Tomahawks & Zombies

by Joe Beausoleil

  “Evert?”

  Judy shock her head sadly, “He didn’t make it.”

  Ron chimed in, “What is this place? We haven’t seen anything like this since this whole thing started.”

  “Business as usual,” she said as she snapped her gum, “if you can’t order chicken n’ waffles then zombies have won. We are all independently owned and operated. We just trade what we have extra for what we need with the other All Safes.”

  She flipped over the menus to show us the hand drawn map pointing out other All Safe Café locations.

  Seven in total.

  “You’re not going to drug our food and steal our truck are you?” I half joked. I didn’t know about this place, it’s …it’s normal. Do they know how bad it is out there?

  “No, sir.”

  “The bacon isn’t really people is it?” You never know.

  “100% Canadian bacon, but we are out of sausage.”

  “Where we’re from its just called bacon,” Ron said with a wink.

  “I always wondered that. You boys are a long ways from home.”

  We watch her walk off; it’s hard not to stare. We haven’t seen a sexy strut for a while. Judy knows how to walk.

  The prices.

  High.

  Ridiculously high.

  Ron started to complain.

  “Ron, buddy,” I held up some cash for added emphasis, “It’s all worthless.”

  Judy made her way back with our orange juice. It tasted so good, sweet and cold. Better than warm water or pop which is all we’ve had for the longest time.

  “The menu…” Judy cut Ron off before he could complain her hands on her hips like she has heard it all before. “I assure you the prices are fair considering, well considering everything.”

  Ron nods “Not that, the coffee, it’s cheap.”

  “Have to keep the regulars happy. When all this went down there was a customer driving a tractor trailer full of coffee, he never left. Jed is the cook now.”

  She pointed to an older guy with a pot belly hidden under a grease-stained apron, happily flipping burgers on a grill.

  We made our order and waited, absorbing the atmosphere of the café. Farmers sat in groups hunched over their coffee, families ate, and a group of teens shared a plate of fries. Judy returned with refills and our orders. My mouth was watering just looking at the burger and the heaping load of fries.

  Ron whispered, “Hmm looks so good,” drooling over her ample cleavage, “and the food looks alright too.”

  I forced myself to eat slowly. To enjoy this dream, this mirage in the middle of the apocalypse. Ron woofed his down like a starved animal. With his mouth still full he reached for my burger. “Your people are susceptible to diabetes. Wouldn’t you rather have a nice cob salad?” I stabbed at his grubby hand with my fork.

  When she came to check on us I asked her where she slept.

  “Are you trying to pick me up?” she said with a mischievous grin.

  The thought didn’t cross my mind. I was curious on how this place worked but now that she mentioned it, she fills out that uniform well, just a bit too much cleavage but in a good way.

  Fear, hunger, and horniness, in times of crisis emotions boil back down to the core. No thoughts of being self-satisfied in life, job satisfaction, money problems, or new cars.

  Just the basics. Until now just staying alive and getting home filled my mind. No escape from the undead haunting both reality and the dream world.

  Before all this happened Judy was a six, maybe a seven because (as corny as it sounds) personality does count and Judy has that, but now somehow she has bumped up a few spots, Judy is a 7.5- 8 all the way. She leaned in, that gold pendant rocking back and forth between her breasts. An Irish Claddagh charm, two hands clasping a heart, couldn’t distract me from Judy’s charms but reveals her heritage. She has that nice flawless smooth skin of an Irish milkmaid.

  “We have a couple trailers parked out back, I’m off in twenty minutes,” she looked around to see if anyone else was listening, “and for the price of four cowboy scramblers …but only one of you, I’m not as young as I once was.” With that She walked off, coffee pot in hand filling up patrons cups, looking back with a coquettish glance letting her offer to sink in.

  Ron grinning, “Clean sheets, a shower and Judy! Oh did you see that ass? Like a peach, and those tits. Motorboat! I owe you one buddy,” Cue the sound of a record scratch.

  “Oh I guess I’ll just sleep in the car. In the parking lot. In the cold,” He sure helped himself didn’t he? Not a second thought.

