Love Bites
A short story by Tyler “Please Don’t Judge Me too Harshly” Lastname
On an unusually cold winter morning in the small town of Screven, Ga a drunken man struggles to find his keys. He digs through the folds of his many layers of clothes. Trembling, his hand manages to extract a wad of keys from his outermost coat, a florescent orange camouflage jacket.
The ring of keys is heavy, containing more keys than anyone could possibly remember the use for. By the light of the full moon he confidently selects a key with the word “K-mart” inscribed on the handle and inserts it into the lock. He twists, but the key doesn’t move.
“Shit…”, he exclaims a bit louder than intended. As he clumsily removes the key from the lock a dog begins to bark within the house. Frustrated, he gives up and begins to stumble back to his truck, an old Chevy, dull red where the paint had yet to bake off in the more usual South Georgia heat.
He passes by a black sedan in the dirt driveway before climbing into his truck and shutting the door. It takes a few attempts before the door closes properly. He reaches into the messy center compartment of his truck. Underneath a photo of a dark haired woman with piercing green eyes and countless McDonalds napkins he finds a Skoal container. From the container he removes a large pinch, but it falls onto the truck’s floorboard where it finds a home amongst mostly empty beer cans. Ignoring the mess on the floor he grabs another pinch and manages to get a portion of it into his mouth.
The dog can still be heard as the man turns the key in the ignition. To his surprise the truck roars alive on the first try. At that moment a candle light flickers on inside of the home. The man shifts into drive and floors the gas pedal, quickly accelerating along the curvy dirt road.
He speeds several miles down the road without seeing any signs of life. Saliva building in his mouth he looks for somewhere to spit. Not finding anything he reaches into the floorboard to grab an empty can, taking his eyes of the road for a few seconds.
When the man looks back up he spots a person in his path. Without hesitation he jerks the wheel to miss them. The panicked motion causes the truck to flip, striking the person in the process. The truck continues to flip three times before hitting a tree and coming to an abrupt stop upside down.
The violent sounds of the accident echo through the forest and then it grows deathly silent. The sun rises and begins to warm the air. Hours pass before a black car pulls up to the crash site. The car stops and the driver’s door opens, with the engine still running a woman steps out of the car. “Stay here Buddy”, she says as she closes the door leaving behind a whimpering beagle.
The road is littered with beer cans and other garbage. The truck looks surprisingly well all things considered. Busted windshield, driver’s side door open, side mirrors missing, but no more dents than it already had. The person hit by the truck lies in the road, a mangled corpse missing limbs, skull cracked, and reeking of death, its flesh black and rotted. No blood oozes from its many lacerations.
She briefly glances at the tattered remains in the road. The face is unrecognizable to her, likely due to its advanced deterioration as few strangers exist in Screven. She runs towards the truck, her dark hair blowing in the wind she carefully avoids the debris in the road. She kneels and looks into the truck, but sees nothing but trash, broken glass, and blood, lots of blood.
Panicked she puts her hands to her mouth and screams, “Duusstty!?! You out here?”
Looking passed the truck she notices a large damp spot on the side of the road. “Don’t be dead Dusty…” she says to herself as she moves closer to inspect the stain; taking in the color and scent it is unmistakably blood. Following a trail of blood further into the woods she hears a faint moan, “uuggghhh… uggghhh…”
“Dusty? Is that you?”, she calls as tears rain from her emerald eyes and a sense of relief washes over her. Thanks to his orange jacket she spots him easily amongst the brush where he is repeatedly trying and failing to stand. “Stay still”, she says, “I’m coming to help you.” A painful moan is his only reply.
She arrives at his side. His head is slumped to the right, his neck unable to support its weight. She sees a bone sticking out of his leg and begins to feel queasy. She fights the urge to vomit and takes her outer jacket off to wrap around the wound. “I’ve got to stop the bleeding”, she thinks, “and get him out of these woods.” Dusty seems mostly inattentive, however as she prepares to wrap his leg a glimmer on her left hand catches his eye. She takes notice. “Surprised to see me still wearing it, huh?”, she says, “You know despite everything you put me through, it’s still a pretty ring.”
He continues to stare at her hand as she begins to wrap his leg. As soon as she makes contact with his flesh she notices how unsettlingly cold it is. Before she can remark Dusty wails, “cccaaagh”, and latches on to her ring finger with his mouth. Lucky for her, Dusty only has three and a quarter teeth in his mouth. She easily pulls her finger out of his mouth, pushes him down, and quickly jumps to her feet. She looks down at her left hand and sees that her rings are gone. “Goddamn Dusty, even in death you a real stingy son of a bitch.”
She reaches for her left hip, draws her handgun, and places a single bullet between his eyes. He collapses. Buddy howls in the distance. She holsters her weapon and pauses wanting to give Dusty a proper burial, but knowing the gunshot will have attracted more walkers. Finally she says out loud, “I’ll be back for you Dusty… and my rings. Walkers ain’t gonna want you now that you turned anyways.” She runs back to her car, keeping her eyes opened for any signs of the walking dead. Gets in her car, comforts Buddy, and continues down the road on her original path.
