by Won, Mark
That worried me. I asked the doctor which people had been bitten, and he said it was Mr. Weber, Mr. Fisher, Mr. Schneider and Mr. Schmidt. I advised quarantine for the coming night. He agreed, said it would be prudent.
After a bit, Anna and I were left alone. That’s when I proposed. I was so woozy from getting shot in the head I just about passed out getting down on one knee, but I made it. We decided to set the date for the morrow if nobody turned into a zombie that night. Otherwise we’d wait a week. When you’re afraid you won’t live a week, that’s a long time. I know I should have asked her dad first but after getting shot in the head I just wasn’t thinking straight.
The pastor held a special service in the evening. We even broke out the bread and wine. Everybody prayed for the bitten men and we all kept a vigil. They were all pretty frightened after what had happened to Mr. Willcox. I can’t say I blamed them.
All the bitten made it to morning, thank God. After that we still kept an eye on them, but we all figured they’d make it. After all, Mr. Miller, Mr. Bueno and Mr. Oliver were still doing okay and they’d been bitten days ago.
First thing in the morning I talked things over with Mr. Herst. I told him I had a big farm now and a good house. Not the way I would have wanted to get such things but they were mine now, nonetheless. I told him I’d never let harm befall Anna and that I’d love her all my days. I meant to let him know I was serious.
He cut me off halfway and gave us his blessing. I’d thought it would be a lot more difficult to convince him than that, but never look a gift horse in the mouth.
Anna was already trying to find a dress when I told her the news. She didn’t seem surprised. She must have spoken to her dad about it, but I don’t know when she had the time.
The pastor wanted to talk to us about the whole thing before he’d do the service. If you’re married you know the drill. Know what your getting into, love is sacrifice, lifelong commitment, an oath before God, love your wife as the Lord loves His church. All that. He also intended to make us wait a week. Damn.
-
The week passed uneventfully but no one was really happy about it. We all kept waiting for the next bad thing to happen. When the Change had first begun staying home seemed like a great idea. Turned out it was only great compared with being in town. We had to start thinking about where we could go that might be safe.
Meanwhile, everybody busied themselves with the plowing. Everybody but me, that is. The doctor said I needed bed rest on account of my head wound. I think I could have made myself useful but it was fun hanging out with Mr. Miller, Mr. Bueno and Mr. Oliver. I won a lot of games of monopoly.
The wedding was as grand of an affair as we could make it. Everyone was there. We had a big cake that all the ladies helped make. Miss Perkins decorated it. Anna managed to scrounge up a real nice old timey wedding dress and I had my best Sunday clothes. Beth was the maid of honor and Hector was the best man (he won the coin toss with Roger). We both said ‘I do’ and we meant it. Cindy (one of Mr. Schmidt’s daughters) caught the bouquet. From then on we were Mr. and Mrs. John Gottschalk. The hard part would be making a happily ever after.
-
A few days after getting hitched Anna and I decided to have a picnic up by the pond. That was a place where our little river widened to about fifty yards across. It was about two miles upstream with only a foot path leading to it unless you wanted to go, I don’t know how many miles out of your way, along the dirt road through the forest reserve. We took Louis, and I finally taught him how to swim. Hope came along as well.
While we were still splashing about a voice cried out to us, “Hey you guys. Where the fuck are we?”
Naturally, I was offended for everyone’s sake, and replied, “You expect an answer, you’ll mind your mouth!” That while we hustled out of the water and got over by our things. Like my shotgun.
I saw that while we’d all been playing, a few cars had managed to drive up that dirt road and had come to our dead end. They were straight across the pond from us. I got the sense there were more cars just out of sight, hidden by the trees. A tall, thin man, about six foot five, came out of those trees toward us from the other side of the pond. Seemed to be about twenty-five years old. He had a pistol at his belt in a holster, but his hands were up.
He said, “What the fuck did I say?!”
I figured right off he was either from a city or some kind of foreigner, with a mouth like that. That and not knowing any better. I guess I’d have to teach him, “Lay off the bad language. You’re in mixed company.”
