Tomahawks & Zombies

by Joe Beausoleil

  U.S. MILITARY URGENT NOTICE.

  The government is doing all within its power to deal with an outbreak of an unknown pandemic. For the time being, Citizens are urged to fend for themselves. Barricade you and your family in a safe secured location. Help is on the way. Air drops of supplies (food, water, medical) to follow.

  We encourage Native representatives to meet with local military officials as soon as safely possible to discuss protective measures. Due to some level of resistance within the Native American population to the infection, many are falsely blaming Native peoples as the source of the infection. Reports of violence and isolated cases of lynching against the Native population have been documented in Mexico. Unconfirmed cases of harassment, threats or/and violence may have occurred within the United States. While the vast majority of our military resources are being spent dealing with the infected, preserving private property and returning order, every effort possible will be expended to provide protection for the Indian population. Report to any military patrol or check point.

  The great sacrifices we have made for the freedom and independence of our country, the suffering our people have endured during this crisis, our intense labours, have not and will not be in vain.

  The great banner of freedom of the people will continue to fly over America.

  God bless America.

  It didn’t provide information on what is going on. I’m not sure when this thing was even printed, it’s undated. There are no maps explaining where to go for a secured area or where or when the airdrops will be. If we come across the army would they safe us all or just me? Would I go and leave my friends? I like to think I wouldn’t.

  January 12

  Another day another mile. Some stretches of road are clear of any sign of man, alive or dead. Sometimes we pass a stray undead wandering on a lonely stretch of road. I’m curious as to how they came to these remote spots. As we approach a town or city we are usually forced to slow down due to traffic jam of abandoned cars, pile ups, what looks like road blocks and last stands long since abandoned. It’s never anything good. It’s never something that gives hope.

  It’s places like this, where we find bodies picked nearly clean of flesh, the ones who ate the flesh walking aimlessly around, their blood stained faces staring at us as we drive past. Their red eyes flashing evil and hunger.

  We’ve gotten pretty good at maneuvering through these obstacles. When the undead sit trapped in the seat belts of their cars we can quickly siphon gas and be on our way. We leave them there struggling in their cars, snarling and yelling at us; no use in putting ourselves in more danger by trying to end them. We don’t have the ammo to waste, besides the sound would attract more. Ron has maybe twenty rounds for rifle and the handgun has five. I’m not going to get close enough to smack one on the head with a hammer. I don’t want to look in their eyes. I don’t want to risk seeing any humanity left in the them. Most of the time it’s run and avoid. Keep alert, silent and far away.

  Nearly out of Tucson, without incident down highway 10, when Dave saw a sign for Costco. A whole sale warehouse stacked to the roof with pallets of anything you could need is the perfect place to stock up on supplies.

  “My membership is still valid, “Dave joked with a grin forgetting his wallet is with some crooked cop back in Mexico. It’s good to see him lighten up, must be the thought of cherry coke. They don’t sell it in Canada and every time Dave makes a trip to the states he brings some back. I let my membership expire years ago as I just wasn’t buying enough for it to make sense, but I remember pallets of anything you could want, T.V.s, food, clothes stacked high. I’d tag along with Dave every once in awhile to see consumerism at its finest. Oh and to pick up California rolls, a big apple pie and industrial sized cans of chili. Ron was excited when Dave mentioned that American Costco’s have liquor… “For disinfecting cuts of course. Medicinal purposes.” He has been out of alcohol for days which is probably good for him. Everyone is dealing with this in their own way, Dave focused solely on getting home, Ron drinking and more drinking. Myself with my journal, getting it all out on paper. Writing everything down seems to help, it kind of releases it.

  Are minds are planning everything we are going to grab. Canned goods, bottled water, even sleeping bags, it’s all inside waiting. I can almost taste the apple pie. Which is most likely spoilt by now, damn. Lists of priority items, needs, wants, things with multiple uses that warrant the space they take up. Alcohol would be valuable to trade, cigarettes too, any luxury item people would be missing and willing to barter for. I doubt we have room for them, space is too valuable. We can get enough food and supplies to make it home. Other than fuel we wouldn’t need to stop again.

