Zombie Lake: Still Alive Book One

by Javan Bonds

  He had a good point. We had salt and pepper but it would be nice to have a few other condiments and something besides fish, so I conceded. "Okay. There’s The Magnolia Diner, down the highway. I’m sure they’ll have stuff that goes with fish, and there are a few other places on the way that we should visit." Before I finished I made sure to add, "Oh, and if we see any protagonists we’ll see what we can do for them."

  This seemed to appease Smokes for the moment. He smiled, approving of my humanitarianism and willingness to play The Hero. The Magnolia was located on the southern tip of the island near the causeway, and there were a few grocery stores, gas stations, and restaurants that would be in our direct line of travel. I was doubtful that there would be any peevies out during the day and was hopeful that we would see no infected on our journey, although it might be nice to try out Smokes’s gun.

  Smokes reminded me, "You wasn’t plannin’ on findin’ me, but ever zombie movie need a sidekick. Look like I’s yours, bra."

  I was still baffled that he had so quickly placed himself in this role, or any role, for that matter, but all I could do was grin through my confusion. After all, who doesn’t want a sidekick? I walked over to where Crow sat with her fishing rod balanced gingerly in her hand and explained to her where Smokes and I were heading. Even though I planned to be back by the end of the day, I could not make any promises. I doubted she would come after us regardless of how long we were gone. I was pretty sure she didn’t give two shits if we came back at all. The entire conversation was one-sided and other than an occasional head movement or grunt it was as if she were asleep or a deaf-mute. I explained that Smokes believed that we might find other survivors to bring back with us and she still didn’t care. As long as she could fish I guess our fates were not worth a thought. Perhaps if I had hinted that one of the survivors could be an attractive female who could gut and fry a fish, she would have shown a little more interest.

  Smokes and I began our journey by leaving the ship with our weapons. He had his machine pistol in the back of his waistband and an aluminum baseball bat stuck through one of his belt loops. I wore my compound bow and quiver of arrows over my shoulder. There were absolutely no goodbyes from Crow. She didn’t even ask us to bring back any ingredients. She would have been damned happy to eat completely unseasoned fish at every meal for the rest of her life if she could do so without being bothered by anyone.

  Once we had exited the marina where the ship had been docked for weeks and began walking towards Gunter Avenue, I realized that every car in sight was facing north.

  Highway 431 was a divided four lane highway. In town, Gunter Avenue (which was basically "Main Street") formed the southbound lanes and Blount Avenue, running parallel, was the northbound lanes. Both avenues met at either end of the island, once again becoming Highway 431. Now both avenues were obviously heading northbound. Smokes had briefly described his residence on Guntersville Island and had spoken of the happenings of May Day. I didn’t get any news from the city’s left over occupants who were too busy running away or being eaten; it was good to know I had a reliable source if I should need more information about what had actually happened on the island.

  We traveled south on Gunter against north facing vehicles, but there was nowhere near the number I had been taught to believe I would encounter by pop culture. Sure, there was an occasional car standing abandoned on the side of the road, the rare pile-up wreck scene, and finally, near the southern end of the island, a single police barricade, which I guess was positioned to check travelers coming onto the island for signs of infection—a lot of good that did them. There was one other thing that was unexpected: trash strewn everywhere. I’d always seen almost pristine backdrops in zombie flicks, besides the dropped belongings, maybe, but otherwise things appear almost untouched by whatever horror has befallen the town. Sometimes the grass even looks mowed. If you were to lift this typical outdoor scene and isolate it from the plot, you could briefly forget that the entire citizenry was dead and think everything was right in the world. Now just picture the complete opposite of that and you might come close to the reality we were facing. The ground was covered with random garbage left in the wake of a vast, migrating horde of people, and there was a ridiculous amount of zombie shit.

