Tattered Remnants

by Mark Tufo

  I was leaving the bobbers behind, and that was good. I could not see the bottom dwellers, and that was good as well, at least for a little while. My marathon sprint and my less than smooth swimming skills were using up my reserves, which didn’t run too deep thanks to the events of the last few days. I started to angle back so that I could at least walk on the bottom. The problem was somewhere along my wet jaunt along the coast the ledge had dropped out where I was. I dipped down when I thought I was in safe range of the ocean floor, and my head went down. In fact, I sunk like a stone for a good ten feet. I had still not made contact by the time I began to panic and flail about spasmodically. By the time I broke the surface, I’d taken a decent-size swallow of whale piss laced with squid shit, yes that’s what I feel the majority of ocean water is composed of. Think about it, everything, and I mean everything, is done in the ocean. Animals crap, urinate, they fertilize their eggs, they have sex, they have babies, they die, they decay, all in the very substance I was now desperately trying to dispel from my lungs. Yeah, you should have maybe packed that thought along with you the last time you went to the beach with your picnic baskets and kids. You’d basically been telling your kids to go swim in a cesspool.

  I’d been hoping to cycle through better thoughts as I drowned. I just kept moving my legs and arms, not always in a coordinated manner but at least in the general direction of the shore, which had a Twilight Zone thing going on: No matter how hard I tried to get closer, it moved farther away. I knew I should have begged off those last twenty or thirty times I’d dosed on acid. Yeah, it must have just been those last few times that had fucked with my mind. I was coming to my furthest limits of what I could endure. The back of my left leg had seized in a mind-numbing charley-horse. I had to keep it as straight as a board or the muscle would seize up, and in all likelihood, unravel from either the back of my knee or the top of my ankle, or maybe it would unravel from both ends at the same time. Wouldn’t that be special? I was down to kicking out with one leg, desperately keeping the other still in the hopes it would stop feeling like a taut rope getting ready to break, when finally I felt the toe of my boot scrape bottom—at least I hoped it was. If I went down in search of a bottomless pool again, the odds were good I wasn’t coming back up.

  I stretched out as long as I could and let my weight sag. I was spent. My mouth was about the width of my lip above the water. Just about every time the wind blew or a minnow left a wake behind his swimming body, water would flood into me like the side of the Titanic. I started hopping farther in. My arms were so sore, just getting them up was a chore. Somewhere in the back of my head, I was sure that a large part of my problem was the hypothermia leeching off all my energy. If I stayed in much longer, it wasn’t going to matter if the zombies caught me or that I’d contracted a serious case of dysentery. I’d die of exposure, and dead was dead. It didn’t much matter how you got there. If I died, my son, nephew, and niece’s chance of survival became grim. Those in the vault would fare better, but for only so long. As an adult and a parent, and maybe just the figurehead leader of the Talbot household, life was already stressful enough. I did all in my power to provide a better life for my offspring, but now, well now, all of my actions had to be weighed with how it would better their chances of survival. I did not envy anyone, especially me, in that position.

  The panic had abated. The water was now about chest high. I took in long breaths and relaxed as best I could. Wasn’t necessarily easy, as the zombie bobbers were constantly turning their heads so they could keep their eyes on me. Didn’t matter to them they couldn’t get to me. It was unnerving, but it was all right. It wasn’t the first time I’d be the center of a zombie audience. I could feel goose bumps the size of engorged ticks forming on the upper half of my body. I needed to get out of the water and soon. The problem was the zombies on the shoreline that were perfectly content to walk along on the warm, dry edge of the water. They knew, they fucking knew my path involved going back that way, and now that I was able to keep my head above the water line, some of the zombies joined me in the water. The chase was back on, definitely at a slower pace, I was already tanked, the zombies easily kept pace they were not at all concerned with their non-existent stamina issues. Maybe at some point they drop and die from exhaustion like an over taxed horse. Although I’d yet to see it, and I’d fall long before they did.

