Zombie Lake: Still Alive Book One

by Javan Bonds

  I also must point out that I am unsure of Walt’s role. He is a former schoolmate, and friend of mine, but also a rival for The Love Interest. Seems he fits better into our crew than Daddy's. Could he be The Old Friend? Can there be more than one? Does that mean Bradley is going to die? Shit, maybe Bradley will turn out to be some kind of villain. Better keep my eye on him. I’ve got to remember to clear this up with the one who has all the answers and I’ve got to stop asking myself questions I can’t answer.

  Mo Journal Entry 16

  Do y’all have anybody who can work the dam?" I wasn’t too hopeful but it couldn’t hurt to ask. Maybe the screenwriters would be smiling down on me.

  It was expecting an awful lot, so it wasn’t really a letdown. "Not that I know of. Why, you got somewhere to be?" my dad asked.

  I joked, "Nah, I don’t think we’ve got another stop on the itinerary. I just want to know that we can get out of here if we need to." As if to prove I wasn’t in a hurry, I added, "And we’ll still be eating this damn lake fish, no matter what."

  Is that irony? We are safe from the peevies in a boat—unless they learn to swim—but will have to wish for death and force down seafood for the rest of our lives.

  "Well, you are on a boat," he chuckled as if I would never have guessed fish would be the most easily accessible meal when living on waterways.

  I hung my head, he couldn’t understand. His after-armageddon diet of biscuits, eggs, and homemade dishes had spoiled him beyond being able to grasp the torture of my sole staple. I shook thoughts of my hideous meal plan from my mind and offered, "Y’all need to come down to the Cora for a visit when I leave here.”

  My dad clicked his tongue. "I might just take you up on that. Things are getting pretty settled around here and I ought to be able to afford a couple of days off. I’ll have to ask your mama, of course, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be up for it." He ended to allow me to speak, and then quickly tacked on: "Oh, and maybe we can set up some kind of trade agreement while I’m down there."

  That would be pretty cool, I could imagine a trade route like in Fallout; I just needed to figure out how to travel fast.

  Before I go any further, did anyone else notice that my dad (as all locals would have) was able to tell that my first reference to "y’all" encompassed the entire community while my second utterance of the word applied to just my family? It has to do with voice inflection. Sorry for the digression, back to the story.

  I’m not sure if he realized I now considered Sarah part of the family group. I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours, but I can already see that my parents (my mother especially) needed her with both Collins children MIA. Though not blood related, she has obviously become a surrogate in our stead. Is it strange that I have been in love with the girl that is now my adopted sister? Well, after all…it is Alabama.

  Anyway, I wanted her to come to the Cora. I knew there would be no romantic reunion between the two of us, I just missed my best female friend and figured we might catch up before either of us were somehow killed by peevies.

  I decided that now, while we were alone, was the best time to ask my father about something that had been weighing on my mind ever since I had returned to my childhood home. "So, Easy…?" I let my question trail, knowing he would immediately realize I was asking about my brother, Ezekiel.

  He looked away and mumbled, "Nothing. We haven’t heard a thing...just like we didn’t hear from you." He turned back to me with lifted spirits. "But here you are! I’m still hoping...you never know."

  Yeah, I guess you don’t and it really wouldn’t surprise me if he walked here from his dorm at UAB with absolutely no weapons, defending himself and group of minority children with nothing but his hands and his winning personality! As unlikely as survival seems, being bitten is something that you would expect to happen to a normal person. Easy is probably immune and has somehow used his blood to create a vaccine that will eventually save the world. If I haven’t been clear enough, Easy is the culmination of everything perfect: the marble statue that every straight guy secretly wishes he could be and the Herculean model in every woman’s head when she shuts her door, lights candles, and listens to Sting. At some point I knew I was going to have to get to Birmingham and try to find my brother, which I doubt will be difficult; it was a given that he would be leading a successful city’s worth of people. I guess Smokes was dead-on about the reasons, which I will try to explain in my next entry.

  A polite knocking came at the front door and my dad called, "It’s unlocked!"

  This proved that these visitors had not been to this house many times. The side door, which I had entered through, was the main entrance used by anyone who had been here more than a couple of times.

