by Mark Tufo
I don’t know why I didn’t tell her the truth. “Accidental discharge,” I answered.
“Be careful, that’s what you said the night Nicole was conceived, and look how that turned out,” she said plainly.
Are you kidding me? I thought. How does she remember these things? Yeah we were young when Nicole was born, and I might have been a little overeager in bed, but I’m sure I didn’t say “accidental discharge” it was probably more like “uh-uh-uh—aahhh.”
I was still a little shaken from the killing. Sure it was a zombie, but at one time he was a normal, air-breathing, hamburger munching individual. I tried my best not to think of the person he had been, but more of the monster he had become. There would be time later to ruminate. Now, however, was the time for action, and Justin needed our help. I went upstairs. Travis had begun to bring the weapons and the ammo boxes downstairs. The fear was wiped off his face now that he had a purpose and protection. I grabbed the first shirt I got my hands on. It was an old Widespread Panic concert t-shirt, one of my favorites. I no sooner pulled it over my head and I froze. The feeling of the collar scraping and tugging against the dirt and dried soap on my neckline made me want to jump out of my skin. It was akin to someone dragging their fingernails down a chalkboard with a megaphone for amplification. I almost couldn’t move, I was a heartbeat-and-a-half from saying ‘FUCK IT!’ and pulling the t-shirt off and hopping in the shower real quick, but I knew every second counted getting to Justin.
“Damn!” I bellowed as I pulled my arms through the sleeves, wincing every time the fabric scraped against me. If I had known what kind of shape Justin was in already, I would’ve just taken the shower.
As I was coming down the stairs, Tracy looked up, holding her cell phone to her ear. “I can’t get a hold of Nicole, the line is just busy,” she stated.
Nicole was our oldest child, and by far and away my favorite daughter (and our only daughter). She now lived in the city of Lakewood (having lost her job in Breckenridge) with a man I hoped would eventually become part of the family, Brendon Van Hutchinson. Our family was quirky and he fit in just right. I was hoping that my wife would have been able to get through to Nicole. It would have been one less worry on my head. From where we lived, Lakewood was about eighteen miles away. I had no illusions that getting to Walmart was going to be easy. Getting to Lakewood seemed a logistical nightmare.
“Hon, they live on the third floor and Brendon has a pistol and a shotgun. Their place is much more defendable than ours,” I said, not sure whether I was trying to make her or myself feel better.
She nodded in agreement, but it didn’t seem to make her feel any better. The crowd at the front of our house had swelled to about fifty. I wasn’t going to sit at the window and get an accurate count. I would love to have a kegger with this many people, I’d make a fortune. Even I had to marvel sometimes at how my brain makes some of its connections.
“Dad, the car’s packed,” Travis announced.
“You got the food, too?” I asked. He just looked at me in outraged disgust like any normal teenager would. “All right,” I answered. “I was just making sure.”
Henry had finally managed to pull himself off his bed. All the activity had aroused his curiosity level, which usually isn’t all that high unless it involves a Meaty Bone treat.
Our townhome came with an enclosed two car garage. However, it was a detached garage, which was no big deal considering that it was on the far end of our back yard, which put it exactly ten feet away. There was still some moderate shuffling signs beyond the gate, but it was nothing like the wholesale special going on in the front. I was tempted to climb on the gate and take a peek over, but I couldn’t see the upside to it. Henry had followed me out and took a moment to sniff at his freshly disturbed pile, he then started sniffing my crap-covered foot. He was able to put two and two together pretty quickly. He snorted at me as if to say, ‘Dad, how could you mess with my masterpiece?’
I slammed my fist up against the circuit breaker mounted to the wall of the garage. I think I hadn’t fixed this yet because I always felt like Fonzi from Happy Days turning on the jukebox. Power surged back on. Had I been more vigilant, I would have noticed that the entire complex had been in the dark and the lights coming on had more to do with Jed (who you’ll meet later) than with my smooth moves. I went back in the house to shut the nonessentials off, including the now static-laced television, and headed back to the garage. I picked Henry up and placed him in the rear of my wife’s Jeep Liberty with the ammo. He wasn’t happy about sharing his bed; he snorted one more time before he lay down. My wife came out last, remembering to bring the eight-pack of PowerAde we had in the fridge. She stopped short at the garage door.
