Zombie Lake: Still Alive Book One

by Javan Bonds

  I am not sure how it is humanly possible with my mother’s family swearing to have American Indian ancestry, that I ended up one of the whitest non-albino Caucasians alive. If I did not so closely resemble my grandfathers in appearance, I could easily assume that I was adopted. I am so pale that I nearly glow, but neither of my parents comes close to my near-translucent skin tone. Naturally, all of my mom’s Indian genes were obviously saved for Easy; not only was he once pulled over by the cops because the ungodly-attractive female officer initially thought he could be an illegal immigrant (I might find the opportunity to detail this gratuitously sexually explicit story later, as he has made sure to recite it to me on several occasions), but he also uses some of the wads of money that beautiful women throw at him to make trips to the tanning salon! I do not believe this is a very masculine way to improve one’s appearance, but he’s the one with potentially more illegitimate children than Benjamin Franklin, so I doubt the opinion of a mere mortal such as myself means much to someone like Easy.

  Mama and Daddy would both deny it, but Easy is hands down my parents’ favorite. By high school it was ridiculously obvious. When I was fifteen, I worked after school, bagging groceries for the entire year to earn enough money to buy my very own piece of shit, rusted out, nothing more than a mode of transportation car while they made more than a down payment on Easy’s (not fresh off the lot, but built within the past decade) sports car. I used to have a joke with my friends that if I was not home before the moon rose on a weeknight I would get my ass whooped even during my senior year, while my sixteen year old, freshman brother did whatever he wanted to do until at least midnight. I could give several more examples of the blatant favoritism shown to my sibling and I will more than likely detail some examples throughout this journal. A couple of notes come immediately to mind, though: I realize my parents could have simply used the gas money wasted on driving me to and from work on my vehicle, I guess they just wanted me to suffer to earn my wheels; and I almost view with a sense of pride the fact that no automobile I have ever owned has featured a CD player. I am a "bare necessities" type of guy. Tanning booths? Who does that?

  After these envy laden descriptions of my younger brother, you may suspect that I hate him, but you would be very wrong. I will admit that while I may dislike my brother and undoubtedly that dislike springs from jealousy of his natural talent at everything, I actually love Easy. I would not say this to him for anything and would vehemently deny it to his face. But I am sure he knows. I guess it was just the way I was raised. Blood is thicker than water. I’m certain we would have barely known each other’s name in a high school of less than five hundred students if we had not been closely related, but I would defend Easy if I ever felt that I needed to. I’m not a muscular jiu jitsu/karate/taekwondo/whatever-the-hell-else-kind-of-Bruce-Lee fighting-skills-there-are, like he is, but I could surely throw some fairly mean and hurtful words in your direction, or slap you with an insult that would leave a mark.

  Mo Journal Entry 18

  Hammer had given me a radio along with the tactical vest upon our first meeting. I used the radio to contact the Cora crew when we were within two miles of the boat; these walkie-talkies could not come close to the quality of my dad’s radios with a range of up to ten miles. He had to have bought these either on clearance or from a moron, because I seriously doubt he paid the hundreds of dollars each is worth. He had never been hard-core about his survivalist activities and he certainly wasn’t rich.

  "Rusty Nail, this is Candy Cane: do you read me?" I pitched my voice fairly high, imitating the scene from the movie Joy Ride.

  I was feeling pretty jovial as my life had been going phenomenally well—considering the death of the entire planet. I had survived Armageddon, had stumbled upon other survivors with very useful skills, walked into a fully stocked and unmolested Walmart, discovered the love of my life and my parents together and safe…it seemed okay to joke around.

  Apparently, Smokes, didn’t catch the reference, “Mufucka, I know it you. Where da fuck you at?"

