Love and Brains, the ending

The Litopia blog, generally, is the home of the writers who call Litopia home. It includes bits from our lives, tips from and for writing, and occasionally just something someone finds interesting.

But, as Litopia is a writers’ colony, occasionally this blog will offer a bit of our writing, fiction or non. In this case, this is the final part of Matt Schofield’s:

Love and Brains, Part 2

“Poor dear.” She ran her right hand over his face, brushing the hair from his eyes. She smiled.

“Okay, so as we see, changes. We just need to adapt, don’t we.”

“Changes yes, but I can’t eat you. I am sorry, love, I would love to, right now. I am so hungry.”

Carl shook his head and Carol could see that he also craved a bite or two of her.

“No more tasting,” Carol said. “We change together. We need to adapt as a team.”

Carl lurched out of bed. He was surprised when his feet found the floor to discover he no longer thought the room chilly, despite the gaping hole in their windowless balcony door.

Carl tilted back his head and breathed in.

“Oh, my. Smell that?”

Carol mimicked his action and a smile grew on her red-streaked lips.

“Yummy. What is that?”

Carl walked to the wall and breathed in, again.

“I believe it’s the Smyths, and Ginger.”

“Oh,” Carol said. “But they’re lovely. We couldn’t.”

“Well, we could,” Carl said. “We’ve still got their key.”

Carl and Carol had long been known as the floor pet watchers, when others left for sunny beaches.

“They do smell scrumptious.”

“Oh, no, of course not. Good people.”

“But if we don’t…”

“True.”

“…something else will.”

“Shame to see them go to strangers, the way we did.”

“Maybe just a bite? I’m so hungry.”

“And Ginger for dessert?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Forever,” they said together.

At the front door, Carl reached for the Smyth’s key. His fingers flapped at it, once, twice, unsuccessfully, before Carol put her hand on the opposite side and together, they managed to lift. They walked down the hallway, their hands pressed together, the top of the key poking up. They dipped together and snapped open the two locks. The Smyths were huddled in a corner of their apartment, under a table. They piled furniture in front of the windows, so the darkness was near complete when the screaming began.

The next night, they visited the Johnsons and Mitsy, their Jack Russell terrier. Carol was impressed by the renovations the Johnson’s had made since she’d last been inside. Her drying vocal cords only allowed her to say, “Lub da calas and nuu tiim.”

The night after that, they followed three fellows who ripped through the front door of the Spera place. There had always been rumors that he was a bit of a rough type, and remembering that, Carol put a hand on Carl’s chest and held him back in the hallway outside the door.

Bang, bang, thud, bang, thud, bang, bang, thud and Mr. Spera was in the hallway, pointing a silver .38 caliber revolver at Carl. Mr. Spera had run the local U-Pick, U-Save, but the rumor had always been that he was a front for local organized crime. The gun seemed to confirm this, at least for Carol.

“I’m sorry about this, Carl, Carol, you were always great neighbors,” Mr. Spera said.

Click. Click. No bullet fired. “Damn…NO.”

Carl and Carol hated to dine and dash, but after they’d finished eating, they craved the comforts and familiarity of their home, their bed. “We wiibee aright,” they said as they walked home down the hallway, hand in hand.

When they arose the following morning, their deep breaths made it clear to both that Mr. and Mrs. Spera had represented the last fresh groceries on their floor. They would have to adapt, again.

Using her eyes and body language, Carol managed to get across the notion that “The fellows from that first night are still in the hall closet, aren’t they?”

With that knowledge, they both smiled, widely and a bit eerily, the skin over their mouths drying and cracking when they pushed up the corners of their mouths.

Their attackers wouldn’t last forever as food, of course. They knew this. It wasn’t exactly what they craved. They craved warm blood, fresh meat. This meat was decaying, and the cold taste didn’t quell the raging pain in their stomachs.

“A-addaap.”

They could still operate the microwave. Nothing fancy, of course. But Carl could push the button to open the door, and with some practice, they both worked out how to hit the “30 seconds” button. Push it three times and days old zombie seemed almost fresh.

Re-heated undead gave them another week.

“Fo-evah,” they moaned, together, as they ate their last portions.

Speaking became increasingly difficult, and slow. But they didn’t need words to understand each other.

On the night after they’d ripped the last meal from the last of the corpses on their floor, they walked to the bathroom and held hands, looking at themselves in the mirror. Gaunt, sallow cheeks, gray, but still Carl and Carol.

“Sti booteefuah,” Carl said.

Carol lowered her head onto his shoulder. She breathed in his moldering shoulder. Carl leaned his face against her head and breathed in her decaying brains.

As they studied each other in the mirror, their body language made it clear that they would soon enter a new phase. It was more and more difficult not to set upon each other. Their power to resist the urges of their decaying bodies and minds was diminishing.

But they would enter into this new phase together. Carl wanted to let Carol know that he would be honored to leave first, for her. Carol wanted Carl to know that she was ready to give herself to him. Both were hungry.

“We wa bearreet,” they said, together, as they stumbled back towards their bed, hand in hand. “Fa-beeva.”