PARADISE

Paradise is not a chaise on some tropical beach with a view of the sun dipping over the horizon. Paradise is not a balcony view of Venice and a glass of 2024 Giuseppe Quintarelli. No. Because no beach, no romantic city, no expensive, classy wines are left to enjoy.

The Infecteds had killed, destroyed, and, whether they'd meant to or not, conquered everything.

For Frank, the apocalypse had been a rather exciting time. He'd been spending his days in his old leather recliner, eyes glued to the television. Obsessed with updates about the virus that had become the focal point in everyone's lives for the past five months at the time.

When the first official Infected had been discovered, it was all downhill for the country from there. The grainy photograph displayed on the news revealed a living corpse, sunken-eyed and skin an ash-gray. No later than three weeks afterward, more and more of the creatures started to appear. Well, even Frank could admit they weren't "creatures." Just really, really, really unfortunate humans.

He'd go so far as to say the most unfortunate were the ones who'd stumbled into his backyard the day he plunged into the bunker. He may have been a gaffer, but his aim refused to age after he'd turned twenty-five. Locked onto one Infected—pop! went his rifle. Barrel looking straight into the second one's eyes—pop! He hit the third with the same accuracy, and flung that bunker door open.

The cool, welcoming embrace of the underground safe haven made Frank smile with pride as he'd bolted the door shut. He'd been prepared. For exactly what ending, he hadn't been able to say until now.

The bunker was the size of a three-car garage. No walls divided the space, the room functioning like a studio apartment. One corner was designated as sleeping quarters, with a proper bed and a writing desk. Opposite the bed sat a toilet and a large, metal basin for bathing. It could get annoying to boil water every time he'd need to cleanse himself, but it was the best he could do. The kitchenette, complete with common appliances, was tucked into another corner. All the food and water (and beer) Frank would need down here was stowed away either in the fridge, the cabinets, or the deep, narrow pantry concealed as a wall panel next to the fridge. He even had a loveseat and an old television. Not that he would receive any signal down here, but he had a vast collection of DVDs to choose from should he need some mindless entertainment.

But his favorite part about the bunker, hidden from plain view, was his weaponry.

Frank stalked over to the slender bookshelf next to the media console. His finger wavered over the middle row of books until he spotted a particular red one. Tipped it toward him ever so slightly. The bookshelf, along with a portion of the wall behind it, began to rotate toward him until there was a new passage.

Licking over his lips, Frank squeezed into the division in the wall. It was glorious. He'd nearly forgotten he owned some of the things down here. It had been a long, long time since he'd taken in the view of his gun collection. If it shot bullets, he owned it. Hung on a small chunk of the wall were the few blades he'd gathered over the years as well: some throwing knives, a machete, a handful of daggers.

Satisfied that things were exactly where they were supposed to be, Frank exited the secret room and closed the wall.

Seven months after he'd shot those three Infecteds in his yard, Frank plunked himself down on the old sofa after a microwavable chicken pot pie. Dust floated from the tweed of the couch into the dim light, and something tiny and hard hit Frank in the face as his bum met the seat.

He'd forgotten he was even wearing the thing. Sarah's favorite locket, heart-shaped and worn of any silver coating it once had. Frank twisted the little charm between his fingers, wishing that Sarah had been here to see the end of the world with him. To live with everything they could need down here, under the earth.

Putting her down was the hardest thing he'd ever done. By the time they realized she'd been sick for a while, her condition was too severe for her to be admitted into any hospital without the guarantee of being turned away. Even with her vaccines up to date, there had been a microscopic window of a chance that it wouldn't be enough.

And it wasn't.

He'd found her. Staggering around on their front porch one morning, as if she'd gone somewhere and was just coming back. He had forced himself to look into those eyes, those yellowed, glossy eyes, before he pulled the trigger. Nobody knew if Infecteds were capable of comprehension, or if their brains decayed as their bodies did. Frank wanted to believe that his beloved Sarah had had no idea what was happening, but the terror that crossed her face before the bullet sunk through her skull told him otherwise.

She had been wearing the locket that day. Hadn't ever taken it off since she'd bought it, Frank realized. There had always been a photo of Frank on the inside, but after he unclasped the chain from her neck and buried her body, he traded it out for one of her.

"Oh, Sarah-Bear," Frank muttered under his breath, beholding that black-and-white photograph of his wife. Her smile was the brightest thing he'd ever seen, and she'd aged with such grace. Smooth, tan skin, for a 60-something. Her hair had hardly started graying. And the love that danced in those wide, brown eyes would forever live on in Frank's mind.

"This," he chuckled, holding his arm extended with the locket face-out, as if Sarah was watching through the heart-shaped window. "This right here, darlin', is paradise."