Cleaver

by McCloud, Wes

  “Hey bud…What you doing in there?” It comes out of my mouth involuntarily in the dopiest voice possible. As I scoot closer, it’s probably the anxiety of being in that chopper, but there’s this weird part of me that’s expecting this dog to pull a gun and shoot me in the face. Like “Got ya, asshole!” and then the pilots get up from playing dead, pull off their fake wounds, and give the dog a round of high fives over my corpse. You’d be surprised to know that didn’t happen though. Instead, the dog whines some more and licks my hands as I put them in the crate like the trusting dipshit that I am.

  “That’s a boy…Let’s get you out of here.” But that’s easier said than done. This crate isn’t a locker from high school. The damn thing has a palm print scanner on it. I don’t claim to be the smartest person on earth, but I assume my hand isn’t going to open it. So I spend the next five minutes dragging the corpse of one of the pilots to the hold. Guess what? His goddamn hand didn’t open it. I figured the dude who shot someone else, then himself, would be the key that opened the lock, but no, it turns out the blindsided bastard was the key. I found this out by dragging him back there as well. Now, I don’t know how many dead bodies you all have dragged, but that shit isn’t as easy as they make it look in the movies. So two dead body drags later I’m ready to pass the hell out. This dog better be worth it. He better shit snickerdoodle cookies and be able to fetch me the nearest bubble-butt brunette that isn’t a flesh eating monster. The door opens and out he walks, tail wagging like there’s not two dead bodies just lying there, about to be a third because I still can’t catch my breath. I pet his head and I’m not sure what to think. This dog doesn’t look military. I mean, whatever the hell a military dog is supposed to look like. He’s an Akita. They’re far from small dogs but they’re not exactly dogs that scream “get on the ground!” They’re a bit too fluffy for that. I assume he’s not trained to take people down. Maybe he’s a cadaver dog or a bomb sniffer…The pilots personal pet? Probably not, considering the fact that he seems not to care either one of them are dead aside from a quick sniff as he walks on by.

  “Hey, where the hell you going?” I said as I watched him jump out the door I came through. “Okay…You’re welcome.” I sat there for a moment, but finally get my air back and raise up. With the dog now gone my eyes are starting to focus on the other items in the hold. Especially a huge crate in the very back, strapped down in the center, just paces back from the giant rear door. To my surprise it takes zero hand scans to get this one open and when the door drops down I’m stunned. You’ll never guess what was inside. And I’m not going to tell you what was in there, I’m going to save it for later for dramatic effect. Hey, sometimes I’m a bit of an asshole. I found the auxiliary power and figured out how to drop the back door to the ground. I’m determined to take the thing in the huge crate back home with me. Problem is it weighs…well, a LOT. I was going to have to get the tractor or possibly the truck or something. I walked down the long cargo door and end up in the mangled stump field the crash left behind and there he is. The Akita. He’s sitting there waiting on me, panting in the rising heat of the day.

  “Oh, its you. I thought you had stuff to go do the way you ran out of here.”

  He whines.

  “Is that all you know how to do?”

