by Mark Tufo
name on top to realize whose. Although it was funny to see that John had scratched
out ‘Mike’ and wrote ‘Ponch’.
“Why not?” she asked. It wasn’t like they had a plethora of other options to explore,
and just maybe she would find out what Mike was hiding.
“Do you think you can find an extra ticket for him as well?” Trip asked as he turned
around and started the bus up again.
“Probably.”
“Oh great, he’ll be so excited. Now, I just got to get on the highway and to his house
before the show starts.”
Chapter 10 – Doc and Porkchop
His head was pounding. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, or eaten for
that matter. His life had been a whirlwind of pain and loss after his wife was savagely
killed in front of him. Eliza had opened his beloved’s throat and then let her psycho
brother drain her dry. It had been a horror that had fundamentally changed who he
was as a man. Doctor Baker had been reduced.
He reasoned that, if he still had a soul, it had been diminished as well. The world
he lived in was dimmer—muted might be the appropriate word. He still had enough about
him to realize he might be going insane, but not enough to care. A sliver of light
as thick as a pencil and as bright as a laser blazed across the cell. Doc Baker scurried
into the corner lest some new horror be unleashed upon him. He couldn’t fathom anything
worse than what had already happened, but Eliza was imaginative if nothing else.
“Doc, are you in there?” a familiar voice asked softly.
Baker didn’t fall for the bait. Eliza had been breaking him down mentally for weeks.
He didn’t yet know what this new angle was, but he wasn’t sure how much more he could
bear.
“Doc, it’s me…Porkchop,” the rotund little boy said.
“Pork…” he croaked. “Porkchop?” His throat was so dry that he almost choked on the
words.
“It’s me, Mr. Baker…Dad!” Porkchop said as he threw the door wide open, letting the
full intensity of the sun sear across the small cell.
Doc tried as best he could to sink into the walls to be free of the light. The light
that hid nothing, the light that revealed all. He wanted nothing to do with it. There
were things out there he never wanted to see.
Doctor Baker had taken Porkchop in after the boy had been forced to dispatch of his
abusive father with a videogame guitar controller after the man had eaten his wife,
Porkchop’s mother, and had next set his sights on the boy.
“Where’s…where’s…” he wanted to say Eliza but couldn’t bring himself to actually verbalize
the words; to do so might bring her presence.
“I think she’s dead,” Porkchop said, coming in another step, his nose wrinkling at
the stench in the cell.
Doc knew those words should bring some warmth and lightness to his heart, but the
shroud it was enveloped in would not yield its Boa-like constriction.
“They’re gone, everyone is gone,” Porkchop said. “Even the zombies.”
“Close the door,” Doc said. He was ready to curl up and die.
“We can leave, Mr. Baker.”
Doc stared at Porkchop’s form until he began to take definition, the blurring image
fading into that of a scared boy.
“For what, Porkchop? I’ve lost everything.”
Porkchop didn’t seem hurt by the words. He knew Doc’s wife and kids had been mercilessly
slaughtered while the man had been forced to watch. He would have been next had not
everyone merely left.
“I’m still here.” He thrust his chin up.
“Porkchop, I just want to die.” Doc turned his back to the light.
“If you want the door shut, do it yourself.” Porkchop was crying as he walked out.
Doc cried the moment he was alone. His body rocked with the sobs, tears fell in sheets.
His face puffed up and his sinuses threatened to swell closed, and yet he still kept
going. On some level, he wondered if he could die from the dehydration effect of so
much water leaving his system. His face was a mask of agony as he wailed; primitive
guttural sounds ebbed and flowed to a high keening and everything in between. The
sense of loss was so acute he did not know if he could go on. Even as he stood, he
could not figure out why.
He shielded his eyes as he stepped through the doorway. Birds sang off in the distance,
light streamed through the long narrow corridor he found himself standing in. Chipped
paint hung in sheets. He wondered if it was lead-based and laughed at the absurdity
of worrying about that. He leaned against the wall, the force of reality threatening
to crush him. His face pulsed with pain.
He tenderly reached up and touched it. The angularity of it was unfamiliar; a coarse
beard covered most of it, something he had been meticulous in maintaining when he
had a wife and kids. He nearly slid down the wall.
