Peter Rogers took another slug from the bottle and counted the pills laid out before him. Four paracetamol, seven aspirin, sixteen cod liver oil capsules and a bottle of St John’s Wort. Taking the lot would only result in a bad taste in his mouth, one so strong that even the whiskey wouldn’t wash it away.
As he contemplated his options, his eyes found their way back to the TV screen. The stern face of the black news anchor glared out at the nation.
‘…officials have announced an immediate lockdown is in force. The new strain is proving much more virulent…’
Peter issued a ragged sob and dropped his head into his hands. He couldn’t face another year inside. In the lockdown of 2020, he had lost his job, his girlfriend and – to the coronavirus – his parents. Five years on, and he still hadn’t fully regained his life.
‘…over to Frances Stephenson now, live at Monroeville Hospital.’
The image switched to a woman standing in a busy corridor. With a facemask covering her nose and mouth, the fear in her bright eyes was acutely evident.
After a half-second’s pause, she said, ‘Thank you, Sidney. I’m coming to you from the heart of this hospital, a hospital besieged by growing numbers…’
Unwilling to face the prospect of another pandemic, Peter knew that his only option was to take his own life. Far better to be in control of his demise than let the invisible virus claim him. The only question that remained was: how to do it?
He’d checked the bathroom cabinet for razor blades, but Jeannie had convinced him to turn from wet shaving years ago. These days he groomed with an electric shaver which did not lend itself to opening a vein no matter how much it stung his cheeks.
‘…told us that the incubation period is drastically shorter than COVID-19. Anyone coming into contact with the virus is likely to fall ill in less than twenty-four…’
A bullet to the brain would be preferable; quick and easy. But here in England, guns were not as prevalent as they were overseas. Sure, he knew someone who knew someone who could get their hands on a piece for the right price, but the lockdown meant none of the parties were permitted to meet one another to make the trade.
‘…speak to us about the potential mortality rate, I have the Chief Medical Officer here at Monroeville.’
The camera turned to a bearded man in his fifties. He held one hand over his left eye, as though nursing a migraine.
‘It’s not good news, Frances,’ he said. ‘So far, all cases…’
Peter was left with only one viable way out: hanging.
He’d fashioned a noose from an electrical cord and tied it to the balustrade on the landing. It wouldn’t be as quick as a gunshot or as peaceful as an overdose, but it would be a momentary discomfort compared to unknown months locked inside his own home.
The TV was loud enough for the doctor’s voice to reach him in the hallway. He stood on a dining chair, put his head in the terminal loop and tightened the cord around his neck.
‘…I have witnessed that motor functions continue after the patient has…’
Peter kicked the chair away and dropped four inches. The cord dug into his throat but the fall did not snap his neck. He gargled and pinwheeled his arms.
‘…are coming back to life…’
Lungs deprived of oxygen burned in his chest. His vision swirled and his sense of direction left him. Even if he wanted to release himself, his hands would not be able to find the noose.
‘Frances, the zombie apocalypse has begun.’
Peter’s last thought before unconsciousness was that his actions would not lead to the serene peace he’d sought. Instead, he would spend his entire undeath suspended like a grotesque Christmas bauble.
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