by Javan Bonds
The kid was pretty smart; he was dressed for success. The leather pants were a little creepy, but at least he was no poser. I wondered about his lair. "So, what kind of food do you keep in the comics shop?"
He was more than happy to answer. "I’ve got enough Code Red and Pizza Rolls to last for weeks."
I grinned and almost asked if he had been planning to hunt twenty-four hours straight and use explosive diarrhea as a weapon. I was impressed, though. Gene deserved props for surviving, for being calm and well dressed during the zombie apocalypse, for taking the fight to the enemy, and especially for being a badass and slaughtering zombies with his bare fucking hands.
He looked over our collection of firearms, pointing at the AR-15 cradled by my sidekick. "That aqua bus seems pretty powerful."
Smokes raised an eyebrow. “Aqua—mufucka, dis ain’t no Mexican water gun, dis here a masterpiece of iron and wood," he was busy gesturing to the features of the rifle like one of the chicks on The Price Is Right and I wanted so badly to interject that there was no iron or wood in an AR-15, but the fact that he was full of shit didn’t affect me. I wouldn’t get anything by winning the argument, and if Gene believed him, that was his problem.
Smokes continued his description, pulling some random caliber number out of his ass and I hoped the new guy saw through him pretty quick and with good humor, or I might have to clean up the deck of the Cora after the Luke Skywalker versus The Blob Celebrity Death Match.
Still under time constraints, I wanted to get a move on but was awkwardly unsure of how to invite this amalgamated nerd along. I should have realized that a formal invitation wasn’t necessary. Gene simply became one of our party members; no one felt the need to question it. Our clan tags were simply added to his screen name and he fell into rank with the group. As Smokes had prophesied, we had our tech. As our delegation journeyed ever closer to the Cora our fellowship was automatically increasing. We moved along as one force, Smokes and I a few paces in front, while the newest member of the sextet acquainted himself with the other two survivors (well, three, including Mary).
Gene spoke in an intelligent manner and told of the college degree he was in the process of earning at the Robotics Institute at Athens. He understood the old world was gone and had come to grips with the fact that he could not attain the legal title of "Doctor" but felt he’d already garnered the rank anyway. He freely offered his mechanical expertise to our clan. The others were deep in conversation about reloading ammunition, but would occasionally say "Great." or "Cool." or "Thanks, man."
Smokes leaned in conspiratorially. "Told ya bra, all is goin’ zactly cordin’ to plan."
"I’m guessing Gene is The Tech."
Smokes put his arm around my shoulder and smiled maniacally, "Shit yeah bra! Dis mina character’s a sword wielda, fo sho.
Mo Journal Entry 9
After a few minutes of hollering up at the deck, Crow finally peeked over the side of the boat and while she seemed completely unexcited and indifferent that I had survived, she couldn’t hide the look of surprise on her face as she took in my new companions. Nevertheless, she could not be bothered to lower the damn gangplank and her "welcome home present" to me was to throw a climbing rope over the side of the fucking boat. We almost lost Smokes a couple of times on his treacherous climb up, but I was not expecting the lifting of Bradley’s chair to be such a bitch. The Old Friend himself posed no difficulty; in fact, it was just the opposite. Hammer nearly fainted when Bradley pointed up in our direction and said something inaudible to Mary; she immediately jumped from his shoulder to the rope ladder and began vaulting up. He then threw himself from the chair, latched onto the rope, and scaled it with only his hands scaling the rope like Andre The Giant climbing the Cliffs of Insanity holding the princess bride. I will admit that I was not prepared for him to do something so superhumanly badass and was still in awe as The Expert and I lowered a couple of ropes to lasso and pull up a wheelchair that probably weighed nearly as much as Smokes. I realize now that might have had something to do with the dozens of weapons and the thousands of rounds of ammunition attached to it. I had never really thought about the reasons why this ship never had any handicapped tourists; if I were Bradley, I’d call an ACLU lawyer. Crow casually walked over and lowered the plank for Hammer. And why the hell I didn’t drop the gang plank rather than lift the damn chair with ropes is a mystery to me. Same reason we walked home through streets lined with vehicles, I guess. Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty.
