by Javan Bonds
"So is he the mayor?"
"Shit, I reckon. He keeps things straight and keeps them goddamn zombies out."
I wasn’t going to assume there had been any type of elections, and I wasn’t going to ask if he was "The Governor" because from what I know of that chapter of The Walking Dead story, that would be like calling him "Der Furher" and I’m sure Smokes would scream about "Copyright infringement, mufucka!”
The community looked as it always had: peaceful and orderly. We passed the occasional vehicle as we leisurely continued on our journey, which surprised the hell out of me. I had not expected to see neighbors out traveling and even noticed harvesters (tractors and humans) in some of the fields we passed. Also, in every cow pasture, the obligatory armed shepherd watched over the herd. Visually absorbing my old stomping grounds, I offered almost no conversation, and Walt was probably too busy thinking about beer to talk. I realized Sarah was awfully quiet and wondered if she had been traumatized by almost getting gang raped but when I looked over my shoulder I saw that she was simply sleeping. Perhaps surviving was a lot of work.
Although she had told me that she was not actually going to marry her rescuer, I was somewhat curious so I kept my voice low, "Y’all got a house picked out yet?"
Walt grinned and matched my volume. "I wish! She’s one of them girls that ain’t even gonna put-out ‘til we get hitched."
I had expected this answer but was still relieved. Yet I did my best to force a sympathetic expression for a friend who was forced to remain celibate; perhaps Sarah had recently made some sort of chastity vow.
We bumped from the asphalt of the road to the gravel driveway of my parents’ home. The yard, including the garden, was surrounded by a chain-link fence with a drive-through gate at the start of the driveway and a small, walk-through gate on each of the four sides. One story and three bedrooms, the foundation of the house was a very wide rectangle; it resembled an exceptionally large double-wide trailer. I found it strange that the gate was open when we arrived and remembered that Tyler had radioed ahead and alerted my parents of our approach so they could have opened it; I briefly panicked that the property had been overrun by zombies. Seeing my mother make her way from the garden and across the driveway to stand on the steps leading to the side door to wait for the truck to stop made me almost slap myself: peevies unlocking and opening a gate! I’m an idiot.
The truck stopped in the driveway, even with the steps to my parents’ shop on the left and the side of the house to our right. Sarah woke as we turned into the driveway and the three of us exited the vehicle almost simultaneously.
My parents owned and operated Heaven Sent Survival Food & Supply. It’s a little store sitting opposite the house that sells freeze-dried food, water filters, fire starters, and various other camping equipment, including all kinds of expensive prepper shit. They opened the store a few years ago and advertised for people to prepare for natural disasters and power outages. I know that my dad has probably been having multiple orgasms every day since May Day; truth be told he has been dreaming about the zombie apocalypse; that was his real inspiration for starting Heaven Sent. I grinned upon seeing the store, any freeze-dried food was better than fish!
"We didn’t know where you were. Why didn’t you call?" my mother forcefully demanded with tears in her eyes; it was impossible to tell if she was mad at me or joyful, but I guess she was both.
I was about to respond, "I was going to the day I got here," but my mother charged to hug me. Her short frame wrapped me in a good impersonation of a bear hug and she told me that she loved me and other emotional things that were muffled into my shoulder. It appeared that she was going to tackle me and I briefly contemplated sidestepping. I love my mama, and I had no problem responding in kind, I just don’t feel comfortable showing much affection or reciprocating any of that other stuff. When she finally pulled away, she moved to engross Sarah in a hug.
She looked over to Walt with still teary eyed and asked, "Did you find everything you needed, Dean?"
Whenever he talked to my mother, his state of perpetual drunkenness seemed to dissipate and he soberly replied, "Yes ma’am, and how you doing?"
I need to note a few obvious characteristics of my mother: she refers to everyone formally, never once using anyone’s nickname. Even though she was born in Marshall County and has spent almost all of her life here, she speaks proper English and with little accent. Her name is Debbie, and not Deborah; her mother didn’t want her to have a nickname, so she just gave her the shortened form. I’ve never understood why, but she refuses to use the local slang of us country bumpkins. No living person, even upon their first meeting, uses profanity in front of her. To anyone else, Walt would have responded, "Goddamn right. And how the hell are ya," but even someone who can barely finish a sentence without using at least three profanities is incapable of using improper language in conversation or even in the room with her. I can’t decide if it is a sign of respect or if she actually puts fear into the hearts of grown men, but it’s just a fact of life that you are a gentleman when talking to my mama.
As you have most likely noticed, I enjoy using cuss words quite often, but I cannot recall directly using any obscenities in conversation with my mother, ever, in my entire life. Though I’m sure she has heard more than one four letter word exit my mouth, I have no clue how she would react if I did do so deliberately in her presence, and I’m not about to find out.
Walt and I flanked the two females up the steps, through the dining room which was separated by a bar from the kitchen on our left, and into the office. The women spoke in hushed tones as if either of us really cared to hear girl talk; this made me realize that my mother and Sarah had grown close since the End of the World. Even Mama had been aware for years of my hidden feelings for this girl and tried to remain distant in an effort to let me work things out on my own, but it really did not make a difference because nothing ever happened. Now, though, they seemed to share a bond that came from being haphazardly forced together by the apocalypse, and I was not surprised when I discovered that Sarah had been living with my parents as some sort of surrogate daughter.
