by Javan Bonds
He replied with a wave of his hand, "Naw man, thain’t a goddamn soul with us."
Before I continue, note that I very rarely use the word "goddamn" and only write it in the dialogue of others to recreate actual speech. You may also notice that I contract or change the spelling of words during some dialogue and that is also for authenticity. I am not some "holier than thou" Bible scholar who would condemn others for saying "goddamn;" hell, Walt uses it at least once in almost every sentence and I use every other profanity known to man. Before you get picky, I know that using "Jesus Christ "or "Oh My God" would also be considered taking the Lord’s name in vain, and there is really no difference between those exclamations. I don’t personally make a habit of using them, but I do what I must for journalistic integrity.
I was relieved that no other friendlies would be appearing and assumed this was a high budget film and not some indie "B" movie. I didn’t expect any more main characters to be popping up so soon after the love interest, and I am sure The Zombie Prophet, my go-to for plot, would affirm that Sarah is the love interest, so if anyone else was in the Walmart, we could shoot first and ask questions never.
Looking back, it should have been obvious that it would be Walt making his way through the beer aisle at Walmart after the apocalypse; it takes a truly devoted alcoholic to scavenge for warm, carbonated urine right after the End of the World.
"I still want to know how the hell you two ended up here."
I was looking at Sarah, but of course Walt answered. "Well, me and my fiancé here," he gestured to Sarah before continuing, "we was picking up some stuff for everybody and I reckoned since we was here I would just get me a few goddamn cases of beer."
Of course, he spoke as if I knew exactly what he was talking about and I looked at Sarah with raised eyebrows after shaking my head. Did he really just say that they were engaged? It is a well known fact that Walt is a complete fucking moron and though that is usually one of his more endearing qualities, it’s irritating to try and force an explanation out of him for anything he says or does. Now, I love dogs, as I’ve said, but I don’t expect them to successfully recite a complex monologue. Sarah gestured for me to follow her off to the side, and I began moving as she turned to walk down the closest aisle. We walked at an even pace with a few feet between us, and though I knew she would calmly explain the entire situation, I wanted her to hurry the hell up and make me understand.
"Our group of survivors made a sweep of this Walmart earlier this morning and found it to be clean, so me and Walt came up here to get some supplies,” she began in her easy way. She paused and reached into a shelf. She opened a jar of pickles and crunched on one before continuing, "It doesn’t look like anybody else has raided this place yet, and we planned on grabbing mostly non-perishables and ammunition." She looked at me and answered the question on my face, "Yeah I know, there aren’t as many survivors as I had expected either. I’m guessing it’s because they ain’t the slow-type zombies."
I was glad to hear that my little band wasn’t the only group of survivors calling the infected "zombies;" I briefly wondered if they also referred to them as peevies. But I had so many other questions for her that I didn’t even know where to begin.
I started with the most pressing. "Are you really gonna marry that idiot?"
She chuckled, delicately wiping a little pickle juice from her lip "God no. I found myself trapped by a group of guys who were probably going to hurt me and Walt was nearby. He remembered me from years ago and chased them off.
"Lucky he was roaming around, I guess," I said, a little jealous that it hadn’t been me to rescue her.
“First he started calling me his wife, and I told him that we had to get engaged first." He’s been calling me his fiancée ever since." She clarified a bit more. "He keeps me safe, and has been a gentleman. And I really don’t know if he’s joking or not. He can call me whatever he wants, as long as he protects me and doesn’t expect you-know-what.”
At that moment, the Western Appaloosa flashed across my mind: Sarah sounded a lot like Allie French, beholden to whomever offers the best package. (please tell me you know what I’m talking about). I could vividly imagine the situation of Sarah being forced out of her car and being encircled by roughnecks who are thwarted at the last moment by an unlikely protagonist.
I would mull this over later. I decided to continue with my line of questioning. "Where the hell were you when this happened?”