  This is something you don’t hear much about in zombie movies: zombie shit. Very rarely has any mention been made about any type of excrement from the undead, even though they seem to eat constantly. So there was no way I could have been prepared for the gut-wrenching, horrendously putrid aroma of the black river that follows all of them. I am guilty of taking a the occasional picture of a noteworthy log I dropped...admit it, men, we all do it or think about it when one is exceptionally huge or nasty, but nothing I have ever plopped comes close to the size, consistency, or vomit inducing smell of the ass nuggets they leave behind. After experiencing the stench firsthand, you will never have to worry about me becoming a cannibal; if human flesh is what causes their shit to reek as it does, I know why the Spanish killed the Aztecs. You don’t even have to see a zombie coming; you can smell it from a mile away. I pity canines, especially bloodhounds. I had a horrible nightmare the other night about trying to strip down a fully clothed zombie…think about it. Yeah, I know this probably provides evidence that maybe they are not actually dead but are simply infected with some type of the disease or virus or something but again, I’m not going to dwell on the fact that we have to shoot innocent sick people in the head.

  Even for someone who grew up in the boonies, the lack of general city noise in an area that was pretty well populated less than a month ago was definitely disturbing; it was obviously affecting Smokes pretty hard as he had spent most of his life in Guntersville and had graduated from Guntersville High School. We spoke about our previous lives, and he continued his explanation of how our "zombie apocalypse tale" would play out. He spoke with such earnestness that I found it impossible to disagree with his air of certainty. I was thankful that we had encountered absolutely no movement for the first few blocks because I was pretty sure I could not hit a moving target that was smaller than a house and Smokes graciously informed me, as our journey began, that he had never actually fired his submachine gun, but that he would have been willing to "bust a cap in one dem blue mufuckas."

  The first few blocks we passed were mostly residential; a few of the houses had obviously been looted or otherwise trashed and a couple were still smoldering skeletons of blackened wood. I wasn’t even considering scavenging these homes until I was sure it was safe and Smokes knew without even asking that our first goal would be the CVS a few blocks ahead. There would not be many supplies we would need to take with us all the way across the island both ways, but we needed to at least scout the pharmacy and decide what was available to grab on the way back. We stepped into the parking lot and it was immediately obvious that the place had been looted. Most of the glass windows and doors had been broken to pieces. There was a single car in the parking lot with both front doors open. Bloody handprints were smeared on the inside of the windows and windshield. I moved low to the door with my bow at the ready and motioned for my companion to group with me, he paused a dozen feet behind me.

  He shook his head and spoke a little too loudly, "Man, you’s fuckin’ retarded if y’all think I’ma walk in there and let zombies fuckin’ ambush my black ass! Dis black guy ain’t gonna be the first mufucka to die in dis one!"

  He had been referring to our situation as "dis one" as if this was our own particular zombie movie, for which he had yet to think up a clever title. I would need to brainstorm on this with him later. We could write a script and maybe some studio would turn it into a film or at least a book, hell, we might even hit the bestseller list on zombie Amazon. That is, of course, unless everyone else is already dead.

  He still appeared reluctant to enter the building so I stopped just before my boots crunched onto broken glass and grinned maliciously. "Don’t be a pussy! I’ll go first. Besides, what if there’s someone trapped in
there? You’re the one that wants to save everybody. Man up!" I’ve never really been one to motivate others, I pretty much just let folks do as they please. But I had to get him moving because I sure as hell wasn’t going in there alone.

  While Smokes cussed unintelligibly, he scoured the area around the register for precious tobacco and stuffed his pockets with disposable lighters. I cautiously darted between the cover of end caps to displays and eventually realized that there would be no ambush from human or formerly-human attackers. Once I was satisfied that we were alone, I rose and casually made my way to the pharmacy counter as if this were any other day and I was just a shopper. The closer I got to the back, the more obvious it became that the pharmacy had been completely ransacked. I noticed trashed displays and random destruction in aisles before I got to my intended destination where there was cash, prescription bottles, pills, and shell casings littering the floor, as if there had been a gang fight in the CVS. All of the narcotics, Sudafed, and antidepressants were missing, which I expected, but I was surprised that I could not find a damn bottle of Tylenol or even aspirin. I did see some antibiotics and other things we could scavenge later and made a mental note. I found a shit-ton of Midol though, Crow would surely want that because apparently it is a medicine that you need if you have a vagina—I have absolutely no idea what it does, I just know that girls take the shit.

