Zombie Lake: Still Alive Book One

by Javan Bonds

  Nothing more than the usual banter filled the cab for the majority of the journey until a *snap-pop*could be heard from the driver’s seat, followed by a long inhalation.

  Smokes poked his head between the front seats from behind the driver. "Lady, da fuck you doin’?"

  Hammer guiltily grinned as if she had just been caught by a scolding parent and glanced up to her rearview mirror with a cigarette dangling loosely from her lips, "Sorry, hon. I’ve been trying to quit for 20 years.”

  Smokes looked close to having a stroke and she thought it was because he didn’t want to be in the cabin full of tobacco smoke. "Y’all got canca sticks and you been hidin ‘em?"

  "Well, like I said, I’ve been trying to quit for years and the chew gives me something else–"

  "You thank I give a dayum? What kind you got?"

  "Newport Lights."

  "I’s kill ever cracka in dis truck if you don’t gimme a mo’fuckin’ smoke."

  I found this to be the perfect opportunity to make a smartass interjection and my hand shot up, "I’m one sixteenth Cherokee!"

  He cut his eyes at me from the opposite side of the rear bench, "You go first, white bread.”

  I chuckled at the non-threat and Hammer was already reaching back with a precious cigarette. The nicotine deprived Smokes nearly burst into tears of joy as he thanked her, looking as if he had decided to simply eat it before magically producing a lighter.

  We had traversed at least half of the way there and had come across almost no automobile accidents or breakdowns, only changing lanes once to avoid a dead dog. Yeah, it doesn’t appear that zombies enjoy eating things that are mangy; I’ve seen some pretty malicious stray dogs that refuse to eat another animal. If there is something wrong with it—I guess it’s just beneath them to eat rotten meat or possibly just because it’s not as fun; I guess it’s kind of like that.

  Other than Smokes's moaning between drags from his cigarette, no sounds were made and as I had taken the opportunity of this car ride to finish up my journal entry, I realized that I might as well go ahead and get Hammer’s story, starting with the initial outbreak and ending at the point she had spit on my shoe and threatened to murder me. There is no time like the present; we had a few more minutes, so I grabbed my extra notebook, and recorded her words.

  HAMMER: In Her Own Words

  Ever since I got out of the service, I’ve been preparing for any sort of national or global collapse, whether it was inevitable and natural or completely man-made—a stock market crash or a pandemic. I’ve been setting myself up for years to deal with it. When the story broke about the sick monkey and the first human infected, I knew that this was it. I stocked up and started hunkering down in the secured locker at my pawnshop. Of course, most people did not see how bad this could be or how fast it could get that way. I played along with everyone else and kept my "open" sign up like the other businesses around here. Finally, on the day the power went off people started to worry, there was some panic—obviously it was too late. Wannabe tough guys that thought they were super survivalists because they wore hunting camouflage and had a 30.06, police officers that pretended they were on Secret Service SWAT teams, and quasi-gangbangers screaming about solidarity…they all swarmed by Bottom Dollar for guns and ammunition. I sold to those that came ready to pay and behaved themselves like human beings. When folks started with that looting mentality I shut the shop and armed myself up in the blind till they cleared off again. I was confident that most of these guys would not see another sunrise.

  I had Fox News running non-stop. On that last day, I sold nothing but guns, and then only to folks I thought were just there to arm themselves and leave. The people coming through would pay whatever I was asking for nothing but a basic, bolt-action 22, and according to most, every sporting goods store in the county, even Walmart, had sold completely out of everything including bows and arrows. Pretty much every store that sold guns and ammo had closed up shop for miles around. Sure, I could have saved my for-sale ammunition for myself, but since I had been preparing for this eventuality for years, I already had more than enough of every caliber to last me a lifetime and, to tell ya the truth, I was hoping these amateurs would put at least a couple of these rounds through a few tangos.