  In came two parts of The Similar: first entered a tall, dark, and sinewy man who was obviously Dr. George. He was followed by the welcomed sight of the short, dark, and pudgy, Bob. They entered the opposite side of the office nearest the front door. The doctor, a little too enthusiastically, shook hands and greeted my father.

  Somehow still socially, or maybe culturally awkward, Bob did not approach to shake hands, but stood near the chair where the doctor sat and said, "Hola, jefe." When I asked the meaning of that word later, my dad said that his Spanish to English dictionary translated the word to "chief" or "boss:" I learn something new every day. I was just glad it didn’t translate to "Governor.”

  I had not realized how much I had missed my Mexican neighbor. He was extremely likable. He wore random baseball caps, had a Saddam Hussein mustache and scruffy hair, wore a scruffy flannel shirt and jeans, and was completely ageless. He had appeared to be between thirty-five and forty-five for as long as I’d known him. I don’t recall him once stating any political or religious preferences. His ethnic name, appearance, and "Speedy Gonzales" accent made him the epitome of a stereotypical Mexican.

  That reminds me...why the hell does modern society view Speedy Gonzales as racist? When I was a kid that was just part of Looney Tunes and it never crossed my mind to compare Spanish-speaking peoples to the cartoon character. I’m from rural Alabama, there have been Hispanics around me for my entire life and Speedy Gonzales was never the base for my opinion of anyone. Though I learned more Spanish from that cartoon character than I ever did from high school Spanish class.

  It was no easier to guess the age of the seated cardiologist: his equally dark hair and smooth face left me wondering, so I simply assumed he was somewhere around the perpetual age of the Latino mechanic. I don’t know why and I don’t think I’m the only person who cannot correctly discern the age of racial minorities; maybe I am racist and just don’t know it.

  I nodded and grinned from across the room to the reciprocation of the doctor. Even if my dad had not told me Philip George’s profession, it would have been easy to figure out because the man was wearing a fucking doctor’s coat. Sure, it was probably handy for carrying things, but it seems like an over the top way to let everyone know that you are a doctor if you are not actually working. And it’s not even slightly cold outside, so he’s not wearing the coat for warmth. Shit, Mo, I thought, maybe he’s just stopping here before making house calls, that’s probably why he has a stethoscope. I guess I’m just a racist dick who also reads too much into first impressions.

  Okay, I just reread this entry and verified where I’d call me a racist: all I have done is talk about the cultural differences between these two and myself. God, I hope Crow never reads this.

  Anyway, after our introduction Doctor George excused himself to go make rounds and see patients.

  "Truck leaking. You fix," my dad asked.

  Bob gave the obligatory, "Si, jefe."

  Our diminutive neighbor walked in the direction of the backdoor and the truck beyond. It is somewhat humorous, albeit annoying, that my father always talks to non-English speakers in clipped, exaggeratedly slow, broken sentences, as if it is going to make a damn bit of difference. And anyway, if he had spoken to Bob as if he were speaking to me, I’m b
etting Bob would not have given a different answer. I don’t believe my dad is overtly racist, it’s just the way he communicates with foreigners; hell, I saw him speak to a Frenchman at Six Flags like that; the guy almost slapped him across the face.

  He was facing me and the door behind me that Bob had used as an exit and I had to say it. "I figure I’ve just met your Tech and your Medicine Man." I saw no need in giving him the entire cast run-down or mentioning the role of a Token. I continued, "you could be The Expert and maybe the main protagonist, but where is The Innocent or The Man of God or..." I trailed off, realizing that my dad would have no fucking clue what I was talking about.

  He stammered, "’Man of God?’ I haven’t seen Brother Morris since the Sunday before—" He didn’t need to say "before" what.

  It would have taken entirely too long to explain everything and I had a feeling I would sound like an idiot compared to The Oracle, so I decided to abruptly change subjects. "So, I kinda need you to go ahead and tell Mama y’all are coming down to Guntersville with me. Hammer told me I need to be back by tonight and I want y’all to come with me.”

  He began walking, "Hammer?’"

