Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

John shook his head and smiled. Morgan, even though he was gay and lived that alternative lifestyle, which was commonplace among Seattleites, loathed the people in the city and hated their complacency with the routine. A feeling that John mirrored. “Oh, c’mon, most people aren’t that bad.”

  “Oh, fuck them.”

  John looked over at Morgan, who was still staring through his own binoculars. “That’s not how we roll, Morg. You know that. Protect the innocent by destroying the guilty.”

  “Hard to tell who’s innocent anymore. If you think about it, there’s two types of innocent people.”

  “How so?”

  “Hitchhikers.”

  “What?”

  “Hitchhikers. Nobody picks up hitchhikers anymore. Not like when we were kids. Remember when we were in junior high and we decided to hitchhike to Oregon?” John nodded. “We hitchhiked the entire way there. Met those Mexican farm workers – illegals – who gave us a lift in that old pick-up truck? Nicest guys we’ve ever met. And they had nothing. No possessions, worked for pennies, dirty clothes, but…they had smiles on their faces and gave us some of their food. Today?” Morgan shook his head. “Today, we have three hundred million individuals as opposed to one nation. Everyone is self-absorbed in their own little techno-world, doing anything they can to get likes on their social media accounts, people tailgating, always in a hurry. Road rage, working fifty-hour weeks in exchange for a salary, which is basically a lease on their life. You get that? Their employer owns them. They do everything they can to get promoted into an artificially created position of authority. But no, in the real world, that authority translates to bullshit. People are lazy, John. Fast food, drive-throughs, deliveries, parking spot vultures, fat people with their hands out wondering why they have to pay for healthcare. Those are the innocents I could give a shit about and unfortunately, it’s the majority of this country.”

  “Can’t save everyone, but if we divert from our way of thinking, we could end up hurting those that don’t deserve it. Don’t let society cloud your judgment of individuals.”

  “Oh, Hetebro, I’m not. I’m just not going to cry over spilt milk when I see the typical nuclear family that lives in an overpriced artificial shelter on the lake get devoured. The kids don’t deserve it, but we can’t stop that. Not everyone can be Abbas. Remember, John, ‘innocent’ is a loose term.”

  John held Morgan’s gaze, then nodded. He had more sympathy for most people, but he understood Morgan’s point of view. John hated bullies, had killed bullies, and felt no sympathy for them at all. With Morgan, he was judge, jury, and executioner and had the ability to make that determination in a split second. If Morgan wanted to save or help someone, then John was there, one hundred percent. He trusted Morgan’s opinion more than anyone’s and would have his back, no matter what.

  “You know I’ve got your back, Hetebro,” Morgan said, as if reading John’s mind. “If you trust Boogie, then I trust him. But I will tell you this. He gives me one inkling of distrust, I will put a bullet in his head. Know that.”

  “Is there something about him you don’t like? You have to remember, he saved my life.”

  “And I thank him for that. But he has that look. I can see it in his eyes.”

  “What look? Distrust?”

  “No. He has that look of no remorse. It’s the look of indifference and I’ve seen it before.”

  “Where?”

  Morgan turned back to John. “You.”

  * * *

  Helen took the large mixing bowl and handed it to Cindy. “Here, would you mind pouring it in?”

  “Sure.” Cindy poured the contents into the ceramic bread pan and spread the mix evenly throughout, then used the spoon to smooth the top. “I’ve always loved freshly made bread. No preservatives, no staleness. And that smell is something else, you know?”

  “Well, dear, I’ve been doing it this way since I was a teenager. I’ve never understood that store bought mass-produced stuff that people buy all the time. You can’t even name half the ingredients in it. This? Heirloom wheat – not that modified stuff we’re used to – stale beer, yeast, eggs and salt. All natural.”

  Cindy put the dish into the oven and closed the door. “This thing hooked up to the generator? I’ve been waiting for the power to go out since yesterday. With my luck, it’d go out halfway through baking.”

  “Frankie has the kitchen appliances hooked up and the freezer out back, but everything else is not. Saves fuel.” Helen took off her apron, grabbed the tea kettle, and brought it to the table. Cindy followed and they both sat down. Helen continued, “Are you missing home? I know I would be.”