Once we were all finally on the deck, I volunteered a re-cap of my almost-two-day quest because I knew Crow was not going to ask, and she did just stand there looking at me like she hadn’t noticed I’d been gone. I don’t know if I was expecting her to be happy to see me or give me a hug or even shake my hand. "Well," I broke the uncomfortable pause, "we got the ketchup!"
Crow simply grunted and nodded in acknowledgment. "We also picked up a few stragglers along the way," I spread my hand in the direction of my traveling companions, not really knowing if I should have asked for approval, or at least given prior warning for letting them stay with us.
I began by introducing each with a short bio, "This is Hammer. She runs the pawnshop across from the Magnolia." I then pointed to the next character in line. "Gene owns the comic book store in town, and this is Bradley Gage, we went to high school together. His little friend here is Mary." I think Crow actually cracked a slight grin at the monkey. Could have just been hopeful thinking on my part.
Most of the day’s discussion regarding our previous lives hadn’t produced many crucial details that she might desperately need to know, so I figured anything she was curious about she could ask for herself and they would be welcome to fill her in later. I could tell by the murderous fire in his eyes that Smokes was upset that I did not formally introduce him for a second time; maybe that will compel him to actually speak to her. And in any case, I refuse to become some kind of matchmaker.
She nodded her head in greeting to each. I was initially shocked when she verbally welcomed the only other surviving female, though after some contemplation, I guess this really was not too out of character. My jaw almost dropped when The Expert shyly blushed and replied, "Hey.”
I addressed the entire assembly. "This is Crow. She is the ship’s Cook and the only other surviving crew member."
I honestly didn’t know what else to say about her. I didn’t know a helluva lot more than that, despite the fact that we’d been shipmates and basically were now cohabiting. We moved over to the umbrella table that Crow and I had conveniently borrowed from a neighboring yacht a few days before; it was accompanied by six chairs. Thankfully, our seventh comrade had brought his own.
Crow asked Hammer if she was hungry and Gene obviously thought she was addressing the group as a whole. "I’m famished!" he said. Fortunately only I noticed the evil eye she threw back at him.
The Cook spent most of her waking hours fishing, so it was almost certain that we had more than enough to feed a few extras. I explained to our guests that I would go down and help Crow roundup the food. On our way downstairs, I had to shake my head to make sure I had not somehow confused Fat Albert for Pocahontas, when she said something that hailed an uncanny resemblance to the words of my overweight friend, "That bitch is fine! Superhero Boy ain’t hittin’ that shit, is he?”
What the fucking...? To this point, Crow had never formally admitted her sexuality to me; not like it ever came up, and it was certainly none of my business anyway. I merely assumed by her demeanor among the crew that she was a penis hater. Why would she think Gene was romantically partnered with The Expert? Hammer could have possibly been Smokes's old lady or even Bradley’s mom; I just found it strange and somewhat bigoted that she automatically assumed the two whites with working legs were obviously coupled. Although, to be fair, Gene was the cuter of the three.
The silence seemed to stretch as I had to think through the possible answers to avoid blow-back. I was instinctively sure Gene was not hittin
g anything besides his worn Fleshlight named "Rhonda." I had literally no idea of Hammer’s sexual orientation and wasn’t going to ask. Even if The Expert did swing in that direction, I wasn’t versed in the courtship rituals and guidelines of a homosexual relationship. Most straight people tend to look for a significant other that was born within the same decade...let me go out on a limb and say that Hammer does enjoy eating pie. She still might be a conservative traditionalist who is only interested in other middle-aged ladies. I could accept (looking around the eyepatch) that the redhead would have been a handsome lady in her time, but I found it a bit strange that anyone could find someone of their parents’ generation "hot."