  I grinned. "Nickname. She’s some kind of super Black Ops Delta force secret agent Soviet slayer. Captain Petunia Sledge. She lives on the boat with us; I’ll introduce you to her and everybody else when we get there.”

  My dad seemed in awe. "Like ‘Sledgehammer?’"

  My eyebrows shot up, I knew we were on the same wavelength on this one. "I thought the same thing! I keep forgetting to ask her.”

  I think my dad will have a lot in common with our expert. He nodded in understanding as he made a wide arc around me to the door. I rotated to follow him and grunted, "You know I meant for you to bring Sarah, right?"

  He almost chuckled. "Yeah, I guessed that."

  As he opened the door, he turned and said, "I’ll be back in a little bit; it’s about lunchtime."

  Really? I had not realized how much time had passed and I wasn’t very hungry. I can always eat though, and I might as well stuff myself with good food before I have to go back to the all-and-only-thing-you-can-eat buffet. I sat at the kitchen table waiting for the return of my father and in complete silence; it was normally peaceful in the boonies, but the fact that this could really be an extinction event made the stillness and quiet seem depressingly bitter.

  It could have been hours before my reverie was interrupted, but it was probably more like twenty minutes. My mom walked in like it was just another Sunday. "It’s been years since we’ve been on a family vacation! Sarah and I can get a tan while the two of you fish. Later we can all go swimming," I wasn’t sure if she was speaking to me, but I just nodded my head and smiled.

  We live in the same county as the lake and she was acting as if we have never been anywhere near a body of water and can barely fathom the possibilities for fun. My mother’s American Indian ancestry is prominent enough that she doesn’t really need to get a tan. I’m not sure about Sarah. My mom will always find a way to work rather than rest, and frankly, I’m counting on her spending most of the time teaching Crow how to cook. I believe the Cora Cook had already caught enough fish to fill a freezer, so fishing was pretty pointless. Since I have been around the lake basically my entire life, and had seen how fucking disgusting that water is, I wouldn’t be swimming in it unless I was on fire! I have seen people shit directly into the water from their boats and dump piles of steaming garbage from the shore. Eating fish from the lake after the impurities have been cooked away is probably safe enough, but swimming? Well, that’s a different story, I just don’t feel like getting an incurable disease from immersing myself in a giant petri dish of malevolent bacteria. Am I wrong here? I wouldn’t let my dog drink out of that sewer and I am more likely to get a deadly infection from being splashed with that water than if I were to swap spit with a peevie. You know how once you’ve worked at a fast food restaurant, you can barely bring yourself to eat the food there? It’s kind of like that. I lived near the "tourist attraction" and, I’m sorry, future Guntersville Lake bound; it’s not as pretty as the pictures. I guess I’m jaded.

  I cannot argue about something like this with my mom. The best thing anyone can do is smile and nod. I’m sure you have noticed by now that most communication between my Mother and me consists of her rambling on and on and my smiling and nodding.

  She continued telling me how much fun we were going to have and because my mom talking at length about things that are not important is an everyday occurrence in the Collins home, I have trained myself over the years to ignore most of the things I don’t care about, but I did pick up her saying something about their "accommodations" and I fully understood that she said we would be having "roasts and potatoes for lunch." Dammit, I had not even thought about that! I could not make my parents sleep in the communal crew quarters with people they don’t know, but my mom would die before she let a legally and biologically unrelated female (especially one that I am madly in love with) sleep behind the same door as me. I guess they will get to sleep in my room; maybe Sarah can make a pallet on the floor with extra blankets and I will bunk with the other survivors. Shit, that almost made me reconsider the invitation.

  "Roast and potatoes?" What the hell? For all of my adult life, Mama has always found a reason to be too busy to cook often. It took the near-annihilation of humankind for her to decide to become a full-time chef! Someone around here must be slaughtering cows and bartering the meat.

  The meal and the fellowship were just as enjoyable as last night and it was even topped off with banana pudding: banana fucking pudding, I’m not even going to ask how the hell they are keeping bananas fresh after the zombie apocalypse, I’m just going to thank the great Screenwriter in the sky for the unbelievably awesome dessert.

