ZOMBIE'S DOOM? Chronicles of Jack Doom

by Will Lemen

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  THE SHAWNEE COMPOUND

  After dispatching three more of the unhinged ravenous savages to gain entrance to the building, I acquired an Oklahoma road map at a gas station in Elk City Oklahoma.

  Subsequently, I kept on the road as much as possible, stopping only to take a sincere squirt or to drop a seriously heinous deuce or two when need be.

  I didn't bother to search for food or supplies along the way, as I was pretty well stocked with everything I needed at the time (guns and bullets), and I was far more interested in catching up to the Sarge than doing anything else.

  I even took a hiatus from slapping the living shit, or un-living shit, maybe I should just say maggot infused shit, out of the miscreant road zombies with my truck for a while, for fear I might damage my vehicle and give the Sarge a bigger head start than he already had.

  So I force marched so to speak, through every little town, burg, village, hamlet, and whistle-stop the western part of Oklahoma had to offer, on the way to my fateful rendezvous with the one-time friend I intended to kill on sight.

  Traveling at the apocalyptic break-neck speed of a blazing 25 miles per hour, give or take a mile an hour one way or another, I covered the vast distance of 120 mile or so in a record breaking time of only five and one half hours, and found myself on the outskirts of Shawnee Oklahoma as the sun began to set in the western sky.

  The compound that had been given the name Way Station, had posted signs every few miles in every direction, so it wasn't very hard to find once you got within ten miles of the place, no matter where you were coming from.

  The Way Station was enclosed by a five-foot cattle fence that didn't do much for security, it mostly just marked off the boundaries of the place and afforded people a place to park their vehicles if they were lucky enough to have one.

  However, with a rotting zombie snapper (head) on every fence post adorning the perimeter of the property, there was no doubt that you had found the place when you finally arrived.

  The doubt was whether or not you wanted to be admitted to a place that used human heads to announce its existence.

  As I approached the main gate at the compound's entrance, a short man with an AK-47 greeted me and informed me that I could keep my weapons, but that they had people watching, and the penalties for killing someone without do cause were very harsh.

  I figured that the fly engirdled rotting snappers on the fence posts all along the perimeter of the property that the man alluded to with a slight sideways head gesture and a quick glance, might be the harsh punishment that he was referring to.

  He failed to inform me on just what do cause might consist of, and I figured that if I found the Sarge hanging out here at the Way Station, that would be do cause enough for me, and I would deal with the punishment if any when the time came.

  Another man sporting a similar rifle as the short man at the gate, guided me to the spot that he wanted me to park my truck. So, not being one to ever want to cause anyone any trouble, I obliged him in his efforts to do what he thought was probably his apocalyptic calling.

  As I shut my truck's engine off, the man approached me and pointed to the storage containers that Jason had mentioned before he had forced me to kill him.

  "Go over to the black container, that's the main door, the guard there will tell you where you can stay until you leave, and take anything that you don't want stolen with you. Cause I'm not here to guard your shit," he said, not noticing that hidden under the jacket that I was carrying was I my suppressed Beretta which was pointed at him the whole time.

  I carefully collected my belongings and headed for the front door of the station, being careful not to let the man see my pistol that was still pointed in his direction.

  The Way Station as it was called was a bunch of shipping containers placed in a square configuration with twenty containers on each side and stacked five high. Jason's description of the place didn't do it justice.

  I had envisioned the Way Station as just a little fort that could house a couple of dozen people and supply them with a meager excuse for safety and some semblance of peace of mind for a short time.

  What I found was more like a small town set up like a mall with a carnival like atmosphere.

  However, their security was anything but meager. With armed guards patrolling on the roof of the makeshift metal city, one guard on the top of every upper level container, and an M2 machine gun at each corner of the compound, they seemed to be more than prepared for any type of threat. Dead or alive.

  In fact, they were prepared enough to cause me to rethink my previous mindset about dealing with the punishment if any, when the time came.

  Even if I could make it outside the compound after committing something that they considered a crime, there was no way that I would be able to make it across one hundred yards of no man's land to my truck without being ventilated by several different calibers of bullets.

  Therefore, I decided that if I found the Sarge inside the Way Station, I would play nice for the time being, and act like all was forgiven and I was so happy to see him that juice was literally running down my left leg.

  Then as we traveled together as the best friends that we used to be, and when we were far from this place or any other place that might be able to save him. At that point, I would take great pleasure in watching him squirm as I carved him up from ass hole to belly button with a dull deer antler, and that's just for starters.

  "How long do you plan to stay?" The gruff man at the entrance to the black container asked.

  "Not long, I'm just looking for a friend, I heard he might be staying here," I answered. "Maybe you've seen him, he's traveling with a girl that has blonde hair."

  "Lots of guys are traveling with girls, lots of girls are traveling with guy, some have blonde hair, and some don't.

  Go straight down there and go up the stairs, you'll find a compartment where you can sleep for a couple of days," the man said, pointing to a stairwell at the end of the compound. "You can fight all you want, but no killing, we take a dim view of kill'in around here unless it's a sanctioned event."

