OPTOPHOBIA (The Undead End Zombie #1)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Shelby

“Do not go outdoors.”

Drip.

“Do not engage with the victims.”

Drip.

“Do not . . .”

Drip.

Do not. Do not. Do not.

You’re fucking useless, aren’t you?

I suppose I am but once upon a time, I could pick out a shirt without waffling over the cut, color and how much of my skin showed.

I made cookies because I loved the soft, chocolate-y warmth that always wrapped around my tongue like a warm blanket in the winter.

I dyed my hair a sassy blonde. Hell, I shopped at the local grocery store . . . got my own gas.

Drip.

Ignoring the low warble of the television, I stare into my reflection, distorted and hazy, no surprise, before dropping the knife to the floor and stretching my fingers wide.

I guess I never considered it, but blood is warm before it slowly loses the life it contains. How many times have I washed this away, making excuses just as empty as his cold, desiccated heart?

It was a fluke, an anomaly. He didn’t mean it. He was tired. I was tired. The list goes on and on because I’m a goddamn . . .

“Idiot,” I mumble, following the flecks of the green paint I dropped the day we moved in, still marking the floor and now joined by a new color, crimson. It spreads across the old wood greedily, seeping into the ass of my shorts with a message of it's own—the time for pretending is over.

My stiff joints pop and crack as I push against the wall behind me, unfolding my limbs with a groan. It’s impossible to avoid his hard dark eyes though and they mock me as I stop beside his hand, curled into a fist and whisper, “Ben?”

Inexplicably, a memory forms, and I can almost taste the rich red wine as it slides across my tongue, the bitter notes accompanied by a sweetness that linger after I swallow. The balmy heat hovers over my skin and I tip my head to the sky.

Surrounded by a symphony of sound, it’s almost impossible to distinguish between the wildlife competing for attention amongst the swaying trees: crickets, frogs and perhaps a wolf or coyote.

Their individual calls meld into something otherworldly and it’s times like these that I can’t help but wonder if there is a god.

Surely nothing of this brilliance could be dreamt up by anything but a celestial being.

When the glitter of a shooting star draws my gaze, I close my eyes, making a wish. The flash of light burns into my eyelids as he stirs beside me and after I turn, he brushes his finger down my cheek, and says, “Marry me.”

That was the day everything changed. I just wish I could have known that the foolish dreams I harbored would turn out to be nothing more than a nightmare. My nightmare.

Blinking back to the present, I eye the knife on the floor before I move back to his eyes, those damn eyes. I need to go before he gets up, I’m so fucked.

Run, Shelby. Just go. I can't though because if I do this, if I leave, I don’t think I’ll survive the punishment this time and despite everything there’s still a part of me that wants to live, so I whisper, “Ben?”

Maybe if I apologize, he’ll go easier on me. Maybe . . .

“Unh.” The weird sound punches at my chest and I grab my head before I realize the animalistic whimper is coming from me.

Despite every instinct within me screaming to freaking run, I lean forward, mumbling, "Ben? I’m-I’m sorry.”

Silence is my reward and I touch his hand before scrabbling back, my heart in my throat. Unfortunately, I slip in the blood leaking across the floor and fall to my side. With the damage done—I’m covered in my sin—I turn to my back.

Strangely, I’ve never bothered to look at the ceiling before and I trace the water stain in the corner before tilting my head. He hasn't moved.

“Initial reports indicate this virus may be airborne,” the low warble of the television declares. “So far, we’ve received no updates from the CDC. The last information we were given said to avoid the infected at all costs and remain safely in your home if you're able.”

Did I imagine it? The subtle twitch?

Only when an ache forms in my neck do I roll over and force my trembling limbs up again before crawling across the floor. This time, I touch his chest, avoiding the hole permanently etched in his skin as I say, “Ben?”

When nothing changes, I sit back and glance around the room, pausing on the cushions from the couch spread across the floor. I should put them back before Ben sees them.

The newscaster's voice drowns out my heavy breaths and I swallow past the lump in my throat before wrapping my fingers around his wrist. Ignoring his skin, warm between my own icy digits, I count in my head.

One.

Two.

Three.

At a hundred, I close my eyes.

Nothing. He’s gone.

Maybe it’s residual hysteria or maybe I’m the world’s biggest fool but loss is what I feel, useless, ridiculous loss.

I’m free. After three fucking years of terror, I’m free and yet I’m crying over what—another twenty years of prison?