A look of utter confusion came over him then, “Um, I’m really sorry. We’re lost. We need help.”
Lost in more ways than one, I thought. I said, “Of course we’ll help. How many are you?”
He looked relieved. “About forty or so. We were on our way to a safe place called Haven, when we got blocked off by a horde of those motherfu...er...walking dead things. We call them zombies. We tried cutting through the forest.”
I replied, “Well, you’ve come to the end of that road. From here on you’ll have to walk. It’s about two miles to home. Come on, we’ll take you back. My name’s John, this is Anna and the kids here are Louis and Hope.”
“Right. We’ve got plenty of supplies. How can we move them?”
This cretin was starting to get on my nerves. “What’s your name, Mister?”
“Luke.” Some people had already started to walk into view. They came stumbling along, some armed, and all scared looking. A number of kids were with them. They had a pathetic, nervous look about them. I had to take some pity.
“Just grab whatever you want to carry two miles. I’ll try and make a raft. If your telling me you left a horde behind you then you can’t go back, anyway. Like I said, the road ends here. Maybe we can come back for some stuff later.” They’d have a heck of a time if they tried to turn that many cars around on a one lane dirt path in the middle of a forest.
After some more dithering, Luke finally got all his people together and back we went. The hardest part was crossing the lake. They all carried quite a bit of supplies, even the kids. Trouble was they ended up dropping half of it before we got back to the farms.
Everyone was excited to see them. We got everyone settled in as best we could. Space was pretty tight but we made do.
Then Luke told us his story.
Part 2: Blue Collar Blues
Chapter 1: Of Toilets and Fools, The Boss Man, and Young Love
Unclogging Mr. and Mrs. Glover’s toilet should have been the simplest thing in the world. The thing was, you see, I didn’t like them very much. They were a couple of assholes the first time I met them and things just never got any better. That was three years ago. Three long years of clogged toilets.
I had a bit of a dilemma. One the one hand I liked having my job and didn’t want to jeopardize it. On the other hand Phil and Cindy Glover were twin pieces of sticky shit I was desperate to wipe off. What to do, what to do?
If I conducted any form of amusing sabotage my boss and employer, Mr. Ready, might conduct the next repairs himself. In that case I’d probably get caught. I couldn’t have that. Still, I had to do something, however petty.
My solution was a wretched compromise. I pretended like unclogging a john was a major issue. It would take a miracle, but maybe, just maybe, those two would get fed up and move out. Not from this single debacle, of course. To hope for that would be too optimistic. But if I kept it up long enough, with every whiny complaint they made, maybe they’d take their rude stupidity elsewhere.
You’re probably wondering why they’d care how long it takes to get the job done. It’s because Phil and Cindy don’t know how to shut the fuck up, get the hell out of the way, and, if at all possible, shut the fuck up some more. They had to stand over my shoulder the whole time, every time they called for me. And talk about it. All I really had to do was listen to them and do what they said. That was guaranteed to fuck anything up.
The plan was to take
as much time as possible. Did I have other things to do? Absolutely! But that’s not the point. It was the principle of the thing. Assholes need to be punished.
See, I had all day. If nothing else got done I could blame those two. Everybody knew they were a couple of high maintenance tenants. Sometimes it’s all about plausible deniability. Maybe Mr. Ready would think they were more trouble than they were worth and find some way to kick them out. Probably not, but I’m the kind of guy who likes to live in hope.
I get that from the church that raised me. I know what your thinking: A church raised you? How’s that work? Don’t get your undies in a bunch. I had a mom, sort of. She was a drug addled welfare mom and part time meth whore. Still, I loved her till the day she died with a needle in her arm.
The people who went to church in the neighborhood looked after me from time to time. They would see me loitering around their playground and take pity. They’d give me a couple of bucks, invite me in for a potluck, that kind of thing.
I got my first job there, cleaning up, when I was ten. My first maintenance job and it paid under the table. That’s been my preferred method of receiving payment ever since. I was always surprised with their random generosity. Looking back, I now realize they would have helped a lot more if they’d known my situation better.
