Chet & Floyd vs. The Apocalypse: Volume 1

by Hunter, Justin

  “What the hell are you going to do with that Chet? You’re no pipe smoker.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with this Floyd. I’m going to add a level of sophistication to us. We need to take this to the next level. I am now a pipe smoker.”

  Chet regarded Floyd’s disdainful expression. His cigar hung down from his upper lip. “And I think you should join me.”

  “I’m good,” Floyd said. “Let’s bag this stuff up and get out of here.”

  “Agreed.” Chet and Floyd packed the front compartment of the Super Beetle with as many cigars and pipe tobacco as they could.

  “Luck be a lady,” Chet said as he notice the marauder’s dog limping over to them and wagging his tail. “They forgot their dog Floyd,” Chet said.

  “Indeed they did,”“We don’t have any moral dilemmas regarding the use of canines as far as food?” Chet said. He didn’t move a muscle as the dog inched closer. It was hurt and wary but seemed to really need to trust somebody.

  “Not yet. I have grown quite fond of the taste,” Floyd said.

  “We wouldn’t want this one to go off and join one of those wild packs now would we?” Chet said. “A few weeks from now we could be his dinner.” Chet drew his long knife as the dog came up to him and sniffed his fingers.

  “That would be ironic,” Floyd said. Chet smiled that eerie smile of his as he plunged the blade through the dog’s skull and out his lower jaw.

  Chapter - 5

  It was all Chet and Floyd could do to not build a fire right on the spot and cook the retriever. Their starvation nearly overrode their survival instincts, but the thought of the men returning or an open fire wafting the smell of meat kept them focused.

  They had lived long enough after the Big Death to know that those who took chances were now dead. The key to survival was a delicate business consisting of equal measures carefulness with light sparks of insanity. Chet called it their ability to cheat death and ask for seconds. Floyd told him the phrase didn’t make sense, which put Chet in a mood.

  They drove along the city streets looking for the quickest way out to the country. Floyd was appreciative of Chet’s silence as he could better make out the sounds of their environment, no easy task over the indelicate thrumming of the Volkswagen engine.

  “We need to find a place to hole up for a while,” Floyd said. “Think of anywhere?”

  “One place is as good as another,” Chet said.

  “Bowling?”

  “Bowling works for me. There’s got to be an alley around here somewhere. Let’s barbeque and bowl,” Chet said. His pout turned into a pleased look. Even with all the moments of turmoil, there were longer moments of monotony. Everything was pretty pointless. Everything but food. “Do you think they’ll have cosmic bowling?”

  “I am not going to do cosmic bowling Chet,” Floyd said. “Out of the question. Remember the last time we did that?”

  “I do. It was awesome!” Chet said.

  “No. No it wasn’t. It was totally embarrassing.”

  “What are you talking about? Your embarrassing pin total?”

  “No. Those guys who came in and saw us cosmic bowling and gave us that weird look.”

  “Those guys who tried to kill us?”

  “Yes, them. Just like everyone else,” Floyd said. “Cosmic bowling is for nine year olds. They could have easily gotten us too, if they were not struck incredulous at the sight of two grown men bowling at nine in the morning with neon balls, swirling strobe lights and techno music.”

  “Cosmic bowling saved our lives Floyd. You’d better recognize,” Chet said and crossed his arms. “Meat, smoke and bowling. Heaven-to-Betsy, Floyd! If only we could get our hands on some booze. There’s an alley. Pull into there.”

  Floyd turned the car into the bowling alley parking lot. The lot looked like every other parking lot. Dead vehicles, debris and dust.

  Chet and Floyd got out of the Skull Beetle. They didn’t see anyone as they picked up the dog carcass and smokes and went up to the bowling alley’s front door. Emblazoned over the chipped green paint on the alley’s large wooden door was a crude painting of a dog’s head with a circle around it done in orange.

  “We can’t go in here Chet,” Floyd said.

