The sea shimmered on the horizon, the sight of it shocking Carl to a standstill. The sand stretched out across the shore at the bottom the hill, and birds circled lazily in the air. There were walkers wondering the beach, their arms flailing wildly trying to catch the birds, as they dipped down to catch fish.
There was a small seaside town tucked into the dip of the land, small and quiet. Carl grinned, laughter bubbling out of him as he started to run. He fell into the sand, knees denting the small grains, bag falling down beside him and laughter turned to tears. He cried as he filled his hands with gold and watched it trickle through the gaps, sobbing with relief. It was real, it was real and in front of him. No more walking, no more searching. He would stay here, he would stay and wait for Nine.
He rose shakily to his feet, brushing the tears from his face, loving the rough scratch of the sand against his cheeks. He took out his knife and stabbed the walker nearest to him, he was dressed in grey overalls, and the name Charlie was stitched into the breast pocket. There was still a pen poking its head out the top. The next was a teenage girl, her crop top showing the large gash in her side where black organs were hanging and rotting. She growled at Carl and Carl sunk his knife into her eye. Carl worked his way through them one by one, till the beach was cleared and the birds circling above his head touched down and started picking at the rotting flesh, their excited cries filling the air. Carl piled them up just off the beach, then turned back to the sea.
It was cool against his feet, lapping at his toes, he marvelled as it sighed its way forward and back, waves tumbling over one another to meet him. He swam out, lying on his back and letting the sun paint his face.
'I'm sun bathing.' He mumbled to himself, chuckling at the absurdity, chuckling at the simplicity. Clean and refreshed he made his way back to the beach, walking the length of it, letting his clothes dry in the sun. He found a small alcove, tucked away and private, a small boat bobbed in the water. Its paint was all but gone, save for a few red patches, and the name had worn away apart from an L and an E. Carl inspected it, his heart hammering with hope in his chest. Could it be Adelaide? He looked around, noticing the slope of the hill into the small town, the cliff rising up out of the sea, and a house sat atop it.
'Is this where you lived?' Carl muttered as he inspected the inside of the boat, there was a puddle of stagnant water in the bottom of it but it still looked useable.
Carl pressed himself against the rocks, rummaging through his bag till he found the book. He set it on his lap for a while, He thought about Nine, how she'd feel that her words made it home. How she'd feel that he was waiting for her, that she wasn't alone.
'I can see why you missed it. It really is beautiful.'
Carl opened the book, the first words shattering his hopes, sending them falling around him.
I've been bit. So I guess I'm going to die.
The book nearly fell out Carls hands, it shook with the effort of keeping it upright.
Sometimes I think I'm going to be okay, that I'm different, but the wound keeps on bleeding, keeps on weeping and the fever keeps on getting worse and worse.
I'm mostly angry. Angry that I didn't see the dead thing coming, angry that I was so careless. It was a little kid, a little kid still wearing his pyjamas. His teeth grazed my arm and I stabbed him in the head. One simple graze and that's it, game over.
I suppose it's funny really, after all I've lived through, after all I've survived, I'm going to die now because of a child. I should have checked the rooms better, should have been more alert.
I guess it's my own fault for giving up, my own fault for wanting to die.
I wish I could go home, sometimes I close my eyes and the fever is so bad that I'm sure I'm there. I can hear the sea just outside my window, can hear mom and dad laughing together just downstairs. I want to see them, want to hear the voices, want to feel the soft touch of mom's head to my forehead, like she always did when I was ill. I suppose when all this is over we'll be together, all of us. We'll be together and we'll be happy.
I guess hope is
The words ended and Carl stared at them for an age, willing more to appear, looking for an explanation. He searched the pages desperately, each one of them empty.
I told you not to hope. There is no hope.
He threw the book down and screamed, reality slapping him in the face. The whole time he'd been clinging to a dead girl, he'd been hoping for a miracle that had been gone long before he'd started reading. Reality hurt, reality ached in his gut and made him cry.
The loneliness was back, the real loneliness. It used to comfort him, but now it scared him. He had nothing anymore, nothing and no one. There was no stranger a world away whispering hope into his ears, no faceless stranger leaving him water and hoping with all her might that he was alive. She was dead, she'd always been dead, and his own stubbornness had stopped him from finding out sooner. Now there was no one to hope for him, no one to dream for him. No one to stop the steady drip of insanity, no one to keep the voices at bay. They were laughing at him, and he was screaming at them.
He stumbled to his feet, lifting the book up above his head, he wanted to throw it, wanted to send it flying into the sea. The water could wash the ink from the pages, wash Nine from his life. She'd never been real for him, never been alive. She was just a stranger with a book, and he was just a lonely fool. He tried to throw it but he couldn't let it go. He stared down at the worn cover, his finger tracing the M wearing the shoes.
'I wanted you to be real.' He muttered, tears splattering on the cover. He choked back a sob as he felt the cold press of steel against his throat.
'Who are you?' the voice was gravely and close to his ear. Carl remained silent, he was tired of surviving, and he hoped that the knife could offer him the peace he'd desperately been searching for. The edge bit into his skin as the stranger pulled the knife closer, blood tricking under the collar of his t-shirt.
'Who are you and what the fuck are you doing with my book?' Carl froze, breath leaving his lungs and book falling out his hands, clattering against his feet.
'Nine,' he choked on her name. Uncertain, and stupidly hopeful.
The knife lowered slowly, the cut stinging.
What he heard made him shake, hope building itself back up around him, all the impossibilities of the world becoming possible in an instant.
'How do you know my name?'