by Mark Tufo
“I wonder how many sleepers are in the city?” Azile asked, looking up at some of the huge skyscrapers
I shuddered thinking about them. “You’ve run into them, too?”
“Bathroom break.” She blushed. “Found a gas station, walked in and I saw a big mass of them. I figured they had been killed and stacked. Didn’t think too much about it…I mean, the stink was horrendous, but I had to go so bad even that didn’t matter at the moment. Felt a little bad for the next passer-by when I realized the water didn’t flush when I was done. That was the least of my problems, though, I heard stuff going on in the next room…figured it was rats. I’m not a fan of rats, but they don’t scare me, so I peeked my head in and I saw zombie after zombie peeling itself away from that congealed mass of whatever it was.”
“They are creating some sort of secretion that keeps them safe while they are in hibernation. I would imagine it also has some nutrients involved,” John said, glassy eyed.
“I don’t know how he does it,” I said aloud to Azile’s question before she could voice it. I pulled out the atlas and first found Pennsylvania and then checked out the Philadelphia insert. “It looks like we’re about three or so miles away,” I said as I got my orientation within the city. “You’ve got a left coming up.”
“Mike, I don’t really like this,” Azile said as she was swiveling her head back and forth.
And I couldn’t really put my finger on it, but I wasn’t a fan of the city either—and not just because they were Phillies AND Eagles fans here and in its heyday the city had been anything BUT the city of brotherly love. Philadelphians couldn’t stand outsiders…or themselves for that matter. It was claustrophobic; the streets were getting smaller and narrower the closer to the center we got. It was a shortcoming of all major cities on the eastern seaboard, they had been settled at a time when horses and carts dominated and those paths were made from the natural game trails of the deer and Indians before them. They were never built with the thought of a semi driving around.
“It does feel like it’s closing in,” I said as I put the muzzle of the gun on the frame of the truck door.
She looked over and nodded, her eyes big, she looked a lot like the scared kid that she was. “We could get in a lot of trouble real quickly, and with the noise this rig makes, I think that will happen sooner rather than later.” Almost on cue, air released from the drums letting out a large squelching sound.
Then it began, zombies just started to pour into the street. One moment the intersection ahead of us had an overturned cab and a burned minivan, and the next it was filling rapidly with running zombies that were coming out of the buildings on both sides.
“Shoot them, Mike,” Azile said with an edge to her voice. The truck was slowing down.
“I can’t really shoot it straight ahead unless I take out the windshield.”
“Don’t do that!” she shouted as if I were truly contemplating it—although I kind of was. “Stick it out the window!”
“I won’t be able to hold it steady enough. It’s a machinegun and it’s got a ton of kick.”
“Would the M-16 have been a better choice now?” she asked sarcastically.
“Do all women get together in a big annual rally and figure out how they can bust our balls better?” I asked as I pulled the muzzle in and quickly rolled the windows up before our guests arrived.
“Oh this is bad,” John said as he looked like he finally realized what was happening. “Is there a parade? This is really going to delay us getting to Stephanie’s hotel.”
If we can get there at all, buddy, I thought.
“A fucking parade, are you kidding me?” Azile said as the first zombie slammed into the truck’s grille.
“See any floats?” John asked as he craned his head around.
“Not one of those kinds of parades, John,” I told him as I was trying to figure out how to best use my heavy paperweight.
“Must be a demonstration, they look kind of pissed. They mad about Viet Nam?” he asked me solemnly.
“That’s probably it,” I told him.
“Why do you coddle him like that?” Azile asked hotly. “He needs to know what’s going on or he’s going to get us killed!”
“Hey, John, I’m going to talk about you as if you’re not here, you okay with that?” I asked as I put my hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. He nodded in reply. “On some level he knows exactly what’s going on,” I said, looking up from John to Azile while I left my hand on John’s shoulder. “This is his way of dealing with it. Who am I to tell him it’s wrong? Hell, I wish I were with him, his is an infinitely better world. And this man that ‘will get us killed’ like you said, has saved my life twice!” I accidently on purpose left out the part about me having to rescue him because he thought a couple of zombies were line jumpers for Grateful Dead concert tickets, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. “This is also the same guy who figured out how to block out Eliza’s mind transmissions.”
“Fine,” issued forth reluctantly from Azile’s mouth, but it was not difficult to see that she was not happy about it.
John was reaching over me heading for the door.
“Where you going, buddy?” I asked him.
“Philly cheese steak, I’m starving.”
“Yeah I’m hungry, too, but I’m not thinking this is the best time.”
“No, no, it’s the best time. All the street cart vendors come out for the parades.”
“See!” Azile said, throwing her hands up in the air.
“What’s your solution, Azile? Are you tough enough on the inside to sacrifice him?” I shot back.
“If he ever puts my life in danger I’ll—”
“Stop!” I told her. “Don’t say something you’ll regret or force me into a decision I don’t want to make.”
She turned to face forward; the set of her jaw told me she was straining to hold back a litany of words best left out of this journal.
