by Javan Bonds
During one of the brief pauses when Smokes quit talking, I heard Bradley tell him excitedly that he had free-wheeled down the mountain in his wheelchair yesterday and it was "fucking awesome". He also said that he had stayed in the pet store at the foot of the mountain until morning, and then he met up with us. I realized after he mentioned his freewheeling down the mountain that his must have been the loud exclamation we had heard yesterday evening. I also overheard his mention of staying in the pet store overnight and that he was keeping a list of supplies that Mary could use.
We had made reasonably good time, and so far there’d been no real distractions for most of the journey, unless you count Smokes asking an insane number of questions about Mary and getting formally acquainted with her. The salvageable resources Hammer and I mentally marked were stacking up; if we could snag them they would keep our crew relatively comfortable for an indefinite period. As I worked things over privately, reveling in one of the rare moments of silence Smokes allowed, I gave a start of surprise as a hand touched my shoulder. I realized my big black friend had made his way to my side as we moved. Hammer wasn’t really paying attention to any of us, constantly scanning the perimeter for "Ruskies and Tangos" and Bradley was busy speaking sweetly to Mary as if they were intimate.
Relatively alone while still in our group, Smokes leaned into my ear and whispered, "Da monkey," he said conspiratorially, "she da fuckin’ Innocent, homey.”
I’m not going to deny that I am a giant pussy, but the hand landing on my shoulder was not the reason I startled. I had come to the same conclusion at almost the exact instant Smokes began telling me that Mary played that role, and I tell you what, I had chills. After some brief contemplation, I further reasoned that not only did Mary represent the cute pet that almost always plays the innocent; America’s known patient zero was a primate, meaning that of all animals, she was the one type at risk of being infected. Could that mean she might also become The Sacrifice? That is unthinkably horrible. For whatever reason, it seems so much harder when animals are victims of evil. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like people have kind of brought it on themselves, you know? I consider myself a dog person and would rather kill you than see my dog hurt. Now imagine how that would be compounded when it is a nearly human companion that is helping take care of you. Fuck. Poor Bradley.
I was not normally so lost in my thoughts, and when I finally regained awareness of my surroundings, the quartet was crossing an intersection on Main Street. It bothered me that I had basically blacked out for something like a half a mile. Fatigue, I guess. Anyway, I abruptly came back to earth at the appropriate time because shortly after, Hammer raised a fist indicating "stop" as we all heard the apparent turning over of a metal trashcan.
"The Tech," Smokes tells me, will always be some sort of mechanic, engineer, or general handyman, except in very modern scripts they may be a computer-whiz. This important character will be able to solve impossible problems, use completely self-invented tools, and build things all other characters cannot logically imagine. The tech will always be supremely knowledgeable about their field of expertise as well as have a broad general knowledge of many others, allowing the character to deal effectively with obstacles so the plot can move forward. A real know-it-all
If this had happened yesterday I guarantee you my ass would have been cowering on the boat by the time the noise disappeared back into silence, but yesterday was a long time ago. In less than twenty-four hours I have come to understand that I am living out a movie script; it is too early in the plot to be confronted by the main antagonist, or villain (zombies, presumably), and we don’t have enough characters yet to battle them effectively, so it just made sense that this "tech" would have to be another survivor and not an enemy. Smokes was a sanctified believer in his own gospel and merely looked towards the sound expectantly.
As Hammer crouched and moved to the tree line, her rifle already raised and pointed in the direction of the sound, Bradley threw his chair into reverse and readied one of his shotguns...but Smokes and I remained unmoving in the middle of the road without preparing any defense what so ever. We glanced to one another and silently agreed that this was not an attack; it didn’t fit the plot line. I smiled, expecting another useful companion to emerge from the shop across from us, Excelsior Comics. My smile vanished when a blue, filthy, yellow eyed, and nearly naked teenage boy came into view and began pounding on the large display window. I was shocked back into reality and was about to raise my rifle when Smokes said in a low tone, "Fuckin’ patience, Grasshoppa."