  “You really don’t believe that that’s true do you?” Chet said gesturing to the dog painting. “It’s an old wives’ tale. A fib. It’s just meant to scare us.”

  “I don’t know about that. There are still dogs around, and I don’t want any part of that.”

  “Don’t be such a scared-y-puss Floyd. There’s nothing to worry about except our impending death by starvation if we don’t get this Old Yeller cooked and in our bellies. I’m hungry and I’m going in. Forget the damn sign.” Chet shoved Floyd and walked brazenly into the building.

  Floyd took one last look around and went in himself.

  The alley was fairly dark when Floyd entered, but he could easily follow the sound of Chet’s voice coming from several feet in front of him. “Glad you decided to join me Floyd. I am so glad you’re willing to keep our partnership going. Sometimes you have to just be willing to take a little risk. You have to walk right thought that door Floyd with nary a look back.”

  “You do know what that dog in the circle sign means. Don’t you?” Floyd asked.

  Chet lit up a small propane camping lamp and put it on one of the alley tables. He took his pipe out of his pouch and filled it with tobacco.

  “Can I have a smoke?” Floyd asked.

  “Patience! This is a process of relaxation and reflection!” Chet gently tamped the tobacco in his pipe with his finger, struck a match and lit the tobacco with extreme flourish. Floyd rolled his eyes.

  “What are you smoking in there? It smells like tapioca pudding,” Floyd said. Chet dug a cigar out of his sack and threw it at Floyd overhand, hitting him in the forehead.

  “You couldn’t possibly understand me now that I have become a man of the briar,” Chet said. “Next time we go past an antique store, I’m getting a pince-nez.”

  Floyd lit his cigar and blew out a large volume of smoke. “I’m trying to talk to you about that sign,” Floyd said.

  “I already told you there’s nothing to worry about. How many dogs have you seen lately? I haven’t seen many.”

  “We have a dead one right here!” Floyd said, thumping the dead dog on the breastbone. “Give me your knife.”

  Chet pulled out his knife and threw it to Floyd who caught it deftly. Floyd cut the skin from around the dog’s paws and proceeded to break each of them off, roughly twisting them and throwing them to the side. He then slit a line through the dog’s skin from posterior to throat, readying it for the messy ordeal of skinning.

  “We haven’t seen any, and that’s probably why we’re still alive,” Floyd said. “We’ve heard plenty of news about packs of wild dogs roaming around. Vicious animals too, if what I’ve heard is true. Tear a man to pieces in nothing flat. If you ask me, men were too busy killing each other after the Big Death, when we should have used all those bullets to kill off the animals. One knife isn’t going to help you with a whole pack of starving dogs that are looking to make you their dinner.”

  “What about it?” Chet said. He was making a loud racket, breaking up a couple barstools for firewood. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “There obviously are still dogs out there,” Floyd said. He gutted the skinned dog and dropped the entrails on the floor. “Where there are dogs, there is dog fighting. Where human lives are no longer held sacred, there is dog fighting involving humans. I, for one, don’t want to be thrown in a pit with several hungry beasts.”

  “I don’t either Floyd, but I know what I would do. I would spread a story about some black market dog and human fighting pit society, replete with an ominous looking logo. It would be sure to make anyone think twice before raiding my hiding spot.”

  “You didn’t seem to hesitate much,” Floyd said. He left the skinned dog and went over to a billiards
table in the bar area, grabbing a cue off the rack.

  Chet turned away as Floyd crammed the stick in one end of the dog and out the other. Floyd had to struggle a bit as the cue became crammed halfway through the dog.

  “I’m done. You can turn around o’ squeamish one,” Floyd said.

  “About time,” Chet said.

  “Got stuck in the middle.”

  “My dad always taught me to roll the cue on the table to make sure it’s straight. You probably got a bent one.” Chet helped Floyd heft the dog into place over their fire.

  “Your dad spit dogs with billiard cues?”

  “The principal is the same. It’s going to get smoky in here,” Chet said.

  “I don’t care. Let’s get this baby cooked,” Floyd said. He knelt to start the fire.

