by Javan Bonds
Now I understood why the four women back on the boat get paid 70¢ of every dollar the rest of us get. Except nobody’s getting paid. We worked our asses off while they fished, babysat Hunter, and not a hell of a lot else that I could see. I am all for equality in the workplace, because if the women were here they’d be breaking their backs and sweating bullets too, plus there would be less shit I had to do. I know that children can be a handful, but come on…one medium sized kid? He probably should have been out here with us, using a kiddie shovel or moving small rocks. The women folk should have at least spent hours cooking supper or been ready to give us sponge baths and back rubs when we got home…. Oh fuck it, never mind. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit picturing Crow screaming at me and scrubbing me until I bled. Women can work just as hard as men; Hammer does the work of two. I just don’t feel like they are contributing much to the story. Maybe that’s what Prof. Smokes meant: “Only a certain number of main characters can be truly active at one time.” Although, I’ll admit I’d feel awful sick if Mama or Sarah got bit; maybe that’s why Daddy keeps them onboard.
☠☠☠
At some point between the fifth and ninth day of work, we had already gone through the highway and were about three quarters of the way done. Maybe the tractors were doing most of the work because there’s no way my lazy ass was moving that much dirt. The token black guy complained. "Why y’all got all da colored people doin’ da shovelin’?"
I almost hit him with my shovel. “Dude, all the black people? I’m working right beside you and I’m white as hell! There are six or seven other white people working and the Doc is Indian. Your girlfriend is sitting on her ass fishing!"
As if to make her presence known and to make me aware of her offense at not being mentioned, Mary barked an angry chirp. I guiltily spat out, "And Mary ain’t even human!"
The Oracle looked over the entire group as if checking to make sure I had not forgotten any black people. "So y’all thank y’all‘s kin tell me what to do cuz I’s outnumbered?"
"What? No!" I didn’t know where this was coming from and forgetting our previous battles where I constantly wound up the evil Klansman, I held back on further retort.
He cryptically smiled. "Well, not fo long, DAWG."
Mo Journal Entry 8
From The Book of Smokes
OCCASIONALLY, AN ALMOST otherworldly voice comes over Smokes, like he is channeling some higher knowledge. That’s how he gained the title The Oracle. His speech becomes erudite and formal, and his eyes look past us. It’s creepy, but it’s also hypnotizing and authoritative and even Daddy listens when it comes on him. Smokes leaned on his shovel and addressed the group, who all turned to listen. “Another of the main protagonists, The Man Of God, will appear very early or very late in the saga. This character is either a priest, rabbi, minister, or the like, and is always friendly and optimistic. The Man of God may not be perfect, as humans never are, and may even bring more harm than good, but their main function will be a ray of hope to protagonists that lose their way; an example of light in a dark world.”
☠☠☠
What the fuck did that mean? I glanced back at the rest of the group who were similarly creeped out and confused, now that the spell was broken. After a few minutes of headshaking and the occasional laugh, we got back to shoveling. Soon after our prophetic plot-alert, a voice came from somewhere above us, a real voice, that is. "What y’all diggin’ a hole fer?"
This clearly wasn’t Hammer, my dad, or any member of our group. As I searched for the speaker from above, I nearly screamed in impotent rage. Apparently, every shovel slinger had left his defensive armament at his vehicle, meaning we had absolutely no weapons other than shovels and a toothless monkey. I shaded my eyes from the sun and spotted the figure along the far side of our progressing canal. It appeared to be an old black guy wearing a John Deere cap and overalls. The guy was a dead ringer for Redd Foxx in looks and voice. Could I really be looking at the last person I’d ever see? Fred Sanford?
“Hands up, state your name and business!" Wow, thanks for at least showing up, Daddy.
Mr. Sanford...the junkyard manager, lifted his hands from where they had been resting against his knees to surrender and took a step back. "Hold on, now, son! I’m Sojourner Williamson. I reasoned out y’all was people so I come to see what all the racket was."