Before I could bring my weapon fully to bear on the former human, a blur of motion came from around the corner, an indescribable wave of noise sounded, and all movement ceased. It took a moment for me to believe my own eyes: the zombie was now dead or near it and tacked to the brick facade next to the window by its neck with what appeared to be a pitchfork. After a few halting blinks, I realized it was not a pitchfork, but something all too familiar…the mighty claws of Wolverine.
Before I go any further, I have a fairly well kept secret to confess: I am a closet nerd, a secret geek. I cannot speak Klingon, I don’t (often) masturbate to pictures of Princess Leia in her slave-girl get up, and I’ve never played D&D...but I do enjoy reading fantasy and admit that I followed Star Trek, up until Enterprise.
Movies, though. That’s been my downfall from "normal." Remember that show Beat the Geeks? It was a sort of Jeopardy for...yeah, you guessed it. I could hold my own against them, especially the "Movie Geek." I am also a music enthusiast; in fact, I take pleasure in lots of media. But I have actually been called in the middle of the night by intoxicated friends to settle debates on movie trivia; my near-photographic memory of dialogue could be used to count cards in Vegas or at least should have made me an honor student. But fuck that. I enjoy being the go-to guy for pointless shit. On our initial meeting, I caught Smokes’s Pulp Fiction reference and I might be the only person he knows that appreciates his many movie quotes.
Wolverine pivoted the corner, his claw still lodged through the neck of his victim and into the brick. Once he was fully revealed, it became obvious that the figure was not actually Wolverine, but a conglomeration of several Sci-Fi characters. In this montage of everything nerd, I immediately recognized, in addition to the Wolverine claws and their iconic slitted gloves, a Starfleet Captain’s uniform tunic, a red cape that once belonged to Superman, and for some strange reason, a gas mask. Topping it all off was a gray, "N7" baseball cap (from the Mass Effect video game) perched precariously on his head. This sent my inner geek into an envious tailspin that was screaming "Oh. My. God. Awesome!" and as the figure turned to face the two stupefied idiots standing in the intersection, he said something that was completely muffled by his gas mask. Of course, the words became crystal clear to me when he raised his hand and spread his fingers in a Vulcan greeting.
I absentmindedly raised my hand to respond in kind, dropping it quickly to my side and looking askew at Smokes, who was just grinning. Now Smokes knows I’m a geek, dammit. Before the amazing freak reached up to loosen his mask, I noticed that his eyes appeared Asian. There are not too many Asian people living in Marshall County. The only Asians I knew personally growing up were the Korean lady my dad’s first cousin was married to, their kids, a few Filipino doctors, and a Japanese tattoo artist. I didn’t think any of them were this skinny nor flaming Sci-Fi enthusiasts. Upon revealing himself, it was clear that he was not Asian; he was just a plain old white dude with thick-rimmed glasses and a Spock haircut.
He retracted his claws before he greeted us and kicked at the occasionally twitching body on the ground beside him. He relaxed as he slowly moved in our direction. This guy wasn’t an idiot, he knew that we (just as we knew that he) were not infected, but he could also see that we were armed. I found it strange he was willing to walk up to us without even knowing our intentions, I mean, for sure this guy had seen Mad Max and therefore was aware of how dangerous post apocalyptic humans can be.
For all this geek knew, we could have been those hostile, sadist survivor types, minus the hockey pads. Now that I think about it, he could have been planning to murder all of us, and was currently making the first move. But I was so fascinated I just stood there like a deer in headlights. I think now that he must have noticed our harmless demeanor and hoped for fellowship, especially since I had thrown him a secret greeting, as it were. Regardless, he was taking a leap of faith by approaching us.
I was too stunned to think of any non-Trekkie greeting, so as he walked across the street, I just asked, "Were you chasing that thing?" This seemed like a reasonable question; it looked like the damn zombie was running away from him. I briefly envisioned a zombie-hunter human.