  Cindy shrugged. “Yes and no. Mainly no.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You have to understand. West Texas isn’t exactly the best place to live. Its flat, it’s hot and there isn’t anything to do. I moved there about ten years ago, was with an abusive man…moved more out of fear than choice, you know? Came from Tulsa, Oklahoma, which isn’t much better than living south of Lubbock. It’s all oil fields out there. Blue collar, beer, steaks, and child support.”

  “You have kids?”

  Cindy shook her head. “Wanted ‘em. Couldn’t have ‘em. I found that out in my late teens. Lady parts just don’t work right. Got into drugs, drinking, the works. Was in a constant state of denial. Because of the drinking – which was heavy, by the way – ended up meeting my then-boyfriend. He would drink more than me, would beat me, then go to work. He provided and I had nothing going on, so I used that as a crutch, I guess. Financial support. One time he beat me so bad it put me in the hospital. Lacerated spleen, broken eye socket. I ended up taking the money he had saved up in a shoebox, got a bus ticket, and moved to Lubbock. Good college town, but I wasn’t any good with school. Ended up with odd jobs, waitressing and whatnot.” Cindy was staring at the table, lost in thought, her fingers lightly brushing the tea cup.

  There was silence for several seconds, then Helen said, “I’m so sorry, dear. At least you’re with a good man now. At least Boogie seems nice, right?”

  Cindy nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes, Scotty – or Boogie, I guess – he’s a saint. A real charmer. I met him about a year ago. He’s an oil worker too, works for a subcontractor that has jobs all over west Texas. They love him out there. Always happy, polite, hardworking. His boss loves him. He’s good at odd jobs too, you know? It’s that whole southern thing, I guess. Very inventive and handy. That’s how he got into rally car racing. Built his own, tweaked it, and won.”

  “Where’d you guys meet?”

  Cindy hunched her shoulders and blushed a bit. “Well, that’s kind of embarrassing, actually. You see, like I told you, west Texas doesn’t have much. Well, there was this strip club and restaurant. They were one and the same. It was really the only entertainment within a hundred-mile radius. The only clientele were these oil workers. You know, they make good money, but aren’t very frugal or smart with it. Well anyways, this strip club, The Shlonghorn, had alternating nights. Men or women strippers.”

  “You were a stripper?”

  “Oh, heavens no.” Cindy laughed. “I was a waitress and barkeep. I got half the tips the dancers got, but was able to keep my dignity, you know? Anyways, Boogie and his boys would always come in. You know, ‘for the steaks,’ they would say. Which were good, don’t get me wrong, but that was bullshit.”

  Cindy and Helen were interrupted by the front door opening. Frankie and Boogie walked in.

  “You guys done already?” Helen asked.

  Boogie walked into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, opened it, and took a swig. “Yep. Frankie, man, that old boy can work.”

  “Damn right I can!”

  “Give him a joint and he goes to town. We got all that hay unloaded. Got most of the bridge funneled a bit. Enough for one vehicle to get through, but not much else. No zombies seen. Don’t think it’s made it this far.” Boogie gave alternating looks to Helen and Cindy. “What you ladies talking about?”
<
br />   “Cindy here was telling me about how you guys met.”

  “Ah.” He pointed his bottle to Cindy. “You tell her about Kim Dong Un? The Shlonghorn?”

  “Who?” Helen asked.

  “Go ahead, Cindy.”

  Cindy, a shade redder said, “Well. There was this one male stripper, Kim Dong Un. Nice fella. Didn’t speak a lick of English, but he was entertaining. He had this dance routine, you see, where he’d dress up like a cowboy. He’d come out and bang this gong. He was packing a big ol’ spring roll, if you know what I mean. Might have had some sort of disorder, but whatever.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!” Helen put her hand up to her forehead.

  “Anyways, he’d come out wearing a cowboy hat and chaps and that was it. Squatty little fella, too. Maybe five foot nothing, but weighed around two hundred pounds. He’d get up on stage and just start swinging it around like a pool noodle, you know? He – ”

  “Was like an albino eel!” Boogie interrupted.

