Chapter ? - Charles (Anne)

There it was. He was trembling with fear at what he might find inside. The sun was beginning to set, and he didn’t see the telltale glow of candles in any of the windows — but then again, if they were smart, there wouldn’t be. And he knew without a doubt that Anne was smart. Charles also saw that the windows looked intact, and with the curtains closed he could make out that someone had screwed plywood up against them as well. Smart.

He was also, at the same time, sweating with the anticipation of a high‑school boy getting ready to ask his crush to prom.

“Jesus, Charles, you’re a grown man for crying out loud,” he whispered to himself as he looked in the truck’s rearview mirror at the specter of what he’d become. He tried to wipe his face clean — very much in vain. His goatee had become unruly, he was dirty, and definitely worse for wear. A wholly different man than the one who had deflated in front of his own mirror what seemed like a lifetime ago.

His clothing fit much differently now. The flannel shirt was tighter in the chest, shoulders, and arms, but no longer screaming to burst around the waist. The same could be said for his pants — tighter around the legs, but now his belt was doing more than just holding his holster and gear. It was holding his pants up, and even had new holes he’d had to punch himself. The weight of his MOLLE carrier was now reassuring instead of tiring.

He scanned for threats in all directions before exiting the truck.

The home in front of him was one of many all around it, almost like it had been cut from the same mold. A walkway led to a single sturdy door on the far side of a two‑car garage. The neighborhood itself was a little out of the way, on the outskirts of Fort Worth proper — mercifully so. Which meant that, at least for now, it wasn’t overrun with the dead. And as long as he was quiet, it wouldn’t get worse in a hurry.

Two things he noted: he couldn’t see any of the more deadly ones he’d taken to calling “runners.” Those always seemed a touch smarter and a whole hell of a lot faster. And there was a small, noticeable ring of twice‑dead bodies haphazardly near the front door.

Charles knew he had to act now. The dead in the area had started to notice him and had begun to advance. Only a handful for now, but he knew that if unchecked it would become a major problem very quickly.

With his tool of choice — the suppressed MP5‑22, his “toy,” remarkably useful for fast, quiet work — he launched himself out of the truck, closing the door behind him. In short order he had the first two dropped, and as a third got a little too close he kicked it hard, the same way you kick in a stubborn door. The dead woman soared backward to land unceremoniously on her back. Charles spared no time in running up and putting two of the tiny rounds through her prone skull, instantly turning her lights off.

A quick glance around for more threats told him he had some time to spare, so he closed the distance to the front door.

To his surprise, as he stepped up to the stoop with one foot on it, the front door slammed open and out stepped a woman — hushed, but speaking to him very forcefully.

Charles’s heart stopped.

It was her. It was Anne.

After all this time, he was still just as unprepared to see her. She was as shockingly beautiful as ever; age had done her favors, if anything at all. And blessedly alive. Relief — and years of feelings he didn’t know he’d held onto — washed over him. His eyes began welling up, threatening to burst as every nerve ending seemed to short‑circuit at once.

Vaguely, he could see over Anne’s shoulder a young and very frightened couple. Anne took a step closer, repeating something she had said a little more forcefully. Overwhelmed, Charles couldn’t register what it was as he lowered his weapon and reached out with a free hand, as though trying to touch her from this distance.

“Anne…” he whispered longingly.

Then his heart did something new. It burst — or it felt like it did. So hard that it forced him backward, and he fell uncontrollably. Looking up at the sky, the reality of what had happened crashed into his awareness.

She had been holding a shotgun.

“Don’t move! Don’t come any closer!” she had threatened. Charles had come closer.

“Drop the gun! Stop where you are! I’ll fucking shoot!” she had warned. Charles didn’t drop his MP5‑22 — only lowered it. He didn’t stop. He’d reached for her.

She shot. Always true to her word.

Charles moaned in pain, clutching his chest. He heard the young woman ask, almost rising to panic at the end of her question:

“He said your name? Why does he know your name?”

Anne ran to the man, realizing he might have been friendly — albeit deaf. Charles looked up into the face of the woman he loved. Her curly, reddish‑brown hair spilled messily around her face and over her shoulders. Concern painted her features and filled her eyes. The striking steel‑blue eyes he’d fallen for all those years ago stared back down at him.

He reached up to touch her face, a pained smirk on his lips.

“You shot me. Ha… you shot me,” he coughed out with his little remaining strength. Not as an accusation — but in amusement, of all things.

“Charles…?” The sudden realization hit her. “Get him inside! Now!” Anne was yelling now, the pretense of quiet gone.

The last thing Charles saw before unconsciousness took him was Anne standing over him, dealing out unadulterated destruction.

Pump, shoot, pump, turn, shoot, pump, turn, shoot.

Empty shells rained down around him.