  He barks. It seemed demanding. Then I start to figure, maybe he’s hungry. I have to imagine that onboard flight food was…nonexistent, or boring at best. So I take him back to the house, or rather he takes me back to house. I was a bit nervous when we arrived. There stood Jeff, nose mashed crooked on the back glass like a toddler glaring into one of those atrocious teddy bear-building places. He sees the new dog, but he’s not barking or growling or much of anything. Just sort of glaring and focused right on her. Yes, HER, I had in fact assumed the dog’s gender. When she ran by me towards the sight of Jeff, I noticed there were no fresh plumbs hanging. I grab the door handle and hesitate as I watch their body language. It was right then and there I’d wished I’d actually been paying attention to that one episode of that dog whispering show I barely watched because Instagram was more important. So I do what any idiot would, I just rip open the door and let nature take its course. Their noses meet and they both freeze. Honestly, I’m starting to think a bloodbath is about to ensue but no, the normal dog greetings begin taking place. The circling and the butt-sniffing. I mean they were really getting in there. Imagine if humans greeted each other like this? I picture I’m Jeff and this Akita is the cashier from the gas station I saw last spring. I could barely even look her in the eye, and the reason I could barely look her in the eye is because my stare keeps straying down to the stretched out faces of Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, and Donatello on her throwback TMNT t-shirt. If you are wondering why their faces were stretched out, use your imagination. Not only was this girl well endowed and gorgeous, she had fantastic taste in 80s TV. The only words I managed to squeak out to her were “Hi” and “You too.” If I had just come behind the counter and sniffed her butt, would we now be married? Of course we wouldn’t, she would’ve slapped me so hard I would’ve gone back in time. I guess at least then I could warn my past self NOT to sniff her ass. But back to the dogs… Within seconds, they’re hitting it off. Chasing each round the yard like they’re long lost buds and I couldn’t be happier. Not only was Jeff getting a moment of normality, so was I. I sat down and just watched them frolic for what seemed like forever, it almost made me forget that I was alone. That I was in the belly of some post-apocalyptic scenario. That I had killed several people and there were two others dead in the forest. My long deserved smile died down to a look of despondency as the thoughts consumed me. But I put on a fake smile as soon as the Akita came up to me and put her paw on my knee. I felt like I had to give this dog a name, she was mine now, I guess. Or maybe I was hers. Back in the crate she was apparently just a number; a property of the U.S. government ( weren’t we all ) I thought back to the number on the crate…What did it say? CBW-086. How I remembered that I have no clue, considering I couldn’t even remember anyone’s phone number because my phone used to do that for me. I sat there petting her head while she panted, trying desperately to turn that number into something clever that resembled a name. But in the end, I was just too damn scatterbrained to do it. I settled on something simple, June. After all it was June. I found her in the month of Summer’s birth. I could’ve named her Summer I suppose, but Jeff and June had an adorable ring to it, so that’s how that happened. So I started calling her that. I suppose she had a real name they had given her, but then again, maybe they hadn’t. She was just going to have to get used to the switch, I wasn’t going to be calling her name out as “CBW-086” like I was announcing a 50/50 drawing every five minutes. With the addition of a new dog to the fold, things seemed…happier. For Jeff anyway. He wasn’t forced to watch me brood all day and shake my leg with anxiety while he laid down and waited for attention. He now had another soul to entertain him while I slowly spiraled into something I’m not prepared to call insanity.

  Days passed without an incident. I retrieved the mystery crate from the downed chopper with help from the tractor. It took an entire day of chainsawing through the stump field just to get close enough to get a line on it. I had also found a few more handguns and some boxes of ammo inside the bird. In addition to that, I was finally getting to the point where I could sleep a few hours at night. I had left my post at the front porch and started sleeping back in the front room again. The shotgun and dogs were always in arms reach. June had no doubt brought a small sense of life back into our lives, but she had also brought something else. From day one I noticed her scratching now and again. And pretty soon that scratching became contagious. Jeff too was sitting around digging. So in addition to having a new dog, I now was the proud owner of a goddamn traveling flea circus. From the dogs’ persistent scratching, I was expecting these things to erect a full tent and Ferris wheel within the week. I certainly thought the government would’ve had top notch parasite preve
ntion methods but, apparently, I was mistaken. They’d helped fund trips to the moon, but couldn’t keep their dogs free of biting insects. But yeah, since I didn’t have flea meds, I soon learned to live with it. What I was not learning to live with was the fact that I couldn’t keep my mind off of what the hell was going on out there. The place beyond the trees and hills. Downtown and beyond. Were there other survivors? Did they have camps set up and I was out here just doing my thing, missing out on the explanation and what was going to happen next? Maybe it was going to be over soon? Maybe not? I had no idea, and the not knowing was the real monster out there.

