by Mark Tufo
My chest was heaving with exertion while I forced her to the ground, my umm, my junk dangerously close to circumcision by zombie. Luckily, it hadn’t dawned on me at the time. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her skull was caving, as I forced shards of it into her brain. My knuckles were bruised and bleeding by the time I finished. My shoulder and bicep were sore, and I’d dislocated two fingers.
“Fuck!” I yelled. When I let go of her neck, she collapsed to the floor, shaking violently. I kicked her once in the midsection for the pain she’d inflicted on me. That’s when I remembered I was barefoot and that hurt as well. So being the brainchild that I am, I hauled off and kicked her with my other foot. I cried out in pain again. “You’re an asshole!” I told her. She didn’t care as she passed over to wherever they go. I stumbled to the bathroom, my limbs now dangerously heavy as the adrenaline dose dissipated within me. Pastel blue coated the walls along with a plethora of seashells. It looked like a third grade art experiment in there, with shells glued to the mirror and the toilet. All I could think was they looked like damn barnacles. I tossed the lid off the tank reservoir and plunged my hand in, a swirl of sludge drifted off. I cried out again when my disjointed joints bumped up into the toilet innards. When I pulled my hand out, it was reasonably clean, but I looked like I had a severe case of crippling arthritis. My pinkie and “fuck you” finger were bent at unnatural angles.
“This is going to suck; this is going to suck” was my mantra for the moment. Must have repeated that phrase twenty times, psyching myself up to do what needed to be done. I dipped my toe into the pool (figuratively) with my pinkie. It was smaller, so I figured it would hurt less. Side note: It didn’t. Sounded like two pieces of wet, heavy-grit sandpaper rubbing against each other when I grasped the tip of my finger and pulled straight outward. For five brutal seconds, the knuckle did not pop back into place but rather sat atop the hand as if to get a better view of the world. A flood of relief passed through me when it slid back into place. Sweat flowed from every pore within my body. So much so, it was pooling at my feet. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought the toilet had a leak. I danced around until the pain abated. The thought of going through that again did not sit well with me. Usually, you can do something once because you just don’t have any idea how bad it’s going to be, but once you have the experience, do you really want to give it another go?
Case in point, my sister had a dog, Talon, beautiful German Shepherd, but he fancied himself a hunter. His quarry was a porcupine. He ended up with a mouthful of one hundred and twelve quills. An emergency visit to the vet and three hundred and thirty-six bucks later, he was cured. At three bucks a quill, I would have done it. You got to believe any sane dog would have said, “Yup, lesson learned; that slow thing with the funny spiny looking fur is a definite no-go.” I guess this was a poor example. The very next week, he came home with ninety-eight. I think my sister got a volume discount at the vet the next time, though. Much like Talon, I was compelled to go back for more. I grabbed the tip of my middle finger and danced around that small bathroom like I was being stung by a nest of hornets. I was yelling all sorts of obscenities, a fair number of them made up on the spot. Instead of wet sandpaper, this one sounded like an old rusty door that hadn’t had its hinges oiled since the New Deal era. Before I popped that finger in, I wouldn’t have thought the human body capable of making that sound.
Maybe I had enough endorphins flowing through my body this time, or it just wasn’t as bad, but the pain was almost manageable. I dropped to my knees, gripped the edges of the toilet bowl, and wretched. There wasn’t much to it besides some long strings of bile-laced drool. I stayed that way for a few minutes, my head hanging low. I was again wiped. When I felt certain I could stand without swaying, I did so. I went back out to the hallway. The zombie was still twitching like she had a small electrical current being pushed through her body. I stopped and stared at her. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty, maybe even late teens. Almost done in by a female teenager. She tried to finish what my daughter had started. I think a grim smile forced my lips upwards. I wasn’t sure, and I definitely didn’t want to see that expression in the mirror. I looked up and scanned the rest of the cottage, a little late in the game. If there had been another zombie, I would have been screwed. It wasn’t like they were wallflowers and would wait until someone came up and talked to them, even then avoiding eye contact. Nope, they were all teeth and fingernails.