“For Porkchop,” he said, taking a step rather than faltering. It took him close to
a half hour to make it down that corridor. When he pushed through a door he found
himself in a cafeteria. A lone boy sat at a table crying, an industrial-sized can
of baked beans open before him.
Porkchop was self-salting the beans as he ate, large tears falling into the container.
A spoonful of the caramelized side dish was halfway to his mouth when he saw Doc enter.
He was out of his seat and halfway to the doc before the spoon stopped rattling on
the floor.
“You look like shit!” Porkchop said, almost knocking the doc over as he slammed into
his legs.
Porkchop’s arms encircled the man. Doc reciprocated. Somehow, Doc managed to tap untouched
reserves; more tears flowed, striking the boy on the top of his head. He didn’t notice
as he was making his own puddle on the floor. After a few moments, it was difficult
to tell who was supporting whom.
“There’s…there’s food,” Porkchop said. “Lots of it.” He pulled away. “You need some.”
He grabbed the man’s hand and led him over to the table he had been sitting at. Porkchop
helped the man to sit; he pushed the beans under his nose.
At first, the smell of them had turned Doc’s stomach, making him want to heave the
snot and bile that was beginning to coagulate in his system. Then the survival switch
kicked in. He didn’t wait for Porkchop to return with a spoon, he stuck his dirt-encrusted
hands into the slop and pulled out heaping handfuls, shoving them in his mouth, not
even bothering to chew.
“My mom said it was rude to eat with your hands,” Porkchop said, thrusting the spoon
between Doc’s mouth and the can.
Doc looked up at him. A bean-stained grin formed on his lips. He took the spoon and
started using it like a steam shovel. “Bigger spoon,” the doc said around mouthfuls.
Porkchop came back with a ladle and a can of beer. That seemed to appease the doc
who was now drinking the beans like one would a tall cool glass of water. Doc popped
the top of the beer, and in one long pull, emptied the contents.
“Another, please,” Doc said after a heavy belch.
Three beers and another can of beans later, Porkchop was finally able to sit and eat
his own meal. The only sounds for the next hour were that of the contented slurping
&
nbsp; and subsequent masticating of food.
“Excuse me,” Porkchop said.
“For what?” Doc asked a moment before the blast hit him. Doc fell over in an attempt
to extradite himself from his spot as quickly as possible. He was scurrying on the
floor pushing away.
Porkchop was laughing so hard, beans were dripping from his nose. That laugh was something
they desperately needed. At times it was almost manic, but it flooded their bodies
with endorphins. When the air had cleared to acceptable levels, Doc grabbed his food
and moved to an adjacent table. A grinning Porkchop quickly joined him. They moved
from table to table as one or the other, and often times both, would foul the air.
It was one of the best days either of them had had in what felt like a century.
When they were finished, Doc led Porkchop outside. A large asphalt parking lot dominated
their surroundings. They were in a factory that looked as if it had fallen into disrepair
long before the zombies came. They stood on a small concrete stoop leaning up against
a rusted out handrail.
“How did you get free, Porkchop?” Doc asked after taking a moment to look around.
“They just left,” Porkchop told him. “I was in an office room with a guard and then
we heard guns going off right outside. He told me not to move or he was going to break
my kneecaps. I believed him. He went out and never came back. There were more gunshots,
and then when it stopped, I heard some of the men arguing. One even mentioned that
Eliza must be dead because the vials weren’t working anymore. There was more fighting
and more shooting, I don’t think it was at zombies this time. And then there was nothing.
No shooting, no fighting, nothing. I didn’t want to move, though, because he said
he was going to break my kneecaps. I don’t think you can walk with broken kneecaps.
But I was soooo hungry…I couldn’t sit there anymore. So I tried to figure out what
was worse, having broken kneecaps or starving to death. I thought that I might not
mind the broken kneecaps so much if I was full, so I went looking for food.”
Doc let him ramble, the kid was in almost as bad shape as he was, and the talking
seemed to be having a therapeutic effect on him even if the doc couldn’t keep up.
“Found the kitchen pretty easy. Mostly canned stuff, I was smashing them on the ground
trying to open them before I found a can opener, but once I found the can opener,
I was able to get them open. I was so hungry I didn’t even bother to check the labels.