  I moved closer to shore. I was about waist high. I was afraid if I went in any closer, those on the beach would come out. The only piece of decent news in the whole damn thing was that there had to be a current or something because the bobbers were heading out, and good fucking riddance. Of course, that did little for the ones behind me struggling to catch up. The hindrance of pushing through the water seemed to be messing with their motor skills. I could stay ahead of them, but I’d never be able to outdistance those on the shore, who seemed to be out on a leisurely stroll. I was in a bit of a pickle, and I hate pickles. I have my reasons. There was a craggy knoll about a quarter of a mile up. The outcropping of rock was where I was going to have to marshal all my strength and make a run for it. While they were struggling to get over the rocks, I hoped I could make enough distance to get to the Central Maine Power yard. Most of the zombies to the rear were falling behind, but there were always a few smart ones in the bunch. The brainiacs, which had been a sort of aberration in the beginning of the z-poc, seemed to be getting more and more common.

  I hate to beat a dead horse, actually, screw him; why would he care? It bears repeating that the zombies were becoming smarter at a geometric pace. I had no doubt in my mind that eventually they would learn how to use tools to their advantage, maybe even guns. Then what? How could any human holdouts survive? Would roving bands of zombies be able to drive and fire out the windows? Humanity wasn’t even on its last legs; we were now low-crawling our way out into a footnote of history. Would zombies start opening schools and teach about the vanquished humans? I guess it was possible. Not sure what the fuckers were going to eat when we were gone, but shit, man had been plaguing, ravaging, destroying (you chose the appropriate verb) the planet for ten thousand years, so maybe the zombies should have a turn. Yeah, I actually had that thought. You have all sorts of sour thoughts when your nuts have crawled up inside your belly, seeking some sort of internal heat, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to become a meal for an opponent that you sort of hoped would finally show so you could get out of the doldrums of an ordinary life. Fuck, I’ve always hated that saying, “Be careful what you wish for.” Now even more so.

  I stopped about a hundred yards from being parallel to the rocks. I needed to give my body just a second or two to recoup. The zombies on the shore stopped as well, not the waders though. I bent at the waist as a wave of nausea passed over me. Pretty sure that was a slight case of dehydration letting me know it was lurking in the back corners of my body as well.

  “Enemies from within and without,” I said as I stood. “You asshats ready?” I started a slight jog at an angle to the beach that I hoped would bring me just past the jetty and into the clear. As I came abreast of the rocks, my plan mostly worked. A good number of them struggled to get over, but of course, I had a few Zeinsteins that figured it would be better to get in the water and around that way.

  “I hate you guys,” I breathed out. I was about knee level and pushing as hard as I could to get into shallower water. I was high-lifting my legs, which wasn’t doing any wonders for my energy level. Ankle level, then just the soles of my boots, and then a semblance of sand. I was free of the ocean. That was a start. I needed to get back on the roadway. I had no idea of exactly where I was in relation to where I needed to be. This wasn’t my typical view of the area. I had a good hundred-yard lead. I was just stepping on to someone’s lawn as they were about to get out of the water; those on the rocks had still not appeared. The cramp that had threatened to drown me earlier came back with a vengeance. I immediately let go any thought of bending my leg. If I did, I would feel compelled to stretch it back o
ut, and I would tear it, plain and simple. I was hampered. I looked like any heroine in any horror movie, although I didn’t have a twisted ankle. I was dragging my useless leg behind me in that classic pose. Now all I needed was some blond hair, big breasts, and maybe a world-class scream and we’d be all set. And maybe a director to yell “cut” at any fucking moment would be epic as well.