  On day six of June’s permanent sojourn, I start noticing another thing I knew was coming. No food. I had been trying to ration the canned goods and oatmeal and so forth, but there I was with maybe enough food to last me a few more days. And feeding two dogs had cut that food supply in half. There was about four cups left in their food bag. I was going to have to venture out there, as much as I feared it. I was going to have to find food and supplies, even if it was just from the houses of neighbors. If I didn’t, I was going to be eating these dogs, or they were going to be eating me. So I load up the Bronco with two dogs, a huge canvas bag, and arm myself with Orion and a handgun. I don my mask and head out. I still refuse to go back in Ted and Phillis’s house. For some reason I would feel bad looting their place even though they sure as hell wouldn’t need it any longer. Instead, I opt for the house up the hill in the woods. I honestly don’t even know these people by first name or last. I just know one of them drives a PT Cruiser. I could only hope their taste in food isn’t as bad as their taste in cars. Regardless, I needed to start with someone I didn’t know to soften the blow a bit, because if they’re still in the house, and they aren’t human, splitting them in half is gonna be a little harder if I recognize their faces.

  I pull in the drive and kill the engine. It’s quiet. I sat there and listened for some time, trying to get an ear of something, anything. I noticed the dogs seemed pretty calm, so I go in. The door is locked, but I make quick work of that with Orion, I just hack through it like The Shining and let myself in. I’m not gonna bore you with some drawn out scene of me going room to room while sweating into my mask and holding my sword steady. There was no one home. The house really wasn’t even disheveled. Hell maybe they were on vacation when this all happened. I don’t know. I did fill my bag with canned goods and the like. Unfortunately, fresh things were out of the question given the power had been out for a good while. But I was happy with what I did find. It would keep me good and safe at home for another week or so. What I didn’t find in there was any kind of dog food. I load the bounty into the back of the Bronco, but I almost feel like the dogs know I didn’t get them a damn thing. They sniff the bag over and then look at me with suspicious eyes.

  “Okay guys, I know, I know. There was no dogfood. We’ll keep looking. Alright?” I slam the door and start thinking. I remember about a mile up the road, in the other direction, there’s a trailer and I know they have at least three outside dogs. I’ve seen them from the road many times. I head that way.

  I’m coming back past my driveway and there’s a low lying field area all through there. The corn is damn near head high already and I’m not digging going through there because I cant see anything to the sides. Right when you cross the small bridge, the corn field ends into a hayfield. For some damn reason I’m just expecting like an ambush right there, but nothing happens.

  I drive up to the house with the three dogs. There are cars in the drive but no one ends up being home. The dog houses are all empty, with chains lying about and no collars. It’s another ghost house, but I do find a large supply of dogfood much to the delight of Jeff and June; the bastards are trying to get in the bags before I even load them into the truck.