  “You are a friend indeed. Oh yes,” Forgetting about my existence, he rubbed his hands together greedily thinking of all the things he’d get up to tonight. I was seriously thinking about leave his ass here. Sure he’d live like a king for a few days, a week at most but when the money ran out they would throw his ass out, out into reality.

  Judy walked back to top up the coffee as Ron points his thumb to his chest, “You’re all mine.” A grin from ear to ear plastered on his face. She tussled his hair, “Good boy, what about your friend?”

  “Oh Jake? He’s fine he’ll just sleep in the car,” I was surprised he remembered my name.

  “You don’t have to you know,” Judy winked.

  I’m certainly not going second after Ron, that’s for sure.

  She turns and called, “Hey Danika.”

  Turning back to me snapping her gum, “You’re in for a treat hon.”

  Gaping like a fish, Ron’s jaw dropped.

  Danika sauntered over. She was 25 years old, flawless smooth skin. Green eyes. Nice perky little breasts. Crazy I haven’t even thought about such things for weeks. Now I’m bombarded, taken over by lust. It’s great to be alive. A storm of confusion clouds Ron’s eyes. He was thinking, searching his mind, plotting a way to upgrade from Judy to my sweet, sweet Danika but he couldn’t fathom a way without his whole house of cards coming tumbling down leaving him with no lady at all. With a frown he resigned himself to Judy. He could do worse and as recently as Cancun he has.

  As Ron pushed himself out of the booth I could have sworn he whispered, “You owe me.”

  I owe him? 30 seconds ago when there was only one woman he had no problems helping himself. As long as his needs were met screw anyone else, but now, haha karma. He is still punching above his weight but he doesn’t think that way.

  Danika was an eight before this all started, now they have to add a few numbers on the rating scale for her.

  Judy and Danika lead us through the kitchen and to the back of the diner. An old silver airstream would be my home for the night. She changed out of her work clothes while I opened a bottle of wine.

  In getting to know her I got her story down:

  I was on Greyhound when it happened. New York to Denver by Greyhound, nearly two full days to get home for Christmas to see my mom and a half dozen drunk cousins. It’s a shitty trip but I was almost there. Almost home. I didn’t even notice, lost in my iPod, just some quiet guy who got on at the last one horse town we stopped in. The sushi I had at the last stop (yeah I know gas station sushi isn’t the best choice) it didn’t sit well. I made my way to the back as the bus drove on, bouncing and swaying I made my way to the washroom. My hands reaching for the head rests as I made my way. The new guy was just glistening with sweat, god, he looked like a Christmas ham. It was him, it had to have been. He had these sunken eyes. I’ll always remember that, he looked up as I passed with these dead eyes, ash grey skin. He just looked sick. The flu from hell. Locked in the washroom, I heard the first screams. The bus came to a stop. The screaming continued as I sat in that stinking bus toilet. For two days I was in there, I could hear them in the isle, scratching at the door, I could hear that wet sound of someone chewing with their mouth open. There was no way out. Two choices; starve in that bus toilet or open the door knowing I’d never make it past them. I listened to my iPod to block them out until the battery died. Gunshots woke me up. Pop, pop, pop. Thuds
as dead weight fell. Someone alive came on the bus, calling out for survivors. I yelled out that I was alive and not to shoot. Opening the door I came face to face with the smoking barrel of a sawed off shotgun. Turns out it was noon when I got off that coffin with wheels, the bus was parked right in front of the café. With nowhere to go, I started working here the next day. Everyone’s got a story. Mine is no better than anyone else’s. You going to write in that journal all night, cowboy? I mean …Indian.

  February 3

  Waking up in clean sheets with a woman next to me, it would be easy to fool myself that this is the reality. She smelled so good, like flowers. I could stay. I have enough money. I could work in the kitchen. I could patrol the parking lot. I could do anything they need just to stay. For a second, I convince myself that Dave is probably too far along to catch. Is he? He might be? Is he worth it? After all he left us. To stay in that fantasy world where the undead don’t chase after you, where they aren’t trying to tear your flesh from bone, where with one bite you won’t become these things. It’s easy to imagine, easy forgetting what is really going on.