The laugh bubbles from my throat before I can stop it and I cover my mouth, but my panic goes unnoticed because he can’t hear me anymore.

Now what? Despite the circumstances, I’m still paralyzed with indecision because frankly I can’t remember the last time I was allowed to choose, well . . . anything.

I’ll clean up. Ben likes a clean space to relax in. It’s completely ridiculous but I push to my feet before staggering down the hall. The three-quarter bath on the first floor rarely gets used but I keep it stocked with supplies regardless.

Once I’m inside, I close the door and lock it behind me before turning to the sink. The pipes protest when I turn the knob and run my fingers beneath the warm flow, creating a tingle beneath my frozen skin before I reach for the bar of soap and scrub vigorously.

Notes of lemon and bergamot assail my nose while I watch the remnants of our fight wash down the sink, a pale pink compared to the fire of before.

My stomach roils at the sight or maybe it’s the unique scent that used to be my favorite and now reminds me of Ben before I glance up, meeting my reflection in the mirror.

When was the last time I washed my hair? Right, three days ago, prior to Ben coming home.

I should shower. Ben loves to run his fingers through it after it’s freshly washed.

The heated spray soothes my screaming muscles after stepping into the shower but pain blooms across my body as I run my soap covered hands over my skin and rinse before repeating, another of Ben’s rules that are easier to follow.

My ribs hurt but it’s no competition to the bone deep ache in my soul and when my chest constricts, I drop to the shower floor.

With my head on my knees, I stare into nothing, my eyes strangely dry as images from the past dance across my vision.

The way Ben's lip curled when he was thinking something wicked.

How his fingers rasped against my skin when he touched me, worshiped me.

The day we married, Ben looked down at me with a glitter behind his eyes that warmed my soul as he spun us across the dance floor.

The problem was, every caress, every compliment and action charmed me into a false sense of security. He used to say all the time that he was mine and I was his. Little did I know what that would mean in the years to come.

Luckily, I manage to claw myself back from the brink when the house phone rings, which Ben must have plugged back in while I was tied to the bed. We don’t usually get calls on the landline because it’s fucking archaic, but Ben left it on when he took away my cell phone.

With a groan, I step from the shower and wrap a towel around my torso before scrubbing my hand across the now cloudy mirror. When I curl my lip, a bead of blood forms in the split but I’m tired of the coppery taste and press my mouth firmly closed.

Ignoring my dull blue eyes, now sporting a black bruise, I turn to the door when the phone rings again. Who’s calling? Why?

The machine picks up as I lean my head against the door and Ben’s deep voice says over the recording, “You’ve reached Ben and Shelby. You know what to do.”

The old machine crackles and hisses before emitting a steady beep. My blood turns to ice though when Ben’s brother says, “Ben? Where you at bro? I’ve been trying to reach you. Man, this shit is getting crazy. You see the news? It’s a biochemical weapon or some shit. It’s everywhere. We’re fucked.”

When his voice drops off, I turn back to the mirror only to pause when he says, his unusually deep voice tinny across the line, “You coming out to the farm? You coming? Shit, they’re eating each other. It’s fucking crazy man. Anyway, I’m heading your way. Call me.”

Heading your way. Shit.

Of course, my ribs protest but there’s no stopping the deluge as bile races up my throat and I spin toward the toilet.

What should I do? If Randy shows up here, it’s going to be obvious what I’ve done.

Run, Shelby. Fucking, run!

Helpless to the deluge, I clutch my ribs as my stomach empties until finally there’s nothing left to give. All the while, Randy’s strange message rolls through my brain and I force my feet to cooperate as I stumble from the bathroom and head straight to the stairs.

Vaguely I recall the newscaster’s solemn report this morning about an outbreak of some kind but all I really remember was their recommendation to stay inside. Something that I simply cannot do.

As soon as Ben comes into view, I slow, but I know I can’t linger and ignoring the blood whooshing in my ears, I avoid his motionless form as I pass.

Depending on where Randy was when he made that call, I probably have twenty minutes to get my shit together.

If I’m lucky, he was farther away but I can’t take the risk.

The stairs creak as I ascend, the once charming sound of the older home now my companion while I round the railing and race toward our room.

I can't be here when Ben’s brother arrives.

I have to go and decide what to do after.

If I stay, Randy won’t be any more forgiving than his brother was, and as it turns out, I want to be free of these chains.