Nick could taste the rust of dried blood on his chapped lips, but the sky had never looked so beautiful.
Sometimes — actually most of the time — he felt as though the world was ending, but the chickadees still chirped off in the distance, the deer still pranced happily around the woods, and the orange-pink dawn never seized to creep up on them, just like it always would. The world was definitely still alive.
And so were most of them.
Sometimes they were the only reason he kept his legs moving and his brain functioning and his emotions working. Most of the time Nick just wanted to forget everything, which would make things a lot easier — for awhile at least. Presently, however, Nick just let himself get lost in the swirling clouds above him, and enjoyed feeling the mildewy grass tickling his back and neck. He let himself forget what he had done to his own mother, and that if he had been there, she wouldn't have been bitten. He was dirty and tired and broken and just wanted the world to stop throwing hardballs at him, just for a little while.
Emotions running high, Nick sat up with a groan. Eyes puffy and red, the broken man grabbed his rifle gingerly, then proceeded to standup without much desire to. He just felt like laying there — laying there and just fading in and out of the dreaded reality of it all — but he couldn't do that. His mother had always told him, "Keep on trying, Nicky. Even if the world throws you a hard one — just keep going." It wasn't as easy as she had always made it seem, her strength was uncanny, but he tried and tried and tried to follow his mothers advice.
Wiping the lines of silver off of his cheeks, Nick stumbled inside of the old fast food restaurant, then toward his uncle Pete and Luke, who were discussing something that Nick didn't want to hear — what to do with his mother's body.
"We have to give her a proper burial." Pete argued, slamming his fist against the tabletop and glaring venomously at Luke. "I don't give a shit if it's dangerous. It's what she'd want — and you know it."
Luke glanced up at Nick, who had a somber expression on his face, then looked back toward Pete. He was clearly outnumbered, but couldn't help it. Burials were dangerous, especially when Nick would most likely be sobbing. Every lurker and human for kilometers would probably here it. Sound traveled quite far when there wasn't anything else to cover it or block it.
"Listen, Pete, I want to give her a proper burial too. But it's dangerous—"
"I don't care if it's dangerous—"
"I'm jus' sayin'—"
Nick slammed his fist angrily onto the tabletop, his eyes wide with anger.
"Luke." He stammered sternly, trying to hold back a tidal wave of tears that insisted on running down his face. "This is my mom, okay? She'd want a funeral and y'-fuckin'-know it."
Hostile mindset settling down in his brain, Nick realized his finger had wrapped itself around the trigger of his rifle, to which he quickly removed it. He knew he had an eager trigger finger, and hated it, but sometimes he couldn't help it. His emotions would run high, then he'd get angry, and then he'd do something he'd most definitely regret. He did have his mother's temper, after all.
Pete looked away from Nick.
"Please." Pete murmured sadly, his gaze resting on the bloodied sheet hiding a mass of someone in the corner. "Luke, please."
Seeing both of their saddened faces caused something to stir within Luke — something like an emotion that he had pushed down. Usually, he would tend to push every hardship they faced into the deepest corners of his mind, and distract himself with something else. But since the two closet people to this women were standing before him, not letting the conversation come to an end, the emotion was beginning to resurface — that same emotion he had felt were he saw the bloodied ring of tooth marks on her arm. A feeling a guilt, anger, selfishness, and just overall sadness. Luke almost let a tear emerge from the corner of his eye, but promptly wiped it away, wanting to look tough and leader-like in front of the broken men.
"Yeah..." Luke finally managed to stammer out, his voice cracking and jumped several octaves. "Yeah... sure thing."
Pete smiled weakly, the colour slowly returning to his face.
"Great."
"We can bury her in the morning. Probably best to do it when we can actually see two feet in front of us."
Both Pete and Nick nodded in undoubted agreement.
"Alright... get your sleep. You're gonna need it."
xxxxxxxxx
The sun hung low in the morning sky, casting an eerie glow over the deserted landscape. Off in the forest where the trees stretched over head like the castles of the land, Nick had taken a break from digging the grave and let Pete have a go at it. Panting heavily, Nick grabbed at the water bottle in Luke's grasp and drank from it thirstily, trying to not overtake the water, but also trying to get the exact amount he needed. It was a difficult task. After all, he wasn't sure how much he needed, and people weren't supposed to ration water.