  Earlier I mentioned that Smokes cussed. I feel the need to elaborate. Here in the South we do not "curse" or "swear," to use profanity is to "cuss." "I swear on my mother’s grave" is the phrase that immediately comes to mind when someone refers to swearing. When one mentions cursing, I think of a nasty magical spell being placed on someone: voodoo-type crap. If you are a Yankee and talk that way, it doesn’t bother me, just don’t bitch because I use the English language the way I want to. Live and let live, that’s what my Momma used to say.

  Mo Journal Entry 4

  "Didn't you see the sign? We're closed!"

  I almost screamed and nearly pissed my pants. I had not expected anyone to be alive in this ransacked building and I wasn't even close to being ready to defend myself. There was no point in putting my hands up; the gang banger was going to fill me with bullets regardless, so I just turned to the pharmacy counter to face my executioner.

  ☠☠☠

  "It was getting pretty late in the afternoon when naked people started running down the streets and screaming. Good Samaritans would stop to see if they could do anything to help the naked lunatics and get bit themselves. The crazies barely slowed down when they took a bite of someone, they would just bring their teeth down on an unsuspecting bystander's arm and then go to the next person. Of course, the victim would normally just stand there, shocked. There was no screaming, immense pain, or immediate turning; civilized people just couldn't believe that another person bit them.” He shrugged and shook his head.

  "Anybody that had seen TV in the past week knew about the infection and how it was transferred, so I really have no idea what they were thinking or why they tried to help sick nutcases."

  The man paused again to let a bloody cough out into his handkerchief. I wouldn't have had to hear this guy's story to know that he was exceptionally old. Who carries handkerchiefs unless they are at least part of my grandparent’s generation?

  Mr. Scislaw had been the pharmacist at this CVS for nearly ten years, but I wasn't aware that pharmacists went down with the ship. He was infected. The old guy had obviously just not turned yet and was still coherent enough to carry on a conversation. I would show some respect and lend him an ear while he still had time. You could bet your ass I would make sure to get the hell out of here before he started ripping his clothes off and throwing himself at me. I wasn't into geriatric guys and I really didn't want to confirm that I couldn't shoot a bow and arrow for shit. His color was fading and his hands shook like he had Parkinson's as he put the bloody snot rag back into his pocket.

  "A few people started coming into the store to get away from the monsters running through town. We tried to convince the manager to lock the doors, but he said 'locking up in the middle of the day would seem unfriendly to customers.' I don't know what that idiot was thinking, the way things were going, there wouldn't be any customers left by the end of the day!” The old pharmacist got a faraway look in his eyes. “There were about a dozen people that came in before this lady started telling me that some crazy guy bit her baby, asking me if we should call poison control, and if I had any antibiotics. I almost laughed at her stupidity and told her she needed to rush the kid to the emergency room in Huntsville. She raced to her car with infant in hand and I immediately felt guilty. I don't know if she made it to the ER or not, but I like to think she had a better chance going north than stayin' here and dying with the rest of us."

  Mr. Scislaw adjusted himself in the office chair he was sitting in behind the pharmacy desk. He was noticeably sweating and I thanked God he didn't wipe his face with his handkerchief. This was all interesting, but I kind of wanted to get a move on so me and Smokes could make it back to the Cora before dark.

  "So did somebody break into the store?”

  The old man raised up and looked at the floor surrounding me, covered in shell casings, broken glass, and loose pills. He didn't have to say anything to make me feel like a fucking idiot, he just glanced at the floor and then sighed when he looked at me. Are all senior citizens assholes in their last few hours? He picked up his story at a later point that day the zombies had come to town.

