Zombie Bitches From Hell

by Campbell, Zoot

  My legs are cramped and sore from the hours spent in such a small place, my boots drenched in diesel oil, my head pounding from the fumes that, quite certainly, saved my life.

  I crouch toward the nearest tent, then one more, then another, staying close to cover lest a zombie with her keen eyes and even keener sense of smell sniff me out and snuff me out. I stumble on the orientation tent, where Tim and I had been deloused and redressed less than twelve hours earlier. I’m about to get showered and dressed in cleaner duds when I hear leaves rustling. Shit, I think, they’re back. I hide stupidly behind a rack of clothing.

  “Kent? Kent?”

  It’s Tim.

  “Tim, what the…” I go out of the tent and Tim calls, “Up here.” He’s in a tree.

  “Man, I thought you were dead.”

  “Me too, but that fucker missed me. Well, sorta, I got a gash in my arm, but it’s nothing. I’m coming down.” He climbs out of the tree. I go over to him. I hug him.

  “Welcome back,” I say.

  I strip myself clean, showering for too long, using too much soap, too much shampoo, luxuriating in the lather and the normalcy of the act. I find clean clothes in a metal cabinet; fresh underwear, thick socks, cargo pants, undershirt, flannel shirt, ski cap, parka and an empty backpack.

  “Your turn,” I say to Tim.

  “No thanks, Captain. I’m hearing too many noises out there in those woods. Let’s just get outta here.”

  I grab a pair of boots, size 11, from a row by the door and put them on quietly before slipping into a nearby tent and finding a supply of canned food; tuna, sardines, ham, chicken, small tins of pure protein. I fill the backpack half-full then slip from the tent, crouching low to the ground as the fires still burning the arena platform to the ground illuminate my path.

  My eyes land on a nickel-plated .38, lying close to the gnawed-on bones of a skinhead’s hand. I grab it and slip it into a pocket before slinging a loaded rifle across my back and making for the shattered hole made by the zombies and finding it barren, littered with fresh bones.

  “Let’s get back to the balloon,” I say.

  If the bitches are heading west, which they are, to the land of blood and honey, we’re going east to where the balloon set us down. I pry the bloody axe handle from Buckwheat’s savaged paw, wrap the business end in a skinhead’s discarded wife beater and dip it into the flames, lighting my path with my improvised torch.

  Outside the gates I can breathe again, the copper stench of spilled blood dissipating from my assaulted nostrils, the mountain air crisp and clean as dawn approaches silently over the Berkshires to the west.

  “Tim, let’s say a prayer for Hadley,” I say.

  We both stop and bow our heads in silence. To whom or to what we are silently speaking, neither of us knows.

  CHAPTER 21

  We’re about 200 miles from the Cape and there’s been no contact from Jen, but I expect that. The sun set and we’re floating over Massachusetts at about a thousand feet using the GPS and our eyeballs. The moon is bright and small silver gray clouds lie in the distance like the smoke from an old steam locomotive, thick, billowy and all in a row seemingly sticking together. They’re a group of blind men holding hands as they follow a leader into territory unknown. Blind leading the blind. Don’t they all end up in the ditch?

  The yellow and red and brown trees all look gunmetal gray in the light of the rising sun. I was missing Hadley, remembering the good days when she played with MG near my feet. And Jen. I understood pilgrims, making long journeys through hostile territory for a spiritual union, for some experience of the great beyond. Maybe they were just fucked up and looking to get out of Dodge, to get away from a wife and some scraggly kids, a beat up old farm on a rocky hillside in France. Those Crusaders were looking to get somewhere or get away from somewhere. That was me. I was both getting away from a life that was a zero and going to a life…maybe one that was less than zero. I could cheeseball it as good as the next guy and imagine me and Jen with some kids in a three bedroom, two bath house in a neighborhood with cars in the driveways and loads of shit in the garages. A place with satellite dishes and people going to church on Sunday mornings and putting up Christmas lights on the roof in December and maybe not taking them down until March. That whole “Honey, I’m home,” sorta bullshit life that maybe wasn’t/isn’t life at all but the habit of life, the notion of life, the shadow in Plato’s Cave kind of life—just an image of what could be or what might be or what should be but you get so used to the humdrum of it, to the repetition that you don’t know if it’s life or maybe just breathing and doing all the supposed tos. Maybe this ramble is what I mean and it all is just a path from cradle to grave and no one knows whether it curves or bends or goes over bumps or you take a wrong turn and you’re in a goddamned river up to your ass in drowning and when you say, “honey, I’m home,” maybe no one is there to hear or care. I’m thinking I want someone to hear and to care and if that is not Jen then I can’t ever face the breathing again.

