Dead Clown Barbecue

by Strand, Jeff

  If you ask me, people are unnecessarily gloomy about the end of the world. And that starts with calling it "the end of the world." It's not like the planet exploded or cracked in half or melted or anything like that. The world itself is perfectly fine — it's just that almost everybody is dead.

  Here's the thing: We all know that it was a devastating tragedy. Why keep bringing that up? Anybody you talk to, you literally can't have more than fifteen seconds of conversation before they've gotta switch the topic to the apocalypse. I'm not suggesting that it isn't a major news story; I'm just saying that it doesn't have to be the only news story. Know what I'm saying? It's been almost four months.

  Believe me, I've got plenty to whine about. I'm pretty much on my own at this point. For a short while after humanity's 99.7% demise, I was traveling with a woman named Cyndi. Unfortunately, I sort of botched the timing on bringing up the whole "Hey, we've gotta repopulate the earth!" topic, and I found myself surviving on my own.

  Sure, the mutants are a problem. (And, yes, they're mutants — it seems like some people want to call any non-verbal human with a messed-up face a "zombie.") But they go down pretty quick with a shot to the head, and c'mon, who among us thought we'd get the chance to open fire on real people without it being a felony?

  Now, some survivors did have to defend themselves against mutated friends and/or family, and there's no question that it must've sucked. If you're one of them, you have the right to be mopey. That's not who I'm complaining about. It's the folks who had to shoot three or four mutant strangers, yet are acting like they had to drown their own mother in a bathtub. Three words: Get. Over. It.

  Would I rather the plague not have claimed billions of lives? Of course. You'd have to be a fool or a psychotic to feel otherwise. But are those billions of people going to get right back up and return to their normal routines? No. (Especially because they're not zombies!) It happened, the streets are littered with corpses, so let's make the best of it.

  Take Disney World, for example. The rides aren't working because there's no electricity. But admit it, haven't you always wanted to get out of the car in the Haunted Mansion and just take a look around on your own? I did that a couple of days ago, and it was an absolute blast. I even tore off a piece of the wallpaper as a souvenir. Could I have done that pre-apocalypse? No way! I would've been thrown out of the park. Hell, I even got to climb on the track of Space Mountain, and there were no lines anywhere. You don't need some guy walking around in a Mickey Mouse costume to have a good time.

  Food is a trade-off. I won't lie to you — I miss steak. On the other hand, last week I brought home an entire shopping cart filled with candy. That sucker was overflowing, and I left plenty on the shelves.

  I guess I just don't understand people who always have a negative attitude. Life in a post-apocalyptic world isn't anywhere near as bad as movies want you to believe. It's actually kind of fun. Now I'm going to head over to Barnes & Noble and pick out any book I want.

  * * *

  I got bit by a mutant this morning. It was my fault; I should've been paying closer attention to my surroundings. Got me right on the arm. It hurt — oh, Christ, did it hurt. Still, my gun was within reach, and I've always been ambidextrous, so I took care of him before he was able to actually start chewing.

  Infection is a concern, I'll admit, but it's not worth getting all bent out of shape over.

  Trust me, I'm not taking a lackadaisical attitude toward the bite. I cleaned the wound (which did, unfortunately, break the skin) thoroughly with antiseptic, and then I covered it with a bandage. I cleaned it again every half hour after that. Yeah, it stung like crazy, but that means it's working, right? When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade, and even though the antiseptic burned worse than pouring lemon juice into the wound, I wasn't going to let it bum me out.

  I knew a guy who got bit. You wouldn't believe how much he carried on, and how much of a "Pity me!" attitude he had about the whole thing. Know what he did? He said "I don't wanna become one of those things," shoved his revolver in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Can you believe that? I mean, who kills himself over a mutant bite?

  Me, I don't care if I become a shambling, oozing, moaning super-mutant, I'm not swallowing a bullet. That's the coward's way out. Screw that.

  * * *

  Well, it's been five days, and the bite is almost completely healed. That's how it works. When you have an upbeat attitude, your body chemistry and immune system respond accordingly. Mind over mutant.