  I needed a break. There was no way I could outrun them now. Apparently, I had a god or two on my side. The zombies in the surf were now fighting a particularly nasty set of waves that had picked up seemingly from nowhere. I’d take it; I’d take help from anywhere at this point. Who knows, maybe they just wanted me to survive just a bit longer so I could die in a more horrific manner. Fine, every second was already precious, I’d take what was given. Even got a grim smile when I watched a zombie get bowled over by a decent four-foot wave. Two minutes earlier, and I would have been in those and I wouldn’t have fared as well. I didn’t like my prospects as I looked into the small yard. It was a vacation cottage. It was nice enough, and had I been able to afford it when the world was normal, I would have loved to stay here and enjoy the views it afforded. But it was small and looked to only be one floor.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I mumbled through gritted teeth. My leg would not loosen up, no matter how much I reached behind and tried to untwist the knot my hamstring was in. The door was locked; so was the window right up until I put a rock through it. I was so tired and in so much pain, I didn’t even bother to announce myself. I realized this as half of my body was inside and my legs were outside. If I was intruding on someone’s abode, I was about to become the human version of Swiss cheese. I kicked out with my legs when I had no handholds to grab onto. A scream forced its way from my throat while I fell to the hardwood floor. My left leg was bent so tightly I thought my knee was going to pop. Tears of pain leaked from the corners of my eyes. Every instinct of mine begged me to force my leg open at all costs. Instead, I vigorously rubbed the muscle, doing my best to coax it free. I was in danger of cracking my teeth, they were slammed so tightly together. I don’t know how long it took to ease my leg down. Time seemed to have stopped as I breathed through every agonizing second.

  When I could finally get my leg straight, the next thing was to get the rifle off my back and then lie on the floor with my quivering arms stretched out so that I could stare at the ceiling. Maybe it was tears of joy now, but they were still coming out. Of course, they were manly tears much like the scream had been; I just wanted to get that part out there. This was one small victory in what needed to be a long string of them. When I was sort of certain I could move without my leg once again binding like a Chinese woman’s foot in the 1800s, I pushed myself up off the floor so I could get a quick assessment of my surroundings. First things first though. I dragged the kitchen table over. It was made of a good, strong oak. I only noted that because it was as heavy as you might expect, and my weakened condition made it more difficult to wrestle into place in front of the broken window. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. A card table would have been a pain in the ass for me to maneuver in the bad way I was in.

  I moved as far away from the window as I could. Zombies relied heavily on their sense of smell. Luckily, they weren’t bloodhounds. They couldn’t trail me like that, but if they caught a whiff of me on the wind, they would investigate. A quick check of the kitchen revealed it had all the amenities one would expect from a rental: mismatched dishes and glasses, even some old jelly container glasses, a drawer of beat up silverware that had not a trace of silver, and absolutely no food. I was about as close to shouting out a swear as I’d ever been when a form passed by the kitchen window. The zombies had found their way. I ducked down, making sure to keep my left leg stretched out in front of me. Looked like one of those crazy Russian dancers. It was not a pose I could hold for long. It was easier to get all the way down onto my butt. I scooted out of there like a dog with worms, back into the living room. If any of the zombies took a second to look into the windows, I would appear like a prized jewel. There was a small hallway that led to what I imagined was a bedroom. I hoped it had a closet. I moved over to my rifle, placed it on my lap, and kept moving.

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting that.” I was constantly looking over my shoulder to navigate as I dragged myself along. There was indeed a small bedroom at the end of the hall, but off to the right, where I figured there was a bathroom, was instead a ladder that led to a small deck, and there was a door off of that. I was intrigued. Felt like a seven-year-old discovering a fort. A leg on the verge of quitting and two arms that had as much substance as wet spaghetti, check. Going up the ladder to investigate? Double check. It’s amazing how you forget about all that ails you when you start to tap into the inner-child part of yourself. I still wasn’t going to move my left leg anytime soon, but the other three extremities made the climb up fairly easy enough. When I got to the top of the ladder and onto the landing, I realized that standing would only be achieved in a stooped fashion. I reached up and back to turn the handle to the door. I was rewarded with a small bed, a single by the size of it, actually just a mattress on the floor, but it was made and it looked like a nice comfortable albeit dusty quilt was on top of it.