  Chapter 6

  Chet and Floyd ate, stuffing as much roasted dog into their sunken bellies as they could fit. Two grown, ravenous men didn’t leave much after their meal. In their stupor, they slept.

  So deep was their sleep that they didn’t hear the group of men that walked into the bowling alley. There were eight of them in all. The front two of the group carried shotguns at the ready. They moved nervously, knowing someone had entered their shelter, but not who, why or how many. They were pretty surprised to see two men sleeping soundly on the wood floor near lane seven. The smell of cook fire and meat still permeated the air.

  “It’s just these two wankers,” one of the shotgun-toting guys said. The other one snorted.

  “Why do you always have to use those English slang terms? You’re from Detroit.”

  “What’s stuck up your wicket? I can say whatever I cheerio want too,” the first gunner said.

  “I’m going to stick my shotgun up your crumpet and pull the trigger if I hear any more Queen’s English slang terms. You got me?” the second shotgun man said. The first nodded. “I’m going to wake them up.” He prodded Chet with his shotgun. Chet only swatted weakly at the gun before rolling over on his side. The man jabbed the gun hard into Chet’s ribs, making him jump and screech at the sight of the men. Floyd slept on.

  “What the hell are you doing here! Are you going to eat me?” Chet yelled, kicking Floyd in the ribs. Floyd rolled over.

  “We’re not going to eat you,” the first shotgun man said.

  “You are going to eat me. I know it!” Chet shrieked again and tried to make a grab for his backpack, but he was kicked back on the floor. “You may eat me, but by God you won’t like it. I have been planning this for months! Do you know what I’m going to do?” Chet asked.

  “What are you going to do?” the second shotgun man said. It was unusual to see anyone they came across so loquacious. Most just simpered or cried. This was definitely interesting or, at the very least, mildly entertaining.

  “I will tell you what I’m going to do, and you can’t stop me. I have the drop on you,” Chet said as he struck a fighting stance pose. “I am going to crap myself.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You’re going to crap yourself?”

  “That is right. I am going to crap myself, and I’m going to rub the filth all over my body. Just rub it all over me, over and over again.” Chet mimed rubbing his hands over his body. “That will show you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You may eat me if you like. I knew this day was coming. I knew this would happen. Floyd told me it was a good possibility.” Chet gestured to Floyd, who rubbed his nose in his sleep and snorted. “But I will have the last laugh. My final act, as dirty as it may be, will be my triumph.”

  “Being eaten will be your triumph?” The first shotgun man said and laughed.

  “It will!” Chet almost screamed. “I will crap myself and rub the poop all over me. No matter how much you wash me, no matter how much you flay my skin, no matter how much you roast, cook or boil me, there will be that faint notion in the back of your mind.”

  Chet tapped the back of his head. “There will be that faint reminder that, while gorging on my flesh, you will taste or think you taste a bowel movement. Whether it’s there or not, it will be there in your minds. Who will be the first to have a taste?” Chet raised his arms wide. “Who will be the first to eat me? Taste the shit of Chet!”

  The group of men looked at each other, down at the sleeping Floyd then back at Chet. “Not our problem. The dogs will be the first to nibble on your flesh. Not us. We have a quota to bring back.” the first shotgun man said. “It’s not frequent that we entertain people in our own place of shelter. That painted sign usually alerts people to stay away.”

  “I told you so,” Floyd said from his spot on the floor. Maybe he wasn’t asleep after all.

  “The dog fighting stuff is real?” Chet asked incredulously. The second shotgun man nodded. “Oh, man.” Chet sat back on the wooden floor.

  “You didn’t mess yourself yet did you?” the second shotgun man said.

  “No. I didn’t really have to go anyway. It’s rough when you haven’t eaten in awhile, you know?” Chet said. The men hauled them to their feet, tied their hands behind their backs and led them out the door.

  Chapter 7

  “It’s good to be alive Floyd,” Chet said.

