It’s a cold winter night, the breeze of the windy city nipping the back of my neck. In any other circumstance this would be beautiful, a nighttime run along the Wellington waterfront, looking up at the buildings around me. I always enjoyed that. So did he. As I run, I turn back to check on him. “Is he still behind me?” I ask myself, not sure if the question is asked in concern for him or myself. I notice that he is and I sharply inhale. Usually, on a run like this, when I look behind me and catch a glimpse of Nick, it is a sigh of relief that I let out, not an inhale of fear like tonight. I continue running, I run past what was once our national museum and I think about our first date. I, like many other locals of Te Whanganui-a-Tara Wellington, had been there a million times over the course of my life, and I am sure I could find my way through the place with my eyes closed if I tried. Nick on the other hand, grew up in a small coastal community up north. He had never been to Te Papa. It was only fitting that I take him there on our first date. Being with him made the familiar setting feel brand new. From the moment I lay eyes on him, I knew he was the one. We said our vows almost three years later, swearing to love and be loyal to one another until death do us part. If only we had known on that warm night in spring, that death was so near. As I bring myself back to the present, I am suddenly aware of just how close Nick has gotten. I urge my aching body to move, even slightly faster than it is. Nick gets closer yet again, he is running as fast as the cars he insisted on watching on TV every night. I am once again taken into the past. To the night the world seemed to come to a crashing halt. Nick had turned the TV on as we sat down to eat. He switched to his usual channel, hoping for another night of avid Formula One watching. NICK Harrison Reid Landsberg Unfortunately for him, and for the rest of the world, that would not be possible on that particular Saturday night, for when he switched to his favourite channel, all that was shown were scenes of horror. It was as if he had mistakenly put a sci-fi horror on the TV instead of the cars he had hoped for. This was not a scene from a film, however, this was life. These were real clips, taken in a busy mall in the southern parts of the United States. The news was on every channel, warning the world of a deadly new virus that was taking over. A blood-borne, rabies-like, virus, spreading rapidly among humans and animals alike. Taking over their minds and bodies, and turning them into rage fueled monsters, who’s only goal is to kill. It was mere weeks before the virus made its way into Aotearoa, and months before it came into our once cosy flat on The Terrace. Nick had come home from work that night out of breath. He wanted pasta for dinner, his favourite, but his appetite was lost. Later in the evening I saw it. We were preparing for bed when Nick removed his shirt and I couldn’t help but go up to him and admire his perfect shape. I wrapped my arms around his familiar waist, grabbing onto his love handles as he squealed in delight. I placed gentle kisses up and down his neck and shoulders, and when I reached his left collarbone, I knew our world was gone. There lay a small, yet prominent, red mark, one that if not for his lack of hunger and breathlessness could easily be mistaken for just another insect bite, but of course we could not be that fortunate. The next day was the worst of it. They say the third is the worst, but I don’t believe that's true. The third day was the day he lost it, the day I came home to our cat, dead in his arms, and an evil grin plastered across his bloody face. The third day is today, but yesterday was worse. Yesterday he was still Nick. Yesterday he was aware of his impending doom, begging me to kill him before he hurt anyone. The government had put out a notice last week, saying it was not only legal, but it was encouraged, to end the lives of those who were infected, in order to save them from infecting anyone else. I couldn’t do it though. I couldn’t take the life of the man whom I had sworn to love and cherish for all of our lives. So I let him suffer. I let him kill and eat our beloved cat, Kristin, and I let him chase me through the streets of Wellington as I made a vain effort to survive. As I look around me I see would have once been the familiar site of the bustling Oriental Bay. Now, though, it is a ruin of what it once was. Once busy cafes are now boarded up and run down, and the beach that only weeks ago was full of people, even in the dead of winter, is now empty, leaving only the bodies and the litter that now cover the sand. A once beautiful city is now a wasteland. Buildings destroyed, cars crashed, and corpses on the street. Just as I feel a tear drip down my cheek, I feel his arms around me. His lips press to my collarbone and his teeth sink in. The pain feels as though molten glass is being poured onto my skin. His nails dig into the flesh of my stomach like knives. Despite my suffering, in my last moments I am grateful. Grateful that although a monster took over, that although the love of my life is the one taking that very life away from me, I still get to feel his arms wrap around me and his lips against my skin. As my screams fade and my eyelids flutter shut, I hope that this moment lasts forever. That he lasts forever.