I was as gross as I can ever recall being. A fair part of me including my nether regions and thighs were coated in a thick viscous solution I decided to call body gel. I’ll deal my way, you deal yours. I had blood all over both arms, some gray matter and bone bits as well. Add to that the general overall stickiness of my forced swim the previous day, and I could barely stand my own skin. There was no way I could put my clothes back on. I didn’t have the intestinal fortitude for that. I went back to the bathroom. I’d completely spoiled the water in the toilet tank and had sort of puked into the bowl, so yeah, the toilet was definitely out. I flushed and heard a strangled cry of air-logged water pipes attempting to do something they hadn’t been called on to do in some time. There was some gurgling: my belly and the toilet. I jumped back when bright, blood red water flowed into the toilet. It looked like I’d severed the thing’s artery or something. I’d seen rusty water before, but this looked like paint and was nearly as thick.
“Take pity on me!” I wailed to the gods. I could see the fuckers now, and they were laughing at me. I started mimicking them, “Yeah, let’s get the automysophobiac as disgustingly dirty as possible without any chance of cleaning himself, and we’ll see if he breaks down or not.” I think Zeus was giving ten-to-one odds I wouldn’t make it through the morning. Oh, and just in case you ended up in your shelter without a dictionary, automysophobia is the fear of being dirty. I had that one in spades in addition to the rest of my issues. I turned the shower on as well as the sink. Whatever sludge was working its way through the system, it had completely fouled up the showerhead because only drops of blood, as if the thing had sliced itself with a razorblade, were making it through the small openings. The sink spigot, though, was gushing the vile fluid that I noticed had a very distinct and disgusting odor, like rotting fish.
The bathroom was looking like a serial killer’s headquarters. I backed out and closed the door behind me, not even bothering to shut the water off. Well, fluid, I didn’t shut the fluid off. I thought I might have more luck in the kitchen. I didn’t. This I did shut off, though, when the foul smell began to assail my senses. I got down on my haunches to check the cabinet under the sink. There were your typical cleaning supplies. I wondered if Drano would hurt too much if I lathered it on my skin.
“Ah dish soap!” I hadn’t even begun to think this through as I squirted copious amounts on my body. Dish soap in small amounts in a perfect world takes a few gallons of water to wash off, I didn’t have so much as an ounce. I was wondering how much saliva I could produce in the next few minutes. I now had a rapidly thickening congealing mess of soap holding all the other things I had on me, onto me. My arms were outstretched. I didn’t dare move for fear that something would get stuck.
“What have I done?” I lamented. I pulled everything out from under the sink; anything in liquid form went into the “maybe” pile. Lysol, carpet cleaner, lighter fluid, you name it. I’m crazy, not quite insane though. I looked out the window and to the ocean. That was my play now. Sticky was leagues better than whatever I was now. Hell, I wouldn’t care if a school of haddock pissed on me right now. Anything was better than this. I was heading for the back door when a small door to my left caught my attention. I opened it up just to make sure there were no zombies. It led downstairs. No smell; that was encouraging, and it gave me pause to reconsider my ocean swim. I was heading outdoors without clothes but, more importantly, without my rifle. I had to check the basement. Maybe I would luck out and there would be a hot tub.
The basement was more
of a crawlspace, just tall enough that I could stand, but it wasn’t much bigger than the bathroom upstairs. Shelves containing large jars dominated the whole wall to my left. At first, I mistakenly believed that this was indeed the home of a deranged killer and the jars were full of various body parts he used as trophies for his sick fantasies. Then it dawned on me that these were pickling jars full of mostly cucumbers. Some had beets and other things I wouldn’t have eaten when other fare was available. My repulsive self was forgotten for the moment as I opened a jar of pickles and took a sniff. Why I was compelled to place my nose a quarter inch from the top of the jar is beyond me. A strong scent of vinegar burned through my olfactory nerves before I could pull away.