"Something like that. He was the first successful test subject of my experiment to create a working attractant composed of tomato paste, molasses, vinegar–”
Are you shitting me? It was astonishingly unbelievable that any thinking person would want to attract fucking zombies and Professor Van Helsing, Vampire Hunter, over here was baiting them! He continued the list of ingredients as he came towards us, but the first three had already caught my attention: my twelfth grade chemistry teacher was a basketball coach that liked to show his students how to make "manly shit" in the chemistry lab. He once showed us how to use chemicals to make vinegar which we then combined with molasses, tomato paste, and several other ingredients to create a decent barbecue sauce. That was one of the few classes from which I still retain any learning, and we used to joke that Coach Bonds would have been just as good as a Home Ec teacher. Super Geek finished revealing his secret formula and paused, cocking his head to the side, perhaps thinking of an addition. I tried to shake away my dumbfounded expression upon hearing that he had deliberately concocted the reverse of zombie repellent.
I said the first thing that came to mind. "Barbecue sauce?”
He brought his attention back to us and sheepishly nodded in the affirmative. "KC Masterpiece seems to work best.”
I nodded as if this were obvious. Of course zombies must enjoy the high quality ambrosia that is KC. He was almost upon us now and with his mask held in his gloved hands I could make out his features. The Coke bottle glasses and haircut gave him a retro, 1960s vibe. His scrawniness and nasal voice reminded me of a white Steve Urkel, and his completely smooth face convinced me that he was probably young.
Okay, I’m not Grizzly Adams, but within a week of shaving, I believe I have somewhat noticeable facial hair from certain angles and in certain light. My mother’s family swears to have American Indian ancestry, so I use that as a reason for growing little more than a thin goatee and a few patches on my jaw line, which I normally keep trimmed. Smokes mentioned something about grooming, especially shaving, being a huge morale boost for male survivors in almost every zombie story, but I really don’t think something so trivial will matter to me in the days ahead. It takes weeks for me to grow a decent five o’clock shadow, and anyway, I don’t think having unkempt facial hair is going to turn me into a bitch. In high school, my friends all had full beards while I looked like a smooth-faced twelve-year-old, and although having a beard does not make a person a badass, it seemed important as a teenager. But in any case, I don’t see why I should give a shit about my outward appearance. I’m alive and that’s all that matters. There is no one important enough for me to impress anyway, so I’m not going to be vain; and I don’t have to prove my masculinity. At least in my mind, there is a huge difference between vanity and superficiality, and I don’t believe I am overtly caught up in my own looks, or in the opinions of others regarding my looks. I do, however, freely admit to being superficial as hell and extremely judgmental of the appearance of all women.
I decided to be polite to the guy who was now walking in my direction and had warm, infected blood dripping from his retracted steel claws. "Awesome get-up, man. I’m Mo," Okay, I really did think his mishmash of costumes was kickass. I paused to allow him to introduce himself.
"My name is Gene Stanley."
Before he could continue, Hammer spoke from her position a few yards back. "Eugene? That’s my daddy’s name!" I was fairly certain who her father was...I’ll have to remember to ask her if he’s the WWII memoir author of With the Old Breed. Unlikely, but that would be pretty cool.
"That lady with the AR is Hammer, and this is Smokes," I gestured to my closest companion and then introduced Bradley and Mary as well; Gene gave an equally nerdy greeting to each and stopped at a casual arm’s length away.
He reached up to adjust his "Mass Effect" cap and asked, "So...do you bear the ring?"
"What?"
“I assume that your fellowship is traveling to Mordor to destroy the One Ring.”
Holy shit, I was thinking. This guy is a white, nerd version of Smokes! He could definitely go toe-to-toe with me on the cultural reference field. I am just grateful that he did not refer to Smokes as "the fat Hobbit."
"Yeah, our quest isn’t quite that..crucial " I said. "We are heading to the Viva Ancora—" He cut me off. It pisses me off that everyone is constantly interrupting me, I know I talk slow, but damn. Have patience.
"—The Viva Ancora? You mean the pirate ship? Frakking sweet! I go there every time the boat’s in town; I’m a sucker for replicas. If any of the crew is still alive, it would be super if I could get a tour."
