Chance & Choice

Pablo was always awake before his alarm went off.

It was a habit long burned into his mind; a side effect of when his wife worked night shifts and he didn’t want the alarm to wake her when he got up for work. Every morning, just before he rolled over, he wondered if she was still asleep.

No, he thought to himself. She’s gone.

His watch started beeping and immediately he pressed the off button. Taking a deep breath he swung his legs out of the bed and sat up on the edge. He rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes; it had not been a restful night’s sleep.

It’s been a good long while since you had a restful night’s sleep, eh amigo, he thought as he rolled his shoulder, trying to get some of the stiffness out of it.

No sense dwelling he thought to himself as he stood up. There was a niggling pain in his neck that was starting to worry him.

He crossed to the window and opened the curtains to let the light in and to survey the landscape.

Outside the window there was a view of what had probably been a lovely town once. There were trees lining the streets and the buildings were all red brick, rather than the cheap and nasty concrete facing you see in most places.

The burnt out husks of crashed cars spoiled the view.

Pablo stood there for another few minutes, just waiting, hoping to see some movement outside, whilst also fearing the same.

He dragged himself away from the window and tried to shake off his melancholy. He walked across the room to where he had placed his belongings and drew his revolver from its holster.

Safety first.

Then he went to the bedroom door and removed the chair from under the handle and cautiously opened it, pistol at the ready. The house seemed undisturbed.

He passed what must have been a child’s bedroom and steeled himself to look inside.

There weren’t any bodies; Pablo had noticed that much the night before. What he hadn’t noticed were the bite marks on the crib or the deep, bloody scratches along the walls. The bedclothes were in disarray and there were toys smashed and broken on the floor.

The bile began to rise in Pablo’s gullet and the bottom fell out of his stomach. He slammed the door and stood in the hallway for a few minutes, his eyes closed and his hands shaking.

There’s nothing dangerous or useful in there, Pablo, he told himself. Just walk away.

Once he’d got his breathing under control he did a quick sweep of the house, upstairs and down, but the doors and windows were all still locked and there was no one hiding in the attic.

Now that he was feeling a little safer he went back to the bedroom. He holstered his revolver, left that with the rest of his gear and stripped out of his clothes, down to his underwear, and went to the bathroom

Man, I can’t remember the last time I used a flushing toilet.

There was a bar of soap by the sink and so Pablo had a wash as best he could. The water was cold but needs must.

After he dried himself off with a towel he took a good look in the mirror. There was a lot more grey in his (now ragged) moustache and a singleundisturbed night’s sleep hadn’t done much for the bags under his eyes.

Jesus, when did I start to look so old?

In the mirror Pablo could see the locket hanging round his neck; a small, heart-shaped piece of cheap, 10 karat gold. He idly stroked it with one hand while he thought about what he’d seen in the child’s bedroom, and the last time he’d seen Maria.

The sound of the tap still running brought him back so Pablo splashed a cold handful of water on his face.

He went back to the bedroom and started raking through drawers. He always felt weird to be looking through someone else’s underwear drawer. Even more than sleeping in their bed or, sometimes literally, eating their porridge.

He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts; they were really comfortable, which somehow made him feel weirder, then finished dressing and headed downstairs.

On the ground floor was a plush, comfortable living room but he concentrated on the combined kitchen and dining room.

When he walked into the dining area he placed his rifle on the table and leaned his backpack against the wall. There was a cloying, rotten smell in here; no doubt some of the food left behind had gone off.

Not much point checking the refrigerator but best to be thorough…

Inside was a lurid, green mulch; a shapeless mass of nauseating fungal effluence with flies buzzing over it and slimy maggots crawling through it.

Well, I think I’ll skip breakfast, Pablo thought to himself as he shut the door.

After a second the smell cleared from his nostrils and it dawned on Pablo that when he’d opened the refrigerator the light had still been on.

That means there’s still power, which means…

Slowly, as if trying not to surprise it, Pablo walked across to the coffee machine. He flicked the switch and the light came on.

Okay, he thought. Now let’s check the cupboards…

Inside was a still sealed packet of coffee beans. He opened the packet and the smell was like an Angel’s smile to him. Whoever had lived here had taken their coffee seriously.

My kind of people, thought Pablo, with a sad smile

He ground the beans in a hand-turned grinder before transferring them to the coffee maker and filling it with water. While the coffee was brewing he filled a washbasin with unopened cans of food and carried them out to his truck.