  I’m quiet, of course and Tim says, “I hope this wind stays steady. We’re moving good and we got plenty of gas. Going to make it, I think, pal-o-mine. We’re making it to Cape Cod, wherever and whatever the fuck that is.”

  My only thought is to get to Jen even though I have no idea what lies in wait for me, if anything. We’re heading toward the coast and likely, the bitches are all heading into the heartland. Thank God for small favors and granting wishes that he probably has nothing to do with. Just an old-fashioned way of looking at things. I mourn silently but don’t exactly miss the old days. Don’t know why. Don’t ask. My approach will take me away from humans, away from outposts and camps and fires and klieg lights and the danger posed by my fellow man.

  We have enough food, if careful, to last a short while. I keep thinking maybe I should just settle in the woods below, a life of solitude, of getting the lay of the land, of putting the road behind me and life as a mountain man ahead of me. I sense Tim feels the same way. But who can read minds anymore? And what would the pages say? I know there are pockets of what used to be called humanity still out there. Christ, I’m heading toward one at the brink of this continent. Jen is hiding from something. Or someone.

  I’ve tried the social route; it didn’t work for me. Now maybe it’s time to embrace the solitude of life on a desolate planet, of wariness and silence. Let the skinheads and religious fanatics inherit the earth; I’ll settle for the mountains, the stars, the trees and the uncertain future.

  CHAPTER 22

  We had a tail wind of over 40mph so we dropped to five hundred feet. Off to the north, I could make out the hulking cubes of Boston as the sun setting behind us cast its long orange beams through the deserted metropolis. To the south, the ragged New England coastline hugged the gray Atlantic, white caps in neat rows marching out to sea, white mist from the off shore winds like witches’ hair.

  “We got to land, boss,” said Tim. “This is the Cape. See that strip of highway? It goes mostly the whole way to Provincetown. But about forty miles out it makes a hard turn northward—it’s the hook of the Cape. Where P-town sits.”

  I looked at the GPS map and saw that Cape Cod was like an arm raised into a fist aimed at Europe.

  “Yeah,” said Tim. “The Cape is shootin’ the bird at the rest of the western world.”

  “Let’s take it out as far as we can. We’ll land, tie her up and make it on foot to P-Town. Maybe find a vehicle.”

  “You never know,” he said.

  It had been over a week since I heard from Jen. All I knew was that she’s in the basement of a dinner theater on Baker Street. Shouldn’t be hard to find. Even at the lowest safe altitude we could make, the wind would push us out to sea and we’d never get back.

  A half hour later we saw the curve of the highway northward and Tim began the descent. Long rows of white houses fringed the coastline and made me think of summer days by the shore, sailboats, surfboards, swimming. Chicks in bikinis. Guys with Fr
isbees. Beach blankets. All gone. All fucking gone.

  The gondola dragged its bottom for a few hundred feet along the sand and came to a rest near a light house. The sun was nearly set behind us and the red brick glowed with the waning light. We jumped out and tied the gondola to the stakes as the balloon deflated. Tim folded it and we took some extra steps to secure it because we didn’t know when or even if we’d be back to claim her. We buried the silk in about six inches of sand far enough above the high water mark to be certain it would be all right when we returned.

  We walk over to the lighthouse, which is locked. Tim kicks in the door and we are out of the wind and weather for the first time in a long time.

  “Let’s head up,” he says as he starts up the spiral stairway that looked like it could go to the moon.