  It was inevitable—almost funny in a sadistic sense, the Ruskies began rushing the city just in time for lunch hour. Pretty soon The Magnolia’s parking lot filled up. One person would attempt to help a sick individual and summarily get bitten, followed by a witness to the attack attempting to help the infected. It was heartwarming that people were such good Samaritans and simultaneously stupefying that they could be such ignorant sheep. After the first few crossed the causeway I decided to lock up for good, and my very last customer happened to be an intelligent young man who I initially thought would wind up holding down the fort with me. But he turned out to be a heathen jerk.

  He seemed normal at first, then it started. "This sickness was brought here by religious extremists, the only reason they hate us is because they are unemployed." He almost got shot for that and before I could even chase him out of the store, he started talking about me getting paid less than a man and that minimum wage should be increased. I told him to leave and he started crying about his "Fourteenth Amendment rights," so I just pointed my 45 at his head until the door shut behind him. I should probably feel guilty for sending him out unarmed, but then again, I can’t abide those damned Democrats.

  After the socialist split, I set about pulling a curtain over the doors that I’d painted with "ALIVE & ARMED INSIDE: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK" in day-glow orange marking paint. The power went off sometime that afternoon and I spent most of the next few days in my safe room with my cases of Wise freeze-dried rations, bottles of water, and Red Man. I had taken the curtain down the night before you showed up to rob my place.

  I remember the news talking about how all of the tangos stripped their clothes off, had a noticeable blue tint to their skin, and normally only came out at night...something about UV light and the size of their irises...their eyes turned a solid yellow color or something like that. Anyway, I was getting pretty low on chew after just a few days—when you have nothing to do but load magazines, clean guns, and play darts, you dip more than usual. I decided to make a mid-day run to the Exxon Station in front of Publix and see what kind of tobacco products I could bring back with me.

  I felt confident that I would not run into any insurgents or IEDs; I figured the crazies would be easy to spot being blue, naked, and probably stumbling around like someone who’s been out celebrating at The Cave Inn. I saw no need to waste gas on a round-trip that was less than a mile and started a quiet walk down the highway. I was surprised to be confronted with complete silence and putrid filth scattered everywhere—they leave a heckuva stinky mess behind ‘em. I made it to the gas station with absolutely no interruptions and was happy to see that the door was unlocked. I began my shopping spree by opening a bottle of water and filling an entire grocery bag with chewing tobacco, another one with beef jerky, and one more with packs of Newports, just in case I got stressed. As I was pulling down rows of cigarettes from behind the counter, I saw a parked Frito-Lay truck through the window, on the opposite side of the store. Just that name! Right away I start craving Rold Gold pretzels. I figured I would pay a visit to the truck or maybe just drive it back if the keys were accessible, so I made my way across the parking lot. I was happy to see it unlocked and began fumbling through the console to find keys for the back. After an unfruitful search, I simply walked to the back and used the butt of my carbine to break the lock. I rolled up the rear door and froze…just like the stunned man who was sitting in the back eating out of a bag of BBQ potato chips. The guy was wearing a "Frito-Lay" cap. He dropped the bag as I raised my gun.

  Both of us understood the other was human, and eventually began our introductions and stories—myself first, then my new friend.

  Earl Buckalew had painfully thinning blonde hair and he was short, but he was a
former bodybuilder, which definitely made up for the hair. He was in his late forties and lived in Attalla. He’d been distributing chips for Lay’s for decades, and was planning to retire in just two years. This was the first person I had seen in days and even though he was just a boring, balding chip delivery man, I was more than happy to have some company, so I invited him to the Bottom Dollar.

  He fished the truck keys from his pocket and stuck a thumb to his right, "There is a Red Man truck over there. You mind if we raid it before we head out, Petunia? I’m out of dip."

  I had bags full of tobacco over one arm, but almost dropped them and fell over at his revelation. Anyone who is addicted to tobacco knows there is no such thing as "too much dip." This man rose a full two points in my admiration scale.