Phil let out a deep sigh of long suffering. “How much longer will you be, Luke? If you’d just used that plunger the way I’d described...”
Cindy had to chip in, sotto voce, “I hate how immigrants take American jobs.” Meaning me.
The stupid bloated cow. I have no idea how many generations my ancestors have been in the United States of America. I didn’t really care. I never met any of them. None of them ever wanted to meet me. I was born here, and for citizenship that’s good enough. Not that it should’ve mattered whether I was an immigrant or not. What did that even have to do with anything, anyway?
My last name is Wysoki-Zolnierz. I won’t blame you if you can’t pronounce it. No one can. The cow thought me a Polish immigrant as soon as she heard it. Why an immigrant? Because she’s fucking stupid, that’s why. You should have heard her initial scornful giggle at my ethnicity. All snobbish and superior. Dumb bitch.
I said, “If you’d like, Mr. Glover, you could watch television or something. I’ll get this thing fixed eventually. It’s all really jammed in there good this time.”
He didn’t like that idea. “No, no. You’ll never figure this out on your own. Now try and pay attention.” He raised his voice slightly and began using careful enunciation, “What you need to do is take the plunger closer to the head and push...” What a moron. Did I mention it was just a clogged toilet?
Cindy lamented, “Why does this keep happening to us? I thought this was supposed to be a state of the art bomb shelter. What if this happens after a disaster? Who’ll help us then?”
I thought, firstly, you cross-eyed bovine, it keeps happening because your idiot husband likes to try and flush a whole roll of toilet paper. Probably because he’s as full of shit as you are. Secondly, it’s not a bomb shelter, it’s a converted missile silo and fallout shelter. Thirdly, if Armageddon does happen, no one will help you, unless it’s out the door. And, fourthly, shut the fuck up.
Actually, I’d be the one stuck helping unclog all the toilets if we ever locked the doors. A sobering concept. The thought of it had me figuring out how much human tissue one of those toilets could handle in a flush. I’d have to dispose of the bodies somehow.
Phil, looking at his watch, “I suppose I’ll just have to call your supervisor and report this failure, Luke. I hope it doesn’t cost you your job. You really should have read the manual for one of these.” A thought occurred to him and he looked pityingly and condescendingly at me. “Oh, er, literacy, I see. Well, we have to get going or we’ll be late for the symposium.” He made to usher me out.
I surreptitiously reconnected the toilet’s chain and left. Now, hopefully, they’d call and complain. Then when Mr. Ready showed up to ‘fix’ it, everything would be working properly. A man should really plunge his own toilet.
Well, that was fun. It was always something with those two. Mopping their floors, scrubbing their aquarium, changing light bulbs, cleaning the oven. They even tried to get me to vacuum once. My boss referred them to a maid service for that one.
I liked my boss. I’d done a lot of off book work on the silo condominiums back when I was underage. Mr. Ready liked my work ethic (I do excellent work) and decided to keep me on. I’d been ‘maintaining’ the silo for about seven years since then. Again, off book. I think a lot of it had to do with my family life, or lack thereof.
All my brothers and sisters were a bunch of stoners, or worse. Half were doing well deserved time, and the other half would use any conversation with me as an opportunity to arrogantly demand money (that’s how they’d beg). No grandparents (at least none that would claim me). No uncles or aunts. Not even any cousins that I knew of.
In short, the perfect servant to get locked in a fallout shelter with. I had no home to go to, no one to save.
Mr. Ready had let me stay in the former command center. My room was just above his domicile. I had about three hundred square feet. A bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette. More than enough, for free. That’s right, free. Free meals too, as long as no one was looking. All kinds of canned food or those MRE things. Some are pretty good. Basically, on call 24/7, but that’s okay because, overall, I hardly had to do anything. The place was designed to take a nuclear strike, after all.
