Zombie Lake: Still Alive Book One

by Javan Bonds

  "It's a 45; there's only one shot in it.”

  Dammit. Why the hell would anybody have a derringer with one shot? I was about to ask him just that question when he continued.

  "I'll put a pillow between my head and the gun, that way you won't get messy.”

  Well that was sure considerate, he was thinking ahead and about my hygiene. So, it had probably been him that cleaned up the blood from the floor. He and my momma would have gotten along fine. It was amazing to me that anyone would ever be ready to die. I mean, yeah, there’s being content and at peace having lived a long life. And then there’s saying, "Yeah, it's cool. Just put a fucking bullet in my head, and oh, let's keep the mess down, shall we?” Well, I guess he had lived a long life; now he wanted to go out on his own terms.

  "So you’re sure you want to do this?"

  He seemed frustrated that I was not saying, "Hell yes, hurry it up!” like he didn’t want time to over-think it.

  "Son, I just want to go home and be with my Edith again. I’m ready."

  "Why the fuck don’t you just do it yourself instead of making me feel like shit?" was the question I wanted to ask. Maybe he was a Catholic and believed suicide was a damnable sin and would rather me spend eternity in hell for committing murder. I’m not condemning someone for offing themselves after being wounded on the battlefield rather than being tortured to talk or someone dying for a cause; it just seems like assisted suicide is still suicide.

  So, why was I willing to do this? I had just met this old guy and I was planning to shoot him in the head just because he asked nicely! I guess I’m just playing The Hero as Smokes had dubbed me, willing to go above and beyond the call of duty to keep the story entertaining.

  He seemed to be in a hurry. "I’ll lay my head here on the desk," he pulled the cushion out from under him and demonstrated. "Then I’ll put this cushion over my head and you can just press down in the center."

  I forced myself to stay calm as I sat beside his chair and started humming. Fucking really? “Knocking on Heaven Door” is the song that comes to mind right now? Jesus, I need a counselor.

  And he did it. He pulled the cushion tight over his sweating skull, offered a weak "Thank you,” and dropped silent. The only sound was his muffled breathing from below the seat cushion.

  I couldn’t believe I was going to do this. I just moved mechanically like I had no control of my body. I pressed the muzzle of the pistol into the cushion, pulled the hammer back, and looked up before closing my eyes. This was going to do more damage to my psyche than it was to Mr. Scislaw’s head. I squeezed the trigger then brought my head back down to discover I was not covered in gore. Until this moment, I had pictured a bullet to the cranium causing an explosion like a piñata full of raw meat. I placed my hand on the old guy’s back to check for breathing. Thank God there was none. I have no idea what I would have done if he was still alive. There's no way in hell I would pick that cushion up and I don't even know how I'd finish him off. I involuntarily shivered, there was nothing on me, but I still felt dirty as hell. It might've had something to do with the fact that I just ended the life of a thinking and fully clothed human. I looked up to gauge the time of day by the sun and realized we needed to get moving.

  I shoved the empty pistol into my pocket before making my way toward the front. I would never be able to get the scene out of my mind, but I would also never speak of any of this to a soul. I didn't need Smokes reminding me that I shot a senior citizen. I wanted to bury the body or set it out in the lake or something, but I couldn't bring myself to lift the cushion. I don't guess he was worried about a funeral…but I suppose you could say I was being an environmentalist, leaving some food out for the animals. (Fuck, that joke was in poor taste, sorry.)

  I looked through the broken glass windows. Of course, there was a KFC across the street from the fucking pharmacy…why the hell didn't we just get our damn condiments there? I guess that would not have been part of the plan; we had to go to The Magnolia or we would be going off-script. My feet began moving to the front of the store and I tried to shake off the mercy killing I had just taken part in, but I knew it would haunt my dreams for whatever was left of my entire pathetic life.

