A Warning to Survivors

"I'm going to try to kill you. You know that right?"

"Yeah."

"All right. Well, you're the one with the gun."

I was the one with the gun, but only by chance. I found it under my uncle's bed, wrapped in a sweatshirt inside a gym bag; I was hoping for a baseball bat or a golf club. The gun seemed more...efficient.

Despite my years of video game experience, mowing down opponents with virtual guns, I wasn't comfortable holding one. Maybe it was because I'd never actually held one before, or maybe it's because I knew what I had to do with it.

It was going to happen. Sarah needed to be "put down," as she said it. Put down, like she was some kind of animal, like she wasn't my girlfriend. She asked me to do it after it happened, to smash her skull with the tire iron in my trunk. I didn't of course. I said I had a plan, we would get to my uncle's house, wait for him to come home, and then see if we could get her to the hospital. She went along with it, not because she believed they could do anything at the hospital, but because I needed her to. I'm still impressed by that; how mature she was. She didn't complain, didn't even cry. Just accepted what would happen next, and what needed to be done.