The truck was starting to jostle around as an increasing number of zombies made our acquaintance and still more were coming. I know it’s wrong, I’m not so far removed from reality to know my thoughts aren’t politically correct, but the image I got of all those zombies around the truck was of those late night commercials that beg for money. You know the ones where the Red Cross truck pulls up into the village and the people all run to the truck for their allotment of food? Unfortunately, in this case, we were the food.
“Can you drive forward?” I asked Azile.
“This is a truck not a tank,” she replied as we looked over the expanding sea of dead.
“You guys need to find something to wad up and stick in your ears.”
“Fireworks?” John asked. I thought I might have caught a glint of fear in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a stoned countenance.
“Close enough,” I told him as I pulled back the charging mechanism.
“What are you doing?” Azile asked.
“I am going to destroy these motherfuckers.” I took off my hat under the severe protests of John.
“Listen, bud, I just need you keep the line of firecrackers straight as I set them off. Can you do that?”
“Sure, man, but you should still keep your hat on.”
“I’m fine for the moment.” And I was. The white noise was replaced by an eerie silence in my head. Eliza was nowhere around, at least not in broadcasting mode. I ‘pushed’ the closest zombies away from the running board and opened the door. The nearest ones were straining against invisible bonds, their teeth gnashing at the empty air like Doberman Pinschers trying to find a meaty thigh. And did I tell you how much Dobies scare the shit out of me?
When I was eight, I had a friend in my neighborhood that had two of them. To get to his door to knock, you first had to go through the gauntlet. The walkway was up against the house, and the dogs were chained on the right hand side, their saliva dripping muzzles could just reach the edge of the walkway. I would walk with my back up against
the house with my arms outstretched as if I were walking on a six inch ledge forty stories up. Those dogs would be snarling and snapping; long lengths of saliva would be pouring out of their muzzles as they strained against their chains to get at me. The leather on their collars the only thing holding them back from my certain death.
I shuddered thinking of those damn dogs and pushed a little harder against the closest zombies, I wanted them as far back as possible. It didn’t seem to me that they were heeding my ‘advice’ quite as well as I would have hoped, but I had other things on my mind, so the dividing of my thoughts may have had something to do with. I placed the barrel of the machinegun in the crux of the window frame and the truck body. I pulled the trigger and nearly flung myself off the truck.
“Umm, Trip, maybe come over here and grab my belt,” I said before I dared shoot again. I was thankful when my instruction did not lead to a four minute explanation. When I felt he had a good grasp, I let loose with a torrent of hell.
Aiming wasn’t even necessary, annihilation surged from that barrel. Zombies liquefied as the steel-jacketed 7.62 rounds would slam into first one zombie and then into his mates behind him—maybe as many as three deep before the bullet was finally sated with death. As I looked over the multitude of zombies that day, there were all kinds from all races. Men, women, children…fuck, even babies. Some were black, some white, Hispanic, Asian, there were medical workers in scrubs, cops, construction crews, some McDonald’s workers (hopefully Becka was in there—see journal number two), my point being, no one escaped this plague. It’s that, in my memory, I choose to believe that ALL zombies resemble Durgan: white, male, asshole. That’s how I can sleep at night. I just need to pretend that every former human I destroyed that day resembled that one particular asshole. It was that and only that thought that kept me on the good side of the sanity line.
Watching what that large caliber round can do when it strikes a five-year-old girl is not something that is conducive to my already thinly spread mental health. My zombies are ALWAYS big goons who are deserving of that bullet. That is all I am saying. Zombies fell like wheat to a Harvester, and wasn’t that what I was doing? Harvesting the dead? The bullets slammed into them, the sound almost louder than the percussion of the rounds being expended. The ones that weren’t neatly cut in half were pushed back as if the thumb of God had pressed them in the abdomen. Heads disintegrated into a spray of blood, brain, and bone, to mist down on their brethren like a bloody spring rain. But there would be no bumper crop rising from the resultant moisture.
“Where are they going?” John asked over the din of the gun.
It was time for a break anyway, the belt was getting low on rounds, the barrel wasn’t glowing quite yet, but it was thinking about it. Something strange was happening, zombies were still being attracted to the noise, but they were moving away from my firing zone; well…at least the ones that still could.
Azile’s mouth was hanging slightly agape. I don’t know all she’d been witness to since this started, but it may have been safe to say it was nothing quite on this scale.
I leaned my head in so she could see my face. “Drive, girl, before they figure out I’m not firing.”
She might have been in a bit of shock. It didn’t stop her from getting the truck in gear, though. She slammed both feet on the brake, almost sending me once again off the truck, when she ran over the first fallen zombie. She was frozen, her feet were pressed solid on the brake, and her arms were locked straight out in front of her. Her back may as well have been adhered to her seat.
“Shit,” I said.
“You have to go number two too?” John asked.
I didn’t even have time to respond to that. “Hold this,” I said to John as I handed him the machinegun. “Do not touch the barrel.” And before I completely lost my mind, I removed the remaining rounds.
I had not even finished climbing over him when John screamed in pain. “That’s fucking hot!”
“I told you not touch the barrel,” I said as I got between him and Azile.