  "After a while, I was making my way to the front to lock the doors regardless of what Jimmy wanted. As I passed the checkout desk, the infected just burst through the doors. I became their target, being the closest person to them. Three naked people dripping in blood and every other body fluid you can think of made a beeline at me. I didn't have any sort of defensive weapon, so I just grabbed a magazine rack from in front of the register, scattering papers as I brought it in front of me. One of the zombies threw itself at me and I knocked it to the floor with the magazine rack. It started to pick itself up and I kicked it in the balls, putting it out of the game for the time being. The wailing and screaming of the downed peevie—you know, that's what the young people call them—drowning out the roars of the other two as they charged. My flimsy magazine rack couldn't hold up to the onslaught of two of the demons and they easily got through. One of them tackled my legs and knocked me onto my back while the other one slammed into the magazine rack, shoving it against my chest. It leaned forward to rip the muscle from my shoulder and as soon as its teeth broke my skin, it stood and looked around as if I were no longer on the menu. I was just stupefied. It was barely a break in the skin and I could only watch while the monsters ran through the store, attacking everyone. When they got bored and all the customers stopped crying, the people eventually wandered out to go somewhere else—to turn, I guess. I chose to stay here, my wife passed a few years ago and there was no reason for me to go home. I wouldn't have to deal with anyone in an empty store and I was content to live out the rest of my life in solitude.”

  Well, that was kind of depressing. He was clearly turning, I was just amazed it had taken three days. It usually only takes a few hours for an infected human to become a ravenous nudist, but the pharmacists seemed to have passed the normal time limit. Maybe he was one of those slow burns they had been talking about on the news.

  "And then you got robbed?" I said. He laughed.

  "Well yeah. I locked myself in the vault in the back of the pharmacy when I started hearing punks come into the store. They tried pulling the door off and even shooting the lock before finally giving up. I reckon they were loading up on pills when some of their rivals showed up. Of course they weren't going to share, so a gun fight broke out. I could hear automatic gunfire bursts before things started dying down."

  Of course pharmacies would be the first things looted. The Walgreens across the street had to be in the same shape; the opportunists obviously ran straight back to the pharmacy desk. I could imag
ine a car pulling up with three or four guys jumping out and running to the door. After a few vain attempts to crack the safe, they just got what was easy to get. They had bags full of painkillers and were probably headed out as an opposing gang pulled up. They waited in the shadows near the back and opened up on the enemy as they closed. The scene unfolded in my mind—bullets impacting soft flesh, tearing through muscle, tissue and bone. Yet there was no blood or gore on the floor. The campers had successfully ambushed their foe. The victors made a clean getaway with a good amount of drugs and had apparently left at least one alive that they thought they had killed. I'm guessing that's where the bloody handprints on the car outside came from. I just wondered if the person died and the peevies got the body or he decided to walk off. I found it somewhat strange that there was no blood in the store. I wasn't expecting bodies, but did zombies also clean up blood from their already downed meals? While I pondered all this, Mr. Scislaw had grown somber.

  "Listen, son, I know I don't have much time left, but I don't want to turn into one of those things. Can you…?” he trailed, I knew exactly what he was asking. I wanted to immediately tell him no. How the fuck am I going to mercy kill anyone? I have a fucking bow and arrow, I would probably miss! Even if I did hit my target, I couldn't even describe what I imagine would happen. I would feel bad for even shooting an animal with that thing. It would be horrible, more blood than a scene from Kill Bill. The damn arrow wouldn't go deep enough to put the guy out of his misery anyway. God knows how many times I'd have to shoot him, he'd look like a porcupine before he finally bled out! I scuffed my boot on floor.

  "I only have a bow, I'm not sure…”

  He interrupted, "Good God, son, that would be a horrible way to go. No, I have a derringer you can use.”

  Hell yes! I thought. After I put a bullet in this guy's brain, I will have at least one shot from a decent projectile weapon that had reasonable accuracy compared to my pointy stick shooter. See? I can think positively in the face of death! Then the pharmacist crushed my dreams.