  Mo Journal Entry 5

  On my return journey to the front of the store, I stopped and took a few paces backwards. I noticed a line of untouched boxes of Nicorette patches so I opened a box and pocketed a couple of sheets. Smokes would be grateful since he wouldn’t be finding any cigarettes and I wasn’t planning to stop at the Discount Tobacco Outlet. I knew exactly why these had remained right where they had been when the CVS was functional. Nobody wanted them. I used to use smokeless tobacco, and did so from the time I was seventeen till I signed onto the Cora. I had smoked the occasional cigarette or cigar but I always had a can of Grizzly in my pocket. I honestly started dipping because it was cool and rebellious, continued using it simply because it was a habit, and finally quit when I realized it would not readily be available once I got hired by Davey Jones Locker.

  Like most addicts, I wish now that I had made the choice to end my nicotine habit years ago. I could have saved all that money I used on dip to buy a fucking car that wasn’t disgustingly offensive. Yeah, I knew why the patches had not been stolen. When I was nineteen and had my wisdom teeth removed I bought some nicotine patches knowing I would be unable to dip for a week or so, and though a patch may offer a kickass nicotine buzz for the first fifteen minutes, your arm feels like someone gave you an Indian burn to the point of bleeding and then rubbed salt in it. Maybe I sound like a pussy, but I don’t particularly enjoy causing myself immense pain. Hell, I couldn’t even finish an entire sheet. Unless you were a twelve-pack-a-day smoker and these were the only nicotine supplements in the world, I don’t think it would be worth it. But I will toss them to Smokes, who will be either use them or pretend to be eternally grateful and then just throw them away when I’m not looking.

  I am enormously glad that big pharmacy chains like CVS and Walgreens have become like tiny Walmarts; they basically stock everything. I quickly glanced through each aisle where the shelves had not been knocked over and was able to grab a couple of backpacks, then I found bottled water and began putting several days’ worth in both of them. By that time I could make out Smokes at one of the registers. I could see that he was throwing a temper tantrum, destroying shit after having no luck finding cigarettes. I wasn’t sure if he was just screaming or sobbing or both as he beat a checkout counter with a magazine rack. I made sure to make some noise on my approach so that he would hopefully take control of himself before I arrived.

  "Nigga, ain’t no fuckin’ Newport’s up in here," he spoke with his back to me as I approached; I suspected he was wiping his eyes. "I did find dem candy bars and shit you was lookin’ for, dey on dat counter.” He pointed over to his left, where he had gathered what he could find of the items I’d asked him to look for. It was disappointingly pathetic; an almost empty box of Snickers bars, three Paydays, some teriyaki Slim Jims, one pack of Reese’s (which he was currently devouring), and two things I should have realized would be the last edible stolen during the initial rush on convenience stores at the onset of any sort of Apocalypse: an unmolested box of York Peppermint Patties and a box of those beef/cheese stick combos.

  I would rather go outside and scoop up zombie shit to slurp down with a straw than eat either of those torture devices that they use to interrogate terrorists! The only person I have met in my entire life that likes York Peppermint Patties is my mother, and I do not even want to know the kind of person that eats those other things; I’m not sure they are technically food. I’m not even sure how York Peppermint Patties keep getting restocked since nobody ever buys the damned things.

  I sighed and spoke to no one in particular. "Well shit. You only get what you get and you don’t pitch a fit, right?"

  I wasn’t expecting a response but Smokes agreed even if he did make a misquote: "Shit scats. When life gives you lemons, just make lemon juice."<
br />
  Brief confusion crossed my face but I decided not to call him on it since he seemed confident that he had just given me a few words of wisdom, plus, I guess that was closer to what we had.

  I shook my head and said, "There’s not much good stuff left, but we will stop here on the way back and get a bunch more shit," I looked over at the items he had reconned once more. "There ain’t any gum?"

  He smiled goofily and shot a thumb-and-fore finger pistol at me while patting his pocket with the other hand. "Not for you, sucka. It’s Bubblicious and I call dibs, bitch!"

  Motherfucker.