  Sliding across from Ron in our regular booth, we order breakfast. It’s strange to do something normal, just two friends meeting after a night out. Judy is friendly as ever, as she filled up our coffee. We ordered a couple hamburgers to go. There is an All Safe on the way so she asks us if we can take a delivery of coffee, someone heading south will bring the eggs they are trading for back. We’d get a free meal at Ed’s All-Safe out of it, “but don’t get any ideas about the waitresses at Ed’s”, she said with a knowing smile.

  Truth was even if it was out of the way we’d probably stop by the next café, the lure of a hot meal is too strong.

  Ron wonders what the waitresses at the next café will look like and cost. It’s all he has been talking for hours, telling me he has bids on the hottest one. Just for the reward of the look on his face I seriously hope they are all old fatties with warts. I now understand why those guys in Vietnam war movies pay for the local girls. Some human contact, especially when you can die any second. Some reprieve from the madness. You may as well live it up while you still can.

  February 4

  The Colorado state sign was shot full of holes, the jeep engulfed by the smell of coffee beans. We made good time, finishing the last of our All Safe hamburgers Ron tossed the wrappers out the window. We’re not concerned with our carbon footprint any longer. Same goes for recycling and buying local. I spotted a cube van in the middle of a field, craning my neck as we passed to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Parked in a pasture was the equipment van for the Phoenix Coyotes hockey team. It drove across a ditch and through a barbed wire fence before the wheels got stuck in the cold earth. This stretch of road was abandoned, not a soul or a soulless around. It was safe to get out. This was the excuse we needed to stretch out legs and take a leak. We walked in ankle deep snow towards the van. I peered into the cab. It was empty. At the rear of the van I motioned for Ron to open the big rolling door, taking out my machete to cover him. He shook his head, pointing for me to open the door and he would cover me. What a dick. I could feel the vein in my neck pulse as I reached for the door. Ron was ready with his weapon, his arms tense ready to swing if anything jumped out, I’d only hope he would let me get my arm out of the way before he swung. Ron with his machete was making me just as nervous as the horrors that could be lurking inside. I’d have the use both hands, flip back the lock and fling the door up. If there was anything inside I’d be in a perfect position for getting a big undead bear hug. I imagined the undead equipment manager trapped in the back waiting for me.

  Apparently I was taking too much time, Ron whispered for me to, “Hurry the hell up.”

  On the count of three I pushed the door up and open and jumped back.

  Nothing. No undead or anyone hiding. Just stacks and stacks of hockey equipment bags.

  “The mother lode.” as Ron put it. He jumped inside.

  I found an oversized goalie bag pulling it out into the field. Inside was the goalie’s equipment,

  I rummaged through the bag, taking out the red and white pads, big puck marked catching glove, putting them on the ground, when Ron saw me pull out the goalie’s mask with an air brushed desert coyote howling at the moon on it, he asked, “Bobinski?”

  I nodded.

  “I hate that guy.” He followed his statement but clearing his throat and hocking a loogie on the side of the van.

  Bob Bobinski #72 had been a career back-up after a couple good seasons with the Oilers. His weakness was his low glove side, five hole, deflections, and any traffic in front of the net. His goals against somewhere between 4.00 and 5.00 a game, he clearly did not have the chops to be a starter. Come to think of it he didn’t have what it takes to be a back-up in the N.H.L. He’d be good in a men’s beer league.

  “That guy is a sieve. Or was. He’s probably dead now,” he said as he hauled out a bunch of hockey sticks, taking one and using it like a spear or a lance stabbing at an invisible foe. “These will do nicely.”

  I didn’t want the equipment because it was Bobinski’s, he cost me two hundred dollars when he let in a weak shot from the red line in the finals. It was the big rectangular blocker that I wanted. Something big and hard to punch my way out of trouble yet still have finger’s to hold a weapon. For my other hand I’d find a regular player’s glove, maybe I’d even see if there was anyone on the team I liked.