“Why are we taking my car?” she asked with a slight edge of attitude.
“It’ll fit more stuff,” I lied. Well, I mean not really, her car is bigger than my Jeep Wrangler, but that wasn’t the only reason. I loved my car, I’d had it for a little over ten years and it was almost as cherry as the day it had rolled off the line, and I’d be damned if some brain eating, dead zombies were going to get their gooey parts all over it.
I hadn’t convinced her with my half-truth; she still stood glaring at me from the doorway. “Plus, Hon, mine is a stick, there’s no way I can shoot and shift gears at the same time.” Now that was an out and out lie, I can’t tell you how many 4-wheel drive excursions I’ve gone on with my rifle hanging out the window. There were plenty of dead road signs to attest to my accuracy. I know she would have argued some more and eventually won, but the time it would have taken to shift everything over was precious moments more that it was going to take to get to Justin.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll remember this.”
And I knew she would, she remembered stuff from when we were dating. If we were in the heat of a battle and she felt like she was in danger of losing, she would reach way back in time and pull one of those wonderful nuggets (sarcasm) out from nowhere and hurl it at me. I mean, at that point all you can do is just stare dumbfounded and say, ‘Really? You’re bringing that up now? How on God’s green earth could I have known your aunt was a lesbian?’
And just like that, the tides of the battle would have shifted. I might not hear about the car until we were in a retirement home. But you can bet that if they were going to give me the better model wheelchair, she was going to use this as ammunition to nix that.
She moved to push the garage door opener when I half lunged to her. “Please don’t do that,” I pleaded.
“Oh right!” she answered. (God, it must be so awesome to just forget sometimes, but I wasn’t going to say anything. I was already in hot water about the car.)
She got in to the shotgun seat, although Travis was already in the passenger seat behind her with the window rolled down and the shotgun hanging out, so I guess technically he was in the shotgun seat. I started the car before I hit the garage remote. Tracy rolled her window down.
I couldn’t hold my tongue. “Really?” I asked as I looked at her.
“What?” she replied. “It’s stuffy in here and you stink.”
“Come back,” I motioned dramatically. “Please come back from wherever you’ve gone. Both of you need to roll up your windows…at least until we get moving.” I got another ‘fine’ out of Tracy, and Travis seemed a little pissed that I was taking his fun away.
The garage door rattled open. I couldn’t see anything right away because of the disparity between the brightness in the garage and the gloom that was our back alleyway, but the thud that hit our rear end as I backed out was obvious. I was a breath away from opening my door and seeing what I had hit when my neighbor smeared up against my window. It’s a good thing I had Henry shit on my foot. It masked what I let go of in my pants. My neighbor from across the alleyway was a decent person in a bull-dykeish way. Don’t get me wrong, I liked her immensely, I just always felt like she was sizing me up for an arm wrestling competition, and I would have put my money on her. Sh
e owned a Ford pick-up truck, and wore more plaid and wife beater t-shirts than your average trailer park resident. She sported a mullet, which hadn’t been seen in these parts since 1984. She also owned more tools than I did and I ran a Handyman business on the side. You get the general picture.
The thing that pressed up against my car was no longer Jo(e?). She left a trail of pus and guts all across my side of the car, and slimy green pustules burst from her cheek. I swore a maggot crawled out, but by then I’d had enough. I hit the accelerator hard enough to almost put my car through her garage door on the opposite side of the causeway. The thing that I had initially hit dragged itself over to my tool shelves and began to pull itself up. I wanted to get out of the car and kill those two, but more zombies began to pile into both ends of the alleyway. I had no wish to see how many I could run over before the car stalled so I hit the remote and watched the garage door begin its slow descent, only then realizing that when we got home we were going to have two zombies in our garage to welcome us back.