Williamson…? We shovelers started making our way to the island side as my father and the interloper conversed from one side of the channel to the other. As I reached the top to stand by my dad, I waited for The Oracle to emerge from the canal to ask him if this man was a relative.
“Yo, Pawpaw!" I jumped as Smokes hopped up and down, waved, and smiled like a loon from the other side of my dad.
I didn’t feel this was possible. Wouldn’t Smokes have mentioned that his grandfather was nearby? I realized and accepted The Oracle’s appearance would only have been possible through teleportation.
I do not intimately know many black senior citizens, but the fact that this guy was dressed exactly like my own Pawpaw dressed, struck me as pretty amusing. I wasn’t expecting an elderly black person to be wearing Essence chains and baggy pants; it was just cool to see that old people were old people regardless of color. I also must note that I was somewhat surprised to hear Smokes refer to his apparent grandfather the same way I referred to mine. I guess I never considered what an ethnic minority might call their grandparents, more proof that race means nothing.
Smokes's Pawpaw had already been asked to cross the canal and was circling as he waved in reply to his grandson. My dad and Hammer were resting in one of the loader buckets as she sucked down a cigarette when Sojourner had made his initial approach. The elder tacticians at least surpassed the intelligence of the rest of us by packing some kind of heat.
Sojourner introduced himself, shaking hands all around and said, "Most folks just call me Soje."
☠☠☠
When the initial introductions and questions from both sides were over, it was obvious Fred Sanford had a badass survival story to tell. My dad obliged by asking how he’d managed.
"Well, sir, I live ‘bout half-mile down that-a-way. I tend to my neighbor, Mr. Mullinax’s chicken houses and cattle. When things started getting pretty rough, I called my young-uns on the telephone and told them to start heading this way. We was all living in my house, which is a might small, until Mr. Mullinax and his wife reckoned they was going off to discover the whereabouts of her sister. They give me the keys to their place and disappeared some time near the end of last week. So now, I got most of my kin living in the big house. We found out real quick them blue biters don’t take to the sun too good, so we packed three of the chicken houses with chickens and put the cows in the larger coop at night; the barn’s not secure. Most cows are stupid enough to take a walk in the woods, so keeping them inside at night has kept us from losing more than a couple of ‘em." He looked down thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
"I pastor a little church down on the other side of the minnow ponds," he continued. "Nobody been showing up since the ‘lectricity give out. I don’t figger God has His feelings hurt too much by them not attendin’, though. Surviving’s been tough. I find working in the garden is a fine place to talk to Him."
Wow. Smokes’s Pawpaw set a new record for the shortest time it took a newcomer to make me feel like a complete ass. I don’t remember the last time I talked to God when I wasn’t sure of my impending doom. My only defense for that is that I’ve been busy surviving a zombie apocalypse and digging ditches, oh, and visiting my girlfriend. He shot the first two excuses down before I even thought them, so I guess I’m just a bad person. Surviving is hard work. Maybe I am subconsciously communicating with the Great Director in the sky as I work. Maybe it’s what keeps me writing in the face of probable doom. I think I really just came to a realization, an uplifting thought. It’s a first.
When Soje mentioned his animals, my dad grew interested. When the man was finished he said,
"Welcome, Brother. Like I said, we are building this canal to create an island haven for survivors. Would you and your family like to live in a safer place?"
The old man nodded vigorously, but before he could speak my dad continued, "Any of your family that would like to move over with us are welcome to do so." He winced before adding, "But the island is not yet cleared, so we can’t really bring the livestock over yet."
Brother Williamson smiled in understanding. "I got no problems staying at the house. Them biters don’t cause me no trouble as long as I put the cows up at night. Now, the young-uns prefer the city life, but for myself, I’ll stay put on my land for now. I’ll have eggs and meat, plenty we can barter for.”
Daddy was relieved that the old man was being flexible. "That’s great! We welcome the extra hands and can help them clear their own homes out. If you decide to join us there’s plenty of space. How many folks are staying with you?"
The pastor started counting on his fingers. "Well, three of my boys come up with their wives and they got three kids each, so that means…well, then there’s my sister’s kids and…” he paused and finally settled with, "Lots. I’ll send ‘em this way tomorrow."