  Ron armed himself with two gloves from a center man and we each found shoulder pads. I decided to take a set of gloves and shoulder pads in case for when we found Dave. I wonder if anyone in Europe broke into museums to get a suit of armour. This hockey shoulder pads are nothing more than heavy duty foam, plastic and mesh, lightweight, allowing mobility but still bite resistant. We loaded our new gear, a dozen sticks and a few skates. I hope to somehow attach a blade on the front of my blocker or on the blade of a stick. A little extra stopping power with some razor sharp blades with the distance of a hockey stick. If the bad times are coming, let them come.

  Back on the road we should be near the next All Safe soon, a wall of hockey sticks separating the driver from the passenger seats. I drive half in the ditch to get around a mangled pile up, Ron braced himself arms out on the dash. I laughed it off like it was all under control. In reality I nearly rolled us. It wasn’t clear sailing after that as there was a worse wreck up ahead, a school bus on its side. It took some time and a few tries before we gave up and took the risk of going off road. It was slow going but we managed not to get stuck. A hand painted sign outside of town announced, “Ed’s All Safe Café, a little oasis in this sea of chaos and hell. 2 miles.” With anticipation I put my foot down giving it a little more gas.

  My heart sank. The café is a burnt out shell. We didn’t say a word. We didn’t stop. We slowly drove by. No signs of life. No clue as to what misfortune befell Ed’s. Dejected we stopped for the night just out of town at a boarded up gas station. It looked like it’s been closed for years a victim of being off the beaten track and not a victim of the infected.

  As the stars came out my thoughts drifted to Danika and Judy. The café made me fool myself. There is no break from what’s going on, there is no safe zone, there is no time out. I hope they are okay. I hope they see that it’s just a mirage.

  It started to snow tonight. Big slow falling flakes floated down. The snow means we are getting closer to home. The windshield slowly turned white, erasing the horrible outside world.

  February 5

  In the morning Ron handed me a can of fruit. The bastard keeps trying to pass the canned pears to me while he eats the peaches. No one likes canned pears, why did they ever make them? I made him split the peaches.

  Ron takes the wheel, starts the jeep; Turning on the windshield wipers clearing the snow off and revealing a new white covered world. It’s been a mild winter both back home and here. There are no tire tracks on the road, everything is fresh. Low on gas. We used the last of our jerry
cans, the jeep has been running rough. We may need a new vehicle soon.

  We camped in the San Juan National forest today.

  February 6

  Today I was bit.

  I was bit today.

  Bit.

  It’s over.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  There is nothing I can do. I know it. Ron knows it.

  After how far I came and everything I went through, I knew the chances of us making it home unscathed was close to impossible but still… damn. One stupid mistake, one moment of my guard down was all it took. We were exploring a hardware store to salvage anything useful. We had swept the store once already. I was loading a shopping cart with some exterior paint to make the jeep stand out less. Camo it up. It’s getting ugly out there; we sometimes hear gunshots in the distance. Ron took off to find a cordless nail gun, when I heard steps behind me I just assumed it was Ron coming back. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I turned and stood face to face with a rotting corpse. Its breath was so rank that instead of backing up or attacking, I gagged and vomited. With a lipless grin, it lurched forward. He looked like John A. Macdonald, with his crazy wild hair and beady soulless eyes.

  It happened so fast; even before I was done puking reflex kicked in and I tried to catch it under the chin with the palm of my hand but the bastard managed to get my ring finger in its jaws. Just the tip. It clamped down hard like it was hardwired to, an automatic response. I felt its teeth sink in. Ron rushed up from behind and smashed it in the head with a shovel. The tip of my finger is gone, bit clear off from the force of the blow. Bit by a dead ringer for the first prime minister of Canada, the guy who tried to starve and then kill off the Cree and the Métis in 1885, the racist drunkard who still graces the ten dollar bill. As I kicked its lifeless corpse, I was thinking that that bastard still had it out for us.

  I let it bleed, hoping any infection will flow out. Ron rushed back from the truck, two bottles of vodka; he passed me one and sat beside me. I thought he was out of alcohol. Where did he get that? He’s been holding out. I took a deep drink, letting the burn in my throat replace the pulsing pain in my hand then poured some on the wound. Burnt like hell so maybe between letting it bleed and the alcohol you never know maybe it will kill whatever changes people.