  “Kiss those useless nails goodbye, Dave,” Ron predicted, as we would have to reevaluate what we have and jettison anything we truly don’t need.

  Being right off the highway in a warehouse area, we didn’t have to risk driving in city streets and residential areas. There is the odd car in the parking lot and a dozen shiny new SUVs parked together on one side but otherwise it’s clear. We parked the van thirty feet away from the entrance. There are five bodies strung up high over the side, some hanging by their hands and some by their feet, they were all wearing the same colour smocks.

  “Hold it right there!” a voice said. We stop. I followed Ron’s gaze up past the hanging bodies. There on the roof are a couple men with rifles pointed at us.

  We put up our hands.

  “We didn’t know anyone was inside.” I said trying to sound friendly.

  “Well, now you do.” A greasy looking guy in ball cap called out, someone else added, “That’s right mutha fucka.”

  “We just came for some supplies then we’ll be on our way. I’m sure you have more than enough,” I called up, my voice trembling.

  “Nope, just enough for us.”

  “All that frozen food is going to spoil before you even put a dent in it.” Ron yelled.

  “It’s our store now.”

  “Yeah, we’ve replaced the night crew,” Ball cap laughed, nodding to the bodies strung up. He gave one of the ropes a tug making the body sway and bump into one another.

  With our hands still up we started walking backwards towards the van. They thought this was great fun. When their laughter died down they thought they’d have more fun by shooting at us.

  They riddled the van with bullets, bullets ricochet off the asphalt as we managed to get in. I started up the van slamming it in gear as bullets flew everywhere. In my panicked state I drove over a curb. The van bottoming out casting a shower of sparks as we made our escape. The steering wheel wobbled in my hands, the van vibrating as we drove off. Even well out of range, those bastards kept firing.

  “Terrible shots,” Ron said to us before leaning out the window yelling the same insult. ”Terrible fuckin shots!” Blood flowed from Ron’s arm soaking into his shirt. He placed his hand to put pressure on the wound. The bullet grazed his arm causing a two inch long line which took a layer of skin off. He is lucky, it’s painful but not too serious. Across the street there was an auto body shop, a great place to check the damage on the van and patch Ron up.

  Inside its dark, before my eyes could adjust I heard footsteps. Walking towards us was a mechanic wearing his welders mask, I was about to speak to him but a rotting stench hit me, making me gag. The source of the smell obvious to us all. The mechanic was dead and had been for some time. Backing away I knocked over a tool box, tools clanging on the cement floor. With the welding mask on he couldn’t see, but was following sound. To test the theory, I threw a wrench to the back of the shop; he stopped, cocked his head and followed the sound. I tossed a screw driver in the other direction. His head snapped to where the screw driver landed. I quietly picked up a crow bar, took a deep breath. As he moved towards the sound, my heart thumping in my chest, I came behind him, I swung hard. He dropped like a puppet cut from its string. I hit him again to make sure.

  Checking out the rest of the garag
e we found the one who bit the mechanic. Before he turned, the mechanic got his revenge by slamming the creatures head with the hood over and over again. Its head and upper body lay trapped under the hood of a station wagon.

  Ron and I dragged both the mechanic and the other corpse (nearly cut in two) out, tossing them into a dumpster, closing the lid after. With the bodies gone and the place checked and double checked we had a place to hole up for the night. Or is it hold up for the night? Dave opened the bay door and I drove the van inside. The windshield was riddled with bullet holes but the engine block and radiator were undamaged, with no fluid leaking. Unfortunately at least one rim was bent, most likely the back axle as well, my fault from my panicked escape. The only other vehicle in the shop was a late model wood paneled station wagon. No one was impressed with our replacement ride. And no one wanted to check the blood splattered engine. The keys were already inside, for the hell of it I started the station wagon. I was sure the blood and guts would have clogged something or got caught up in the fan belt but it runs well. If we can’t find anything else at least we had this. Can’t afford be picky in the middle of the apocalypse.