  "I wouldn't think of killing anyone, I even have a hard time putting those poor dead souls to rest, even when they're trying to kill me," I told him, conjuring up the most pathetic look of a beat down sissy that I could put on my face without laughing.

  "Keep moving then, you're blocking the doorway," the man said, just before he put a "you pussy's make me sick" smirk on his face.

  Sometimes a humble demeanor is the best way to stay out of trouble when you find yourself in a new and unfamiliar place that has a fair amount of alpha males on the prowl.

  However, you've got to be careful not to show too much weakness, or some of the predators will think that you're an easy mark and kill you just for the fun of it.

  Or you might get lucky, and they'll try to make an example out of you by beating the holy piss out of you, just to show everyone just how tough they think they are (if you can call that luck).

  In any case, I decided to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut, except of course when I asked about my best-est friend in the whole wide world, the Sarge.

  The Way Station, as I said, was nothing like I had pictured it would be. The circus-like milieu of the place reminded me of some of the post-apocalyptic movies I had seen before the real apocalypse had darkened our world.

  Some of the entertainment that the station offered during your stay there was rather tame, and some was downright brutal.

  There were club fights where you could bet on which man, or woman was going to club the living shit out of the other one first, using a real club of course.

  There were several naked women dancing saloons, and some naked men dancing saloons too (if that's what you're into).

  Many whorehouses were available for a price (everything had a price); they weren't really houses, just a shipping container with dividers to separate the horny as they fornicated to their hearts content.

&
nbsp; They had a movie theater that played everything from porno flicks to kiddy films (the kiddy films weren't much of a draw, most of the younger children on the planet were dead).

  In addition, two live freak shows were available for your perusal.

  There they had some captive freaks and geeks that were attending to and a couple of wayward zombies. Which for a small extra fee you could beat to death with your choice of weapons, or with only your fists, if that was your type of entertainment (the zombies that is, freaks and geeks are too hard to come by these days, just to kill for sport).

  You could do any one or all of these things, or much more if you wished, that is if you felt that the outside world wasn't supplying you with enough carnal violence to suit your needs, and you had an ample amount of stuff to barter with.

  Even though I had come to thrive in this type of environment, I wasn't looking to kill anyone unnecessarily, or as they told me outside, without do cause, at least not at the moment anyway.

  Not even the temptation of beating a zombie to death with my bare fists could sway me from my self-imposed mission (the truth is, I was pressed for time or I would have succumbed to that temptation).

  However, I wasn't about to let some overly aggressive dick-head wolf on me for their personal sadistic pleasure. So as I ambled through the festive sanctuary searching for my prey, I kept my pistol hidden but at the ready to do my bidding at a moment's notice, ready to stitch up Chinese gangland style if necessary, anyone that needed a strict lesson in apocalyptic life that might feel froggy and decide to jump..

  My guess was that I wasn't the only one in the joint that was ready, willing, and able to ignore the no killing without do cause rule, and cack someone for giving them the toad eye. The biting heads (snappers) on the fence outside would probably attest to that; that is if they could talk.

  You could buy most anything at the Way Station, anything from sex to weapons were available to anyone, if you had the right currency to close the deal.

  People that thought that gold and silver were a good insurance plan in case of a societal collapse, had a rude awakening when the real world dropped the hammer down on them.

  Gold coins and silver bars were now melted down for their metallic weight and made into bullets, then sold or traded the same as the lead projectiles.

  Paper money was good for starting fires, lighting cigars, and wiping your ass, and that's about all.

  The real currency that had value was whatever you had that someone else wanted, and was willing to bargain for, or kill you to get.

  After a day and a half of staying out of trouble (and not killing anyone), and several propositions for sex, and several more offers to trade Jacob's Sub-2000 that I had strapped on my back, my inquiries into the whereabouts of the Sarge were reaping little bounty.

  Then totally by accident during one of the sanctioned beat downs on the second level, I overheard a man mention that the fights that the Caucasian put on were much bloodier and far more violent.

  "Excuse me sir, but did I hear you mention the Caucasian?" I asked nicely.

  "Yeah, what about it? You got a problem with what I talk about?" the man answered back, not so nicely.

  The man was in his early thirties and bigger than I was, and looked as if he had been eating fairly well throughout the apocalyptic food shortage.

  He also, along with his large friend who sat beside him, acted as if they were both used to getting their way, one way, or another.

  Looking for information and not a fight, I kept my mild outward demeanor as I ramped up my inner combat mindset, and said to him.

  "No, not at all, talk about anything that you'd like, I just heard you mention the Caucasian and I think a friend of mine is on his way to join up with him, and I thought you might have seen my friend."

  "I don't give a fuck about your dumbass friend, and I don't give a fuck about your dumb ass. So shut the fuck up, and get the fuck out of my way, you're making me miss the fucking fight," he said loudly, as he stood up and leaned toward me, encroaching into my personal space while doing his best to lay his version of the toad eye on me.

