Rot & Ruin by Jonathan Maberry

to dust on the table. They put it in a chair, and Tom produced the spool of cord and bound it in place. The zombie continued to struggle,but Benny understood. The zombie was actually helpless.
    Helpless.
    The word hung in the air. Ugly and full of dreadful new meaning.
    “What do we do with him?” Benny asked. “I mean … after ?”
    “Nothing. We leave him here.”
    “Shouldn’t we bury him?”
    “Why? This was his home. The whole world is a graveyard. If it was you, would you rather be in a little wooden box under the cold ground or in the place where you lived? A place where you were happy and loved.”
    Neither thought was appealing to Benny. He shivered even though the room was stiflingly hot.
    Tom removed the envelope from his pocket. Apart from the folded erosion portrait, there was also a piece of cream stationery on which were several handwritten lines. Tom read through it silently, sighed, and then turned to his brother.
    “Restraining the dead is difficult, Benny, but it isn’t the hardest part.” He held out the letter. “This is.”
    Benny took the letter.
    “My clients—the people who hire me to come out here—they usually want something said. Things they would like to say themselves but can’t. Things they need said, so they can have closure. Do you understand?”
    Benny read the letter. His breath caught unexpectedly in his throat, and he nodded as the first tears fell down his cheeks.
    His brother took the letter back. “I need to read it aloud, Benny. You understand?”
    Benny nodded again.
    Tom angled the letter into the dusty light, and read:
My dear Harold. I love you and miss you. I’ve missed you so desperately for all these years. I still dream about you every night, and each morning I pray that you’ve found peace. I forgive you for what you tried to do to me. I forgive you for what you did to the children. I hated you for a long time, but I understand now that it wasn’t you. It was this thing that happened. I want you to know that I took care of our children when they turned. They are at peace, and I put flowers on their graves every Sunday. I know you would like that. I have asked Tom Imura to find you. He’s a good man, and I know that he will be gentle with you. I love you, Harold. May God grant you His peace. I know that when my time comes, you will be waiting for me. Waiting with Bethy and little Stephen, and we will all be together again in a better world. Please forgive me for not having the courage to help you sooner. I will always love you .
         Yours forever ,
         Claire
    Benny was weeping when Tom finished. He turned away and covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. Tom went over and hugged him and kissed his head.
    Then Tom stepped away, took a breath, and pulled asecond knife from his boot. This one, Benny knew, was Tom’s favorite: a double-edge, black dagger with a ribbed handle and a six-and-a-half-inch-long blade. Benny didn’t think he would be able to watch, but he raised his head and saw Tom as he placed the letter on the table in front of Harold Simmons and smoothed it out. Then he moved behind the zombie and gently pushed its head forward, so that he could place the tip of his knife against the hollow at the base of the skull.
    “You can look away if you want to, Benny,” he said.
    Benny did not want to look, but he didn’t turn away.
    Tom nodded. He took another breath and then thrust the blade into the back of the zombie’s neck. The blade slid in with almost no effort into the gap between spine and skull, and the razor-sharp edge sliced completely through the brain stem.
    Harold Simmons stopped struggling. His body didn’t twitch; there was no death spasm. He just sagged forward against the silken cords and was still. Whatever force had been active in him, whatever pathogen or radiation or whatever had taken the man away and left behind a zombie, was gone.
    Tom cut the cords that held Simmons’s arms and raised each