“That’s up to you.” Tom took his knife from his boot. “I’ll quiet one, and you can quiet the other. If you’re ready. If you can.”
Tom went to stand behind the man. He gently pushed the zombie’s head forward and placed the tip of the knife at the base of his skull, doing everything slowly, reminding Benny of how it had to be done.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” said Benny.
“I’ve already said it,” said Tom. “A thousand times. I waited, because I knew that you might want to say something.”
“I didn’t know them,” said Benny. “Not like I thought. …”
A tear fell from Tom’s eye onto the back of the struggling zombie’s neck.
He plunged the blade and the struggles stopped. Just like that.
Tom hung his head for a moment as a sob broke in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then, “Be at peace.”
He sniffed and held the knife out to Benny.
“I can’t!” Benny said, backing away. “Jesus Christ, I can’t!”
Tom stood there, tears rolling down his cheeks, holding the knife out. He didn’t say a word.
“God … please don’t make me do this,” said Benny.
Tom shook his head.
“Please, Tom.”
Tom lowered the knife.
The female zombie threw her weight against the cords and uttered a shrill moan that was like a dagger in Benny’s mind. He covered his ears and turned away. He dropped into a crouch, face tucked into the corner between the back door and the wall, shaking his head.
Tom stood where he was.
It took Benny a long, long time. He stopped shaking his head and leaned his forehead against the wood. The zombie in the chair kept moaning. Benny turned and dropped onto his knees. He dragged a forearm under his nose and sniffed.
“She’ll be like that forever, won’t she?”
Tom said nothing.
“Yes,” said Benny, answering his own question. “Yes.”
He climbed slowly to his feet.
“Okay,” he said, and held out his hand. His hand and arm trembled. Tom’s trembled too as he handed over the knife.
Benny stood behind the zombie, and it took six or seven tries before he could bring himself to touch her. Eventually he managed it. Tom guided him, touching the spot where the knife had to go. Benny put the tip of the knife in place.
“When you do it,” said Tom, “do it quick.”
“Can they feel pain?”
“I don’t know. But you can. I can. Do it quick.”
Benny closed his eyes and the old image was there. The white blouse, the red sleeves. Not red cloth. Blood. It had been blood. He took a ragged breath and said, “I love you, Mom.”
He did it quick.
And it was over.
He dropped the knife, and Tom gathered him up, and they sank down to their knees together on the kitchen floor, crying so loud that it threatened to break the world. In the chairs the two dead people sat slumped, their heads tilted toward each other, their withered mouths silent.
The sun was tumbling behind the edge of the mountain by the time they left the house. Together they’d dug graves in the backyard. Tom locked up the house and then relocked the chain on the front gate. Side by side they walked back the way they came.
“On First Night,” Benny began, “all those years ago. I remember Mom with red sleeves. I remember her screaming. I remember you taking me and running. I looked back and saw Dad behind her.”
“Yes,” said Tom. “All of that happened.”
“The red sleeves … she’d already been bitten. By Dad. Hadn’t she?”
Tom’s voice was a ghost. “Yes. She’d seen what happened when Dad got bitten. She was smart, she understood. She wanted us safe. Maybe she could already feel the change inside. The hunger. I don’t know. But she begged me to take you, to save you. To run.” He buried his face in his hands, and his whole body trembled with that terrible memory and all the years of grief.
“I … You saved me.”
Tom said nothing.