We entered the office to see my father sitting at a desk by the window on the other side of the room, writing on paper. I could instantly see why Randy Collins had become the community’s leader during these times, besides the fact that he had decades worth of food stored up. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with maps of the country, state, county, and even blown up versions of the town with areas on each highlighted green, obviously designating "safe" zones, and marked points of interest.
My mother walked farther into the room as the rest of the group stopped after only a few steps inside the door. "Randy," she called to get his attention.
Time for another pet peeve of mine. My mother can call my father Randy with no qualms but I must suffer the indignation of her always referring to me by my full name Elmo. I can never catch a break.
"Yeah—" he broke off as he lifted his head and saw me. He did exactly as I wanted him to do; no running to hug me, crying, or any other sort of emotional outbursts, he remained seated. His eyes grew wide in surprise and he simply nodded his head before stating, "Mo."
He said it as if he knew he was going to see me. I was respectful of his reserve and I replied with my own nod, "Daddy."
I stepped forward as he stood, we shook hands, and, although it was a warm, slightly extended shake, that was the extent of our emotional reuniting. We might later discuss personal events since our last meeting, but neither saw a need to be too expressive. Walt came to my side in front of the desk with my father opposite while the fairer part of the group carried their own conversation into the dining room.
"Well, it looks like ain’t nobody else been there," Walt began. My father had obviously sent the self-proclaimed redneck on a simple reconnaissance mission and his report continued. "Most of the groceries was still there and I found keys for some of them trucks out the back." Walt pointed in the direction o
f the dining room and added as if he’d almost forgot, "Oh...she’s got the grocery list!"
"Good job Walt." My father wasn’t ignorant or naïve and smiled. "Was there any beer left?"
The man beside me looked at the ground and chuckled like he had just gotten busted. "Yeah. I got me a couple cases." That was a gross underestimate of the quantity he had taken, but it really didn’t matter to my dad, who skipped over the subject.
He gestured for the two of us each to grab a folding chair and as we sat, he asked, "Where have you been, anyway?”
He was obviously asking me and I began, “Well, after you dropped me off at the Cora in Chattanooga last year, we sailed all the way up to Minnesota. We were headed to the Gulf, and had actually just docked when things started getting bad and I was going to call, but..." the sentence trailed as I mumbled into embarrassed regret and shame.
I felt unbelievably guilty that I had not made more of an effort to get in touch with Mama and Daddy, but now that I was here, I was hoping the fact that I was an asshole would be forgotten.
My dad pointed to the dining room. "It really tore her up. You need to go tell her that you’ve been trying your best to get here—and make it convincing or you’ll be dealing with me."
I was briefly confused as to whether he was talking about my mom or Sarah, but a moment of thought made me realize that of course he was referring to the woman that had given birth to me. It was obvious that I had crossed Sarah’s mind, at least briefly, or she would not be here now, but I should have expected my mom to be upset that I might have been lost; she was always a bit overprotective of both of her offspring, especially the firstborn, for some reason. I tried to think of something comforting to say to her and was about to stand as she came into the room, followed by Sarah—so my apology would have to wait.
My mother spoke to the entire room, "Elmo, you are going to stay the night with us, but you will have to sleep on the couch because Sarah has your old room."
She ordered like she had already decided and I knew there was no reason to argue. My feelings were mixed; I felt strange pride as if I were a teenage badass because I was having a hot chick sleep over at my house, but I felt childish at being commanded by my mom on where and when to sleep. On top of all that I was mildly shocked and simultaneously angry and jealous because my room had been turned into the guest room. Easy’s room had probably been turned into a museum for all of the first-place trophies, medals, and awards he had received for winning at everything he did throughout his life. Seriously, he had been the best player on every team in every sport that was played in the area when we were kids, and I’m not sure how, but I even remember seeing a hockey trophy. Fucking hockey! I have no idea why there would be a hockey arena in any state below the Mason Dixon line. I can picture the walls of trophy cases and various mounted black belts; I’m still convinced some of those martial arts types are made up words. Talk about childish. Here I am letting bitterness for my expertly talented brother distract me. Where was I?
Oh, right. My mom continued, "We are having deer steaks for supper, and Dean, you are welcome to stay."
She looked to my friend who, not surprisingly, turned down the offer. "Thanks, but I got a get home and drink some—I mean—I need to feed my chickens." Walt stood and abruptly excused himself to escape my mother discovering the fact that he drank the Devil’s elixir, backing his truck down the driveway before I could even offer my hand.
In recent times when my father was "prepping," I recall my parents talking about "Cherokee refrigerators,” an old Native American trick about lining holes in the ground with animal hides. I was guessing that was how they were keeping the meat for our venison steak fresh. My mother would never question a man’s dedication to his chickens and walked out shortly after Walt to retrieve our uncooked supper. The refrigerators were probably in the small tool shed behind the store.
