PLAYTHING

I didn’t sleep worth a shit. I’d read three of the magazines before bed, cover to cover, and learned how to spot if my man was cheating, the right way to dye my hair, and how to properly pluck and maintain my eyebrows. Not that I’d use any of that kind of bullshit. I rolled over and tried to fall asleep, but I couldn’t.

The hunter had been pacing outside the bedroom door for at least an hour before I finally shoved my head under one of the pillows and feigned sleep. It was way later before I actually fell unconscious.

And wouldn’t you know who was next to me when I woke up?

He was closer this time, and I found myself pressed against his chest, his chin resting on my head. The shoulder that he wasn’t lying on was leaning against me, and his arm crossed over my waist and forearm lying against my back.

I felt his fingers idly play with my hair.

It was too much this morning. My head was foggy, my neck stiff, and I just didn't need this bullshit. I rolled out of his arms and sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing my face with my hands and not bothering to look at him. I headed for the kitchen, hungry for something solid and lacking copious amounts of salt and preservatives; my insides couldn't take too many more punches from Mr. Nacho Cheese Doritos.

He followed me. His footsteps were easy to hear, even when he was trying to be quiet, due simply to the fact that I was becoming used to his presence. Not really a good thing.

I figured the freezer would be a good place to start. I hadn't looked too hard yesterday, simply because I wasn't in the mood to give an overwhelming damn, but not I wanted something hot to settle my stomach. My foot was finally feeling better, which made it that much easier for me to squat down and begin my rampage through the frozen portal.

The hunter crouched behind me, accepting the boxes and bags I pulled out of the freezer without making a sound. I was under the impression he felt I knew what I was doing, but I still decided to make small talk. I knew I was basically talking to myself, but it did have the nice effect of lightening my heart, even if for only a little while.

“When I was younger, my mom used to make waffles for me. I guess she never really 'made' them so much as took them out of the box and shoved them in the toaster, but waffles are waffles and it was what I got every Sunday morning until I was twelve.”

I pulled a frozen loaf of bread and placed it on the counter. Maybe I could find some jam and peanut butter later and have a sandwich.

“After I turned twelve, my mom let me make my own waffles, and even pour on my own syrup. That's big, when you're young. I would always put way too much on, but mom never said anything.”

Oh, jackpot- a container of frozen sausage. I could fry some up and eat it with the other bag of noodles that was sill in the cupboard.

“I was big on horror movies when I was little, but mom hated it. One of my friends got me a wall-hanging cardboard cut-out of Jason when I turned fifteen, and mom flipped a shit. I was so mad when I found out she threw it out.”

A bag of chicken breast fillets: I was going to eat like a damn royal.

I stood, shoving my loot onto the top shelf of the freezer. I wanted to explore the rest of the cupboards a little more.

Damn good idea. At the back of the cupboard beneath the microwave, I found a can of tomato and basil soup – the expensive stuff, all natural and organic – and decided, immediately, on my breakfast.

“Pick something out to eat. This soup is for me.”

And I'd enjoy every last drop of the can, too. I popped the pull-tab and dumped the soup into the noodle pan I'd used the day before. While silverware might be an issue, I'd at least found a wooden spoon to stir the soup with lying near the cutting board.

The hunter edged around me, sniffing around through a few cupboards before finding another can of fruit and presenting it to me. I opened it for him and drained some of the juice, like I had before, and handed the can back to him, stirring my soup.

He was a little more careful this morning, and only managed to drop one piece. I tossed the fallen fruit into the sagging trash bag next to the oven.

“Bring me the rag so I can clean you up.”

He let me wipe his face again, not protesting in the slightest.

I sighed, looking into the soup on the stove. “If you intend to keep me here, I'm going to need more to eat.”

He padded across the apartment, opened the screen door, and left.

What a good little lap-dog.

I had to admit that I was becoming used to the situation I'd fallen into. I also had to admit that I was better off with a hunter on my side than not. I still had no gun, no other means of defense, and, to be brutally honest, I should have been dead already. Way dead. Super dead.

When the soup was warm enough, I emptied it into one of three bowls I'd found that weren't smashed. Temper, temper. I waited a while for the soup to cool, and then sipped it out of the bowl. Spoons were overrated anyway.

