Tim says, “Hey, little girl, I like your scrunchies,” and then smashes her head in some more. She quivers and then stops. The silence is very cool.
I turn to the direction of where the arrow came from and I see an old dude with a fat belly and white whiskers up in the hayloft. He’s holding a bow and signaling for us to come over. It’s either Robin Hood or Santa Claus. Either way, I’m a believer.
CHAPTER 18
In the loft of the barn we found a group of old guys. Well, it was a group only in the loosest sense of the word. It was four geezers who had hidden in the barn and then discovered they could survive on a stash of canned goods that had been put in the barn by its previous and now almost fully digested owner. They were armed with a pitchfork, a garden rake, two shovels and the bow and arrows that had saved Tim. All in all, it was an interesting crew of geezers that had saved the day.
“Come on up,” said a plump red-faced geezer to us pointing at the handmade ladder that was used to access the loft. “I’m Artie.” Artie looked like he had drunk most of the scotch in Scotland and had been on his way to Ireland when the plague had interrupted him. His thick skin literally glowed in the dark, pocked and pimply the way only the most seasoned drunk could get it to be. His hair was white and he had a two month’s growth of beard. He had long johns on that sagged where they’re supposed to be tight and tight where they’re supposed to sag. They were irregularly yellow and stained, especially on the top of his bulging paunch. He had a Santa Claus twinkle in his eye; a Santa Claus that lived in the dry-out tank at the local jail.
Outside, the zombie bitches were now moving off, somehow befuddled by our escape. Before we closed the loft doors I saw the hick who’d stolen my boots was gone from the tree. They’d torn him limb from limb and left nothing to stay tied up. The two hick boys were gone as well. Like ghosts, the undead women sank back into the tall grasses and corn fields till I could see nothing of where they’d gone.
“Pleased to meet you, Artie,” Tim said in an uncharacteristically friendly way. I realized that Artie was still holding the bow which had saved Tim’s life. No wonder he was being friendly.
We carefully made our way up the ladder. The loft was quite large and well stocked with bales of hay which the geezers used to craft a make-shift fort. What good it would have done had the bitches found them up there, I couldn’t say. But I’m guessing that geezers this age think a whole lot like kids, and a fort…well, where could you be safer than in a fort if you have a brain like a six-year-old?
They had undone a bunch of bales and had made some very cushy-looking beds. A hole in the floor in a corner, surrounded by bales was a latrine. They simply sat over or stood over the whole and it dropped down to the floor below. Someone had emptied out a few bags of lime and turds and pissed just plopped right into the lime. Sanitary, easy and not bad for a bunch of oldsters, the youngest of which, now that Tim and I were upstairs with them, could not have been a week under seventy.
Artie introduced us to his band before even learning our names.
“This is Jerry,” he said pointing with an open hand to guy with dyed hair that had grey roots about half-way up the length of it. He had one ear pierced and had a hoop earring in it; he wore two shirts, both collared with a dinner jacket that looked like it fell off a scarecrow.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, shifting his pitchfork back and forth between his hands. “Well, aren’t you the cutest things that the cat dragged in.” This was followed with a wink and a smile that revealed a straight row of deep yellow teeth. “I’d offer you a cigarette and a martini, if I could. But no smoking allowed up here.” He giggled. “Artie would have a conniption. Hee-hee. May I do the further honors, Artie, Sir?”
“Jerry, not now. Aren’t you supposed to be on guard duty? Go to your post.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Meany,” Jerry replied with a mock salute and off he went to sit by the hayloft door which was half opened and had a panoramic view of the fields below and beyond. Jerry was mumbling something under his breath.