  A lot of people would've just holed themselves up in their home or apartment after being bitten like that. Not me. Know what I was doing when the pain was at its worst? I was smashing up an abandoned Volkswagen with an aluminum baseball bat. That's not something I could do before the plague, and don't try to act all high and mighty and pretend that the idea isn't appealing. In this new world, boys can be boys, and I love it!

  * * *

  I miss my family. There, I said it.

  This feeling started while I was in a pottery store, breaking pottery. Though I was being cautious and staying out of the narrow aisles, I suddenly felt a hand grab my wrist and yank me away from the shelf. It was the nastiest-looking mutant I'd encountered thus far, and I mean both nasty as in "disgusting" and nasty as in "mean."

  There were four other mutants with it. The fact that they were less nasty looking than their counterpart wasn't much of a consolation.

  I immediately opened fire, pumping a bullet into the first mutant's nose. As expected, its grip loosened, and I yanked my wrist free. Another shot and the mutant was missing a goodly portion of its skull, including essential brain components. It fell to the floor.

  The other four mutants lumbered toward me. They aren't exactly speedy creatures, but they aren't that slow. I mean, it's not like you'd feel like a schmuck and be embarrassed to tell people if one of them got you. So I quickly scooted back through the aisle until I was well out of arm's reach, and then started pumping bullets into those reeking brutes. (Have you smelled one of those things up close? Oh, man, imagine the worst case of festering halitosis you've ever inhaled and multiply it by eighteen or nineteen. Foul. Foul, foul, foul.)

  I got the first one in the chest, which didn't do any good. I fired again and got it in the chest again, which continued to not do any good. But the third shot was the requisite head shot, and the mutant dropped.

  Something grabbed me from behind.

  I screamed and spun around, getting a damn good view of another mutant's jaws coming right at my face. I jerked my head back just in time to avoid the no-doubt unpleasant sensation of its teeth digging into my eye, then pushed the barrel of my gun against its chin and squeezed the trigger. Much splatter resulted.

  I spun back around and fired at the other three mutants. I finished off the first one in line, pulled the trigger again, and heard the always-disappointing click. Fortunately, I always carried two guns, plus a hunting knife and a grenade. I wasn't sure if it was a "blow things up" grenade or a smoke grenade (I'm not exactly a weapons specialist) but I kept it with me anyway, just in case.

  I pulled the second gun out of its holster and fired, blowing a hole in the mutant's right hand. Couldn't repeat that shot if I tried. I didn't try, because it was more important to kill them than impress myself. My next shot got rid of the mutant's ear. It howled in pain.

  I took a few steps back, almost tripping over the dead mutant behind me but thankfully sparing myself that indignity. The two remaining mutants walked side-by-side down the aisle. They were both women, which sucked. There was a definite macho thrill to be found in blowing away ugly guy mutants, but shooting women — even grotesque mutated ones — made me feel like a jerk.

  My next bullet shattered a pot. But my next two bullets after that got both of the female mutants in the head. Down they went. At least they weren't hot.

  Then another mutant popped up behind me. How did I miss that they were having a frickin' mutant convention in the pottery shop?

/>   Its teeth sank into my shoulder.

  I immediately pulled away, which was a bad idea. A generous strip of flesh ripped off in the process. I fired four or five bullets into the mutant's skull before it hit the ground, and two more after.

  I frantically peeked around the corner of the aisle, expecting to see a dozen more mutants coming at me with outstretched arms, but the store seemed to be empty now. My shoulder wound was bleeding profusely, and I plucked one of the mutant's teeth out of my flesh and flicked it onto the ground.

  That's when I started to miss my family.

  Sure, we had our little spats, but they never bit chunks out of me, and our quarrels never involved gunplay.

  I pressed my hand against the injury, then quickly made my way out of the store and back home.

  * * *

  I'm a bit more cynical about the apocalypse these days. The bite really, really hurts when I use the antiseptic, and I'm seeing definite signs of infection.

