Chapter 50: Diogo

Grief hits me like a punch to the side of the head. A knife to the heart. A tearing in the soul. I freeze, standing over my wounded wife. I will myself to move. To drop to my knees in front of her and take her in my arms. To comfort her in her last moments of life. Instead I'm stricken, staring at her as time stands still, insulating us in a bubble of terror.
I want to reach out to her, call her name. The seconds tick by in my head, each precious moment lost to the overwhelming grief as she slowly turns. I look for signs. Look for the telltale red in her eyes as they turn hazy, turn inward, toward the Primitive. I glance at her hands, splayed out in the dirt. When she turns, they'll curl inward, into desperate claw-like devices. Soon she'll be writhing on the ground as every atom in her body changes. Twists into something new, reverting to her most primitive self.
Her hands twitch, digging into the dirt beneath her. It's beginning. I tense, lifting my knife, expecting her to launch herself at me, the nearest human. I wonder how I'll react. Will I have the guts to take the merciful path, cut her down before she turns completely, every part of the Taran I know erased and taken over by a hungry beast? Or will I leave her execution to my men? The people that have my back. Do I have it in me to allow another to touch her? Even with a blade or a bullet?
No. She belongs to me; her life and her death. If anyone must end her, it'll be me. Even if it means killing myself at the same time. She deserves more. She deserves the best. She deserves for her husband to escort her into the afterlife with all the love in his heart.
But before I can bring my blade down, killing her in a single stroke, she throws handfuls of dirt up into my face. Reflexively I turn my head to the side, avoiding the blinding sand. When I look back she's already running away, tearing hellbent across the desert toward the next outcropping of rocks.
I admire her speed and agility, even as I follow, chasing behind her, my longer legs rapidly eating up the distance between us. She's fast, arms and legs pumping in a blur, but she's no match for my strength and speed. I follow her, heart pounding in fear, knowing what I'll have to do when I catch her.
She zigzags past pathetic skeletal desert trees, their branches reaching toward her but never catching her. Briefly I wonder why she's running from me instead of launching herself at me, snarling, spitting and ready to take a chunk out of my flesh. It takes seconds, minutes at most for a new Primitive to turn. But, though her back is to me, she's not showing any Primitive characteristics. I know it's wishful thinking. That I'm clinging to the hope that maybe she wasn't bitten deep enough, hard enough, to turn her. I'm wrong though. I saw the blood streaming over her shoulder. The bite was deep and penetrating.
I've never seen a person survive a zombie bite. They all turn. Always. Every damn time. She doesn't have a chance.
Another wave of grief nearly drives me to my knees, slowing me down and lengthening the distance between us. I'm gutted by the thought of losing her. I've found the person that can centre me, provide my conscience, fight me, love me and stand with me. I've barely gotten the chance to know her and now I'm about to lose her.
She darts behind an outcropping of rocks and I follow close behind. As I round the corner, I'm surprised to find her sprawled in the dirt. She's tripped. She rolls onto her back, cowering against the side of a sun-scorched tree, her hand sliding down her leg to clutch at her ankle. She turns wounded eyes up at me, tears filling them.
I stand over her once more, caught by indecision.
Her eyes reach mine and the desperate fear fades to resignation. She tilts her chin up and nods. "Do it, Diogo."
Her voice is rough. I can feel her terror. Fear of me, fear of turning. Taran is a free spirit, always flying on the wings of her convictions. She's always known her direction, even when I captured her and twisted that direction toward me. Now she's lost, knowing she doesn't have much time.
"Taran." I say her name like a prayer. Despite what's about to happen to her, she is my love, my everything. She's a saint in a world of sinners. She doesn't deserve this end.
Understanding flickers through her grey eyes and she gives me the saddest smile I've ever seen. "Just do it, Diogo," she says tiredly. "I can't run anymore, and I don't want to turn into one of them." Her gaze flicks past me, then travels up my body to meet mine. "I'd rather die by your hand than live as the walking dead."
Tears burn in my throat and I have to force breath through the constriction. It hurts to look at her. To see the tangles of her dark red hair tumbling around her shoulders, the blazing intelligence in her eyes, despite the fear threatening to overwhelm her. The torn dress. Her small hands balled in her lap as she forces herself to give up the fight and face me, Sanctuary's Warlord, with a brave face.
"I don't want to turn," she whispers pleadingly, a tear trailing down her face and dripping off her chin. She chokes on a sob.
I nod and lift my knife, willing myself to do this for love. To stand strong, to not weaken. I will not leave her to turn. Will not leave her to my men. She deserves more.
I stare at her, taking in her bright eyes, now an intense blue-grey with shimmering tears. I've no doubt the grief on her face mirrors that of my own. She's ready. I will do this, then I'll lay down my arms and walk away from Sanctuary. Without her I have no reason to stay. No cause to protect a city that doesn't hold my Desert Wren.
As I bring the knife down, she closes her eyes, hiding her last thoughts, her last emotions. In the few seconds before I strike, I count the minutes since she was bitten. Seven. Maybe eight. Definitely not less.
I've never seen it take more than four minutes for a person to turn completely. Usually it only takes two or three minutes and during that time there are obvious signs that it's happening, signs that Taran isn't exhibiting.
I twist to the side, slamming my knife into the tree just a hairsbreadth above the crown of her head. She gasps as it thuds into the wood, her eyes flying open in surprise and her hand jerking up to her neck, clutching it as though expecting to find a gaping wound. My blade bites so deep into the trunk that it breaks through the brittle wood. The tree groans and the top half falls, toppling over next to Taran. She cringes, burying her head in her arms, trying to protect herself.
I ignore the thud of the tree hitting the dirt next to us and drop to my knees. I grip her arms and drag her up out of her crouch. She stares at me in shock, her breath coming out in shallow gasps, her face white.
I search her features, waiting. Waiting for the first signs of the Turn. Seconds tick by, minutes, as she sits in a slump, allowing me to manhandle her. Nothing happens. She blinks steadily up at me.
I look at her wound, maybe it's not as bad as I thought. But it is bad. Her delicate flesh has been torn, teeth marks are buried deep into her throat, blood still dripping steadily from a bite that badly needs medical attention. It's a gruesome sight. Her flesh was penetrated by a Primitive. Yet here she sits, the same Taran as the one I've spent weeks getting to know.
"You haven't turned," I say, unable to hold the gratitude and awe back as I speak. "8 minutes, Taran."
She blinks, and few tears trickle unheeded down her face. She blinks several more times, rapidly as she takes in the meaning of what I'm saying. A river of tears now make tiny wet paths down her cheeks.
"I haven't turned," she whispers back to me, the same awe I'm feeling reflected in her voice.