I hesitantly answered with a noncommittal shrug.
I was hoping Crow could take the hint that what I really meant was: "I don't know, I don’t care, I don’t want to discuss this, and that’s all I have to say on the matter." Thankfully, she let the subject rest and we retrieved a couple of pans of grilled fish without another word. Smokes is going to be pissed to know that he assuredly has no chance. Before we exited the galley, I made sure to grab a stack of Solo cups and a gallon of water.
Before I continue, I need to get something off my chest: the color of the plastic cup you are drinking out of has no correlation with the beverage inside. I’ve drunk water, sweet tea, hunch punch, and Dr. Pepper all out of red Solo cups, and no one with an ounce of brain matter has wondered if I was drinking beer! I don’t even like beer, I drink liquor and get drunk much easier than you retards playing beer pong. Stop playing that stupid country song, "Red Solo Cup" on repeat at every single party where alcohol is served! I really have no idea why Solo cups are commonly red, but it is not some sort of secret code or status symbol for beer drinkers, and Toby Keith did not invent the disposable beverage container. The more toasted you morons get, the better you think your singing voice is. Wrong. One good thing about the zombie apocalypse is that I will never have to endure another slurred group rendition of the worst party song since “Louie, Louie”!
We reemerged on deck to the sounds of a screaming argument that seemed about to come to blows as we approached the table. Unsurprisingly, Smokes was the loudest of the group, Hammer was the quiet, but interested spectator, Gene was using some sort of Jedi calming technique to restrain himself from force choking Smokes, and Bradley seemed humored while stroking Mary, barely keeping her from throwing herself onto and gumming Smokes to death.
I was the Captain, after all, so when I came within reasonable distance, I felt the need to be the peacekeeper. I asked, "What’s the deal, guys?”
Gene hoped I would take his side and took a step in my direction while still facing Smokes as if he feared to turn his back on him. "Dawn of the Dead!"
Yeah. That explained everything. Every American had seen that badass zombie film and probably its reboot too, but I was unable to see what could have caused such a violent altercation, although I suddenly felt personally invested in the argument.
"What about it?" If one of them disliked Dawn, I would have to make him leave the boat.
I knew the hater wasn’t Smokes; the dude had probably studied the screenplay like the Bible.
“Dey fightin’ wit me cuz Ving Rhames black!"
Of course. The film guru had explained to each new comrade his naming of main characters and description of coming events, and of course he had described the roles each of them were destined to play. Apparently, this was the first Gene had heard of Smokes's theories, and it wasn’t going well. They had been sitting down, waiting for a meal. Smokes was obviously referring to the fact that the lead protagonist was usually a Caucasian. The Tech must have questioned his wisdom by mentioning that the main character in one of the archetypal films, Dawn of the Dead, is black.
I honestly had not taken the time to think about it and offered, "Well, Ving Rhames is black–”
“Mufucka, dis guy got to be da Ving Rhames! It okay! ‘Sides, Kenneth Hall a po-po, so dat don’t count as black!"
This was probably the most racist thing I have ever heard and I was about to respond, but decided staying on-point would be more effective with these two, so I took a quick mental overview at the plot for the production we were discussing.
"And what about The Betrayer? You said that role would be played by a later appearance and was always a white person…" I left this open for one of the others to pick it up.
The lightbulb snapped on over Bradley’s head. He pointed at Smokes. "The Betrayer in Dawn of the Dead was the other black dude with the Mexican girlfriend!"
Smokes was the reddest black person I have ever seen. Narrowing his eyes and aiming his fury at my former classmate he bellowed, "Listen you crippled-up sumbitch, I’ma trow you ova da side an’ call ya Bob!”
Bradley was genuinely offended and gave the seven pound, foaming at the mouth monster on his knee a few more inches of slack in the direction of her target, "I can still use my arms, you fat fuck!"