Great! (sarcasm again.)
Chapter 3
Journal Entry – 3
* * *
I was able to get out of the alley before the majority of the zombies could begin to block us in. I winced when I sideswiped one, not because I had hit something, but because I knew from the force of the impact that I had just put a dent in my wife’s car. I didn’t even look over towards her, but the right side of my face was melting from the glare that was directed at it. There were fewer cars on the road than I would have expected for 8 o’clock on a Thursday night, but the sheer number of zombies more than made up for that. Most were just milling about looking for something—or should I say somebody— to eat. Every few hundred feet there would be a cluster of ten or so tearing something apart. You and I both know what they were tearing apart, but luckily, my brain had enough protective competence to mask over that small, insignificant fact.
“Oh Jesus,” my wife muttered as we passed a small cluster just ravaging some poor soul.
I can tell you right now these variants on the traditional zombies weren’t just interested in the brains of their victims. I saw one of the zombies look up from his ‘meal’ with what appeared to be a thigh muscle hanging out of its putrid maw.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Tracy continued.
“Then roll down your window. Travis you, too, if anything gets too close…shoot, just make sure it’s dead first,” I suggested. Travis looked at me questioningly. “You know what I mean,” I clarified. “Just don’t kill something that’s still alive.” Yeah, I made about as much sense as a Yankees fan visiting Fenway Park.
Most of the cars that were on the road weren’t moving; they had been abandoned. I had to keep my speed down to avoid the cars, the zombies, and the occasional victim-to-be.
“Shouldn’t we help them?” my wife asked as she pulled her head back into the car, already looking better now that she’d emptied her stomach. I motioned that she had a little something on the side of her face. She lifted her hand to remove the offending detritus.
“Uh, other side,” I explained. She missed again. I wiped my face again to show her where it was.
“Forget the damn puke!” she yelled. “Shouldn’t we try to help?”
“No,” I mumbled.
“What? Speak up, I can’t hear your altruism,” she retorted acerbically.
“Listen, if we stop, we become vulnerable, and we don’t know if the person we would be helping is infected. We can’t take that chance, we have to look out for us,” I argued. I’m not sure if my claim was good enough. Was that how I felt, or was I just trying to cover up my cowardice?
Yeah, I was scared out of my mind that first day. Is it that easy for you to pass judgment? We’re mostly in a standoff with the zombies now, but back in the beginning when panic reigned supreme, the only thing that mattered to me was me and my family. God, I just hope not in that order.
I probably would have gotten another sarcasm-laden ‘fine’ from my wife if not for the thunder that tore through the car. Travis had decapitated a zombie that was approaching our right side while I had slowed to avoid a nasty five or six car pile-up. I don’t think that he had nearly the feelings of dread I had when I had killed the zombie at our front door. To him this was not so far removed from playing Left 4 Dead on his Xbox 360.
“Got one, Dad!” he yelled triumphantly, a gleam in his eye.
I muttered my congratulations, but all I could think of was some old phrase I had come across in one of my English classes: ‘Take heed your actions lest ye become like the enemy ye seek to destroy.’
I didn’t have much time to reflect on my misgivings as I turned into the Walmart parking lot. It was worse than my worst fears of how this was going to play out. Cars were strewn across the parking lot. It looked like the longest happy hour in history had just finished and the patrons were all trying to get home at the same time. What was worse than the cars were the couple of hundred zombies strolling across the lot. I did a quick drive by the front of the store, and I could tell that an almost equal number were inside meandering about. Well, I bet tripe was going to be scarce. This did not bode well for Justin.
I was in a quandary; I just didn’t know what to do. I had to look for him even if he had become one of those things, but I didn’t know how or where to begin. It’s not like I could ask one of the zombies if they had seen a zombie that matched the description of my son. Luckily, Travis solved my problem with one simple question.