  “Not yet,” I say. “There’s probably a galley over here. Let’s see if we can cook something up.”

  We walk over the creaking oak floorboards to a kitchen that looks like it sits on the edge of the world. The sea stretched out to a gunmetal horizon and whitecaps blow away from us from the strong off shore winds that had been so kind in getting the balloon this far east. It was a blessing of sorts, if you can count anything a blessing in the middle of the end of the world.

  The refrigerator was full of moldy food and hadn’t been running for months from the look of it.

  Tim opens a pantry and there is a shitload of every kind of Campbell’s soups known to man. Black bean, tomato, chicken noodle, pea, beef barley. It is heaven in tin, heaven in red and white.

  “Man, this is great. Let’s find the can opener. See if the burner on the stove works.”

  Tim turns the knob and the hiss and smell of propane, the gas that saved our asses, hits our nostrils like manna from heaven. He turns it off and finds a big box of old-fashioned wooden matches in a drawer. He strikes the match and the burner comes to life while I pour two cans of soup into a pot that was sitting on the drain board.

  “Guess they left before the big hit,” I say.

  “Must’ve.”

  I find a box of Saltines that is sealed and still relatively fresh. We sit across from each other at a table that looks a hundred years old. Two old rain coats hang from hooks on the wall over two pair of high water boots. On a small table nearby are some hats and gloves. A barometer hangs on the wall near the window. As the light dwindles, Tim finds a kerosene lamp and lights it. The wind begins to howl and the waves march in like legions, white capped and relentless toward the rocks, smashing up against the base that this lighthouse sits on. I fell simultaneously safe and exposed, snug but vulnerable.

  “This wouldn’t be a bad place to stay, you know,” I say.

  “Maybe not. There’s plenty of food. Probably plenty of propane. You can see for miles in every direction. My guess is you could fish off these rocks. It would be a waiting game but there are worse things to do.”

  “Yeah, and worse people to meet,” I respond.

  “You thinking about this as your last stand, Captain?”

  “I don’t think hanging onto this rock is the way to spend the rest of my life.”

  “Got a better way?”

  I look at Tim maybe for the first time since this all started. Look into his eyes and I see him for the good man he is. It’s not an adventure anymore, not a tale of true grit or a story of men against the odds. It’s about two guys that are human trying to figure out what that means now that humanity doesn’t count for much.

  “I’m going up top to take a look out the glass,” Tim says.

  “Wait a sec,” I say. I see that there’s a hatch door in the floor of the kitchen. I open it and look down into a cellar that’s pitch black.

  “Hand me the lantern,” I say. Tim hands it over.

  I climb down a soft almost rotten wood stairway and the light casts its feeble beams into an earthen and rock basement, damp and smelling of the sea. There is row upon row of canned food of every type from beans to ham to canned fruit. On one row of metal shelves are six cases of beer.

  “Shit. I knew it,” I yell up to Tim.

  I shoulder a case and head up the stairs, the light of the lantern casting a glow on Tim’s worried face which begins to crack into a smile.

  “I knew you were a Captain in another life,” he says. “Maybe even an admiral.”

  The stairway to the light box is like a corkscrew. It is black wrought iron and quivers slightly with every step and our footfalls echo up the tube.

  “Now you know how a wad of cum feels when you’re about to shoot a load,” Tim says. Maybe he’s more of a dumbass than I just thought. On the other hand, maybe he’s right.

  We get to the top and the clouds are almost black, illuminated from behind probably by the moon and there’s a strange luminescence over the water, a greenish glow like a trillion fireflies on a hot July night in the backyard.

  “That’s algae. That green light,” Tim says.

  The wind has died down some and we look at the mechanism of the light. It’s a huge silver backed mirror like a bigger version of a flashlight you keep in the nightstand drawer knowing full well the minute you need it, the batteries will be dead. From up there we can see to the horizon which I’ve heard is only thirty something miles before the curvature of the Earth gets in the way. Landward we can see up the coast; small white houses, docks and boats moored, bobbing up and down, ghosts of another time. Nearby is a large fishing boat, decked out with all the bells and whistles, moored to the dock of a large white house squatting behind some short trees bent away from the sea like girls turning their backs to the wind.