  A small nightstand with an artfully arranged bunch of seashells and an unadorned lamp were the only other furniture in the room. It was clear you could not do much more than sleep in this room, and right now, that was exactly what I needed. I usually have a problem with sleeping in a strange bed. This time though, I was too tired, wet, and hurting to give a shit. I shut the small door and stripped down completely, just now realizing how cold and clammy my skin was as I crawled underneath the covers. It wasn’t immediately that I fell asleep, but it was pretty damn close.

  10

  Mike Journal Entry 9

  I awoke the next morning with a start. Nearly took off the top of my head when I sat up quickly. I was trying to figure out where the hell I was, and more importantly, why I was naked. Figured BT was trying to take advantage of me. That gave me a smile. I missed the man. Then everything crashed back into me: the kids, the roof, the zombies, my leg. I was pretty sure I hadn’t slept for two days because my clothes were still slightly damp, though I sort of wished I had. The idea of putting them on while my skin was salted over from the ocean was not all that appealing. The choices were limited. Pretty sure the kids wouldn’t want to be rescued from me in that condition. I could see my son, saying “pass” when I showed up in the truck. I grabbed my damp clothes and opened the door.

  “Zombie.” I said softly. It was the smell. It wasn’t overpowering, not at all, almost a ghost of the scent. Like I’d been visited by an ethereal living dead one. I placed my clothes down and grabbed my rifle, hesitant to use it even if I needed it. If I was feeling sticky from my time in the water, how was my rifle faring? I wasn’t going to do anyone any favors if the damn thing blew up in my face. I listened intently for a sign of anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. That didn’t necessarily mean too much though. Zombies were generally stationary when they were trapped, at least until something caught their interest. I pushed the rifle through the railing, but there was no target.

  I climbed down the ladder, clearly aware of just how naked I was. Something about nudity displayed just what frail and fragile beings we were. On the plus side, my left leg was completely behaving itself, sore but otherwise moving like it should. I made it all the way down the ladder without any problems. It was when my right foot touched down that all the festivities began. I don’t know where the fucker was hiding. She scared the shit out of me when she turned the corner and ran straight at me. Barely had enough time to turn around and get my rifle in front of me. As for the shit thing, I want to be clear that this was more an expression than a reality, although at least I was appropriately undressed if this were to have happened. The barrel of the rifle struck her belly as she forced herself forward. The barrel twisted up, and just as I lost my grip, a round went up and under her breas
tplate then the rifle fell to the ground.

  She didn’t care, even as the round exited somewhere around her collarbone and slammed into the ceiling. I had her at arm’s length. She was slimy, sort of like month-old deli meat. With one hand, I tried to fend her off while also trying my best to punch her into oblivion. I’d hit her enough times in the temple to make that happen. I was sure she had to be feeling some effects. She drove my back into the ladder, and for one disgustingly gross encounter, my best friend for most of my teenaged years collided with her midriff. Let me make this clearer: My penis smashed up against her greasy, oily, dirty, diseased and sore encrusted, gray, brown, dead, pus-covered skin. I damn near froze up. Felt like I was trying to hump a beached tuna or something. I mean not that I’d ever done something like that. Was just letting my imagination run wild with that one. At this fucking point, I’d do the fish a couple of times if it meant I didn’t have to touch this thing. I attempted to push off, with extreme prejudice, but my hands sunk into her sallow and rotten flesh.

  “Oh, come on.” I looked at the gelatinous mess hanging from my right hand. It looked very much like an overabundance of dog snot. This I was all too familiar with. Henry could manufacture it like no one’s business. She came back for more. I made sure to turn my hips to the side to avoid a repeat of our earlier encounter. She turned her head when I punched. She couldn’t have been any closer to biting down on my knuckles if I’d purposefully inserted them in her mouth. She snapped at air, her teeth making an awful clacking sound. I just kept jack hammering the side of her head. There was a loud crunch, and either my knuckles had given or her skull had. There was enough pain in my hand that it could have been the latter. Her eyes were beginning to lose focus as I somehow went faster. My arm was a blur as I cocked it back and just kept pummeling. I had my left hand wrapped around her throat. I was clutching so hard that if she had any humanity in her, she would have been fighting for air.