“Don’t mind him,” said Artie. “He’s a good guy at heart. Had a tough life. Queers didn’t do so well when he was out cruisin’ for trouser trout. Got beat up more times than Cassius Clay’s sparring partner. Oh, I mean Mr. Mohammed Ali, that uppity, good for nothin’ draft dodgin’…”
“I’m Chaz,” said a crusty old salt who sat on a bale with a long piece of straw dangling from his lips. His head was mostly bald and he, too, was flushed a sickly pink. I’m thinking there’s a stash of booze around here somewhere and these old fucks are partying while the world is sliding down a giant toilet. Maybe they got it right. Chaz is wearing a black t-shirt, with what looks like snot stains on the front of it. The shirt says “Viagra” across the front. “Used to in the insurance business. I’m also a prize fighter so if you’re thinking of fucking with me, you better not. I will fuck you up, both of you.”
“Now, is that any way to talk to our guests, Chaz,” said Artie. “These are fine young boys in the same pickle…”
“Fuck ’em,” says Chaz. “If they think they can share our food, I say fuck ’em.” Chaz takes out a notebook and starts writing, turns his back and stays hunched over, writing.
“Chaz is our historian,” Artie explains. “Actually,” he says under his breath, “Chaz thinks he’s a novelist. Gonna write the next great American novel. Thinks this will all be over one day and people will say, ‘Have you read the latest Chaz Bennett masterpiece?’ Oh, did I tell you his name is Bennett, Charles Bennett. But everyone calls him Chaz. Makes him sound less the mick than he really is. He still takes Viagra, carried a hundred pill plastic jar with him in his supply pack. Was quite the ladies’ man, he says. Talks about it every night…and every day. Got a new girlie story for every day of the week and two on Sunday. Every now and then he punches out little queer Jerry over there. Jerry doesn’t seem to mind. Chaz doesn’t hit very hard. Did you notice his sparring gloves? Still wears them even though no one thinks he ever set foot in a real boxing ring. Knocked a psychologist out cold at the home, flat on her ass. Beat the shit out of a few lady nurses, too. We were all there, in the same home, that is, Easy Glades near Scranton PA. A shithole of a town if there ever was one, but, yes, we’re all from there. Exceptin’ Big Fat Dick Gumbert over there,” he says pointing to a huge fat guy in denim coveralls, stroking the handle of a garden rake and looking at us like we’re duck souffle.
Jerry is watching from his post and says, “Yeah, Dick, tell them how you were a famous book collector. Dick there collected some very important books or so he says.”
“How about you go fuck yourself,” replies Dick. Turning to me he says, “It is true. I had a fine shop, specialized in Americana. Old American books and letters. I had a letter penned by Thomas Jefferson to Aaron Burr. Sold it to the Smithsonian. And I had a first edition of the Book of Common Prayer, one of the first books printed in the New World in English. Yes, and a copy of…”
“Figures the first thing those fucking Puritans would do would be to print a dumbass prayer book. The dumb fucks. Instead of telling people how to get along and be tolerant and work with the Indians they lord it over everybody with a goddamned prayer book. No wonder they had their glued-tight assholes kicked out of England. Too bad they didn’t string them up by their holy balls,” said Chaz. I had to agree with him but I was in no mood to discuss religion or politics.
“You tell him, Chazzy, boy,” said Jerry, walking over. “It is definitely, certainly true. If the French had founded this country or, better yet, some yummy Italians, we’d have had a great old time. Those people knew how to live!”
“Speaking of living, can we get some grub?” said Tim.
“Good timing,” said Artie, giving a dirty look to all his cohorts something like an old school marm. “Today, it’s tuna and sauerkraut,” he added, rubbing his hands together as if he was about to serve a banquet.
“Fucking great,” said Chaz. “Stink ‘n zinc. Just what the doctor ordere
d before we…”
“Now, Chaz, let’s not get too familiar with our guests. Jerry, do set the table.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” he replied.
While the geezers fussed about getting the food together, Tim and I stood by the hayloft door, peeked through a knot hole in one of the slats. The leaves on the trees far off on the surrounding hillsides had turned and stood frozen under the slate sky. The corn, trampled through like cow paths where the bitches had come and gone, was a glorious pale gold, dried and papery in spots.
“Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into,” Tim said.