  I still think people complain too much about the whole situation, but the lack of qualified medical personnel is a pretty big downside. That said, I don't think that I'm going to become one of those creatures and I don't think I'm going to die. I do think that I'll be doing a lot of screaming for the next few days.

  * * *

  My shoulder looks like crap.

  It never stops hurting. I've got aspirin but it's not doing any good. I've gone on several supply runs trying desperately to find something stronger, but those goddamn scavengers have cleared out all of the painkillers.

  Not gonna die.

  Might have to cut my arm off.

  I don't think it's possible to saw off your own arm. I think you'd pass out from the pain, and then wake up with a hacksaw imbedded in your arm. If the infection gets worse, I'll need somebody else to do it.

  Is there a tactful way to ask somebody to perform an amputation? How do you even bring up the subject? I guess you could always leave the bite uncovered, and keep the hacksaw in plain sight, and hope that they put two and two together and make an unsolicited offer.

  Of course, the whole arm-removal thing is a last resort. Don't want to chop my arm off and then have some guy find me lying in a huge pool of my own blood and say "Oh, gosh, I've got a pill right here that would've cleared that up."

  Think I'm gonna scream some more.

  Yeah, that sounds like a good way to spend the afternoon. Afterwards I'll open a can of spaghetti.

  * * *

  Wow, my social skills have taken a beating since the world ended. I went out looking for survivors with medicine (y'know, for the whole arm thing). Found a family of four. Started shouting like a crazy person. I don't even know what I was saying. I know what I was trying to say: "Hi there, folks, I've had a spot of trouble and was wondering if you could spare some antibiotics?" But as soon as I saw them I got so excited that I lost my ability to form a coherent sentence, and the father calmly suggested, with the aid of his shotgun, that I move along.

  I tried to give him the whole "I mean you no harm" speech, but he fired into the air and looked really damn stern. So I left. Couldn't find anybody else all day.

  I try to continually think happy thoughts about my shoulder, but it keeps looking worse and worse. It's hard to move my fingers and elbow.

  But, hey, it doesn't hurt as bad anymore! It's more numb than anything. That's a blessing, I guess.

  I really think this arm has to go. Better than losing a leg. Can't walk very well with only one leg. You try to run away from those mutants with one leg, and you're almost guaranteed to fall on your face unless you've had a lot of practice hopping. Me, I'd rather lose an arm than a leg any day.

  I'll be an inspiration. How many people can survive in a post-apocalyptic world with only one arm? Not too many. Amputees have accomplished many great things throughout history, and I will proudly join their ranks.

  After I do some more screaming.

  * * *

  Know what? I think it's looking a little better. Not a lot better, but a little. Can't expect it to heal right up overnight. That would be wacky talk.

  Starting to get tired of all this candy. Wish I had some pork chops. Think a nice meal of pork chops, baked potato with sour cream and bacon bits, and steamed broccoli would make my shoulder feel better. I've got the broccoli, anyway, but not the steamer.

  Wish my family didn't live on the other side of the country. Sure, they're probably all dead or mutants, but it would still be nice to see them, if only for a brief visit.

  Time for more antiseptic. Joy.

  Almost out of it.

  * * *

  I've got to admit, I didn't expect to end up in a cage. Dead, maybe. Mutated, sure. Caged? Nope.

  Thing is, there's something much worse out there than the mutants. Namely, a band of paranoid survivors, led by this insane gentleman named Sunshine, who are trying to rule this new world. I saw three of them walking down the sidewalk and I thought, hey, potential source of shoulder medicine! Having learned from my previous mistake, I took a deep breath, composed myself, and politely stepped into their path and introduced myself.

  I remember a big wooden club swinging at my head, but the other details of the encounter are blurry.

  Woke up with my hands and feet duct-taped together, in a school gymnasium. About twenty other people were there, playing cards and smoking cigarettes and just hanging out. The walls were lined with cots. I seemed to be the only prisoner.

  Sunshine stood over me; his wild hair and facial scars a weird contrast to his serene expression. He ran his finger over my lips and asked, "Are you one of them?"

  "Do I look like one of them?"