☠☠☠
The sun went down and the moon rose just before the sun rose again. This signaled a short reprieve in our manual labor for sleep, a bite of fish, and some Doritos before the return to our giant ditch. At some point, I stopped shoveling and asked the zombie prophet, who was on one of his famous fifteen-minute breaks that occurred at least four times an hour a question. "So, your pawpaw is ‘The Man Of God’, right?"
He turned to me with a knowing smile. "You learnin’, dawg! You been writin’ my shit down?"
Like the Bible. I merely nodded and he grunted in understanding. A menthol cigarette materialized between his fingers. He looked up as if his name was being called.
I looked up in the same direction to see and hear nothing. Well, nothing other than tractors and the sound of earth being moved. He started making his way to the mouth of the hole and I followed him. Some of his cousins or uncles were nearing our site. I’m again assuming these were his relatives and not just marauders coming to destroy us.
He waved casually as if he’d been expecting this family reunion. "Yo Book!" he called to one. “Where dat Benz?"
His uncle had obviously lived well enough, in his past life, to own expensive cars. The leader of this group, whom I later learned was named Booker Williamson, called back, "it’s back at Daddy’s. He doesn’t want us wasting gas."
Smokes would beat me to death with the race card if I told him this, but his uncle didn’t seem very, well, Black. He had no discernible accent, and reminded me a little of Barack Obama. The Oracle only had to point in the direction of an un-dynamited piece of shoreline for the group to angle that way. "Y’all got gats?”
"Well, my Glock is at the house, and I think there are a few double-barrels and a revolver or two." He obviously didn’t come to a diplomatic meeting packing heat. Booker stopped a few feet from his nephew and asked, "So where is Mr…." He paused, waiting for one of us to fill in the name.
Smokes chuckled. "You mean Randy?" He held up a finger as he fumbled through his pockets for the radio that I didn’t even know he could operate. "Yo, Gray Fox, dis Shaft. My peoples is here to see you. Over."
"Roger. Over and out." my father stepped out from behind the dozer and was probably close enough to have heard the entire conversation. I was confident Smokes only wanted me to hear his badass radio handle. Did I miss the meeting where everyone decided on awesome nicknames? I’m not even good enough to have a derogatory call sign like "Redheaded Stepchild." I’m just fucking Mo; I decided then that it was my own fault. I would definitely have to consider thinking about getting one before someone saddled me with something I wouldn’t want.
Hammer also appeared from somewhere behind the dozer. My father and Booker exchange handshakes and introductions.
"I’m sure your daddy told you that he chose to stay at the farm and take care of his cattle, at least until we get this canal finished." My dad gestured to the massive ditch. Smokes’s uncle nodded before Daddy continued. "How many people do y’all have wanting to come over?"
Booker quickly did the math quickly in his head. "Thirteen. Me, my youngest brother, both our wives, my kids, his kids, and our brother’s kids." Shit! That’s a lot of people.
I could see my dad was thinking the same thing when his eyes grew wide. "I guess that means we need somewhere for you to stay. Could you bring some of your family in a couple of hours to help with the digging?"
"I think there are a few extra shovels at the chicken house, we’ll be sure to come prepared." Booker shook my dad’s hand and thanked all of us then started jogging back down the highway to his father’s house. I turned to my dad with the same question I know you’re asking. "Wait…we can’t fit another baker’s dozen onto the Cora. What the hell do you expect to do with them? And why would they leave a working farm with animals and gardens to live with us?"
He smiled. “Well, most folks like to feel like they’re part of a community. I was thinking about those houseboats over at the Waterfront Inn. They won’t fit between the causeways where the bridges used to be; we can move them over to the island, though. Remember, there is safety in numbers and the island will provide more security from everything."
This never crossed my mind. Waterfront Inn featured at least a dozen of those houseboats. We could use jet skis or bass boats or something to pull them over to the island. I’d never actually been inside any of them, but I supposed they would easily house two to four people each.