“Make the best of it. I’m pretty sure they’re harmless and we can bed down here and clear out tomorrow.”
“I wish I could tell Hadley, but she knows the score. She’ll hold up in that pump house for ten years if she can. Her and MG making a stand till the end. It’ll be all right.”
My phone buzzed its sad buzz and I looked at the dim screen. Jen had texted me again, “HURRY HURRY.” What a fucking torture, I thought. Almost better if she did nothing, said nothing. I texted back, “soon.” Wishful thinking. But it’s all I had.
By the time everything was set up, the sun had peered below the pot lid of the sky and filled the loft with a dim orange light. Dust and gadflies floated or darted in the air. The geezers sat around the makeshift table sitting on hay bales, the aroma of tuna and sauerkraut filled the air. Not disgusting at all, I thought. Looked like a Dutch masters painting. Old dudes sitting at a table, maybe farmers on the Zuyder Zee, pooped after a long day growing tulips or whatever those boring fuckers did three hundred years ago in Holland. Still, it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. I looked over at Tim and he looked at me. Thinking the same shit.
“Chow time,” he said. “Let’s dig in.”
After dinner, the guys took turns at the watch. The rest of us sat and talked about the good old days which, for these geezers, is so far back I couldn’t give a shit.
Jerry and Artie started a game of chess and Tim somehow developed an interest in Big Dick’s stories about American history.
“Yepper,” says Dick. “I had a plan to cure every major ill this great nation of ours ever had. It’s democracy that stands in the way. You know, too many dumbasses with too many stupid opinions. It’s all politics and back slappin’ and blow jobs. We needed a dictator to pick up the USA out of the shit hole it was in and drag it screaming and kicking into the new century.”
“Like a Hitler type?” asks Tim.
“Here, let me show you something I wrote. It’s a way of getting people interested in new ideas. I call it a ‘Memoir of an American Dictator.’ It’s a short chapter. I got the whole thing written and then this disease hits all the women and now instead of heading up a new political party, I’m holed up in a goddamned hayloft with a bunch of old farts.”
Dick shuffles through a mass of yellowed typed pages and picks a few. I lean back on a hay bale and listen.
“January 20, 2109: My name is Big Dick Gumbert and I was the first American ‘dictator.’ After winning election as President for the maximum 2 terms allowed by law, a popular referendum enabled me not only to be elected to a third term but that this term should run ‘until [my] resignation or death.’ I served as President for nearly 43 years. I want these memoirs to be published after my death as an example of what one man chosen by destiny can accomplish if fate and God is truly on his side. There were times, I will admit, when I had to do things I would not ordinarily do. But isn’t that how we Americans define a “hero”? With the Constitution in one hand and the Bible in the other, I managed to make our nation great again. It was my life’s work and I did it because someone needed to.
“I saw drugs as one of the greatest ills of our country. Not only were they rotting the brains of our youth, but they were filling the coffers of foreign hostile governments, foreign illicit cartels and forcing, through the power of addiction, our own citizens to rob each other, often with mortal consequences. Our prisons were filled to overflowing with users and dealers alike. The Drug Act of 2088 in my second term made marijuana legal and gave a monopoly to tobacco companies to grow and sell it in exchange for their ceasing the production of tobacco products which became illegal by the same Act. To discourage the use of ‘hard’ drugs such as heroin and cocaine, I had the Army and Navy Joint Task Force intercept large shipments. These stores were poisoned (what we called, ‘deleterious amendment’) and the drugs replaced in the usual course of the illicit trade. Initially, tens of thousands of addicts died. After a time, as the interceptions and poisonings increased, those hopelessly addicted died and those who were not simply stopped. While only 5% of all drugs were actually ‘amended,’ no one could tell which ‘hit’ might be his last. Those addicts who preferred a sober life to a drug-addled death sought out effective recovery programs. Younger people who toyed with the idea of ‘experimenting’ sensibly decided not to bother. In less than 18 months, import and sale of those drugs came to a virtual halt, all convicts doing time for drug sale/use offenses were released and only small amounts of “amended” drugs were distributed. Robberies, burglaries and other street crimes of an economic nature dropped 94.6%.
