train pulled up to its destination, and we disembarked in the city for what turned out to be the last time.
To say it was a strange day would be to say that the end of the world was somewhat peculiar. I arrived at work to find one of my co-workers (I worked for a large and prestigious firm. Being on first name terms with everyone was difficult, which is quite ironic, as there may not be that many people in the whole country now.) being bandaged by his secretary in the office. He was wincing in pain and pontificating at some length about what this government should do with "bl00dy tramps and ****ing wasters!", especially drunken ones that attacked him. I later found out he'd been bitten by what appeared to be a drunken tramp.
I didn't do much work that day, nor did anyone else. We were all glued to the television in the canteen. The reports that were coming in defied all rational explanation. All over the world and for no particular reason, corpses were getting up and walking. That in itself would have been disturbing. The fact that they were hungry and were most certainly not vegan did not help matters in the slightest. The Prime Minister had told parliament that all steps were being taken to stop the spread of the virus that was causing this (I wonder if he really did know what was causing it. It makes no difference really; I understand that the leader of the opposition made a very definitive political statement and ate the b*****d 2 weeks later.) and that there was no need at this stage for martial law.
And all of this, the end of all civilisation, it was all just so much padding in the day as far as I was concerned. Most people left early that day, but I stayed. I promised I'd meet her after work.
I arrived at the station at 5.30. I was still there at 11. Not that it made any difference. I don't think there'd been any trains since the morning. It wasn't too difficult to stay inconspicuous, bearing in mind most people were far more concerned with fleeing the city in a panic. It was then that I heard her scream. She staggered into the station, bleeding from a horrific gash in her neck. A man was chasing her, or at least that's what I thought it was. I ran toward her and reached her just as she collapsed and the man reached her. I kicked him away from her though in truth I don't really remember the next few seconds. Suffice to say that 22 years of repressed emotion found an outlet via the medium of a half brick and the easily yielding head of a walking corpse.
Christ knows what I looked like as I made my way over to her. She was barely alive, only her soft whimpering indicated any life. I gently turned her head and looked at her, though my tears of mingled anguish and rage blurred her features. I couldn't make out her final words clearly, but you've read the title of my little tale, so you know what I believe they were. What I hope they were.
And that was that. I wish it had been. I held her for half an hour, crying to myself at the injustice of it all. You may think that selfish. Others had lost loved ones; close family, friends but I really didn't care. I still don't if I'm honest. Can you imagine the rise of hope as I felt her stir in my arms? Can you begin to understand my joy at her apparent survival? It lasted less than a moment and when it was dashed by my realisation of what she had become, I was as dead as she was. I don't know where the strength to push her away came from, but the blow that ended her mockery of life came from the last embers of my soul.