  If he had given me the opportunity, I would have warned him to watch his language with my mother listening and until now I do not recall witnessing anyone actually using profanity within earshot of my mom and there is absolutely no way she could have missed that. So I was dumbfounded when she completely ignored it as if it had not happened. This was an intriguing development; I would have to remember to test it out again, later. Who the hell gave Smokes the radio anyway? What if the Red Cross came on to our radio frequency to offer help and decided not to send a rescue helicopter after they were mean-mouthed by some racist asshole on the radio!?

  I was caught between being offended at his scathing tone and total disbelief at the fact that my mom had some sort of obscenity filter implanted in her brain and shook my head before simply answering, "I’m at the The Magnolia now. Be there in a minute. Go ahead and drop the gangplank for me."

  It would probably cause my dad to question my worth as a man, but I did not intend to end the conversation with "over and out." I did add, "Oh, and I got some visitors with me...three."

  He didn’t miss a beat, "I don’t give a shit how many fucking white devils you bring wit choo, I ain’t skerred."

  You wouldn’t know it if you had never met him and it even took me a moment to realize the entire conversation was in jest. We were traveling in my mom’s Corolla. It seemed spacious and there was a Katy Perry CD playing just audibly. I looked in the mirror for the disgusted and horrified face Mama had to be making because it was impossible that my fellow vehicle occupants were unaware of the shrill vulgarity spilling over the radio. Again, nothing. She had to be willfully blocking the words.

  I must briefly broach a topic that deeply troubles me as a person: Katy Perry. I’m not denying that she has a phenomenal ass, and it really makes no difference to me if she survived the zombie apocalypse. My problem is that she ever became a popular singer and that her inane noisemaking, which my mom considers music, survived. Humanity is an endangered species; we should be listening to something badass like AC/DC or Pink Floyd; the soundtrack as we ride to our possible demise must include fucking Dark Horse. If we do actually survive and repopulate the planet, I’m going to make sure Pop shit like this never happens again. When I go down in a blaze of glory, I want my moviegoers to hear something epic and unforgettable, not Teenage Dream. If we succeed in defeating the zombies and miraculously invent a cure. I refuse to have the celebration scene of rejoicing civilians under bright and popping fireworks to fade to black with the earsplitting Fireworks!

  Our car ride featured sparse dialogue. No one broke the silence with commentary on the seemingly un-raided gas stations, lack of bodies, or abandoned vehicles we passed. I always found it unforgivably rude when someone in the car with you carries on a ridiculously long conversation on their cell phone, leaving you basically alone while sitting right beside the person. I would never mention it to her, but my mother has committed this crime more than anyone I have ever met and it pisses me off to this day. I’ve been tempted to rip her phone from her ear and throw it out the damn window. Well, I felt that I might now be doing the same thing while on the radio. But, if I hadn’t thought it was necessary, I wouldn’t have even made the call. It doesn’t bother me to be an ass, but I really try to avoid being a hypocrite, considering it is another one of my many pet peeves.

  Almost all of the gas stations we passed were completely unmolested and this begs the question: why? Had every single person been morally bettered because of the zombie apocalypse? Did realizing there were so few people left cause everyone to show Christian decency? That or even criminals were taken so quickly by the wave of undead that burglarizing did not have time to occur. The scarce pockets of survivors only took what they needed, and fled, conserving for later. On Guntersville Island, a few businesses had been raided, but I assumed that had something to do with the population density and the fact that the zombies were only able to reach the island through a few chokepoint
s.

  We passed the courthouse and I was actually just about to tell my dad to slow down when I saw the local coffee shop, Jamoka’s. Maybe Hammer’s insane denial is contagious; it took me a second to snap back into reality. There would be no barista running the French press. I sighed and stored this location in my memory banks. I would have to stop by here at the next opportunity and see if there were any Tatoosh coffee beans left. I love me some of that dark stuff!

  At the end of a quiet car ride, my dad parked at the Marina. We made our way from our vehicle to the dock beside the Cora. Then I realized the gangplank had not been lowered. After a few minutes of hollering, I finally got the attention of Crow who peered down at me and asked in her normal bitchy tone, "What the fuck you want white boy?"