  Sensing that this man had some information about the Sarge and Beth, and that he was the alpha male I had mentioned earlier that was willing to wolf on me for his own personal pleasure, I felt that it was my duty to myself to beat the information out of him.

  Figuring that this behemoth of a man was dead set on teaching me a lesson for interrupting his sporting diversion (the sanctioned fight) with a sporting diversion of his own, by beating me half to death in front of the already gathered, lathered, and cheering audience.

  Without hesitation, I twisted myself sideway into the larger of the two men, and employed a small-circle Jujitsu technique that flung him to the floor in a blink of an eye. Before his friend could react, I kicked him in the teeth with the heel of my boot and knocked him backwards off his seat.

  The crowd cheered as the sanctioned fight halted and they began to watch the fight between myself, and my two larger opponents.

  With three of the formally seated man's teeth lying on the floor in a pool of blood beside the aggressive Neanderthal, I could see the rage in his eyes as he struggled to stand. Seizing the opportunity to take a cheap shot at this want-to-be alpha male, I plonked my foot down hard on the big man's mouth while he was still down (did I mention that I cheat real good), tearing his bottom lip down passed his chin. Then I retracted my foot and forcefully reapplied it to his face one more time, planting the steel toe of my boot deep into the mouth of the oversized goober I had first dropped to the floor.

  His boot muffled screech sent the applauding onlookers into somewhat of a feeding frenzy, as several of them blindsided their fellow sports fans with sucker punches.

  A full-on melee ensued as I continued to stomp in the faces of the two men that I considered to have started the un-sanctioned physical altercation in the first place.

  After my boot heel had broken a few of the men's teeth and tenderized their faces, I bent down over my bloodied foe and asked him one more time.

  "Now that you've had your fun, I'm going to ask you again. Have you seen my friend? He is loud, has red hair, and is traveling with a good-looking blonde girl with big tits. Have you seen either one of them?"

  The man spit a mixture of blood, saliva, and his two front teeth onto the floor, then while holding his bottom lip in place and dropping one more loose tooth out of his mouth, he replied.

  "Yes, I saw both of them, maybe a month ago, and my friend over there," he slobbered, pointing to the other man on the floor with missing teeth. "We saw them arriving at the Caucasian's camp the day we left there. The girl looked kind of beat up and sad, but the red haired man was laughing and carrying on as if he had just returned home from a long trip."

  "Where exactly is the Caucasian's camp?" I asked the now profusely bleeding man.

  "Indiana!" he replied.

  "Where in Indiana, you fuck?" I asked, gritting my teeth.

  "In the Indiana Badlands," he answered, spitting out more blood.

  "Okay, I see you want to do things the hard way," I said, as I slapped down on his right eyeball with the palm of my hand, causing the back of his head to bounce off the mental container's floor, helping to jar his memory and convince him to cooperate a little more.

  "A little town in the heart of the Indiana Badlands, I don't know what it used to be called before the outbreak; now the Caucasian's followers call it Hell. He named it himself just after he set up camp inside the gym of an old high school at the eastern edge of the town," the pounded bully finally confessed. "But you don't want to go there, the Caucasian eats people like you for breakfast."

  Shut up! If I want yours or your girlfriend there's opinion," I told him, pointing to his still unconscious friend. "I'll beat it out of the both of you."

  Then the reality of the situation struck me.

  "Never mind!" I told him with a smug chuckle. "I already did!"

  As the violent clash of fist
icuffs continued between the patrons, I thought that it might be a good time for me to bid my fond farewells to the bully's and to the Way Station, and continue on my journey.

  So as the I stood up over the cowed bully that had thought that he would use me as his personal punching bag, I set the sole of my boot at the corner of his left eye socket and pushed down hard, scrapping a large chunk of skin down the side of his face, peeling it away and exposing the man's cheek bone.

  His loud girlish scream, served to not only cause a break in the action of the ongoing brawl as participants stopped momentarily to see what had caused the feminine shriek. But also awakened the man's partner from the kick induced slumber I had produced just seconds after flinging the larger man to the floor.

  Being a fair and just man, I thought it only right to allow the man to share some of the fun his friend was hoping to have at my expense.

  But before I kicked the man in the mouth again, knocking out four of his molars and causing him to bite off a small section of the tip of his tongue on my way out the door.

  I leaned down once more and whispered in the ear of the man that proclaimed he didn't give a fuck, and reminded him of one of life's truths.

  "Remember asshole! It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog!"

  Toting my possessions back to my truck, and trying not to look like I was in a hurry to leave, upon arrival, I found my vehicle in the same condition that I had left it.

  "You've got a real nice place here, sorry I have to leave now, but I've got places to go and people to see," I told the parking lot guard as I jumped into my truck and started the engine.

  The man opened the gate and waved me through, not bothering to say anything as I drove by him and the body-less snappers wobbling on the fence posts on both sides of the gate.

  Even though the gatekeeper had told me that I could fight all I wanted too, shooing some of the unwanted hitchhiking flies out to the cab of my truck, I had to wonder if there would be any kind of an alarm sounded to stop my departure.