“Terrorist organizations which were funded by the illegal trade found themselves without capital and nearly every country in the Western world followed suit by using the same procedures and laws. And without money, terror can be neither organized nor effective. Funds generated from the opium trade in the Middle East, were no longer available as reward money to suicide bombers’ families. Despite the notion that suicide bombers act as a matter of faith, something I will not deny, the lack of funding to enable them to purchase materials and to ensure the economic safety of their families after their death simply brought terrorism to a halt. I will discuss in later entries other methods I used. People who produced hard drugs in local ‘factories’ for personal use or sales to locals were summarily executed shortly after arrest and conviction in ‘Drug Abuse Tribunals’ established by the Act. There was no right of appeal from these convictions. After less than a year, the DATs had so few cases to try that only one full time court was set up in Oklahoma City to handle the caseload of the entire nation. My greatest satisfaction came when my grandson, Carlton III said, ‘Thanks, Grampa, for making my future safe. I don’t just have to say ‘No;’ no one even asks!’”
Another senile motherfucker, I’m thinking. Maybe the bitches aren’t such a bad idea after all. Hey, God, did you do this on purpose? Or are you as senile as these old farts? All due respect, sir.
***
So here I am stuck in this shithole farmhouse with Tim, and a bunch of retirement home rejects – one a Rocky Balboa wannabee who wants to kick my ass, and outside a boatload of screaming women who want to eat me and jump my bones – and not in a good way!
It didn’t seem like only a few hours ago when all hell broke loose, and now here we are holed up with the “Gray Berets”. It looks to me like this Artie is the de facto leader of the bunch. But I think his hold over this rag-tag band is tenuous at best. Jerry the queen, is his puppy dog, he’ll do whatever Artie asks, I’m sure. Chaz there is another story, all latent hostility, wrapped in a veneer of bravado. He could step up, or just as easily cut and run to save his own tail. And the Big Guy in the corner, I just can’t seem to get a read on him at all yet. He’s a mystery, and I don’t like mysteries. If things get dicey and I am sure they will, things can get ugly in here, fast. I need to figure him out, and quickly. He’s a random element, and random elements can get you killed. As Sun Tzu said in the Art of War – “Know yourself and know your enemy, and you need not fear the battle.” That, and always be able to withdraw to a defensible position!
“Thanks for the shot back there, Hawkeye.” I said to Artie. “But I don’t think you and these geriatric jokers have any idea what you’re up against. We need to fortify this place – now.”
“And just who the fuck put you in charge, Priss,” said Chaz, brandishing his shovel.
“Why you little pissant!” - and he swung the shovel at me, but before I could react, it stopped just before my face – held fast in an enormous hammy fist. The Big Guy pulled it from Chaz’s hands, nearly lifting him off the ground in the process.
“He’s right”, he said, in a rumbling voice that was somewhere between Darth Vader’s and my aunt Gladys’ who smoked four packs a day.
“Thanks,” I said
“Name’s Dick, as you know, but my friends call me ‘Tiny,’ he said, and tossed me the shovel.
“Tiny”, I said raising an eyebrow. “Say, wait a minute – I know you, you’re ‘Tiny the Terrible’. Shit, when I was a kid I used to watch you every Saturday afternoon on Wrestling Roundup with my Pop and brothers!” So the brooder just became an asset. With a little luck we may just survive the night, but I still wasn’t quite sure what we had to fear more, those things outside or each other.“That was a long time ago, kid, come on I saw some two by fours back over this way, help me find some nails – and let’s see what we can do about boardin’ this place up.”
Chaz hocked up a big wad of phlegm, and spat on the floor. “Watch your back, you little Fucker.”
“All right that’s enough, Chaz, why don’t you make yourself useful and try to find a hammer or some other tools we can use,” said Artie.
Zombie Bitches From Hell Page 11