Covered in a blanket and laying in the shade beneath a particularly tall tree, Nick's mother sat, a large hole through her head caused by a particular rifle.
Nick handed Luke back the water bottle and turned, trying to ignore his mother's lifeless body just a few meters away from them. To try and distract himself, Nick picked out the dirt underneath his nails until he was satisfied, then proceeded to nibble off the dried skin around them.
Luke glanced over at his friend, and quickly realized that what Nick was doing was one of his nervous habits. Sometimes he would even chew the skin until it was completely raw and bleeding. It was a bad habit, but Luke had tried to crack it several times, all of the attempts failing miserably.
"Nick."
He glanced over to Luke, who was looking at him with a saddened expression.
"Luke."
"You alright?"
Nick shrugged.
"Dunno."
"I heard you cryin' last night."
Nick was silent, staring down at the ground and kicking the small stones away from his feet.
"Whatever."
"You can talk to me, Nick. You know you can—"
"Just — leave it alone, Luke."
Silence.
"I think I'm—" pant, pant, "—about done." Pete called from inside the grave, scooping up one last shovel full of dirt before climbing out and shoving the dreaded thing (which he never wanted to touch again) into the ground.
Luke and Nick joined him in standing around the shallow grave.
"You okay, son?" Pete asked, placing a hand gingerly onto his nephews shoulder.
"I ain't your son." Nick snapped, tearing his shoulder from Pete's grip and stomping toward his mother's dead body.
"Goddammit..."
Pete and Luke watched as Nick scooped the limp body up into his arms and carried the bundle toward the grave. Solemnly, Pete helped Nick lower the body into the grave, to which Nick nearly let himself slip, then they all stepped back, observing the pale, uncovered face of the once extremely beautiful women. Tears sliding down Nick's face in a steady pattern, he was whispering something inaudible down at the body.
Luke glanced from Pete to Nick, where his gaze rested for awhile. Something about the way the man stood, curled into himself and quiet, reminded him of something. He couldn't exactly out his finger on it, but once Luke finally heard the click in his head, the emotions came rushing back through his memory gates, despite the fact that he wanted to hold them down.
Without any warning, Nick began to take to a new form. Suddenly, Luke was staring at an auburn haired eighteen year old boy with tear stained eyes and a broken heart — an eighteen year old boy who was staring off into the distance and shaking and crying and screaming. An eighteen year old who didn't know what lose felt like.
Luke remembered. Luke remembered exactly how he felt when he had seen his decayed parents groaning and reaching out their boney arms toward him. He remembered how he screamed and cried and tried to get out of Pete's hold so he could get to them. He remembered the look of pure terror on Nick's face as he saw his friend slowly wither away into a state of depression. He remembered his sudden and dramatic recovery as he shoved down any emotion he felt, just to seem strong for the kid that they had found huddled up in a dark corner, who later died and, just like Luke, he hadn't shown any emotion. He remembered how lonely and empty he felt, despite his hardened exterior.
He knew exactly how Nick was feeling — and hated it.
Slowly, Luke began to break down. His inner walls were beginning to cave in, letting all his bottled up emotion flood all his sanity that he had left. He began to cry, silently, but crying just the same. Memories of his parents, his dog, Nick's mother and all his friends they grew up with all flooded into his mind — all their lifeless, bloodied bodies. No good memories came to mind — not ones like the time he had bought his dog a new toy and they spent hours playing with it — but only ones of Luke's own screwdriver killing his own dog, and how he had spent hours crying when no one was around.
He looked up at the sky in a desperate attempt to understand how to fix himself.
He was broken, that was for sure, but the sky had never looked so beautiful.
Maybe his sanity was ending, but the world definitely wasn't. It was still very much alive.
It would be a long road to recovery, Luke knew that much.
As the world turned, so did his sanity.