  Before exiting the building and continuing southward, God granted me a small reprieve when Smokes offered, "Oh shit homeboy, I love me some York Peppermint Patties! I wish I could crawl up inside one dem and eat my way out!" Well, if I were to be forced to survive on our scavenged food, at least I would not have to suffer anything worse than malnourishment and heartburn. For several miles, our journey was so uneventful that we had relaxed and lowered our weapons—as if I could hit anything or Smokes was actually going to fire his machine pistol anyway. My companion was obviously bored because he had uncharacteristically stopped talking and that was almost as scary as being surrounded by ravenous cannibals. There were businesses and houses that appeared merely abandoned since there was not one boarded up window or barricaded door, rather just dark buildings that seemed empty. We passed Fat Man Sporting Goods and I debated with myself whether we should go in. As we drew closer, it was evident that there had been more than a robbery attempt here, it appeared like a full assault. Though I was not able to tell if the defenders or the attackers had won, I was not about to enter a place where a gunman could be hiding with a fucking armory of weapons.

  Over the next rise was Main Street and running through my mind were several apocalyptic scenes like what I imagined I would see at the edge of an abandoned, ruined town—most of the buildings burned, bodies littering the streets, zombie search parties scouring for innocent children—yeah, my imagination runs away from me sometimes, but to be fair, it’s what our legends have led us to expect. When this city came into view, well, I say "city" but Guntersville has no skyline, boulevards, cineplexes or five-star hotels. The tallest building is five stories, and that’s the courthouse. Most were no taller than two stories. I could have convinced myself that it had all been a dream, that there had been no sweeping apocalypse that had turned almost everyone into blue, carnivorous apes. Everything was right in the world. There were cars parked on the street in front of stores, of course, and although there was no gore strewn over sidewalks, the zombie shit was sprayed on everything, and, like I said, tons of litter. Traffic was not backed up, but it was facing the wrong way. The only things that made me remember that the world had gone to hell were that none of the buildings had electricity, there was absolutely no traffic from any direction on any roadway, and I was standing in the middle of what should have been a busy road with the guy who played one of Jim Carrey’s fat sons from Me, Myself, and Irene. All that and the complete silence, too. Even a small city in Alabama was fairly noisy, but there were not even birds chirping. The only thing I could hear was the wind and Smokes smacking the hell out of his watermelon bubblegum.

  The lack of sounds made this country boy uneasy, but Smokes didn’t seem to notice until we reached the large complex of the First Methodist Church of Guntersville. Its parking lot was packed bumper to bumper with cars. “So that’s where everyone went,” I said.

  He spoke, "Dem people—" he paused and lowered his voice to a reasonable volume, "—having revival or some shit?"

  I knew exactly what this was. I’d seen the scenario in almost every zombie movie...granted, I’m not George Romero, like Smokes is, but even a guy that is not a follower of The Walking Dead could picture what was inside that church, and the fact that my friend did not seem to realize it made me question his true understanding of the zombie lore he preached. This is one of those places where the faithful go to seek refuge and ask for God’s guidance, but some member of the congregation is infected and believes God will heal their sickness. The poor bastard turns and infects most (if not all) of the other faithful. The prayers for healing go unanswered so the pastor decides to close his infected flock into the basement and spends days fasting and praying for a miraculous healing of God’s chosen. Next comes the protagonist, me, I suppose, who finds some obscure reason to go into the church, discovers zombies, possibly loses at least one companion, is utterly disgusted when he learns that the pastor is corralling said zombies, so feels justified in killing the deranged church leader. The Hero, me again, I suppose, then ends the chapter by barely escaping with his life and perhaps one other unimportant and unnamed character that does not affect the plot. The not-really-worth-it point of entering the damn building full of monsters in the first place is completely forgotten. Yeah, I just described a situation that every screenwriter for every zombie movie in the past decade has used. See, I was completely prepared for this apocalypse and that is why there is no way in hell I’m going anywhere near that place so I can just barely escape with my life. Fuck that.

  I could tell just by the way he was standing that Smokes wanted to go inside for at least a raid on the kitchen. "Maybe dey’s some–"

  I was not going to let him convince me to go in there, "Think about it dumbass, do you really want to get eaten by an old lady in a choir robe?"