She looked at me as if I should know, "I was on my way to your house—or at least your parents’ house. Don’t you remember that you told me that at the End of the World, I should come to your house?"
I guess an offhanded comment that I made years ago when I was probably drunk after reading what may be the greatest post-apocalyptic novel of all: The Road, was not at the front of my mind. Shame on me. I may not have remembered saying this, but of course I would want her with me after some sort of catastrophe; I didn’t doubt that she was quoting me. I was just surprised that she would have remembered something like that. I was torn between feeling pride because Sarah took my words to heart and thought of me as her safety, or horror that she had almost come to harm by following my advice. I was also sad that I had not remembered giving it and then wasn’t even there for her when she needed me. Her words depressed me beyond reason; I should have gone to Mama and Daddy’s when I had the chance. I would never see them again. I stood there, wishing I had been a better son who’d spent more time with his parents or had even thought to go home to be personally safer. I also felt that if I had been where I should have been and where I told her I would be, things would be different between us. Who else had needed me while I hid out at the dock? I know we can’t predict how our actions will affect our future, but every time I see Sarah, I feel like if I had done one thing different or could go back and change one small action, our friendship would have moved to the next level. Remember that Nicolas Cage movie Next? If I could see every possible outcome for my actions, even just to the end of the conversation, I could have everything I want.
It goes without saying that if I had gone home and not remained on the Cora, I would never have met Smokes or any of my other party members; maybe I never had that choice. I’m sure The Oracle would tell me something like:
"You’s always at da place you is always s’post to be.”
If I had gone home, Sarah might not have made it, and she would not be here now, or she could be married to Walt: I’m thinking of The Butterfly Effect.
She stopped walking when she saw that I had gone still. "Wait, so where did you and Walt go?" I asked.
I had originally felt this unsupportable inclination that my parents were alive, but I had pushed thoughts of them to the back of my mind and had refused to contemplate their circumstances. Suddenly a surge of hope now washed over me as I knew what she was about to say.
"Well, your house, of course.”
My jaw went slack and I gaped, waiting for more. When she realized I wanted her to continue, she smiled and pulled a piece of paper from the front pocket of her jeans. "Randy made a list of stuff we need to get and Mrs. Collins told me to go back to the sewing department and clean it out!”
Just so it is clear: "Randy" is my dad’s first name and "Mrs. Collins" is, obviously, my mom. From elementary school onward, everyone who was anywhere close to my age called my dad by his first name and I doubt if most of them even knew my mom had a first name. It was never meant as disrespect to my dad, nor did it mean that my mother was not personable. The formalities shown to her probably stemmed from the fact that she was a substitute teacher at my school for years.
I had never been so overjoyed in my life! My parents had survived the Armageddon event that had wiped out almost everyone else; Sarah was alive and as glad as I was about that—it was impossible for me to think of anyone but my family as I almost danced a jig. I was unaware that Sarah and I had reached the end of the aisle and had turned towards our waiting friends. The silence between us was not unco
mfortable as it would have been for most people. She had learned shortly after meeting me that I show as little emotion as possible and she’s always been okay with it. I wanted to hug her, scream for joy, ask her a million questions, but I simply swallowed all feelings and reverted to my default setting of "placid." When I’m riled, I can get pretty sarcastic; I have a decent sense of humor, and laugh fairly often. I get pissed about a few things, but the majority of the time I simply exist. I’m sure Gene would say I am letting the Force guide me; I suppose that’s a decent description. I always try to remain calm. On rare occasions, I flare up, showing excessive anger or an illogical fear—must be the Dark Side gaining control. Wow, I’m a fucking nerd.
When we came closer to the others, I wasn’t surprised to hear Walt speaking loudly. "I got my licenses revoked about four months ago ‘cause I got three DUIs in one week! How about you?"
My alcoholic friend sounded almost proud, as he usually did when discussing his petty criminal activity. He’d paused as if waiting for a response. None came and Walt’s grimace could be heard. "Shit. Sorry, man!"