It was an old Toyota pickup; dark red and with a fair number of city miles on it. The bed was full of supplies; food, water, fuel and the like. There was even a single bottle of Stolichnaya he’d been lucky enough to find a few weeks back. He made space for the cans amongst the rest of his food supplies and secured them so they wouldn’t move around too much.

The clouds in the west were gathering and darkening. It was going to absolutely pour down this afternoon. Typical, he thought.

He picked the basin up with one hand and a half-empty jug of water with the other. Back in the house he put the basin back where he’d found it and filled the jug from the tap and took it back out to the truck.

Good haul, thought Pablo. I’m glad I didn’t just keep driving last night.

While he still didn’t feel much like having breakfast Pablo did get himself a glass of water, then he washed the glass, dried it and put it away in the cupboard. There was no way that the owners were ever coming back here but little things like tidying made him feel less like a grave robber.

Yep, there’s the melancholy coming back, he thought.

To keep his mind busy Pablo put his rifle on the table, stripped it, cleaned it and oiled it. It was an intricate task and so it kept his mind occupied.

Which is why he didn’t see it until it was too late.

What had once been a slim, young woman was shambling towards him. Its hair was matted with blood and dirt and its skin was greying and sunken. Some parts of it had been torn clean off its face. It smelled worse than the refrigerator.

Jesus Christ!

She reached out to grab Pablo as he shot up onto his feet. He tried to step back but the chair tangled in his legs, making him stumble. Her hand caught the chain swinging at his neck, and tore it away from him.

The locket tumbled to the floor and, instinctively, Pablo reached forward to grab it before he could stop himself. The twisted, rotting thing in front of him bit at his arm.

He screamed, more in panic than in pain, and shook his arm wildly as he staggered back, sending the chair flying. It was enough to break free of the abomination and he fumbled at his holster.

He drew the revolver and raised it just in time. The barrel pressed against the thing’s empty eye socket as Pablo pulled the trigger. A fountain of thick, black ichor blossomed out of the back of its head and coated one wall of the kitchen.

Pablo stood a moment, his heart pounding and ears ringing, as the report reverberated around the enclosed confines of the kitchen. He gave himself a shake and looked at his arm. It wasn’t a bad bite but the skin had definitely been broken.

With shaking hands he replaced his gun in the holster.

Under the sink, Pablo knew, there was a bottle of bleach. He fetched it out and sat it on the countertop. His hands were still shaking so it took him longer than it should to get the child-proof cap off.

He held the bottle in his hand as he took a few deep breaths and poured it over the wound. The bleach was worse than the bite had been.

“FUCK!”

The bottle fell from his hand as he stood by the sink, almost catatonic. After a second or a minute, or however long it was he began to smell the fresh brewed coffee.

In a rage Pablo spun round and grabbed the pot. He threw it against the wall with a visceral snarl.

Then the tears came. It was like a floodgate had opened inside him and deep, mournful misery enveloped him as he collapsed onto the floor. He shook and sobbed and tears streamed from his eyes as he buried his head in his hands.

No no no no no no…

After all that Pablo had seen.

And done.

And lost.

He still didn’t want to die.

He raised his head slightly and wiped his eyes. Though his vision was still blurry from crying, Pablo could see the thing that had killed him. It wasn’t bleeding; whatever foul, viscous poison ran through its veins had congealed and only a few drips had fallen from its wounds. Its single, yellowed eye peered straight at him.

Next to its head, seemingly untouched by the struggle, was Pablo’s locket.

Slowly, as though he didn’t trust his legs, Pablo got to his feet and walked across to pick it up. He squeezed it tight in his fist and nodded his head, just once.

His head bowed, he walked outside to his truck. Carelessly he tossed aside some of the cans of food as he looked for the Stolichnaya. When he found it Pablo carried the vodka back into the house.

He walked through the kitchen. Walking through puddles of bleach and spilled coffee but stepping, with some trepidation, around the twice-dead thing that stared glassily up at him.

In the plush living room Pablo sat down on one of the, very comfortable, armchairs and placed the locket beside him on the armrest. He unholstered his revolver and placed it next to the locket.

He thought he could feel the bite tingling but he wondered if that was just his mind playing tricks on him. He opened the Stolichnaya and tossed the cap over his shoulder as he took a big slug of the vodka.

My God that is smooth.

Then, Pablo picked up his revolver and thumbed back the hammer as he took another drink.