  "Well why not?" I said, immediately exiting the truck and making my way to this piece of heaven on wheels. Now, let me tell you, Mo, there is enough chewing tobacco and snuff in the Frito-Lay truck to last for years.

  We pulled up next to the smaller Red Man rig and cleaned it out. Then we drove over and parked the Frito-Lay truck right up against the back door of the Bottom Dollar. We unloaded a couple pallets of chips and snacks, some boxes of chew, and a few rolls of dip, then we rolled the door down and locked the shop behind us. I felt pretty confident no one could get into the truck, the way we had it parked, but every time I think of those cans of tobacco back there I get nervous. I can’t wait to get back to it.

  Anyway, I led Earl on an abbreviated tour of the shop, going over the blocked entrances and the reinforced storage locker. He was pleasantly surprised that I was set up to last almost indefinitely and initially seemed content. After only a few hours, though, the typical testosterone laden male started poking around uninvited. At first I didn’t pay any mind to his "accidental" brushes against my breasts and rear end, but eventually it became more obvious and pronounced, especially...well, sometimes I thought he was walking around with a broom handle. The next day I walked into the bathroom and he was standing there completely naked; presumably he’d just "dropped" his towel. For a minute there I feared he had turned. I looked him up and down, I swear I was just checking for blue. But naturally he noticed me looking down.

  "Oops," he looked back at me and grinned, "Well, I guess you’ll have to help me with that." I had not really been expecting it, but I guess it is common place in a survival situation to just give your companion a blow job if they have contributed chips and tobacco. I tried to explain to him that I didn’t swing that way. Offering polite explanations of my sexual preference were not getting through to the naked chip man. I remember my daddy once told me to diffuse a threatening situation with humor, so I finally ended the embarrassing confrontation with, "Look how small it is! Ain’t it cute? What’s the little feller’s name?"

  I learned a long time ago that penis insults work on any man, no matter the circumstances. You can trash their IQ, their work, even their Mama, but nothing shuts off their brain like a pecker-slam. Of course, the fact that I had a pistol on my hip gave me an added edge.

  Earl picked up his towel wrapped it violently around his waist. His face turned red as a beet. "Fine. I’m going to Publix to get some fucking spaghetti!"

  It was probably wise of him not to try to insult me in return. I kept the smile on my face as I simply stepped to the side and gestured for him to be on his way. Earl quickly dressed and began gearing up for his journey. I called after him, "Normally you’ll have no problem with Hajis during the day, but you can never be too careful, especially inside a building." All of my warnings seemed to go in one ear and out the other as he prepped to leave. He didn’t speak as he went out the door and I wondered if he would return with spaghetti and just forget his attempt to get laid and forgive my personal remarks about his gear. I wouldn’t have minded simply looking past the naked episode, and I was actually craving some of that spaghetti. Looking back, I guess I should have gone with him, but I figured he might need some time alone after I had insulted his manhood. I never heard any gunfire. Never heard a scream or a howl...or anything. I just never saw Earl again.

  I am still wondering if he died or if he’s still out there somewhere; I guess we’ll find out when we see how much dip is left in the truck.

  Mo Journal Entry 12

  Hammer turned her attention back to the road and I was startled into reality. I was making notes on a few finishing touches and I looked up to see that The Tech and The Oracle (who were seated to my left respectively) were just as transfixed on the uncommon sound as I was. It is amusing that only a few days without motorized transportation would cause us to be alarmed by the sound of a car blinker. After the extra milliseconds it took me to recognize what I was hearing, I looked through the windshield to see that our driver was slowing, merging into the turn lane, and preparing to stop at the nonfunctioning traffic light to turn into the Walmart parking lot. I did not understand the importance of obeying traffic laws when there was no one left to enforce them and asked, "Really?"