“Dad, why aren’t the zombies attacking us?” Travis asked.
I wasn’t traveling much more than five miles an hour; fast enough to keep any of them from catching us, but not fast enough to stop one from coming towards us. It was then that we took notice of a large congregation of zombies merely standing, all of them seemingly intent on the store with their faces (or what remained of them) all upturned. They almost looked like they were worshipping, but what do zombies worship, is there a God-of-the-Tasty-Brain? Is their Eucharist a tiny slice of dried brain matter? I know! I know! It’s sacrilegious, but that’s what I was thinking at the time. Even the remnants of the zombies that weren’t already together in this impromptu meeting seemed to be heading in that direction. Some of the zombies that were recent accident victims from the carnage in the parking lot were dragging what remained of their former host body to the flock. Every once in a while I even noticed one or two of the zombies convulsing as if they were receiving HIS or ITS word.
“What in the fu…is going on here?” I asked nobody in particular. I had not so long ago promised my kids that I was going to do all in my power to cut the vulgarity out of my everyday vocabulary. As you can tell, I still have lapses, but I think I deserved a pass on this one.
“Hey, Dad!” I heard (barely). Somebody had shouted the words, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where the voice was coming from. “Hey, Dad!” I heard a little louder as we approached the large throng of zombies. As I made sure to skirt around the unholy gathering, I noticed activity on top of the Walmart.
“Holy shit!” I yelled as I slammed on the brakes.
“What is it?” Tracy asked with alarm in her eyes. Travis was looking around hungrily for something to shoot, thinking that we were about to come under attack.
“Look on the roof!” I said incredulously.
Tracy leaned over my lap. “It’s Justin!” she said with elation. I was also happy, but the gears in my head were still turning; how were we going to get him down from there?
At least we now knew what had the zombies so enthralled. Justin and a couple of his co-workers had escaped to the roof before it was too late. One of them had grabbed a couple of pellet guns and from the looks of all the empty beer cans on the ground somebody had the presence of mind to grab some cases of Keystone Light.
So let’s make sure we’re clear on this: Obviously the people that managed to get to the roof knew their lives were in danger. They had the presence of mind to climb to a safe haven and
even to arm themselves as best they could. So far so good, but then one of the group decided that they might need some beverages to stave off thirst, still good. That person, fearing for his life, went to the beer section, which again is admirable, everyone knows beer is the nectar of the gods. But then he grabs Keystone Light? Are you kidding me? I’d rather eat the can than drink the contents.
My curiosity was now satisfied. The convulsions some of the zombies were experiencing were caused by pellet impacts. It wasn’t enough to kill them by a long shot, but I will testify to this day that it definitely had the effect of pissing them off. Zombies by definition are murderous, but I’m telling you they now had a murderous intent to them. Did they want to exact revenge? Were they even still capable of such a sophisticated mind set? Of all the zombie movies I’d seen and all the zombie books I had read, only a small percentage dealt with zombies that had feelings. I did not want the zombies in MY nightmare to have feelings. Feelings ALWAYS complicated things. I’m a guy. Guys don’t want to deal with feelings.
I got as far away from the multitude as I could while still hoping that Justin would be able to hear me. “Go to the other side of the store!” I yelled for all I was worth.
Justin just shrugged his shoulders, clearly not being able to understand me.
“Go to the other side of the store!” I screamed, my throat burning from the strain.
He shrugged again helplessly.
I made over-exaggerated motions for him to move to his right. He answered with an over-exaggerated nod, the light bulb clearly going off over his head. As he began to move off, a fair percentage of the gathered zombies also peeled off, heading in the same direction. Justin noticed this quirk, too. He slowly walked back to his co-workers, and the zombies returned to the fold. I watched him hand his pellet gun off to a fat bear of a kid. The pellet gun looked no bigger than a Butterfinger in his hands, and I bet he wished it were the candy bar instead. Then Justin grabbed a beer and walked back towards the center of the roof, and out of the line of sight of his devoted followers.