  “Yeah, that. It should have had an elbow, or teeth, or something. Pretty good dancer too. The funny thing is, when he was onstage, there were more men in the audience than women. Figure that one out.”

  “It was prime rib night, darling. That was the exclusive reason.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Cindy said sarcastically. To Helen, she said, “Anyways, Boogie and his crew would always come in for dinner, probably…what…three times per week?”

  “Easily. Maybe four,” Boogie said. Frankie had now sat down and was listening with rapt attention.

  “Okay, four. Well, I would always notice when Boogie came in. He had that long shaggy blond hair, tan skin. You know, he looked like a man. Always smiling, hardly ever drank that much. His boys would always hoot and holler and toss back the beer, but not Boogie. He would just sit there. Enjoying the company, never really paid attention to the girl dancers.”

  “Because I was paying too much attention to you, baby!” Boogie looked at Frankie and said, “She was hotter than the girls there, anyways. She moved with confidence and indifference, you know.”

  Frankie had his mouth open and just nodded.

  Helen got her composure back and asked, “So, what made you guys come up here?”

  Boogie raised his hand. “That was me. I was bored. Made enough money in oil to where I didn’t really need to work it, you know? I’ve always worked on cars and finally had my Charger all dolled up and asked Cindy if she wanted to head up here for the Pot Festival. Now, I’ve always smoked it, loved it, and known the use for it, but most of Texas doesn’t agree. Lots of trouble with that stuff, if you get caught. Cindy here was bored, too, and she was down, so we packed our bags and headed on up. Didn’t leave much behind. Doubt we have much to go back to, either.”

  “Well…” Frankie stood up and stretched. “Seeing as how hard you worked out there with that hay, as long as you guys keep on contributing, you’ve got a place to stay.”

  Boogie nodded. “’Preciate it. I’m very handy with tools and pretty inventive. Not much I can’t build with nothing.”

  There was a noise at the front of the house and John and Morgan walked inside and dropped their packs.

  “What’d you guys see?” Frankie asked.

  “Fire, smoke, you name it, it’s there.” Morgan accepted a bottle of water from Boogie and nodded at him. “You guys didn’t get that hay loaded? I saw the trailer out front.”

  “Already loaded and unloaded.”

  “Really?” Morgan looked to Frankie, who nodded. “Wow, impressive. What’d you guys do with it?”

  “Built that barrier we talked about. Frankie here was talking about how he needs more fuel, so if and when you guys go out to get it, you’ll have no choice but to drive through. Take a gander, let me know what you think. I have a few more ideas on what can be done with it, but a second pair of eyes couldn’t hurt.”

  John nodded. “Will do.” To Frankie, he said, “How much fuel we needing?”

  Frankie shrugged. “As much as we can get. I’ve got a bunch of five-gallon fuel cans. Unleaded and diesel are needed. I figure whatever you can get will help. When the power goes out, we’ll have enough, minimally, for about three days. I’m about a quarter full, so topped out, we could get at least two weeks’ worth.”

  “I saw a bunch of cars on the freeway not moving. Don’t think they’re occupied. People probably headed back west because of that bus fire over the pass. I doubt traffic control was on the troopers’ agenda last night. Morg and I are going to head out and take a look around. We’ll take the cans, get some gas from some of them vehicles and report back.”

  “Need help?” Boogie asked.

  “No, we’ll be fine. Best if you stay here in case something happens.”

  Boogie gave a slight nod.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll leave you with a gun and some ammo,” Morgan said.

  Boogie nodded. “Copy that.”

  Chapter 23

  Russell didn’t know how long they’d been walking. The sun had risen a few hours ago and the road had started its ascent into the Cascades. He slowed down, held a bottle up to his mouth and let the last bit of water drop onto his tongue. He put the cap back on the bottle and put it away, just in case they came across some fresh water.

