Proof: A Short Tale of the Undead, Page 3

anyway. We found a nest of Them in Little Rock, harassing a hobo under a bridge. We figured They were planning to bring him into the fold, so to speak; if They were just going to eat him, he would have been dead long before we got there.

  Connor made a lot of loud noises, and when They all turned around to gauge his importance, I hit two of Them with buckshot. It was dark, and the orange streetlights flickered, creating a weird strobing effect as They rounded on me. I popped another one quickly, and then Connor hit one in the head with his old Colt, and it went down. The others didn’t even seem to notice. They brought out teeth and claws, and two of Them tore the hobo to tiny pieces while the rest made life hard for us. We kept shooting until They were too full of holes to keep moving, and when They were all on the ground, Connor stabbed hearts while I removed heads. They disintegrated. The hobo was in bits. I guess They figured that if They couldn’t have him, no one would. Connor and I burned the pieces.

  Something hit me from behind as I was climbing back into the Suburban. I clicked the trigger, but the shotgun was empty. Something cold and heavy pressed into my back, and bits of me were sliding in every direction. Connor was roaring like a madman, shooting at everything he could see. I think he shot me, once or twice, but I can’t be sure. I cursed. I think I remember saying things that weren’t even words. Words don’t mean much when you’re that mad, that scared. Words don’t mean much when the tunnel vision starts to set in and you can’t feel your kneecaps anymore.

  I screamed for Connor. I’d like to think I told him to save himself, get in the driver’s seat and floor it, but it was probably more like “Help me, you sonuvabitch bastard.” I never was the kind to be a martyr. Of course, he wouldn’t have run away even if I had told him to. I’m certain he came after me, but he had already lost everyone else. Bill. Jody. Mort. Zee. Elle. Nathaniel. Clay. Don. Me.

  Of course, They became We in the end. It was inevitable. I woke without a heartbeat on the third day and realized that there was no plan, that liminality has its perks, and the threshold between life and death is a rather interesting place to be. Connor wouldn’t let me convince him, but I suppose that’s fine, since his madness would have been a liability. Even so, I wish he would have listened. I spent so long hating all of his little idiosyncrasies that I didn’t expect to miss him, especially now, knowing how many of Us he killed. I didn’t expect to find myself sitting here with my nose in a bag of Corn Nuts, remembering how much I loved to hate that smell. Mostly, though, I didn’t expect him to give me the opportunity to write this before he pulls the trigger, and I didn’t expect the complete apathy I feel toward death. The bullet won’t kill me, of course, but it’ll knock me out long enough that I won’t feel it when he cuts out my heart, the way I cut out his years ago and never even knew it.

  He burst in around four or five this morning, brandishing a cross and that Colt. He growled some obligatory curses, and I made a token attempt to tear his throat out, but from the moment he came through that door, we both knew how this was going to end. If it had been anyone else, it might have gone differently, but we had a good, long run, and I can no longer imagine going out any other way.

  I fully expect you to read this, Connor, my last apology. I still believe that we could have agreed to disagree, that you could have ignored the fact that I am a murderer and I could have ignored the fact that you’re a vigilante, and we could have ignored one another in peace until you died. You were right, in the end. You found your Proof. I am very sorry, my friemnbjk,.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  About the Author

  MR Graham is a native Texan who traces strong cultural roots back to Scotland, Poland, England, and Germany. A mild-mannered Latin teacher during the day, Graham transforms at night into a raging Holmesian loremaster and rabid novelist.

  Though passionate about all scholarship and academia, Graham’s training and true love lies with anthropology, particularly the archaeological branch.

  Additionally, she seems to have a strange habit of talking about herself in the third person, even when it’s not situationally appropriate to do so.

  Visit MR Graham at quiestinliteris.com, Facebook, or Twitter, and share your thoughts about Proof: A Short Tale of the Undead on Goodreads.

  Peruse some of her paranormal fantasy series at The Books of Lost Knowledge