The rest of the night was a blur from that point forward. I can’t recall any specifics, only that I enjoyed being home. Before that night, I honestly do not remember the last time I was happy to be with my family; the fact that Sarah was there was not awkward and she contributed to our reminiscing. Again I regretted not coming home sooner. Things quieted down and everyone was getting ready for bed, my mother had laid a pillow and a blanket on the couch and I sat down to remove my boots. Most of the lights were out as Sarah came out of the hallway in a T-shirt and lounge pants.
I’d had dreams similar to this for years, but I was unable to smooth talk her as I did in my fantasies and could only look up, confused. The object of my affection clasped her hands together and said, "I missed you Mo-Mo, and I’m glad you are here." Sarah wasn’t the total bastard I was and though she had shown friendly affection to me before, this statement surprised and embarrassed me so that I was having trouble formulating a response. Before I could stammer out a goofy line, she spun on her bare feet and disappeared with, "I love you."
This was unexpected.
I doubt she heard my reply of a halting and quizzical, "I love you too?”
As I said, this was not a completely new thing; she had shown platonic love in the past. I had known for years that she cared for me as a friend and even though my prayers for more than that had always gone unanswered, I swear I detected more than just the fondness of a close friend in those words. I have been hopeful before and have misunderstood her friendship as some sort of declaration of passionate love, though I have always been too much of a pussy to initiate any sort of decent reciprocation. It’s embarrassing when I realize that I am just too hopeful, and pathetically shy. Of course, even now with the world already over and we could die at any moment, I wouldn’t dream of taking the initiative and telling her how I feel, so I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what happens, as I’ve always done. Wait and see what happens. You can see how well that has turned out for me so far.
Mo Journal Entry 15
In most, but not all, zombie epics, "The Similar" is often referred to as a single character, yet can actually be any size group that resembles the main party. It is collectively a protagonist, and is somehow related to the original group of survivors. It has so much in common with the main group of protagonists that it might be called "The Twin;" though it cannot possibly be mistaken for the other. Eventually, this second party will either go away or dissolve and leave characters to join the main survivors.
I didn’t feel extremely tired last night after I finished that last entry, but I didn’t wake up until Momma hollered, "Biscuits are ready!"
My parents don’t have milking cows and I was flabbergasted that we were eating buttermilk biscuits fresh out of the wood-burning stove. I’m going to have to remember to ask her how the hell she has any sort of dairy product after weeks of no electricity. Freeze-dried biscuits?
After breakfast, my mother and Sarah headed to the garden while I followed my father into the office where he pulled a radio from its solar charging cradle by the window, one of more than a dozen he had stockpiled.
"Hey Doc?"
He spoke into the radio and soon received a reply of, "I read you."
Now, let me say it again: I’m not racist. I could immediately tell that the guy on the other end of the radio was Indian (and I mean dot on the forehead and cows Indian, not feathers and buffalo Indian). The accent was so thick that I could barely understand the three simple words and, sorry for the stereotype, but I could honestly picture the voice saying, "Thank you, come again."
My dad continued, "Could you pick up Bob and stop by the house in a little bit? I want you to come meet my oldest."
"We can do that. Until then."
Daddy smiled despite his irritation, "Sounds good Doc, over and out!
When he began preparing to survive the end of the world, my father became a stickler for proper radio etiquette. Though he was just a year or two too young for Vietnam, he constantly used correct military lingo over the radio. He laid his walkie-talkie on the desk and began to fill me in. "Philip George is the cardiologi
st at the hospital…." My father paused for questions.
I obliged. "A cardiologist lives around here?"
My dad shook his head. "Well, he didn’t until a few weeks ago. His family was visiting his sister-in-law, who lives down the road, when the zombies came through."
This was the first time I have heard my father speak of the infected and since I’d been safe in my parents’ well protected house, I hadn’t given them a thought. It was easy to forget that the world was dying when things seem so normal.
I took in a breath at the remembrance of the plague and opened my mouth to ask another question that was answered before it was posed, "Yes, he’s Indian and he said his wife is Mrs. Duckett’s sister.”
I would have expected something like Rajesh, Sanjay, Kumar, or Mahatma something that sounded a little more Indian, "But his name…?"
My father snorted, "Yeah, I know. Something about the part of India he’s from being predominantly Christian. He explained it to me, but I can’t really understand most of what he says."
Well, at least it’s not just me. So he was supposed to pick up Bob? I tried to think of anyone close with that name. "Bob? Roberto Gonzales?"
He shot a finger at me, "That’s the one!"
Bob is a short Hispanic man in his early forties that moved to the area about twenty years ago from Jalisco. Regardless of how long he’s lived around Americans, I don’t think his accent will ever be any more understandable than the doctor’s.
Other than the fact that Bob lived close by, I knew little of the diminutive bachelor beyond his background as a whiz mechanic. Even without my zombie prophet present, I believe he has educated me enough that I could label my father’s group of survivors as The Similar. My dad was obviously The Expert, Walt The Old Friend, and I would soon meet The Medicine Man and The Tech. Smokes never said two characters can’t dually hold a label; would one be A Betrayer? That reminded me: what role does Crow play? I will have to get the answer from The Oracle when I returned to the ship.