“That’s the barrel?” he asked.
“Azile, you alright?” I asked gently. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence. “Plan B it is,” I said aloud as I watched the zombies stop their evacuation, they weren’t yet coming back.
I grabbed Azile’s right hand and pried her white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel; the left came off a lot easier. I then reached down and pushed up on the back of her knees so her legs would bend. Then I stood up over the gear box and physically slid her over to my previous spot.
“Here goes nothing,” I said as I restarted the stalled truck. She still hadn’t moved on her own or even looked over at me.
The truck bucked wildly as I threw it into what I thought was first gear (it wasn’t). I had to stick my hand out to keep Azile from slamming off the dash.
“Buckle her in, John.”
“You said hold this and don’t touch the barrel. How many more things do you think I can do?”
“One more?” I asked hopefully.
“Okay, fair enough.”
John effortlessly got the belt around her and secured her in. I started the truck again, hoping for better results.
“John, one more thing and I promise that’s it.”
There was no need for the precursor statement, he had already forgotten about our previous conversation and was looking at me expectantly.
“Put your seat belt on.”
“Seat belts are just a way for the insurance companies to impose their will upon the people.”
“I don’t fucking care, put it on.”
Thankfully he did. I again engaged the truck into gear, the bucking was much less severe. I must have been somewhat closer to first this time around. I was so intent on watching my hand on the gears and making sure I was giving adequate gas to the engine, I at first could not figure out why we were thrashing around so violently. I thought I had been doing everything right, then it finally dawned on me as I looked through the windshield, I was driving over the fallen bodies of hundreds of zombies.
The bucking had been so much better, it hid a majority of the bone splintering sounds of tires crushing human skeletons. Occasionally I would see matter spray off to my left, coating the curb and sometimes nearby buildings. No matter how much I tried, I could not convince myself that I was running over garbage-sized bags of ketchup, unless the condiment now came packed with meat. Chunks of the spray dripped down from whatever it hit; lamp posts, mailboxes, cafe furniture, even nearby zombies, though they didn’t seem to care too much.
Azile had the right state of mind for this: catatonic.
John was diligently studying the machinegun. A hundred more feet of the sausage grinding and we would be free—free physically, never mentally. This would be something we all took with us for the long haul.
“Just babies,” Azile muttered.
I wanted her to shut the fuck up, like yesterday. The zombies to our side fell in step with the truck, some tried to get in, the rest were content to follow for now, most likely waiting until we became an easier target.
“Take a right up here,” John said, never looking up from the gun.
I did it. I didn’t even ask. I didn’t know if it took us any closer to our destination, all I did know was that it would take the zombie skid line out of my rearview mirror. And that…well that was fine by me.
“Left up here,” John said, again not looking up.
“Buddy, I appreciate the directions, but are you sure?” I asked. He didn’t even question my calling him buddy. There were zombies outside the truck and apparently inside too. He didn’t answer, so I took the turn. Right, left, straight. Didn’t matter much; I had no clue where I was going.
“It’s up on the left about another mile,” John said.
“You sure you’ve never been here?”
He finally did look up this time. “I think I’d know where I’ve been or not been.”
“Just asking.”
Then there it was: a Brown Stone Hotel in downtown Philadelphia. At one time it was probably a pretty nice place. Ornate windows looked into a Victorian themed lobby adorned with marble floors and ceilings. Now, however, it looked exactly like what you would expect a building in a war zone to look like. Bullet holes pock marked the marble in a hundred different places. Furniture was burned or stained a brownish red color. (Don’t dwell, don’t dwell—I said the little mantra over and over.) Zombies that had been milling around inside came out when we rolled up. My first impression was that nobody was alive in there. How could they be? Then it dawned on me. Zombies only hang around when food is available.
“Hey, fucktard!” Someone shouted from above. “Yeah, you, fucktard!” the guy said as I craned my neck to look up the hotel. “Why don’t you get that big zombie dinner bell outta here!”
“We’re looking for someone!” I yelled up.
“Do I look like the fucking white pages, get the fuck outta here!” he yelled back, this time he showed the muzzle of hunting rifle to move his point along.
“Give me the damn gun,” I said to John as I pulled my head back in the window. John carefully handed it over the slowly awakening Azile. “Two can play that game, ass wad!” I yelled up as I stuck the formidable machinegun up and out my window.
“Oh shit!” He pulled his head back in. “We don’t want any trouble! Loud noise brings zombies, that’s all I’m saying,” he answered, not showing himself.
“You just let us know if you have someone up there. If you don’t we’ll be on our way.” I was about to ask if John’s wife was up there, but I didn’t know her last name. I looked over to John, his eyes were closed and his fingers were crossed. I was really hoping this went well, but I wasn’t counting on it. Let’s face it everyone knew the city’s nickname about brotherly love was a misnomer. New Yorkers feared this place.
“John, what’s your last name?” I asked, embarrassed that I had either forgotten it or that I had never thought to ask. Tracy told me I had the social graces of a goat, now I believed her.
Again I was surprised when he didn’t start in on some diatribe about how last names were a way for the government to keep us in check.