After my little adventure with indoor plumbing I decided to head down to level 11, the library. There I ran into Mr. and Mrs. Weaver. A couple of bibliophiles. ‘Bibliophiles’ means they loved books. They taught me that. They were in their forties and nice folks. Never caused me any trouble. I thought he was some kind of accountant. They lived next to me in the former command center. That’s where all we silo employees lived. Their place was more like a regular apartment, about 1600 sq. ft. I’d helped make it. I put a book I had borrowed, The Magicians Nephew, back and grabbed the last in the series.
Class was underway on the other side of the bisecting wall. The whole silo had only seven kids. The teacher was Ms. Butcher. She had to commute to work. Made me wonder who would teach the kids if we were all shut in when the world ended and she happened to be at home.
From there I walked down to level 13, and upon finding it empty, decided to run a ‘full diagnostic check’ on the projecting equipment. I was in a James Bond mood. About half way through my movie Mr. and Mrs. Parker came by and wondered if everything was okay with the machinery. Mr. Parker was a famous baseball star. Not that I cared. Unless the sport’s paying me it’s a waste of time. I could have lied but instead I set them up with some uninspired romantic comedy, and then I left them to it. Sometime after midnight I’d come back and finish watching what I wanted.
That being my new intention I decided to catch some bunk time. If I got a nice nap in then I’d be able to stay up the night. Maybe Sue would be free if she could get away from her parents. She and I had planned to elope in another twenty-eight days. I couldn’t wait.
Up to level 3, at the store, I bought some popcorn that I’d want for the movie. Bob was our checkout clerk. Good guy. Didn’t pay too much attention to inventory. I invited him along to the movie fest. He said he’d bring his girlfriend and a few others. Then I went through the ‘Employees Only’ door, down the corridor and up some stairs to my level. Third door on the right. Just across from Bob’s room.
Can you believe that when the silo was being reconditioned, some nuts thought all the space in the former control center should be wasted on hydroponics, or some shit? Good thing for me Mr. Ready put the nix on that or I’d never have had such a sweet set up.
-
Early next morning I was awakened by the ring of my work phone. Groaning, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and glanced at my wristwatch: 8:02. I thought, What the fuck!? I’ve had, like, two hours sleep! What kind of sick mot
herfucker even calls a man this early in the morning? How rude! How unconscionably rude!
I thumbed the ‘receive’ button, “What?” It came out as a croak.
“I need you down here immediately.” That from Major.
Major wasn’t really a major. He retired as a sergeant major in the army or a mercenary group or some shit. So we called him Major. He liked it and took it as a sign of respect. To me it just meant ‘major asshole’.
“Right away, Major!” Major was the guy Mr. Ready left in charge while he went off to build more condos. Basically another boss. A real dick, too. Another one of those look-over-your-shoulder-while-you-work types. Except not stupid. That made him dangerous.
I took an Irish shower, threw on a work shirt and ran to the silo. Major’s condo was the lowest one, on level 10, just under Phil’s.
He opened the door on my first knock. “What took you so long? Never mind. We have a situation. We’re going into lock down mode.”
Oh, fuck, not again! Not lock down mode! Not on two hours sleep! Oh, why God? Why!?
‘Lock down mode’ was Major’s favorite thing in the whole wide world. It amounted to a day of diagnostics and security checks performed over and over and over and over. And then one more time. Which would be fine by me, if he did them by himself. But, oh no. He wanted me to do them. With him looking over my shoulder. What the hell’s the point of that?
I thought it was all just an excuse for him to throw some weight around, the arrogant prick. I guessed that he’d had it all his own way in the military and missed the ‘being a dick’ part something fierce. The first time he’d pulled this shit I’d swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. I thought ‘lock down mode’ meant the end of the world. Turned out it just meant Major liked timing me. I was so pissed I almost threw down on him then and there. Only three things stopped me: 1) I wanted to keep my job, 2) I didn’t want to go to jail, and 3) I really didn’t want to get wiped up and down fifteen floors of a missile silo by a geriatric muscle freak. Mostly that last one. Major was ripped like a slab of flint.