One Last Breath
Posted on Sun Apr 20th, 2025 @ 6:04pm by Survior Hale MacLeod
1,138 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
The Lighthouse
Location: MacLeod Family Home, Owls Head, Maine
Timeline: October 31, 2010
"Have a sip of water," Hale said as he lifted his father's head. "Just a sip, come on." Fergus MacLeod, Gus to everyone who knew him, fixed his son with a pain-wracked gaze and took a sip, the barest trace of water, before sinking back, eyes drifting shut.
"Tired," Gus whispered. "So damn tired."
"Alright, Dad," Hale said quietly as he smoothed out the patchwork quilt that covered his father, the one his grandmother had made for his mother as part of her wedding trousseau, and wished, for the hundredth ... thousandth ... millionth ... time that there was something he could do. Anything. The hospitals had shut down and the doctors were either dead, or what passed for dead these days, or long gone. He had enough left of the pain medicine they'd given him to last maybe a day or two more and then, he'd have to sneak out. He smoothed the gray hair back off his father's forehead and sighed. If he waited until his dad was asleep, moved quickly, maybe he could be back in three or four hours. If he made it back.
Hale slumped down onto the floor, long legs extended straight out, his bare feet crossed at the ankles, his back to the bed. Dressed in worn, comfortable jeans and a white pullover top, Hale just sat, breathing in and out, watching the rain hitting the floor to ceiling windows in his parents' bedroom. He had six cans of soup left, a twelve-pack of bottled water, and a makeshift rain collection system (well, at least try number ten at developing one) out on the balcony.
No music. No television. No people. Just the dry rattling sound of his father trying to draw another breath, trying to hang on for another minute. The diagnosis had been bad enough, end stage pancreatic cancer, but then, the world fell apart and the doctors ran. With no one to ask and no way to do research, Hale was left with few options. In desperation, he'd made a stealth raid on the pharmacy, last week, and that had gained them prescription refills and a whole education on how hard it was to avoid the dead at close range.
Zombies. Freaking zombies.
It was time. He knew that. Didn't he know that? It was just hard but that was selfish. Not wanting to be alone wasn't a good reason.
He climbed into the king-sized bed, something he'd done as a toddler when he'd had bad dreams, and lay next to the man who had raised him, helped him through his mother's death and later, his grandfather's death. Grieving with him. Crying with him. Celebrating his first solo fight, achieving his pilot's license. His induction into the military. He honestly couldn't imagine a world without him in it.
"It's alright, Dad," Hale said softly as he settled into place, on his side, one hand holding his Father's, "It's alright. You can go. Mom and Grandpa are waiting for you. I'll be alright. Just relax and let go." He kept it up, speaking softly, a litany accompanied by tears that slid down his face. "It's alright, Dad. I love you. It's alright. You can go. Mom and Grandpa are waiting for you. Just relax and let go. I'll be alright. I love you."
The breaths came slower now. Each one painful, drawn in by willpower alone.
"It's alright, Dad. I love you. It's alright. You can go. Mom and Grandpa are waiting for you. Just relax and let go. I'll be alright. I love you."
The old man's breathing stuttered and then, with one long, last breath, stopped. Hale kissed him gently, reverently, on the forehead and went to stand outside. Still raining but he didn't care. The balcony was safe now that he'd broken out four of the bottom steps. Zombies couldn't climb. He stood out there, rain mixing with his tears, and tried to find the courage to do the next part.
Finally, he nodded to himself and went back inside, running his fingers through his wet, blonde hair as he went to the over-sized walk-in closet, stacked with boxes on one side, and pulled out his father's best suit, a white shirt, and the tie his mother had given him that last Christmas.
He was sitting on the floor in the closet, polishing his shoes, when he heard it.
His head jerked up because that was a sound you couldn't forget. Not if you wanted to live anyways. He'd locked the doors. The windows downstairs were boarded up. He'd left the door open in the bedroom. Did the zombies learn how to climb?
"No, no, no, no, no, no," he chanted in a whisper as he unsheathed the knife he pretty much always wore these days. Heart pounding, all but slamming against his ribcage, he crawled forward. The sound was close so, in the room then. He took a moment to make that mental shift, grieving son to combat pilot, and came up into a crouch. As he moved forward, he saw that his father was moving on the bed.
He was dead, Hale thought. No doubt about that. The realization stole over him, another improbability in a long line of improbabilities. What they'd been saying was wrong? Because Dad never left the house. Too weak. He wasn't bit.
He stood and moved over to the bed, where the zombie-that-looked-like-his-father was struggling to get free of the blankets. Hale leaped onto the bed, pinning his father's arms with his knees while he grabbed his silver-white hair with one hand and plunged the knife into the soft spot near the temple as tears flowed down his face. The zombie-that-looked-like-his-father stopped moving, one long last rattling breath, and then nothing.
[Much Later]
He was sitting outside under the roof overhang when he finally got himself together again. Impossible as that was. There was enough gas left, he thought, to get him out to the cemetery, for the burial. Beyond that, well, he couldn't think beyond that. How could anyone. One by one, his family had been taken away from him and now, he was alone. The last of the MacLeods and the only living person he knew of within a ten block radius.
Hale used a whole bottle of water to clean him up and shave him, then dressed him in his best suit and shoes. The cancer had ravaged his one robust frame, so the clothes were looser than they had once been, but a promise was a promise. And then, his father was ready. He took time to clean himself up and wrapped his father in the patchwork quilt with cord to secure the blanket at ankles, waist and chest.
He lifted the slight frame and headed downstairs. One last duty to perform.
Hale MacLeod
Survivor
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