  As I tended to his wound Ron was angry and wanted revenge. The guy wouldn’t sit still, cursing and waving his arms around. I agree, we came in peace and they opened fire. Life sucks but what can you do? They have more than they could use or need inside there. Not just food but supplies and tools and a hundred other useful things we could use to get us home. I’m sure someone smarter than me has a good quote about man and greed but in my anger nothing comes to mind. Although we have the surfer’s guns, we can’t match the firepower of those inside the Costco. Hell for all we know they sell guns in American Costco. Being short of guns and ammo means there is no easy way to get revenge. It’s best if we just keep on our way.

  Even though we are secure in the auto body shop we sleep in the vehicles. Dave said he couldn’t sleep and went to the station wagon to read, I’m sure he wouldn’t take off on us but just in case, I grabbed the keys earlier.

  Mel’s Auto body

  Tucson Arizona.

  If Dave noticed the keys were missing he didn’t say anything. I feel guilty about doing it, like I betrayed his trust or doubted his friendship. His drive to get home is strong. Even people you think you know can act out of character in times of desperation. Look at me, I didn’t think I’d be hitting mechanics over the head with crow bars but here I am. A friend in good times is something but the real test is when things start to go crazy. Crazy is an understatement for what going on now.

  To our surprise it was Dave who came up with a little plan for revenge. “Those fancy SUV’s parked to the side are probably their rides. Thanks to them we need a new car. Besides maybe we can do a few things to make them less secure in their little fort.” With a sly smile on his face he explained his plan. Soon we were all smiling.

  January 13

  Cold, hot, tepid, it’s all a matter of timing. Revenge is a dish best served when you get away with it. I’m still full of adrenaline. Here is what happened just a few hours ago.

  Keeping to the shadows I slowly made my way to where they parked their vehicles. All high end SUVs, fresh off the lot. I started to wonder if the guard on watch had night vision glasses. My heart beat beating loudly in my ears. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If he could see in the dark my being in the shadows would be pointless. I’d stand out like a sore thumb, a big infrared green thumb. We were committed to the plan, there was no way to let the guys know I wanted to back out.

  The first SUV was huge gas-guzzling Cadillac Escalade. I took out a sharpened screwdriver stabbing into the sidewall of the tire. The hiss of escaping air sounded like a tornado. If I cut the next tire the guard would surely hear. My hand covering the hole, muffling the sound of air as it rushed out. New plan. I took the tire iron I brought; lucky for me it fits the lug nuts. Fits enough, I’m not worried about stripping them. I take all the lug nuts off from a couple wheels of each vehicle, minus the Jeep I’ve chosen for us. If they try to chase us down the first hard turn they take a couple tires should roll right off. I climb in a Jeep welcomed by that new car fresh off the lot smell; the dealer invoice sits on the passenger seat. Sweat dripped into my eyes as I set to work hot wiring. Phase two of the plan was going to start any second. I need to move my ass.

  Towards the front of the store Ron approached in the shot up minivan flashing his lights and swerving around the parking lot, driving like an idiot to get their attention. He gives two long honks as a signal to Dave and me that we have two minutes. I heard them yelling on the roof top but I saw no heads pop up on my side. Ron’s distraction was working.

  After getting their attention Ron lit an oily old rag tossing it in the back seat we loaded with junk, old newspapers, a box of nuts and bolts and a couple huge welding tanks filled with propane. He used a cinder block to push the accelerator down. Slamming the van in gear he rolled out of the way sending the van away on its bon voyage. The lookout saw the van coming, the interior glowing orange. He fired a few wild useless rounds as the burning van screamed towards the building. All the while I’m trying to get the jeep started. I’m out of time. I work the screw driver in the ignition. It doesn’t turn. Ron wanted to aim for the rolling shutter doors but Dave explained the cement posts in front are designed to prevent those types of break and enters; instead he aimed the van at the side of the building. It started and pulled out, flashing the lights as a signal to Dave, waiting in the getaway wagon somewhere in the darkness. I saw a set of lights in the parking lot and could just make out the silhouette of Ron as he reached the station wagon. I hit the gas and seconds later I’m close behind my friends. The van slices through the thin sheet metal of the building disappearing inside. We’re rewarded with a small muffled explosion.