Smokes appeared to temporarily deflate and, glancing nervously at the demon straining at her leash, tried to extricate himself with his dignity intact, "Yeah well, not if dey’s broke.”
I was picturing a brawl between this monument to junk food and a paraplegic bodybuilder with a creature that could only be more terrifying if she had a pair of cymbals in her tiny hands. I was seriously tempted to back away and tell them to have at it.
Crow spoke up in defense of Smokes, "Okay, calm down. He ain’t no traitor," she aimed her chin in the direction of my sidekick and then caught his eye. "Now you. Apologize!"
Seeing the gentle giant angry to the point of nearly having a stroke was just as funny as seeing Crow turn into a scolding mother, even if she was only showing off for Hammer.
Smokes dropped his head and scuffed his tennis shoe against the deck as a child who can find no other way out of trouble, "I’s sorry I call you ‘cripple.’"
Both Bradley and his scary little companion eased. "It’s okay, man, I wasn’t calling you The Betrayer anyway. I was just making the point that we can’t go by color."
I was kind of disappointed that after all the raging emotions, the only wounds on either combatant throughout the conflict were against male sense of pride and the tension immediately dissipated as we all prepared to feast.
It was amazing how quickly the two went from being at each other’s throats to being relaxed comrades, making jokes and completely forgetting the fact that they had been ready to murder one another.
"So what is on the agenda for tomorrow?" Smokes fell back into the routine of speaking proper English, as if he were some sort of strategist working on plans for the war effort.
Hammer was the first to make a suggestion. "We need to go up to Walmart," she paused and jammed her thumb over her shoulder and up, indicating that the city Walmart was a few miles up Sand Mountain, on the outskirts of the city limits. "And Lowe’s is only a quarter mile farther down the road. We should see if there’s anything worth getting there, too."
Walmart would be a prime target for the survivors of any sort of Apocalypse to raid—a group could live for years off of the supplies gathered from that cornucopia of everything. Not only were there guns, but nonperishables, clothing, tobacco, hygienic supplies, medicine...well, most likely you've been there. Plus they have really low prices. "The Helpful Hardware Place" would also be one of the first locations looted by any party but would probably still hold everything we would need to secure the entrances to the island and then some. So, we were good to go as long as not one single other individual survived and both superstores were pristine and completely untouched, or at least un-lived in. I would have bet you money if both hadn’t been burned to the ground by now, they’re occupied by bands of malicious hillbillies who would rather murder and rape anyone they come across than turn over one box of Ho-Hos or sheet of plywood. We’ve all seen those movies or read those books: the unfit and uneducated yokels who miraculously survive and are somehow able to control large swaths of territory unchallenged while sexually
molesting anything with at least two holes always end up setting up camp in The Walmart. I guess they feel right at home there.
I was about to say something on this when Gene broke in. "We really need to go over to my place—it’s just on the other side of the Arab Causeway. I have some tools and supplies that would be really useful."
There was no urgent need to retrieve every season of Battlestar Galactica on DVD, and while I’m sure The Tech had the stuff to build an R2-D2, I felt it would be more important to load up on cans of beans.
Smokes looked around the table with a knowing grin as if he carried the deciding vote and was just waiting for more input when I added, "We need to hit the grocery stores first.” I turned to Gene. "Sorry, man. We can get your stuff later."
Though he seemed disappointed, I was sincere about helping him out and he seemed hopeful that we would make a run on his abode soon. The Prophet nodded in approval as the others agreed with the decision.
As our plan to take a trip up to the "top of the mountain" was finalized with our expert setting up party member armaments and discussing the degrees of damage done by various calibers of ammunition with the clueless tech and her new Native American shadow, the group feasted. They watched in amazement as Smokes clearly must have been vying for some type of Guinness World Record for the most fish consumed in one sitting. He devoured his weight in it, drowned in his beloved ketchup.