  He hadn’t been out this far east, having resorted to doing everything that needed to be done in Bellevue or Seattle. He knew that Sammamish Park was in the western part of Issaquah, which they had passed about an hour ago, and the distance between the exits had increased as the urban and suburban environs disappeared behind them.

  “We’ve been walking for over an hour.” Sims must have been thinking the same thing. “We need to take a break, Russell.”

  He was right. Russell was feeling fatigued and parched. “I haven’t seen a building or store in a while.”

  “I didn’t see any shops down there.” Kat started walking next to her dad.

  “Me neither.”

  “Should we go back? Just to be safe?”

  Russell looked at his daughter. “Absolutely not. The further east we can get, the better it is. Who knows how far this has spread?” The abandoned cars had started to increase as they walked. Several other people were walking in the same direction, though they kept to themselves for the most part. “From the looks of it, people have either already been hit or they just left their cars and took off.”

  “Russell is right, Kat. The farther we can get, the least likely it is people will be infected. I think it’s best to keep going until we get to North Bend. It’s about ten miles or so,” Steve said.

  “I’m out of water. There better be a stop up here soon,” Christina said. She took out her water bottle, opened it up and shook it over her mouth but nothing came out. She tossed it to the side.

  Russell noticed some stragglers up ahead. He picked up the pace a bit and started walking next to a young skinny Asian guy. He was wearing a pink dress shirt and black slacks, and had taken off his dress shoes, which he was carrying in his hand. Russell looked down at his feet and saw he was wearing black dress socks with a hole at his left big toe.

  He said, “Hey, buddy.” The man didn’t respond, so Russell got up right next to him. “Hey. Buddy!”

  The man jumped. “Jesus, you scared me!”

  Russell put his hands up in a surrendering gesture and said, “I’m sorry, friend. I’m just making conversation.”

  “Make conversation?” He shook his head. “I’m just trying to get out of here. And fast. Last thing I want,” he looked back at the others then back to Russell and continued, “is to make conversation. I’m thirsty, tired, hungry, couldn’t sleep. Shit, I almost got ran over earlier this morning by some dipshit on a motorcycle. With his lights off, I might add.” He shook his head. “Seriously, who rides with their lights off? Asshole.”

  “I hear ya. Where were you coming from? I mean…” Russell couldn’t figure out what to say, his mind foggy and mouth dry from the lack of water.

  The man finished
for him. “You mean, what was I doing when the zombies hit? Did I plan for it? Did I lose anyone? Maybe kill a few zombies myself?”

  They had come up on some more people walking in the same direction. Russell looked around and saw a mix of teenagers, elderly men and women, families, single-worker-types, all trudging along, stone-faced, with dead eyes. Russell couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion, fear, or both. On the westbound side, Russell saw a Hispanic male and a white male, both about thirty, in a heated exchange over what looked like a half-filled bottle of water. Russell looked back to Sims, who shrugged with a “Who gives a shit?” look and continued on.

  “What did you see? Did something happen to you? Look, the more information we can all share, the better we’re going to be.”

  The man sighed, as if Russell asking him questions was slowing him down. “Well. Okay, Mister…”

  “Russell.”

  “…Mr. Russell. I was at work back in Mercer Island. Everyone in the office – I’m a sys admin by the way – was hovering around the TV in the employee lounge. Oddly, we all had to work on Saturday, which is, I guess, a godsend because I live in Seattle. Anyways, I was finishing up a reboot when I heard a bunch of them gasp. I walked over, looked up at the TV and saw what looked like a riot going on. Well, that’s fine, I think, it’s Seattle, what, with the WTOs and all that shit, I figured, that makes sense. Seattle is full of those millennial ‘What can you do for me?’ types, you know?”

  Russell just nodded. He had got the guy talking and didn’t want him to stop. If this guy described the same thing that they had experienced, then it would either lend proof to their madness or reality. Or both.

  “Anyways, there was an aerial view on TV and it showed some bat-shit crazy lady attacking some black kid. I mean, that was what got me. An elderly white woman attacking a young black guy? Usually it’s the other way around, right?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sims asked.

  The guy looked back, shrugged and said, “Easy there, Green Mile. I’m just saying, ya know?”