  “Now that’s a ride,” says Tim. “The masts must be fifty feet tall.”

  Turning more toward the west as we walk the perimeter, the land looks completely empty, devoid of any life of any kind. Toward Provincetown to the north and west, there’s a glow in the clouds but, again, it’s probably a trick of Mother Nature.

  “How far to P-Town?” I ask.

  “I’m thinking fifteen miles. Could make it easy in a day…or a night. I’m not sure which is safer. Seems pretty dead around here, no pun intended. I mean you got to figure that the bitches have all headed toward food town which would be west of here no matter how you slice it. There are likely some guys holed up but from what we’ve seen, my Captain, they’re no better than the bitches.”

  Of course, he’s right. Hadn’t thought of it quite that way. It’s sort of like thinking your family is really a nice bunch of people but after a while you realize they’re just as big and bad a bunch of assholes as anyone else only you’re stuck with them because they came out of the same hole—no offense to my mamma or yours.

  We can see some fishing gear tied up near the dock that’s part of the lighthouse and a small cabin cruiser likely used to save people or some shit like that. There’s also a small cabin about fifty yards off to the west.

  “That’s where they sleep,” says Tim. “The lighthouse keeper and his wife and kids. Some life, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “Let’s bed down up here. I ain’t going exploring anymore tonight. And I don’t know who or what is in that house. Fuck ’em for now. Let’s go secure the door,” he adds.

  We wedge some two by fours against the door and it is solidly closed. I find some padded water tarps and life jackets and we use the coats for blankets. The temperature is dropping faster than Rhoda Schwartz’s panties at the senior prom. We drag the stuff up to the light box and bed down, the wind and the waves lulling the world to sleep.

  At about 2 AM, I awake and huddle under the covers. Tim’s steady breathing is a reassuring sound, the wind hissing through the chinks in the glass. I get up and look out the glass. The clouds have scudded off the sky and a half moon sits near the horizon casting a milky silver light on the ocean that looks cheesy enough for a postcard, one of those “wish you were here” things your girlfriend sends you when she’s off on spring break getting humped by some Mexican stud in Puerto Vallarta while you’re whacking off
to the latest porn vid from Netwank.

  I imagine I can see dolphins breaking the surface of the water in schools, having a celebration now that all the fishing boats are docked and the fisherman have been eaten. Who’da thought? they must think, praying to their sea gods and saying thank yous galore, fucking each other and laughing with the tuna and cod. Fuck them, they’re thinking. What goes around comes around. They know the whales are all hanging around Tokyo listening to the screams from those whaling bastards as the little geisha girls with their deformed feet and clown make-up chow down on those tiny dicks and hairless balls. Millions upon millions of eaters and eaten. “Hey, listen to that one howl,” says one whale to the other. “Those fuckers have had it coming to them. Ain’t it so?” I know it. And I never liked sushi, either, even though I pretended so people would think I was cool. I’d talk about China too, if I gave a shit. Talk about food. A billion motherfuckers all eating each other. Enough for the bitches to eat for years. Nothing like Chinaman liver with a nice bowl of rice. On the other hand, bitches, hold the rice. Go for the brains. They’re on sale this week and extra small in bite-sized pieces. Just watch out for the lead and PCB content.

  I lie down under the covers again and begin to doze off with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head when I hear a creaking hinge and footsteps on the iron stairwell.

  “Tim,” I whisper. But he doesn’t hear me. “Tim….” I figure if I’m quiet, it or he or she will get too tired to bother coming all the way up those goddamned stairs. How’d it get in?

  It gets quiet. I reach for my pistol, but it’s gone. Fuck. Where did I leave it? There’s a shadow in the doorway. A short bitch that’s moving real slow, like a cat creeping up on a mouse. I try to scream to wake Tim up but my voice is frozen. I’m fucked. That stupid sleeping sonofabitch Tim is next on the menu. What a way to go, I’m thinking, after all this bullshit. What a way to go.