The Headhunter (Shorting the Undead & Other Horrors) by Saul Tanpepper

The Headhunter
    Promise me, darling. Promise you will not rest.
    “Karen,” the hunter cries out. “Oh my Karen. What must I do?”
    Take the monster’s head.

    †    †    †
    When the last splinter of the day’s harsh sunlight fell from his ceiling and twilight painted the walls crimson in a sweet seduction of darkness, Bill Hawkins unfolded his legs and levered himself off of the ancient couch he used for his bed. His joints ached, though neither from the chill of the approaching winter nor the stiffness of age, nor even from the hardness of the cushions, but from the tension that had parasitized his body since the Uprising, since the time the killings began. The world had died a living death, and now it was the curse of those who remained to relive it each and every night that followed.
    Stay in .
    She haunts his every thought, his beloved wife.
    Stay in, or at least go back to the old place where we were once so happy.
    He raised his arms, stretching, rotating his head until it no longer creaked like an old pine bending with the wind. The twilight lingered, as if the day were reluctant to go. It would pass soon enough. Night would fall and it was best if he were dressed and gone before the undead began their nightly crawl out of their holes to search the city for hapless victims.
    He’d promised Reggie a week ago that he’d hunt with him tonight.
    You promised me, too, darling. Remember? Reggie won’t mind.
    “I owe him. And, yes, he will mind,” he uttered into the darkness, hoping she would leave him be. Knowing she wouldn’t. “Just one night. I promise.”
    She didn’t answer.
    It felt like a betrayal. Just like it felt each and every morning he returned without the head of the murderer, the she-beast that had taken his Karen from him forever.
    He reached for his pants, so carelessly flung onto the armchair fourteen hours earlier. They were spattered and stiff, smelling strongly of copper and brine and something vaguely sickly-sweet. But it was old blood, dark and coagulated, almost a week old. A week since he’d made his last kill.
    He’d planned to wash the clothes, had promised himself this morning he’d do it, but after a meager breakfast of tasteless jerky, he’d practically collapsed onto the sofa in exhaustion. He hadn’t even remembered undressing.
    Sleep eluded him. As desperately tired as he was, he could not find peace in sleep. His wakefulness had tormented him for days beyond counting. Even the memory of sleep seemed like nothing more than a dream he’d once had.
    As the sun rose and pushed back the shadows, he’d lain, restless and hungry, his joints congealing like old fat and his head thickening as if from some indefinable ague. An eyelid twitch pestered him, on and off, for hours, like a fly buzzing around inside his head. His body was wracked, his soul ruined.
    Focus, darling.
    His anger roiled, rose to the surface of his consciousness, threatened to erupt from him. But then it would sink away again with little more than a pathetic burp as his mind teetered on the razor’s edge of unconsciousness. Teetered, yet never dropped.
    There were moments when he’d wanted to scream out, in anger and frustration or pain. But then fear would take hold of him, fear of being discovered for what he had become. He was ashamed. Ashamed that he had let them take his Karen. Ashamed that he was still here when she was gone. Ashamed of what he’d been reduced to. He was a lonely Headhunter who hunted for revenge. There was nothing more shameful than that.
    His guilt clutched at his throat, strangled all but the loneliness from him. That , he held too deep for anything to touch, like a treasured secret, the heart of his very existence. Shame and loneliness. They were why he hunted. Selfish reasons.
    There were moments of recklessness when his mouth would open and an anguished groan or shout of desperation threatened to spill out. But then he would clasp his hand over his lips. The