  “I agree. I like living as much as the next man,” Floyd said. “It’s the dying that concerns me. The dying part looks to be rather unpleasant.”

  “I do admit things on the horizon could have a rosier outlook. But we have the moment Floyd.”

  “We do have the moment,” Floyd said. He tapped his scarred knuckle on the locked gate of their little cell. Their kidnappers allowed them to stay together, but there were a lot of places nicer than this.

  Their cell was six feet by six feet square. Concrete blocks were stacked high at their sides and back. Wood planking was used for roofing. The cells were rather crude things.

  Floyd thought he counted twenty, all told. The cells were facing each other in a large dirt-floored circle. Their wood ceiling creaked with the sound of people moving about. Floyd hadn’t seen this many people in a long time. All were hustling and elbowing each other for the best seats. Once in awhile a person fell into the ring circle and ran around frantically until a Good Samaritan pulled them back up to safety.

  “They really don’t want to be down here with us,” Chet said. “I’m kind of feeling insulted.”

  “You see what’s in those cells across from us? I wouldn’t want to be down here either if I could help it,” Floyd said. Chet followed his gesture to a cell directly across from theirs. A huge dirty white dog, looking more wolf to Chet than dog, was snarling and biting at the bars of his cage.

  Several of the cells held dogs. The canines varied in breed and looked either sick and famished or half crazy with bloodlust. The motley curs matched the odd assortment of men, woman and children who were the residents of the other cages.

  “What I don’t get is how they pick who ends up in the cages and who gets to watch. We look just the same as they do,” Floyd said.

  “They must see something special in us Floyd.”

  “Maybe it was your incredibly moving speech about crapping you pants,” Floyd said, rolling his eyes.

  “It’s not always about what you say,” Chet retorted. “It’s who is saying it. I have a certain panache that really speaks to people Floyd. Hitler had it.”

  “Hitler was a horrible person! He orchestrated unspeakable things,” Floyd said aghast.

  “I’m not talking about what he did or about his ideals,” Chet said. “I am talking about his style. The dude could give a speech. You have to admit at least that Floyd. He could be speaking about the genocide of the Jews or ordering a large pizza with extra bacon; he would have your complete attention. It was his persona.”

  “You think you have persona? I don’t even know what you mean by that.”

  “Can you feel it radiating from me?” Chet asked.

  “You’re an idiot. How the hell are we going to get out of this mess?” Floyd asked.r />
  “You call me an idiot Floyd, then in your next breath you want my help. I should let the dogs rip you to pieces while I laugh my head off, but I will not do that. I have already proved to you what I good friend I am and what a bad one you are. Have I not obtained our weapons?” Chet said, patting the frayed backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, but only because they laughed at your blunted throwing stars. I bet they think it will just enrage the dogs further and give everyone a better show,” Floyd said.

  “What about your shotgun?” Chet said.

  “What about it?”

  “You still have your shotgun, don’t you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that Chet.” Floyd crossed his arms and frowned. When the kidnappers were looking through their weapons. They quickly confiscated Floyd’s gun until Chet started laughing and regaling the men with how Floyd made his own shells for the gun and how they never worked.

  Floyd was red with embarrassment as the men looked over his homemade shells and snickered. He almost died when they handed the gun back to him and pretended to be scared he was going to shoot them.

  “I think we should. I should get some due for getting you back your gun,” Chet said.

  “Okay. Okay, I’ll give you credit for that. Just shut up about it,” Floyd said.

  “I have noticed that you haven’t been shooting with it very much since your first…attempt at making your ammunition.”

  “That first time almost blew my face off. I still have those burn and shrapnel scars up my arm,” Floyd said. “But the gun works.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. I know how I messed up the shell the last time, and I know I have set it right.”

  “But you haven’t shot it,” Chet said.

  “I haven’t shot it,” Floyd admitted.

  “You’ve just been kind of waving it around a lot.”

  “Shut the hell up about it Chet! The bullets are fine. I just don’t want to waste any. That’s all,” Floyd said.