I looked around, pulled a large nail out of some rotten wood, and used it as a skewer. There was no way I was touching potential food the way I was. I hadn’t taken a breath until the tenth pickled cuke touched down into my stomach. As I emptied the jar, I realized that I now had a viable solution to cleanse with. Sure, it smelled horrible, but vinegar was a powerful non-lethal astringent. I tipped the remaining contents, pickles and all, over the top of my head. The smell was horrendous. I did get a laugh, though, when a couple of the brined vegetables got stuck on various parts of me. Brought me back to what at the time I thought was a dark period in my life. I would go back to that just laid-off self in a heartbeat if it meant I got to avoid this time and place. Two jars later, I had gotten a fair amount of the soap off of me, though I’d traded one repellant for another.
“Just get most of it off, man, and then you can take a quick dip.” I was trying to soothe my neurotic half. Okay, neurotic two-thirds. Three-quarters?
A serial killer would have been repulsed by what I left on that floor. I looked better though, even if I had traded my scent away. I was fairly convinced that it had permeated my skin and I would smell like this forever. Would Tracy ever want to lie with someone who smelled like this? Wouldn’t doubt if I sweated vinegar for the next few months.
“It’s better, man. Right? It has to be.” I checked again for the tenth time, hoping maybe I had somehow glanced over a case of bottled water or something, then I headed upstairs. I was going to get my clothes, rifle, take a quick swim, get the damn truck, save my kids and wife in the vault, and then maybe drive out to the hot springs in Colorado, where I would see if I could melt off the top few layers of my skin. I’d gathered my things and had my hand on the door handle as I stared at the ocean and what I now considered clean water. Perspective is an amazing thing.
“Dammit.” Ten zombies were milling about at the shoreline, not doing much of anything really, just being a nuisance. I could take care of them from here, but the noise would bring others. That was assured. I would have to forgo the water. The litany of swears I spewed out as I dressed far surpassed that of those I’d said when I was popping my knuckles back into place. I was as mad as a pit bull with its balls stuck in a vise as I headed out the front door. I didn’t stop mumbling swears until I saw the sign for the power company. The gate was closed and locked. Again, this was good and bad. Good because no zombies could get in; bad because no zombies could get out. I climbed over. It was as I was sitting atop in that precarious position that I saw them. Zombies had discovered me, probably not all that hard considering the scent of me was as potent as a skunk and half as appealing. They’d probably like me this way. My meat would preserve longer. I risked injury to flip them the bird before I went down the other side.
Twelve trucks were in that yard. Four were dead. This I knew after trying to turn the lights on, batteries having given out at some point. I had eight chances. Now I just needed to find some keys, and that meant going into the building. I’d been avoiding that because if there were any zombies here, that was the most likely place. As unattractive as I was feeling toward myself, I still had to go into combat mode as I approached the door. Rifle to my shoulder, my gaze fixed and focused looking for targets. I banged on that door like I was selling used vacuum cleaners, then stepped back to see if anyone would come to greet me. No one did, which I found just outright rude. The door was locked. I went over to the side, where some offices were. I grabbed a good-sized boulder and hurled it at the window, where it bounced back, nearly crashing into my shins.
“Stupid safety glass.” I was reluctant to shoot, but I wasn’t going to keep messing around here. I’d already spent far too much time away from those who needed my help. The first shot left a nice hole about the diameter of the bullet I’d fired. “Perfect. Couple of hundred more shots, I’ll make a hole big enough to fit through,” I said aloud. Two more shots…. The second didn’t do much more damage than the first. The third, however, starred that glass from corner to corner. “That’s what I’m talking about.” I grabbed the boulder again. This time, I was rewarded with the satisfying crash of glass breaking up into nearly a million pieces. Still no zombies coming to investigate. Didn’t mean I was free and clear. They could have been stuck on other floors or in offices. Just as long as they weren’t having an after-hours party in the key room on the night the zombies came, I should be all right. I waited a few extra minutes, just in case there was a slow zombie, then I climbed into the building, quickly coming up with my rifle at the ready.