  The Expert threw up her hand, "Hush, I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been alive and I’ve never got a ticket. Not going to chance it, now." Hammer was obviously still thinking this was just a hiccup in her daily life and things would soon be back to normal; I’m pretty sure she would never again have to worry about tarnishing her pristine driving record.

  The Walmart Supercenter was still standing, thankfully, and though the parking lot was not even a quarter of the way full, there had been a few shoppers willing to buy groceries on the day the world stopped turning. I was unable to see the parking lot of the shopping center up the hill, next to Walmart, but the other businesses that had popped up along the highway in the shadow of the retail giant had not been looted, and most had at least a couple of cars in the parking lot.

  You know, it really pisses me off when people bitch about Walmart stealing patronage from local businesses. These people must have never been through rural Alabama where a Walmart has been constructed. There was a gas station, trees, and pastureland before Walmart; now there were thousands of jobs where local businesses had congregated around the Supercenter. It would take even less than my mediocre education to realize Walmart exponentially grew our economy. One thing I hope the zombie apocalypse has done away with is those liberal pussies who hate capitalism. But I digress.

  We traveled squarely up one of the lanes of the parking lot and Hammer seriously slowed to turn into an available parking spot closest to the store, but naturally after the completely empty handicapped parking section.

  “Woah!”

  The driver seemed startled by my exclamation and applied the brakes to a vehicle that was barely moving anyway. She looked at me in the rearview mirror.

  "What’s wrong?"

  "This fucking parking lot is basically empty and we ain’t gotta worry about the fire department showing up. Park in the damned fire lane!"

  This outburst would have been expected from Smokes but the entire party was taken aback by my uncharacteristic ranting. I honestly attempt to always keep my cool; I was just not willing to be run down by peevies as I ran back to a truck that was halfway across the fucking parking lot while my arms are full of groceries because the driver wants to be a law-abiding citizen! Speech was not necessary; the reflection in the mirror told me that I could threaten her with bodily harm and she would still refuse to park closer to the doors.

  I was preparing myself for another tirade when Bradley interjected with a compromise, "I’ve got a handicap tag on my trike, I think it’s legal to park between the blue lines as long as it is easily provable there is a handicapped person in your party."

  I call bullshit. I’m not exactly sure, but I would bet you that he just pulled this out of his ass. I’m glad he did, and apparently so was Hammer, as we had been provided with a reasonable compromise. This was farther away from the door than I wanted to be, but it was the best I was going to get.

  Even as she pulled into the parking spot, she still tried to appear skeptical about t
his law and asked Bradley, "So if the cop is writing me a ticket, you can just show him that you are in a wheelchair?"

  Jesus, that’s beyond complete denial. I wasn’t the only one disturbed and Bradley stammered, "Uh, sure."

  Did she really think there would be cops writing tickets ever again? Here’s an even better question: let’s say that there was no world destroying plague and everything was as normal as it had been just over a month ago and there were dutiful police officers constantly scouring the Walmart parking lot for minor traffic infractions. If we were all inside loading up buggies with groceries, how the hell would we be alerted to a cop slapping a violation slip under the windshield wiper? Though it would be entertaining to see The Expert fret over the answers, I chose to keep my mouth shut and take what I could get as she killed the engine.

  The entire delegation filed out and I stepped up on the running board, grabbed Bradley’s wheelchair and tossed it on the ground. It was a lot lighter than I expected, once his arsenal had been removed. Bradley dropped himself out of the truck, and while it scared the shit out of me, he expertly landed in the right spot. Mary jumped down to land perfectly on his shoulder. I’d almost forgotten that she had taken this trip with us, spending the entire ride quietly curled up in her master’s lap like an anorexic cat. The only movement was that of an empty plastic bag that got swept up by a gust of wind to fittingly mimic a Tumbleweed. This was not the Old West; it was a brand new world. While following some of the same anarchic rules, the two ages look nothing alike, but I found this modern tumbleweed almost poetic.