  Helpful hint: Sunshine and his band of followers are not admirers of sarcasm. When I woke up again, I was in a wooden cage in a classroom, and the rest of my body hurt even more than my shoulder. The posters on the walls indicated that it was a history teacher's classroom, which added an extra dimension of terror to my nightmare.

  A little kid, maybe twelve, was crouched outside of my cage. "Got any aspirin?" I asked him.

  He shook his head.

  "Any chance you'll let me out?"

  He shook his head again.

  "Could you go get a grown-up so I can talk to them?"

  He grinned. "I'm a grown-up now. I even get first pick."

  "Of what?"

  "Of what I eat."

  I had the very unnerving sensation that this conversation was going to move in a cannibalism-themed direction, but I tried to play stupid to give myself a couple more moments of mental health. "What do you mean?"

  "You're food. We're going to eat you for dinner tonight."

  "I see." My mental health status dropped a few notches.

  "Gotta cut off the bad parts first, though," he said, pointing to my arm.

  * * *

  My natural optimism faltered a bit after they duct taped me to the desk. I tried to let a smile be my umbrella, but it wasn't working. Though I explained to them all the ways in which their actions were poor ethical decisions, I wasn't being particularly coherent and my message didn't really get across.

  Sunshine held a lighter flame underneath a knife that didn't look anywhere near sharp enough to do an efficient job.

  I wept.

  He began the unpleasant process. It took me a long time to pass out. With a better knife, I probably could've done the job myself. Live and learn.

  * * *

  The tile floor under my cage is spotted with blood. Though they cauterized the stump, it's still leaking a little.

  I wonder what they did with my arm?

  Apparently I get one more day to live before I become brunch. They're still finishing off their last batch of meat. The little kid — Toby — loves to sit outside my cage, licking his lips and rubbing his belly in an exaggerated manner.

  I'm almost delirious from lack of sleep. Toby threw stuff at me all night. He'd get real close to the cage, and I kept trying to thrust my good arm through the wooden bars and grab him, bu
t he always kept himself just out of reach.

  Well, not always. I did get his collar once. He shrieked for help, and a couple of Sunshine's nutcase crew came in, pulled him free, and then beat the crap out of me.

  Tenderizing me.

  So this is how it ends. Tormented by a little brat, missing an arm, and about to become dinner.

  I had a pretty good life before the plague.

  The apocalypse sucks.

  No . . . I'm not going to let these bastards take away my happy disposition. Screw 'em. I'll get out of this, somehow. Optimism. Optimism is the key. Nobody ever got anywhere with a can't-do attitude.

  They can take away my freedom. They can take away my arm. They can take away my life. But they won't take away my smile until they eat my lips.

  I try to smile. My lips are swollen from the beating and it hurts too much, so I abandon the idea.

  * * *

  I hear footsteps in the darkness.

  They're coming for me.

  * * *

  Sunshine is a charismatic leader, with devoted followers who will obey his every command, even if it means marching to their death. However, the guy isn't very good at keeping everybody in the loop regarding crucial pieces of information.

  Such as, my severed arm was for disposal. Not for adding to the soup.

  A lot of people got really foamy-mouthed that night, and they started to prey on each other. They grabbed Toby and pulled him in half, right in front of me. I wanted to applaud, but . . . well, you know . . .

  A couple of them tried to get into the cage. It took a while, but they finally broke the lock. I scooted past them and fled out of the classroom and down the hallway, where there was carnage galore.

  It was disgusting, but it was a good kind of disgusting, y'know?

  I saw what I think was Sunshine in a few chunks on the gymnasium floor. Not completely certain — he wasn't easy to recognize. The chin looked familiar, though.

  I found a gun next to a body that was missing a few feet of intestine. Fully loaded. It was empty by the time I got out of the school, but I made it to the exit unscathed.

  I ran home, went to sleep, and woke up feeling refreshed. Though I'm not suggesting that my stump wasn't sore, it was definitely a more pleasant feeling than being devoured. One arm was still one more arm than I would've had if that rotten little brat had gotten his way.