  I’m here to sell vacuums; what the fuck do you think I want dumbass? "I assume Smokes forgot to tell you to lower the damn gangplank.”

  "Smokes?’”

  Jesus, I hope he didn’t hear that...I don’t want to have to talk him out of committing suicide by jumping off the boat.

  "The fat black dude. Just let us in," I tacked on for emphasis, "and if you throw down the rope ladder instead, I’ll set the boat on fire."

  She turned and began screaming at other crew members to lower the gangplank, I gestured to my family to follow me. As we walked up the gangplank, I realized that this would be my parents’ first trip to the Viva Ancora. But before I could show them around, I would have to get an update from my crew on recent developments. Upon entering the small parking lot, I noticed not only "The Gorgon" and the Walmart 18 wheeler, but also the unexpected addition of a new-off-the-lot Cadillac Escalade and a Frito-Lay 18 wheeler. Scratch that, knowing my crew members I should have fully expected the Escalade and I guessed The Expert had retrieved the Frito-Lay truck; I would not have been surprised if the Batmobile or a pod racer were in the next parking spot, waiting for The Tech.

  After we made it onto the deck, it was obvious that there had been some construction going on: a small building that looked like a tiny shed had been put together on the deck and it immediately reminded me of a greenhouse my pawpaw had in his backyard. I instinctively knew that this was Bradley’s quarters and though I had expected such a construct and was aware that it was necessary, I cringed when I noticed nails driven into the deck. There was obviously no other way to secure any sort of building onto the boat; it just bothered me that a pristine replica like the Cora had been treated like a back porch. It would be like attaching a green replacement door onto a cherry red classic convertible Corvette. You know the door is needed, it’s just temporarily so damned offensive to the eyes. And no, I’m not talking about the three mismatched doors on my worthless Ford Taurus. That ugly thing was offensive to the eyes when it came off the assembly line.

  My parents and Sarah slowed behind me, finding something to become interested in as we approached the table occupied by the male crewmen that I had parted ways with a day earlier. I was not surprised that the trio was engaged in a heated argument and understood now why my family had chosen not to intrude.

  "’Course vampires is dead, stupid fuckin’ cracka! ‘Livin’‘ just mean dey look live! Imma Jedi mind meld you to death," Smokes ended an insult to Eugene.

  I could see fire behind The Tech’s lenses at the multitude of obvious universal breaches in canon. I am stuck in some sort of fucked up, undead, That 70s Show-esque nightmare like Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky. Remember That 70s Show? They all sit around the table, get stoned, and eventually end up talking about the same "car that runs on water?" This was just like that, minus the recreational drugs and canned studio audience laughter. Oh, plus we had the threat of horrifying death...and no FCC to censor Smokes's colorful dialog.

  I greeted all three, and even included Mary; they took a breather and gave me notice. The trio greeted me with arbitrary platitudes and our conversations were short and meaningless.

  I looked to Smokes. "Fucking thanks a lot, dick.”

  "Man, fuck you white bread. I’s busy doin’ shit. An’ it huge. T’anks fo askin’."

  I raised an eyebrow at his final statement; I knew full well he knew what I was talking about. It wasn’t that it had slipped his mind, he just didn’t want to get off his fat ass or even tell someone else to lower the damn gangplank. The busiest he has been on this boat has been performing the strenuous task of walking to the fucking bow and pissing into the lake.

  I was using profanity and my mother was within the one mile radius, so my volume was instinctively lowered, and I felt it was my duty to notify all present that my mom was within hearing distance. "Dude, take it easy with the language. My mama is here."

  That was usually all the warning I needed to give; that was sure as hell all The Oracle was going to get anyway. As the tension from the recent debate visibly lifted, my family group moved toward us.

  Smokes made a show of walking around me to greet the new arrivals, "It’s nice to finally meet you. Mo has told me so much about you."