“Three stories. Think, Mike. Where would they keep the keys?” There was a garage bay off to the side for maintenance. That was on my short list. I didn’t think the boss would have something so mundane as key watch duty under his care but his receptionist would; odds were she ran the show anyway. “Okay, but the boss is most likely on the third floor. Probably don’t want the help going up to the classy part. That leaves the front desk.” I was confident I had reasoned this out correctly. It really is mind-boggling when I use my brain. The things I can do. Maybe I was learning; maybe I could actually look before I leapt. I was feeling pretty damn good about myself. Then I ran into another cliché: pride cometh before the fall. I ran down a hallway to a large open area where a huge oak semi-circular counter dominated. This was the nerve center of the building, where all the communications, rosters, and most importantly, keys were housed. Of course they were in a small, steel case, but that was fine. What was not were the zombies staring back at me as I got behind her desk.
“You’re shitting me, right?” They’d waited until I had made it inside. That was the only reason they’d not come to check out the noise. This getting smart shit was beginning to become unnerving. How much was it going to suck when they became smarter than me? Wouldn’t be that long either. For hell’s sake, I was in remedial English for much of my high school career. Then, when I let my reasoning catch up, I realized they weren’t moving. Well, I mean they were moving, just not toward me. They were struggling against their bonds. Looked very much like electrical cable. Made sense considering where I was. But who had done this? Eight zombies were tied up. Tethered together, and to a large steel beam that was a support column for the building. I don’t know who the person was that had wrangled them up, but I silently thanked him or her. At first, I had a hard time concentrating on the steel box. I was dividing my time looking up and to the zombies, where I was sure they were going to break free and rush my location.
If the box hadn’t been bolted to the wall, I would have taken it with me outside where I could have busted it open. I could hear the rubber insulation of the wire squeak and squeal as the zombies rubbed against each other and strained against their constraints. Most of the time, their gaze was upon me, their arms upraised, their mouths open in silent screams of rage and desire. But every so often, they would turn to each other as if they were discussing something like a plan. Trying to open this box with them there was like trying to take a piss with someone watching. Sure, it could be done, but who the hell wants that kind of pressure? They got a little rambunctious when I started slamming the phone against the lock. I wasn’t even watching where I was hitting when the phone shattered much like the window had. I ended up holding a jagged piece of plastic with some circuitry attached to it. I had not wanted
to use my rifle, but I was running out of options. It was two bullets later when I noticed the receptionist’s top drawer was slightly open and there was a key that looked like it would have easily fit into the lock.
“Yeah, Mike. Weren’t you just talking about thinking before doing?” The repercussions had stirred the natives up something fierce. Two male zombies had dropped to their knees and were now gnawing on the heavy gauge wire that bound a female zombie, who apparently was in charge of this small troop. So they now had a pecking order. Well, wasn’t that special? Still had to work at prying the box open, and of course, I’d damaged the thing enough that the key no longer worked. After a torn fingernail and two significant scratches and one tear deep enough to draw blood, I was staring at a panel of keys. For a brief second, I panicked, thinking that this just might be the receptionist’s storage panel for some cherry granola bars or something equally as disgusting. Like maybe some of Tommy’s Pop-Tarts. No one had quite experienced food until they’d had a mayonnaise-filled and cinnamon-topped pastry. That was easily one of the most disgusting things I’d ever tried. When he’d handed me a piece, it looked like some sort of vanilla-frosting filling and the cinnamon smelled pretty good. The combination of the wet tart mayo mixed with the spiciness of the cinnamon was one of the most disgusting melding of flavors I’d ever been exposed to. There are foods I hate: cherry, ham, green vegetables … those are all known. But I like mayo and I like cinnamon; however, the two together are horrendous, about as appealing as peanut butter and tuna. Two great tastes that suck ass together! It can’t be normal to digress like this. Can it?