He had obviously been speaking to Bradley and had just realized he was paraplegic. That didn’t mean Bradley couldn’t possibly drive; perhaps he has one of those motorcycles with three wheels. On the other hand, if he did have a rig like that he probably would have been on it and not simply pushing himself down the highway. Well, there would have been a lot of obstacles after the apocalypse, so he might have left it at home. Hell, maybe it was out of gas. This is really not the place to argue with myself...I guess I’ll consider it quietly rather than write everything down.
We stepped around the corner to face the other travelers who had not noticeably moved since Sarah and I had made our way down the pickle aisle.
"Boy, Randy ain’t gonna believe we run into y’all. You gotta come back with me and my lady." Walt said, taking Sarah by the arm.
He had just offered to take me to see my own family. He had been in My House. So, even though I was not too keen on the fact that Sarah was engaged to marry him, and that he would undoubtedly remind me of that fact every time he spoke, and that my folks would know I hadn't called when I made port, and that I had promised Mama that I would never let Walt operate any vehicle that I occupied, I had to take him up on his offer. Walt had been heavily intoxicated since before he was able to drive; I’m not sure where he got it, but he always had a beer in his hand, stumbled and slurred his words, making his already exaggerated southern grammar completely unintelligible. Within the first month of getting his license, he’d had three automobile accidents, but could only remember one. Regardless of his slurred speech, he actually seemed pretty sober and my parents did let Sarah ride with him, so I was guessing it was safe enough and figured my mother would approve.
I excitedly agreed and do not remember much about my farewells to the Cora company other than a conversation with Hammer where I swore to return within two days.
"So," I paused, trying to sync the time schedule, "that means I can stay tonight and tomorrow night?"
I was about to have two days of Mama’s cooking—or so I thought.
Special Ops Captain Petunia Sledge "Hammer" crushed my dreams by pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing, "You have twenty-four hours."
This was a bummer, and as I was desperate for dietary variety I pushed my luck. "Twenty-four hours starting–?"
She figuratively slapped her fore head, "Starting now. You will be back for supper tomorrow night, period.”
Or what? I thought. You’re going to ground me? Give me extra KP? I looked at her defiantly, attempting to win the debate with mind control, and after a moment of our staring game, I caved under the unbearable weight of the woman’s single evil eye.
My shoulders slumped, "Fine, you win, Cap. Twenty-four hours. Shit, lady.”
I would have preferred at least a week with the family I had presumed lost, but understood that I had thrown my lot in with the other pirates. Anyway, our clan and my father’s delegation could stay in contact, become trade partners, or whatever. One group could mutually benefit the other as if they were neighboring towns and eager thoughts of my home kept me from focusing on the details of our departure. I remember now that Walt had mentioned to Hammer that he and his woman had discovered a "Goddamn break room or some shit" where there were easily identifiable keys for a few of the 18-wheelers behind the building. I do not recall his explanation for why he did not plan to take one of these himself, but The Expert was more than happy to pilot a truck load of groceries back to the ship while one of the others drove the pickup.
The three of us parted from my group of protagonists and made our way across the store to the Automotives section and the exit to the "Express Lube" garage where Walt had parked his truck, which was, not surprisingly, already loaded with beer and very little else. One thing I remember of our walk across the dimly lit Walmart was the sight of one of the very few dead humans I had seen since the outbreak began: a Walmart employee whose name tag read "Howard" sported a dried, bullet entry wound on the opposite side of his chest. He lay slumped against a rack of shoes with a grimace of fear and pain frozen on his face.
I don’t know why this scene bothered me so much. The body wasn’t horribly mutilated or particularly bloated; I suppose it had something to do with the look on Howard’s face. It innocently said, "Why would you shoot me? We are both human and just trying to survive." I’m sure Howard’s end will haunt my dreams for a long time.
My parents still consumed most of my thoughts and now this face of death took what was left, so my memories of leaving Walmart are a bit fuzzy: if I did not, I should have asked Walt where he got this awesome king cab that surely cost more than he had made in his entire life. I am finishing this entry on our trip to my parent’s house; I will try to make another entry before leaving my former home to return to my current one.