This was fucking ridiculous to me. Gene was obviously fully aware that humans are an endangered species, yet he, just as Hammer, was so fascinated by a fucking wooden sailboat that he was more interested in checking it out than simply reaching safety! I felt then, and I’m still fairly certain, that I’m going to be the cautious one in the group, which worries me. I’m not sure if I contained the sigh or if it was completely audible as I hurriedly explained my relationship to the Cora to the exuberant fist-pump of the Starfleet officer before me.
Our troop stood together in the middle of the street to welcome its newest member. Apparently the only requirement for joining our band of brothers was to ask for a damn tour! There was no need to ask Gene if he wanted to join our crew. He had already been cast as a "friendly" before we met; I understood it was impossible to do anything other than automatically accept him.
As we continued our journey homeward, Gene detailed his daily life since the plague had struck Guntersville. "I own and manage Excelsior Comics. I was rearranging some collector’s edition Transformers trading cards when all southbound traffic came to a stop. Cop cars started speeding north up Gunter with lights flashing, and after a few minutes, civilian vehicles started pouring through, going the wrong direction. I had been watching the news about the terrorist’s biological weapon and a few of my friends on Xbox Live had heard rumors that it was spreading north at an alarming rate. I was just thinking about that when the first infected man I had personally seen ran past the store; I didn’t dare go to the window, so I have no idea where he was headed. It was clear that he had been infected because not only was he shirtless and running full tilt down the middle of the street, he was a shade too blue, had blood all over his face, and a large bite ripped across his tricep.”
“After I was sure that the creature had not turned back around, I walked to the front door and locked it. I barred all the exits and made my way to the back room to play Xbox. I never noticed the power go off, because the shop is one-hundred percent solar. Unfortunately, my internet connection was lost less than six hours after that first zombie sighting.” He stopped to collect his thoughts, then continued. "After about twenty hours of playing games solo, I decided to go have a look around. The whole town was deserted...it was like being on a planet that had been wiped out by some alien energy bomb, or you know, like the population had been assimilated by the Borg." Huh, I thought, this guy must really miss his television.
"I decided now was the best opportunity I was going to get to live out one of the scenarios my friends and I played at with metal pieces and graphics, so I geared up and went hunting. I discovered the Blues’ love of sweet sauce and s
tarted leaving it around, like drawing an E.T. into my house with Reece’s Pieces."
Smokes's interest was piqued. "You got any more dem pieces?" he asked.
"No," Gene said. "I mean, there might be some back at the shop. I used an old bottle of KC Masterpiece leftover from an all night Magic tournament we had a few weeks back.”
While Gene told his tale, I made a mental list of questions to ask at the end and the first thing I wanted to know was why the hell he was wearing pieces of random fantasy costumes.
He explained as if it should have been obvious. "The Wolverine claws were part of the display in the store advertising the upcoming Marvel-Con in Atlanta; they are surprisingly sharp—probably the best weapon in the whole shop." He looked at the gloves, still dripping with blood, like they were the holy grail. "The Superman cape," he continued, "was part of the costume I wore at the most recent Comic Con. It’s made of a pretty thick material that protects from attacks from behind; this guy in Japan custom makes them. I don’t really remember why I had the gas mask; I think some dude traded it for some Warcraft figures. Anyway, it looks cool and it protects me from getting any infected blood in my face." He smiled and waved the mask around.
Clearly this all made sense and he could see that I was waiting for him to explain the remaining items of clothing, so he continued. "I was already wearing the "N7" hat, and the captain’s tunic was the only long-sleeved shirt I could find; probably should have worn a t-shirt over it...it’s a pretty expensive item. I don’t know if you noticed what’s below my belt…" he looked down admiringly at his wiry legs and I followed his eyes to notice that he was wearing durable leather pants. "Ghost Rider pants, a replica from the 2007 Marvel film. The boots help prevent bites down there." As a finishing touch, he plucked his belt. "Complete with stainless steel chain belt.”