Unheroic

Alex did not die a hero’s death.1

Heroes died defending something right, defending justice or loved ones or countless innocents.2

Alex died on a routine scouting trip. Supplies were running low—supplies were always running low—and so they split up to venture into some of the houses, as they inevitably did from anywhere between once a week to once a day, depending on how much they managed to find. He’d taken the near-empty backpack, shrugged it over his shoulders, and turned to go without a single word being uttered. After all, it was routine.3

Heroes fought until the very end, only succumbing once their duty was done.4

Alex didn’t even know there was anyone else in the house. His first clue was the sharp pain, once, twice, and by the time he worked it out he was already on the floor and in no state to move.5

Heroes were killed by powerful beings, wicked nemeses they had battled with for years.6

Alex was shot by another survivor he’d never seen before; a frightened woman with a blank-eyed child clutching at her side. She hovered a moment, hands trembling, their shock-glazed eyes meeting briefly, and then she turned and fled. By the time Philip got there, signalled by the sound of the gunfire, she was no doubt several streets away. There was no point in hunting her down.7

Heroes said goodbye, imparted last words of wisdom.8

Alex couldn’t speak. Even if he hadn’t been in the late stages of shock, even if his mind hadn’t mostly shut down from the pain, his lungs were near-filled with blood and just breathing soon became impossible. 9

Heroes died surrounded by those who cared for them, who grieved the loss.10

Alex died surrounded by a group of strangers brought together by chance and stuck together by necessity. He knew their names, but not their history, their faces but not their thoughts. There was surprise, there was shock, but this world had stripped the sorrow out of death. Too many had died already. Grief took too much energy, crying wasted water, mourning demanded time they didn’t have.11

Heroes were given memorials, grand ceremonies to acknowledge their sacrifice.12

There was no time for a funeral, and nowhere for a burial. They could not spare matches for a fire. The blood would bring others soon, and they needed to move. His body was shifted, backpack removed, and jacket taken almost as an afterthought, even with the bloodstains. They rolled him on his back, folded his arms against his chest (the chest with two fresh holes), and closed his eyes—an awkward manoeuvre, done out of some vague semblance of respect or friendship or...they didn’t know. It hardly mattered.13

No. Alex did not die a hero’s death.