With my belly full, my body energized, and my mind relaxed, I walked through the apartment, shamefully snooping around. Upon closer inspection of underneath the coffee table, I found a scattering of pictures. When I picked them up, I noticed they'd been bitten and torn.

But it was only one face that had been shredded from the photos.

I didn't need to guess whose face had been scratched out. It was easy to recognize the hunter's body; little had changed.

As I looked down, shuffling through the photos, my heart sunk. Happy people on happy backdrops; family gatherings; pets and children; everything that had once been part of his world lie torn in my hands. He'd scratched out his own face in all of the photos, as if he'd been ashamed. Ashamed of what he was, of what he'd turned into.

I sank down to the couch, curling my legs up against my chest, letting the pictures fall to the floor. It really wasn't my place to look at them, and they had only served to depress me.

I missed my family. I missed my mom. I missed waffle Sundays. I missed my stupid dorm and my stupid classes and my stupid professors.

A wave of sorrow washed over me like nothing I'd ever felt before. My chest ached and my eyes burned. I crawled off the couch, wishing I could get away from the pile of once happy photos on the floor.

I paced around the apartment, wondering for a moment if I should just open the steel door of the apartment and scream. Death wouldn't be that hard to find. Maybe I could pitch myself off the balcony. Surely plummeting to the cement from five stories up would prove fatal.

Shaking, I tried to gather my thoughts. I couldn't calm my hands, and I knew I needed somewhere to sit before I threw up. Back in the bedroom, I plopped down on the edge of the bed and tried to take a deep breath. I broke into a sob halfway though, and I bent over and stuck my head between my knees. My body wracked with sobs, I didn't even realize I'd started to wail until my throat was raw.

A cacophony of metal hitting the hardwood floor shook me from my despair. I looked up and saw the hunter in the doorway, having dropped whatever it was he'd brought me; cans and bags alike scattered across the floor.

Silence stretched out between us, my tears having momentarily stopped. I couldn't hold them in forever, and eventually shivered and bit my lip, wishing I hadn't let him see me so weak.

I wasn't surprised when he'd bounded toward me. I was shocked, however, when he fell to his knees in front of me, wedging himself between my knees so he could press close and shoving back his hood. The look on his face startled me. I couldn't recall when I'd seen such raw emotion pass over his face. I saw it now.

He was worried.

He pawed at my shoulders as I continued to sob, my body clearly not done with the waterworks show. I slowed my breathing, taking in deep gulps of air, purposefully trying to calm myself.

His cheek pressed against mine, his nose dragging across my closed eyes. He whined, bringing a hand to my face. With clumsy fingers, he tried to wipe away my tears.

What did it matter? What did any of it matter anymore? I took a deep breath and forced myself not to care. I should have been dead. I already was as well off.

My heart slowed, by breathing as well, and my tears eventually stopped flowing.

The hunter continued to nuzzle me, in what I could only guess what his version of comfort. At least he was trying. He pressed a palm to my face, gently forcing my head back. I looked at him, into his milky eyes, and just sighed.

I wanted not to care. I wished I could give up.

But I couldn't. Not when he looked at me with such concern on his face.

I surged forward, my hands latching onto the shoulders of his grungy hoodie, and I pressed my face to his neck, sobbing.

My whole body shook. I felt his hands climb up and fall down my back, trying to calm me and still my worries.

Eventually, my tears dried. Every once in a great while I would hiccup, but I knew I had little left in me.

He stayed by me, rubbing his hands up and down my back, the entire time. I sagged against him, wishing he had the ability to speak to me. I needed a chorus of 'I'm here for you's and 'everything will be alright's, even if I knew it was all bullshit lies.

Maneuvering me just slightly, he pushed me backward so I was sitting up. He placed a strangely gentle hand against my face, sweeping his nose across my forehead in a kind gesture.

I just sat there, feeling myself go numb.

He tried to bring me back.

I felt his lips sweep across my cheek, the bridge of his nose nuzzling my ear. It was strange how easily his tenderness came, considering how clumsy the rest of him always seemed. He whined against me, obviously still fretting.

I gave up. I gave in.

What was the use in resisting? What did it matter any more? I was going numb. Maybe, just maybe, he could make me feel something. Anything.

I heaved a heavy sigh, and craned my neck.

He took the open invitation, but surprised me by staying gentle. I could feel his lips gently trace their way down my collarbone and back up again to the underside of my jaw. He kissed his way up my jaw line, inhaling heavily as he pressed his face to my hair.