  I floor it to catch up to the fading tail lights. 20 km out of Tucson we stop, staring back down the highway our hearts pounding in our chests. When we see no sign of these Costco bastards, we are relieved, giving high fives all around. In the chill of the desert night under a thousand stars we move quickly to transfer our stuff to the new SUV. Without bothering to siphon the gas, we abandon the station wagon leaving the keys in, not that anyone is going to find it but you never know. Driving off in style, Dave quickly falls asleep stretched out in the back seat. I ride shotgun, keeping Ron company, spotting for trouble as we continue our escape. We may have left empty-handed (supply wise) but we had our revenge. Good luck securing the building now. Sooner or later, whether zombies or looters, someone is bound to get in.

  They had so much, more than they could ever use and yet their greed over came their humanity.

  Ron’s sentiments are, “Fuck’em, they got what they deserve.”

  I agree. Fuck’em.

  January 14

  Somewhere on highway 8

  The sunrise cast an orange glow over everything, making the landscape look like another planet as Dave stopped snoring, a signal that he is about to wake up.

  Out of boredom I’ve recorded some of the conversation. I’m getting good at remembering conversations and getting them down on paper. I’m sure it’s not perfect but it’s pretty accurate.

  Dave rubbed the sleep from his eyes: “Where are we?”

  When no one answered, Dave looked out at the countryside as if it has the answers, “You jackasses.”

  Ron behind the wheel, “Entering Yuma.”

  A Dave perplexed: “Yuma? Yuma! You missed the goddamn turn off!”

  Ron coy: “What turn off?”

  Dave not happy, not happy at all: “The turn off north, to Phoenix. North the direction of god damn Canada.”

  Ron eyes on the road not daring to meet Dave’s glare: “We said we were avoiding big cities.”

  Dave face red with anger, pushed me out of the passenger seat climbing over: “So?”

  I retreat to the safety of the back seat.

  “Pheonix-Scotsdale is a big city.” Ron said flatly.

  I added my tw
o cents: “So big it has two names.”

  My humour fell flat. I’m sure outside crickets would be chirping and tumbleweeds drifting across the road but inside …nothing.

  “ Doesn’t mean we drive to the Pacific Ocean when we need to head north. How far out of the way is this Yuma place?”

  When Ron doesn’t answer. I hesitantly add, “A couple hours.”

  “That’s great. Assholes.”

  Ron glares at Dave: “I don’t know fuckin’ Arizona, I’ve never been here. You haven’t been here either. I missed the turn off while you were having a nap. Big deal. If you weren’t a fuckin narcoleptic we’d trust you to drive more.”

  Dave matched Ron’s glare.

  “So it’s my fault we’re in Yuma? Don’t turn this around on me. You know damn well I have an existing medical condition,” He turns his death stare my way, “I don’t know why you’re smiling, Jake. I thought your people were good at directions.”

  “Yeah, Tonto,” Ron joked. Wow ethnic slurs from my friends? Nice. I recover.

  “In the bush but not on your white man’s roads. Besides the turn off to Phoenix was a death trap.”

  We drive along in silence for a few minutes enjoying the sites that is Yuma, Arizona. A sign proudly boasts a pre Mayan’s curse estimated population of 90,041.

  Dave mumbles under his breath, “Looks like a pretty big city to me.”

  With the screech of tires on lose gravel Ron pulled into a parking lot and stops.

  The sign in front of us says: Yuma Territorial State Prison Historic Site.

  I try to diffuse the situation: “It’s been a long day so let’s check this place out and sleep on it.”

  Ron and Dave in unison, “You better not be writing this shit down. “

  At least they can agree on something.

  Same day.

  Yuma Territorial State Prison:

  The place is secure; it was after all a prison from 1871 until 1909, as for looters, there is nothing to steal so they’ve stayed clear. The sign outside also said this place was used as a high school for a while. The thick metal gates remain locked so we had to jump over to get inside.