311

You step in and raise your hands to the side.

"May I look at your wound?" you ask.

Mike removes the rag, and large bite marks on his neck stare back at you like weeping eyes. The skin is pierced and red, with white fluid encrusting the edges. Mike takes a deep breath and leans back, shifting his weight. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes. He takes a swig from the whiskey bottle and sets it back down.

"I got into a fight with one of those things, those zombies. It was a tough one, but I got it down. The thing is... it bit me."

Mike pauses for another belt from his bottle.

"We both know what happens next. And I don't want to be one of them. I can already feel the venom flowing through me. I can tell it's changing me. I got my gun here."

He lifts the revolver off the desk and waves it around.

"I know what I gotta do…I gotta stop the infection from turning me. But I tried to do it, and I can't. I just can't pull the trigger."

Mike puts his hand over his eyes and sobs. Moments go by, he coughs hard, and lifts his head up.

"I need you to do it for me. Just take this gun and do it. Don't let me turn into one of those things."