His push was gentle, and I acquiesced, unafraid. With his hands still on the small of my back, his shoulders pressed against mine and eased me backwards. I fell back against the mattress, one of his hands slipping free and sliding down my thigh. His hair fell against my face as he laid another line of kisses along the other side of my face, a deep growl resonating throughout him.

He pressed against me, his body coming to a rest on top of mine. His legs rested on either side of mine, and I felt his hand slowly begin its journey upward. Clawed fingers teased the skin of my leg, eliciting goosebumps as reward.

I swallowed, wishing I knew what I was doing. I brought my arms up, wrapping them around his neck and shoulders, easing my fingers into his hair.

His growl deepened.

I couldn't help the flare of excitement that coursed through me, unexpectedly.

His hand paused when he reached the tail of my shirt. Tentatively, as if he was afraid I'd snap, he eased his hand under the fabric, running his fingertips up my hips and waist.

My breath hitched. He growled into my ear, his legs scissoring against mine. One of his hands explored the flat of my stomach while the other pushed at the small of my back, urging my spine to arch.

“Why me?”

He stopped dead.

I did too, unaware of what I'd asked. The words spilled from my mouth like a waterfall; once the trickle started, nothing could stop the flow.

“Why did you pick me? Why do you feed me? Why are you keeping me alive?”

He eased his hand out of my shirt, rocking back on his knees.

“Why do you want me so much?”

Even though I had thought I'd been out of tears, I started to cry again. The stream of wetness that fell from my eyes was minute in comparison to the waterfall from earlier. I started to hiccup again. Crossing my arms over my chest, I suddenly felt very small.

He sighed and rolled off the bed.

I sat up, wishing I hadn't opened my stupid mouth. I wanted company – was desperate for it – and I'd pushed what he's offered me away without so much as a second though.

He hadn't left the room, however. Instead, he'd gone to the dresser and started to tear through one of the bottom drawers.

His return was slow, as if he didn't want to show me what he'd pulled from the dresser. He set it in my lap after he'd paced in front of me a few times. It was strange to think he looked embarrassed about it.

I looked down at the object in my lap.

It was a book. A small, paperback text book. I recognized the cover from a class I'd taken at the college I'd been attending.

The class had been so boring that I'd spent nearly every extra minute I wasn't taking notes to defile the book with doodles and movie quotes. I'd drawn pictures of the teacher as a zombie, something that, now I think about it, was slightly ironic and rather horrifying considering what had happened. I'd lost the book in the middle of the semester and was going to buy a new one... Then the outbreak happened, and I didn't need a textbook; I needed a gun and good set of running shoes.

Had he attended the same school as I had?

I opened the book, thinking I might find his name written somewhere in the front cover.

His name wasn't there.

Mine was.

The book had been mine.

I flipped through a few pages, seeing the drawing of the professor as a zombie.

Everything inside of me went cold, went numb.

The hunter hovered over me, pawing at the pages and forcing the book to open to the end. Between two pages there was a single piece of paper, folded in half. He clawed at it, indicating that he was interested in it.

I pulled the piece of paper out, unfolded it, and began to read.

It had been dated the day before the infection had spread throughout the city.

'Dear Zoey,

I'm sorry if I seem frank in saying so, but your sense of humor is wonderful. I found your book in the parking lot last Wednesday, and only just figured out from a friend of mine who is in your class that it belonged to you.

You seem like an amazing person. Horror movie quotes and zombie sketches of your professor, thirsting for high-fastening pants? You're a rare breed. Most girls I've met aren't into that kind of thing.

I was hoping you'd do me the honor of meeting me for coffee tomorrow afternoon in the cafe next to the science building. I'd love to get to know you.'

There was no signature at the bottom. Instead, there was an Evil Dead quote. My favorite.

'Shop smart! Shop S-Mart!'

I couldn't think.

I couldn't breathe.

The hunter, seeing that I'd finished the note, pressed his face to the book and inhaled, long and deep. He moved from the book to me, laying his cheek against mine. He took another deep breath.

He'd recognized me from my book. That's why he hadn't killed me during our first encounter. He’d been the one who wrote me the note.

I couldn't look at him. I had to swallow the lump in my throat a few times before I could speak.

“I think I need to be alone.”