  "Fuck no, dawg! But what if–"

  I felt pretty confident about interrupting him like he constantly did me and I could tell it was really pissing him off, "Hey, if you wanna be the first to die like you say most black guys do in the movies, then go for it. I’m not going through those doors."

  Smokes spoke of us as if we were movie characters and all our actions were predestined in a script. Now, I could see he was comparing possible outcomes to circumstances we’d seen on the screen, but that’s where my actual practical belief stopped, and I refused to voice my concerns to him. So, whenever he gave me the opportunity, I was happy to throw his movie shit right back at him. He rewarded me with a raised eyebrow and said:"Touché, bra."

  After he decided I was through speaking and not going to interrupt him again, he haltingly began, "Listen, you stupid son of a shit-fuck, dis ain’t how it apost to happen: you gotta be adamant about chargin’ in there to save some minor characters and den load up on da supplies we find."

  I still didn’t know if his inner city speech patterns were some bullshit way to act tough, but he used his profanity with such confidence that I must admit I was impressed by the force of it, and of his conviction. This was a community gathering place. Who knows? Perhaps there were people holed up in there that needed saving and maybe they did store useful supplies inside the church, but I just wasn’t going in right now, and not because of my own movie-born trepidation. Until my explanation (or excuse, he probably thought) had left my mouth, I hadn’t realized that I actually had planned to recon the property later.

  "Dude, there are two of us versus God knows how many zombies and the only weapons we have are a fucking bow and arrow and a submachine gun that you have never even fired before! After we find some guns and reinforcements, then we can go to church. We’ll wait and see how long it takes for you to get bit."

  I can’t say how, but I just knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the building was full of infected. I continued to reiterate my point until my companion agreed. Smokes softened and finally conceded that he was not going to force me to go inside, but he also had a glint of pride in his eyes when he realized I was speaking as if I had become a faithful follower of his Hollywood zombie gospel. For a minute I didn’t know if I actually believed that we were living a movie or if I was just appeasing him; the line between simply using reverse psychology and agreeing with his insane notions was definitely becoming blurred.

  Leaving this scene behind us, we continued south. Looking back, I noticed the formerly electrified sign in front of the house of worship had a crudely spray painted message o
n the south side. “COME BE WASHED IN THE BLOOD”, was crudely written in bright red lettering. “Fucking creepy!” As I stopped and pointed, Smokes followed my finger and began to read the sign. Then he glanced at the church building and prophesied, “We be back.” I dropped my head and turned to leave because deep inside I knew Smokes spoke the truth.

  We walked past the church parking lot and followed the paved sidewalk. The next building on our left was the city Police Department. I was tempted to stop and see what could be had for grabs; I think I remembered hearing that Guntersville had a SWAT team. After trying to find my phone to check the time and cursing myself for still being dependent on technology, I looked up at the sun to guesstimate the time and made the decision to save this possible treasure chest of firearms for another trip. It would have been nice to have a couple of shotguns but there weren’t yet any raiders from which we would need to defend, we had nothing to carry a bunch of weapons in, and we still had hours of daylight left before the infected were comfortable coming out. Too bad they were not like vampires who burst into flames when touched by UV rays, or even like the gay-ass vampires from Twilight who sparkled and shit, which, though still dangerous would have at least been amusing. I was pretty sure it was their eyes, but maybe they’d heard the John Tesh radio show stories about sunlight and skin cancer. Of course, as I said, it was not impossible for them to come out during the day—the motherfuckers had chased Crow and me one sunny Monday afternoon, they almost caught us, too. We were totally not expecting them. I guess they are just more comfortable in darkness.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw that Smokes had tired of the bubblegum and was already tearing into a peppermint patty—have fun with that big boy, I thought, grabbing a Snickers for myself. He stopped what he was doing when he noticed me watching him struggling with the wrapper. "Da fuck you staring at, penis junkie?"