  “C’mon. Knock it off!” I shoo them away. We get situated and head back towards the house…only there’s something in the road right before the cornfields. I didn’t know what to think at first, but the mass soon manifested into a small group of people walking towards me in the middle of the road. At first I thought they were normal, but I had no such luck. I slammed the brakes and the dogs start going batshit. They’re headed towards me, and I mean fast. They weren’t like the ones from the other day. It’s like they’d got into a fresh batch of Columbian nose candy. Needless to say, I had little time to think of a plan. I was gonna start backing up, but then I get a wild hair and think it’s the perfect time to give Orion her first spin round the block. I stand up and walk into the back of the Bronco with the dogs and these dead bastards are already on us. I swing high and down and chop one’s head off with no problem. My confidence multiplies by ten and I’m hacking another head off just as fast as the first. I let out a war-hoop through my mask and go after a third one. I should’ve stuck with the decapitating. I hack straight down on this dude and the sword cuts from his neck clear down to mid-chest and gets stuck. I panic, I try to pull it out, but it’s like the sword in the goddamn stone. He lunges backwards, and I’m apparently not smart enough to let go because I come flying right out of the Bronco on top of him. Now we’re down there, wrestling around and my confidence has been chased off to another state entirely. I start getting PTSD from the day I tussled with Ted in my drive. I get away from the deadbag and roll up to a stand and realize there’s another dozen of these fuckers on top of us. I grabbed my hip for the gun…yeah, I didn’t have it. The holster was empty and I had no damn clue where it was. Right then and there the dogs both come flying out of the truck. They are pissed. They start snapping at the dead and jumping at them, snarling and biting the air, and then I notice something. The dead are scared. Or something like it. They swatted the dogs and backed off, bellowing moans of terror. They didn’t want to come within arms reach of them it seemed. Me, on the other hand, that was a different story. Amidst my fascination with what was now happening, the guy with my sword still stuck in him, and one old lady, are now trying to eat my face. I grab the guy’s wrist and to my horror, all the skin from his arm just rips off the muscle clear up to his shoulder. As I fall to the ground, I realize I’m now holding a gelatinous sleeve of human flesh in my hand. My adrenaline kicks into overdrive. I go mad, like bashing Ted’s head in, mad. I jump up, pin him against the truck and yank Orion to freedom. I hack and slice and scream. Limbs and heads are raining down everywhere. Now I don’t want you to be picturing some Kill Bill scenario here. With my ass doing backflips and cartwheels. I was out of shape and things were ugly. I lost track of what I was doing at some point, I just went into some berserk autopilot until each and every one of those things was on the ground. I too fell onto the ground, out of breath from swinging that chunk of metal. I finally get the strength to raise up and I have to start going around, dispatching the dead that are still writhing on the ground. And then, everything is quiet, except for the rustling of the breeze through the corn. Not even June or Jeff make a noise as we all pile back into the Bronco and leave some dozen or more corpses behind us.

  The short drive back to the house is silent. Like one of those stereotypical family drives home after one of your siblings got their ass beat for talking back. I only realize I’m completely covered in dead blood, guts, and flesh when I exit the truck at the house. Jeff and June are covered too, must have been spray from my onslaught. I get out the garden hose and start washing us all off in the driveway. I get the dogs good and clean and then I start in on myself. I take off the mask and clean it and then start from my hair on down. I wash and scrub at myself in some dazed state until I wince at the pain of something on my forearm. I center the hose on the spot and blood washes away to reveal bare flesh with a semi-circle gash. It took me a moment to figure out what the hell I was looking at…I’d been bitten. Words were…forgotten. I wanted to yell out, but nothing was there. It was as if staring at that wound was like staring at the hot barrel of a gun that had just been discharged into your chest. I saw it as nothing but a death-sentence. I felt the same pang go through me as I had
when I heard my grandad’s prognosis. Only I was the one sitting in the hospital bed this time around. I drop the hose and just start stumbling around like I’m already becoming one of them. And then the real panic sets in. I strip off my shirt and run into the house. I dig out the rubbing alcohol and start pouring it all over the wound while I scrub it with a fresh toothbrush. The pain seemed hidden behind the terror of dying. When I finally thought I’d sanitized it enough, I covered it in antiseptic and wrapped the hell out of it. And then I do the only thing I figure is appropriate at that moment, I dig out a bottle of Grandad’s whiskey and sit on the front porch. I’m not sure what the hell people see in that shit, it tastes like someone liquified an old gunstock and poured it in a bottle with some alcohol, but it’s a man’s drink right? I need to gulp some of that down before I meet a man’s demise. As I watch the dogs lie down and scratch at their fleas, the cliched thoughts begin running through my head. Did I live a good life? Did I make the best of it? I don’t think I had lived. Remember those memes that had a list of things and after each one there was a dollar value. The idea was to post the total sum dollar amount representing the things you had done so far in your life like smoking pot, skinny dipping, etc. I never posted my dollar value because it was barely enough to buy a taco. I was a square. But the more important question was, Did I have regrets? And I did have one glaring regret, I regretted that I hadn’t realized my handgun was in my pocket when I fell out of that truck. Yes, that’s right, I took it out at the first house at some point and put it back into my pant pocket because that’s a better place than the actual holster. Jesus Christ, I deserved to be bitten.