Mo Journal Entry 14
I had just finished the previous journal entry when I looked up to notice that we were less than two miles from the house in which I grew up. The truck was coming to a stop at a small bridge which had apparently been made into a checkpoint. Almost every road that entered this corner of Douglas featured a bridge to cross the various narrow and winding shallow creeks that crisscrossed the area. My father had always discussed the strategic importance of these bridges to manage any traffic coming into the area during any kind of emergency, so I was fairly certain who had arranged the approaching roadblock. Walt came to a complete stop as the guard sauntered up to the driver’s window and I almost gasped as I recognize this watchman: Tyler Elroy. Tyler was at least nine years younger than me and I really knew nothing of the kid besides his grandmother was a sweet old lady who lived just a few houses down from my parents and that his older brother was a little bit girly and had better hair than most women. Almost every piece of clothing Tyler had on was camouflage, he held a semiautomatic hunting rifle at his side, and I believe he had a pinch of tobacco in his lip. If Tyler had been a few years older, we probably would have been buddies.
Tyler and Walt casually conversed as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred recently and this bridge was normally guarded by armed militia.
Tyler stuck his head in the open window, "You get it?"
Walt goofily chuckled, "Goddamn right, son! I got more beer than I can drink in one night. You can swing by when you get off and get drunk with me."
It was obvious that Tyler wasn’t twenty-one but I knew my trashy friend did not give a shit and would share a beer with anyone old enough to hold a cup. Hell, the only times I can recall him being sober himself since he was old enough to walk into a PG-13 movie alone was when he’d just gotten out of the drunk tank at the county jail. Our driver had paused for entirely too long and just as I opened my mouth to alert the attentive border patrolman to my presence, Walt seemed to remember that I was sitting beside him, "Oh yeah! I got Mo Collins in here with me and we was about to go see his daddy! Call Randy and tell him we are fixing to head th
at way."
Tyler nodded in the affirmative as he leaned forward into the open window, "Holy shit! Mo? I knew you weren’t here when shit went down so I didn’t know if you had made it. Good to see ya, man!”
I dipped my head at the young guard. "I made it man. How you doing? And how’s your Granny? I ain’t seen her in a long time. I would kill for some of her chicken pot pie." My mouth started watering just thinking about it.
Tyler looked at the ground. "She died about five years ago, Mo."
"Oh shit! Sorry to hear that, bud."
The silence was awkward; even Walt felt it. He graciously bid the newly depressed rifle bearing guard farewell. "Well, we ought to get over to see the boss ‘fore it gets too dark.
We’ll see ya!" The driver threw his hand out the window in a wave as the truck left the bridge behind.
Marshall County natives have always used the excuse of leaving "before it gets too dark" whenever they are ready to go away. It was a logical reason for my grandparents, who didn’t exactly have 20/20 vision, but it just seemed pathetic when people my age or younger said it; hell, it wasn’t even that late in the afternoon!
He interrupted my thoughts as I was debating whether this was acceptable usage of a lame excuse when Walt said, "‘cause I reckon the boss would want to see his young-un" before much longer.
“Wait. Why did you just call my daddy the boss?”
Walt looked at me like I was the idiot with a tenth grade education that should have known something so elementary. "‘Cause that man knows how to get shit done, Goddammit."
This was probably a dream come true for my dad: he had been casually preparing for the End of the World for years and the fact that other survivors saw him as some type of figurehead must have enlarged his ego past the breaking point. Though he was a Walking Dead fan, I seriously doubt he expected the apocalypse to come close to resembling fantasy TV. However, I was sure he had accepted this ridiculous reality and was thriving. He did not give me unlimited freedom when I was a teenager, but I didn’t expect him to be was some type of fascist despot in the post-apocalyptic world. I expect he’d been doing his best to help the residents of his community.