This task might be less strenuous than the one in which we were all currently involved, but I knew it couldn’t be any more relaxing, either, when my dad said that I would be one of the workers for this new job. Smokes and I had obviously been secretly titled "the most worthless shovelers” because we were somehow teamed to drag the boat houses to the island.
Smokes's uncle had appeared grateful and gracious. I liked the man immediately. It was so refreshing to see old fashioned courtesy and thankfulness displayed after the End of the World.
I would try and waste enough time here to wait for the Williamsons to appear so I could meet a few of them and possibly even remember some of their names. Then again, there were thirteen of them. I’d probably forget Easy’s name if I had one more SIBLING.
Mo Journal Entry 9
ON THE NIGHTS we got home from the canal when the sun was still up, Sarah would normally be sunbathing. If it was anyone else, I would be pissed that they had done nothing but lay around while I dug a hole. Of course, I couldn’t really be upset when she’s wearing a bikini.
She found some type of beach lounger that she asked me to bring up onto the deck of the Cora. I probably strained my back getting it up there. But there it sat, in all of its usefulness. Well, at the moment it was cradling her barely clothed ass, so it had a pretty decent job. I wouldn’t mind taking some of its workload.
“What did you do today, Mo-Mo?”
I tried to make a pathetic attempt at humor. “The same thing I do every day, Pinky.” She even giggled slightly, letting me know she had at least an idea of the cartoon I was quoting and not making me feel too stupid.
“What did you do?” I asked like a bumbling teenager.
“Oh, you know. Worked on the gardens, took care of Hunter, all that good stuff.” I could do nothing but sigh.
She exhaled sadly. “What are we gonna do?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’ll just be digging a fucking ditch for the next three lifetimes.” is what I mumbled, but I knew what she meant. I looked up. “Well, I guess we’ll just keep doing what we’ve been doing. You’re not unhappy, right?”
She made a sound of acknowledgment or agreement. I was sitting in the chair next to her recliner and she lowered her sunglasses before raising her hand and resting it on my knee. She smiled and said, “You know, you’re my best friend, Mo-Mo. You’re right, w
e’re doing fine right here.”
Of course we are. I want to make it with you forever. I love you, was what I should’ve said. My next thought was We can make it dirty. Let’s get naked! I never say the right thing and I’m glad I didn’t say the weird thing. Like usual, I simply made a low chuckle and placed my hand over hers.
I wonder if she remembers that time she was lying on the bed in my room while I was sitting in the chair, twiddling my thumbs. She said, “Mo-Mo, sometimes it’s like you’re my boyfriend.” I just laughed and blew it off. I had been wishing for that since the day I met her and I was too much of a fucking pussy to make any kind of move in that direction; another golden opportunity lost for fear of rejection.
She soaked up the last of the setting sun and I was preparing to take another cold shower tonight. Something on the far shore caught our attention. A few splashes followed by a scream let us know we were about to have a blue show.
An extremely old male peevie lunged out into the water to grab at a fish stupid enough to get that close to land. Of course, it came up with nothing and roared in feeble anger. It was obvious this guy had already been old before death, its gray pubic hair and knee length testicles spoke volumes to its age. I was just hoping for a ZZ Top beard.
This cannibal looked like a Harlon, so that’s what I named it. Harlon turned and angrily splashed back to the edge of the lake. Stretch Armstrong balls trailed behind it in the water for what seemed like a couple feet. Just as its asshole broke the water line, there was a spray of what looked like used motor oil for a good yard behind it. This is one of those things I have to intentionally not think about when I eat the fish Crow catches.
After Harlon was through defiling the lake, it looked over to see Zombie Beatrice, facing the other way, devouring a fish Beatrice was obviously eating, chunks of raw meat and scales were falling all around it. Harlon grunted as it closed, obviously surprising the female, judging by the short squirt of ass batter from Beatrice’s sagging rectum. Harlon started chattering as if in conversation, trying to convince the other monster to hand the fish over. Beatrice wasn’t falling for it and clutched what was left of the fish to its blue chest like a precious ring. The male spun the female around and began a heated argument.