The first one I got was a whole chicken. Who cans a whole chicken, Mr. Baker? It was
horrible…all shriveled up and white, had this thick coating of grease on the top of
the water. I almost wasn’t hungry after that. I hid it under a big bag of rice so
that I wouldn’t have to look at it again. Then I started making sure I saw stuff I
wanted. Found a huge can of peaches, and I ate them all in maybe five minutes, then
my stomach really started to hurt. I probably ruined one of the toilets, I couldn’t
get it to flush when I was done.”
“Fruit can do that to you,” Doc said, smiling softly, stroking the boy’s head.
“I probably should have come looking for you sooner, but…but I didn’t even know if
you were still….” He moved on, not willing to voice it. “Then I saw the baked beans
and I LOVE baked beans, they’re so sweet and squishy. When I started to open them,
the smell reminded me of home somehow, and then I needed to go looking. I needed to
know if you were still around.” Porkchop looked down at his feet.
“I’m glad you found me,” Doc said. “How did you get my door open?”
“It was unlocked.”
“How long have the men been gone?” Doc asked, silently berating himself for giving
up.
“Two days.”
“And you heard them say Eliza was dead.” When the Doc heard no response, he looked
down to see that Porkchop was nodding. “That would explain why the zombies attacked
and the men fled. Without her, they had no reason to stay together. I wonder how Mike
killed her and I wish I had been there to watch. Did they say anything about Tomas?”
Porkchop shook his head.
“Good, I hope he’s still alive. I want to be the one that puts a stake through his
heart.”
“What now, Mr. Baker?” Porkchop asked, obviously afraid.
“We get away from here in case any of them decide to come back, we get a car, and
then I guess we head to Maine and try to find Mike.”
He had absolutely no clue how he was going to do that, though. He knew that Mike had
gone to the Pine Tree State, but he didn’t know which pine tree he might be hiding
behind. He was fresh out of options. The alternative was just to sit down and die,
though. That wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, but he had two things he wanted to take
care of first. Number one was getting Porkchop to safety; he had let his entire family
down including his dog, he would not fail Porkchop. And secondly, he would kill Tommy—of
that he was sure. Love and hate burned hotly and in equal parts within him, they would
be enough to sustain him until the end. There was one other thing as well, and he
would make sure to pack it up before they left.
Within a half an hour, they were ready to go. Doc had found a gun he was completely
petrified to hold. He stuffed some supplies and food into a backpack. In his left
hand he carried a worn suitcase, in his right a Smith and Wesson .38. Porkchop was
carrying as many containers of baked beans as his arms would allow. Doc stared longingly
at a few of the big rigs around the complex. He’d climbed into one of them, the keys
still in the ignition. After a few false starts and a bucking to make a rodeo performer
proud, he exited the vehicle. The thing was beyond his skill set.
“Porkchop, do you want to wait here?” Doc asked the struggling boy. “Get in the cab.
I’ll be right back with something that doesn’t have a clutch.
Porkchop shook his head emphatically ‘no’.
As of yet they had not encountered any zombies. Doc was hesitant to stay walking down
the center of the roadway; it kept them entirely too visible. He was also not big
on lurking close to houses where zombies may or may not be hiding. He knew his hesitancy
and indecision were going to get them killed. Non-action was just as bad as a rash
one. The sidewalk seemed the safest bet. He constantly scanned the area, looking for
any signs of trouble. Porkchop was too busy readjusting his stockpile to do much more
than follow along.
They had gone perhaps a quarter mile when Doc saw a group of people coming towards
them—four or possibly five, he couldn’t tell from this distance. He knew he needed
to get his glasses prescription renewed, but he hadn’t seen an optometrist in a while.
And it wasn’t looking like he’d be able to make an appointment any time soon.
Doc stopped Porkchop’s forward progress by blocking him with his suitcase. Two of
the cans clattered to the ground.
“Hey!” Porkchop said, chasing after one of the rolling tins. When he stood, he looked
where Doc was looking, the can all but forgotten as he raced to get behind the man.
The group coming was less than a hundred yards away. Doc looked to the left; there
was a yard with a fence. He had no doubts they’d been spotted. Rifles were raised
and trained on him. He thought that perhaps he could give enough of a distraction
for Porkchop to get away. But once they were done with him, they would surely go after
the boy.
“Stop right there!” Doc said in his most authoritative voice.
“Or what?” The man in front asked.
“I have a gun!”