Back before the apocalypse, I remember
a conversation that Fred and I had in the break room while we were having lunch
together. There is distinct difference between bitching and complaining.
Bitching is when you are vocally displeased about something you have no control
over. Complaining is when you are vocally displeased about things and said
complaining can improve or remedy a problem that you are experiencing.
Complaining about how you wish your
wife would not use so much tarragon and garlic is constructive. Maybe next
time, she won’t use as much. Bitching about how cold it is outside does no
good. You can rage all you want about the temperature but it is not going to
change a damn thing. Complaining can be constructive. Bitching just makes you
annoying.
I thought about that when I looked
into Becca Cason’s eyes. There was not a resignation. There was not defeat. It
was almost a calm serenity. It was along of the lines of I could see her
thinking, “Well, so this is how it ends.”
She did not rage against whatever God
is up there. She was not emotionally destroyed. She was just… accepting. She
could not fight or rage the virus out of her system. There was absolutely
nothing she could do about it. And if there was nothing she could do and she
understood that, it was just wasted energy to rage against the dying of the
light.
Now, do not misconstrue what I am
saying here. I do not want you to think that there is no hope. That is not what
I am saying. Everyone’s days were always numbered. We were always going to die.
But once Kharon became a full blow outbreak, we were all living on borrowed
time. Back in the old world, sure, we could have died in a car wreck on the way
to work or slipped in the shower and suffered a broken neck. That could have
happened. But it seems like that in the Kharon world, we are constantly staving
off the Reaper. It is as if death is lurking around every corner.
And when Becca was bitten, her
attitude seemed to be, “Well, it is what it is.” And she picked up her pick axe
and headed off into the great unknown. That old adage about never knowing when
you are going to die does not apply when you are infected. You know the
timetable. 48 hours and that is all she wrote.
Becca wasn’t going to waste one second
feeling sorry for herself. Instead, she decided to take out as many zoms as she
could in the limited time she had left. I think you have to admire that. If my
time comes (and I see it coming), I hope that I can be so accepting of my own
fate.
If you are reading this, know that the
clock is ticking. Don’t waste a second. Live, dammit. Live.