  When I pushed myself away from the table, my mother said, "The three of us need to go pack. Just wait here, Elmo." I grimaced at the use of my full first name, but I should have expected it. With my mother’s primal abhorrence to nicknames, Bob is always "Roberto," Walt is "Dean," and I am "Elmo." I’m pretty sure Smokes is not going to have much of a dialogue with her; the fact that he cannot help but refer to everyone as "cracka" and “mufucka" will definitely mean conversation between these two will be short; once she calls him Marlon that’s probably the last time they’ll speak. It was almost comical that my family was packing suitcases for a "vacation" less than thirty minutes away, and I characteristically nodded my head and smiled as they all exited the room.

  I’ve been working on this entry for over an hour now, and when the vacationers emerge ready for a trip, we will probably need to go ahead and leave before we lose our momentum. I’m guessing my dad talked to the rest of The Similar over the radio while in his room and discussed the reasoning behind his short getaway, which I’m sure will be more than just a father-son bonding experience. He must have assigned leadership in his stead and all of that good shit, so I don’t see any reason we really need to stay here any longer.

  Mo Journal Entry 17

  I recall now a conversation I had with Smokes right before I left the Cora. I’d asked him if he thought we would just live and die on this fake pirate ship docked in a filthy lake. Would our lives ever be more? His answer was surprisingly thorough and philosophical. I am still not convinced that he hasn’t done more than study the subject through "watching movies and shit," but I was further convinced we were all in the right spots once he explained to me The Reasons. He said: "In every epic, the lead protagonist always has a reason for staying where he currently is. Once he feels he has completed his mission to the best of his ability, he ultimately has a reason, a purpose, that makes him leave his predicament, thrusting himself into new surroundings, undoubtedly meeting new characters. His reason for remaining could possibly be to rescue the love of his life; once that task is complete, his priority will be to reach a safe haven where the couple can live out their days in relative peace. He may stay in his position to simply save a friend or a town,
but must inevitably depart at some point to save another friend or another town. Regardless of specifics, the main character is compelled to stay until a certain point when he knows he must move on."

  Amazingly, I have found both my parents and the woman I’ve been madly in love with for years all alive and well, and, surprisingly, all living in the same house. Yet again, the zombie prophet proves he has already seen this movie, because now that I know they are safe my goal is to stupidly and unselfishly abandon the safety I have surrounded myself with, find a way to Birmingham, and look for my brother.

  My parents clearly live in the sticks and could live off the land indefinitely. In truth, they have never feared the End of the World and seem to be tolerating it rather well. My dad has safes full of guns and is an avid hunter; my mom was educated by her parents in the old-school and can sew, cook anything, and whatever she plants grows like a weed in her garden. On top of that, they’ve got enough freeze-dried food stashed away in stock for the store that they would never have to eat anything else. Though we have had our many disagreements, my parents are two of the smartest people I know; I feel stupid to have even considered they could have possibly been among those morons overtaken by the wave of undead.

  As I already mentioned, my younger brother Ezekiel has always been the perfect son; too cool to use a common and obvious nickname like "Zeke," at some point after beginning peewee football, he was christened "Easy." He was the athletic superstar of my small county school. He was regularly featured in almost every edition of the local newspaper for every sport Douglas High School ran. There were articles about Easy’s entire career, from his unprecedented leading of the varsity track team while still in eighth grade, to the knee injury that destroyed his chances of a scholarship and a future in sports at the end of his senior year. But that life-changing injury did not slow him down. He became a bodybuilder who had time to be a full-time student and a part-time personal trainer. And ladies? Easy can simply ask politely and any woman will immediately strip naked. He lived, or lives, I hope, in the dorms of UAB, and makes enough money to live unbelievably comfortably. I have always wondered why the hell he bothers with school. I especially cannot begin to understand the reason he lives in a dorm instead of a mansion with an armed security team, guest rooms for his concubines, and an olympic sized pool. Maybe he’s one of those strange individuals with life goals who doesn’t like to be alone. Of course, much of Easy’s success has come from academic scholarship and intramural sports; maybe he just likes school. I cannot deny that I am somewhat jealous. Everything has always been easy for Easy; women, physique, money, cars, grades—while I feel like I got slapped with the mediocrity stick at birth.