  Bullshit. I don’t even recall telling him my parents’ names. He said this as he vigorously shook my father’s hand and leaned over to hug my mother’s neck. If we had not run into her at Walmart yesterday, he probably would have assumed that Sarah was my sister. By the way, I’m pretty sure that’s the first time Smokes had called me anything besides “mufucka" or some type of racist slur. Our interracial lesbian couple spontaneously appeared nearby as The Oracle introduced everyone and I was sincerely impressed he knew the entire crew in such detail. Though, I began to doubt his knowledge of each person when he said that his good friend Eugene and Captain Sledge shared a birthday. But when our wise and honorable mother figure, Hammer, that is, and Gene nodded their heads in agreement, it was difficult to say that he was making it up.

  "I will be right back with our food. Petunia," Crow gestured for The Expert to follow as she made her way to retrieve (what I correctly assumed was) fish.

  Smokes simultaneously moved to grab three of the folding lawn chairs from Crow’s usual fishing spot. Why the fuck are these bastards suddenly saints? Because my parents are here? We all had that friend in high school, the one whose younger brother was a son of a bitch that would do evil shit like hide all of the toilet paper or put dog turds in your food, then turn around and tell your mother she looked like she’d lost weight, and wasn’t she celebrating her twenty-ninth birthday this year? This was like that. Okay, maybe that last example didn’t apply to you, but I actually started carrying my own roll of toilet paper when I went to a certain friend’s house.

  "So you own the comic bookstore, son?" My dad looked at Gene as my parents sat.

  "Yes sir. You are welcome to come by sometime."

  "I think I’ll do that. Would you be able to tell me the value of some classic comics? I have a few in pretty mint condition…" my dad left that sentence hanging.

  Gene excitedly offered, "I collect all kinds of things! If you could bring them by the shop sometime, I’ll take a look at them."

  My father gave a friendly grunt that signaled agreement and intrigue.

  Were they really discussing the sale of comic books after the apocalypse? I understand the theory that acting as if life were normal helps everyone cope, but come the hell on! This conversation was about as productive as if they were planning to rob a bank.

  On the far side of the table, my mom and Sarah were in a conversation with Bradley that I was unable to make out as the two fish bearers returned with our meal.

  My dad looked up from his chair at Hammer. “Mo told us that you run the pawnshop," he began and gestured with his chin in the direction of Bottom Dollar to the nod of The Expert. "I bought my favorite SKS there. You think you can get me a deal on at least one more?"

  Hammer thought for a second and then nodded. "Well, I don’t have any in stock right now, but I know a guy who spends a lot at gun shows. I’ll get with him and let you know."

  My dad smiled. "Sounds good, can’t wait."

  Holy shit Daddy! This woman was a
lready at a fragile stage of insane denial: don’t encourage her. I was fairly certain that he was coherent and understood what was happening and was only making normal conversation, but I was still going to have to remember to have a man to man with him to be absolutely positive that he had not also lost his mind. While Hammer had dozens of AR-15s at her disposal, my father had decided to load up on SKSs for his after-armageddon armory. He told me that he wanted a bit more punch than one of those little 22-sized 556 bullets offered. I jokingly questioned his masculinity at this; yeah, a 308 could reach out and touch somebody, but if you really had to shoot at a zombie it would probably already be coming at you and it wouldn’t be a one-mile shot.

  ARs and SKSs are both beautiful guns—don’t get me wrong. I just think my Marlin 17 HMR lever action is better for this particular situation. It is accurate as hell and packs more than enough punch. Another plus is that the discharge is no louder than the average stapler. I just hope it’s still in one of Daddy’s safes and he didn’t throw it away or sell it to make more room for his armory of 762. I once got a rabbit with that thing from probably four hundred yards and the only part of it that I could find was its tail. That tiny piece of lead basically vaporizes anything it touches. Zombies are pretty much naked people, so even at a distance you wouldn’t need armor piercing elephant-gun rounds.