Zombie Lake: Still Alive Book One

by Javan Bonds

  Mo Journal Entry 19

  Everyone at the table was talking, there were at least four conversations going on at the same time, which generally bothers me. This is one of those pet peeves that is completely unfounded and illogical. I don’t believe I have ever voiced my irritation about it; people fellowship when given the opportunity so in understanding I have always suffered in silence. Given the fact that any of us could die horribly and painfully at any moment, I uncharacteristically chose to join in on several discussions. I am one of those people who enjoys total silence and could live happily in utter quiet most of the time. I understand how Crow can fish in silence all day; it’s kind of weird for a female, but I guess that’s one reason she plays for the other team.

  It just so happened at that moment a peevie was heard groaning and we looked over the side of the boat to witness it trying to run down a dog for its evening meal. We watched as it chased the poor animal across the south bound side of the river bridge. When the canine gave a cry I chose not to think about it being someone’s pet but just a wild beast. In an effort to ignore the death throes of the canine we turned back to our conversations.

  I looked down the table. "Hey Crow," when she leveled her attention on me I gestured at my mom. "Mama is going to show you some new tricks on how to cook fish." I was really hoping that she was just going to show her how to cook anything besides fish.

  Her eyes were screaming silent obscenities at me, "Motherfucker, you got a problem with my fish? I kill a white boy," but all that came out was a sweet and innocent, "That sounds great. Thanks Mrs. Collins!”

  I stood from the table when I realized I needed to drain the main vein, instantly realizing that my usual ritual of pissing off the side of the boat wouldn’t be happening—my mother would notice and make me feel like less than dog shit for "being rude" or "not taking the time to show proper respect in mixed company." Of course, the only way I could reply would be to guiltily smile (as if I understood the error of my ways and would forever try to be a better person) and nod.

  She inherited it from Nana (her mother, my grandmother), "it" being the ability to make anyone she scolds immediately feel like they do not deserve to exist. Her words are not necessarily hateful or even particularly mean, but coming from her, any admonition is excruciatingly worse than from anyone else. Even as a child, whenever I did something wrong I would rather be beaten with an extension cord until several bones were broken than endure the unbearable torture that is a brief tongue lashing from my mother.

  I am going to make a note to build some type of toilet inside of a stall on deck so I won’t have to take fifteen minutes getting to a damn commode. We can even make the toilet handicap accessible so that Bradley can use it, then no one will question why it is being installed and cannot point to my laziness as the true reason.

  As I made my way to the stairs that led below deck, Gene appeared from seemingly nowhere as if he were Star Trek’s omnipotent Q and whispered, "Psst, hey Mo!" He gestured for me to approach, and I decided I could control my bladder for a little while longer.

  "Yeah, man?” I wasn’t sure why he felt the need to whisper, but it inspired in me a need to speak softly.

  "Do you think we can go to my house tomorrow? I was going to get the Admiral to take me today, but stuff just kept coming up." The Tech used this name for Hammer because his inner geek identifies her with Admiral Daalha.

  I felt ashamed, like I had lied to the kid. Now he was calling Hammer "The Admiral;" I guess she had trumped my rank while I’d been gone. "Shit, I’m sorry dude. We will definitely go tomorrow," I promised. I wanted to spend time with my parents, but I had already made a commitment and even though I am pretty lazy, I could not keep putting him off. What if his shop was raided while we sat out here eating Pringles? I’d feel horrible. I did my business and went back to the meal.

  The most memorable conversation I took part in during the feast was when I looked over to Smokes and asked with a chuckle, "So were the spinners and marijuana leaf decals already on the purple Escalade when you boosted it from the dealership?"

  I was pretty sure he’d picked it up from the Cadillac dealership right across the highway from Walmart and I didn’t remember seeing that specific color choice on the lot. I wasn’t accusing him of wrongdoing by referring to his taking of the vehicle as "boosting" but as if he thought I was calling him a thief, his chest swelled with pride. He was visibly straining in an attempt to use appropriate language in the presence of my mother. "Heck no man, I had to find my cousin’s shop up on the hill to get this stuff and put it on dere my danged self."

  Other than his dictation of the zombie gospel, this was probably the longest stringing together of words in which he had not used “mufucka" and I doubted he could keep it up much longer. He began detailing the speaker system and entertainment set up that he had installed to those of us who had not been present when he rolled up to the Cora and I was fairly certain that he had neglected to mention that Gene had traveled with him and probably did the majority of the electronics work on his new pimp-ass ride.

  "So it was already purple?" I had no problem with the color, I just imagined that I would have noticed the neon purple behemoth at the dealership before now. For all I knew, Smokes was rich as hell and had ordered the damn thing himself.

  He narrowed his eyes and pushed himself to his feet, "You got a problem wit dat, homie?" He pointed a finger at me and I could do nothing but look around as he continued to lay into me, "You see a purple Escalade, you think a black man behin’ da wheel an’ probly boosted it! You racist!”

  I will admit that while I am not bigoted, I do unintentionally racially profile; so yes, I would expect the driver of a purple Escalade with a vanity plate that I later witnessed said "TKT2THD" to be black. I was seriously proud of him for not using one single profanity throughout his tirade and as I debated whether to futilely defend my innocent curiosity or congratulate him on his restraint, he stormed away from the table and disappeared in the darkness on the end of the bow.

  Do all minorities think that all white people are inherently racist? The few Blacks and English-speaking Hispanics I went to school with didn’t seem to. I had not experienced racism directed towards my person until meeting Crow.

  You could’ve heard a pin drop. Once Smokes was out of earshot my dad loudly said, "Well then."

  I’m not really sure what that meant or if he expected some sort of response, but the table immediately forgot about the episode and reentered random conversation. Except for Bradley. He called me from his newly built apartment. Apparently non-ambulatory people and their monkeys are lot sneakier than you would think because I certainly had not even noticed his leaving the table. I approached, expecting an almost bare lean-to, but was surprised to see that my Old Friend had lavish furnishings in a spacious building that looked inconspicuously tiny from the outside.

  "Hammer was more than willing to stop by my place after we left Walmart and there was nobody home; I’m hoping Mama and Daddy found somewhere to go," he said. I could not help but notice the sadness that crept into Bradley’s voice near the end of the sentence. He wished his parents had made it as mine had, but it was clear that he was not stupid. My parents had survived and I was happy beyond description for that, I tried to imagine how I would feel if they had not.

  My Old Friend continued after a brief pause, "Mary’s cage, some clothes, and some gun cabinets were pretty much all we had to get at the house. We picked up some building supplies and the basics from Walmart."

  He pointed over to what was obviously Mary’s cage: it was about the size and shape of a refrigerator with a water bottle and a food bowl sticking out the front; beside this was a chest of drawers, followed by several cabinets that were more than tall enough for long guns. I’m assuming this was one of the twin beds from Walmart because it looked as if it had not been broken in, but other than the fact that he had a small bed, I was a little pissed because this room was a hell of a lot nicer than anything else on the bo
at!

  "So what does Mary eat?" I was genuinely curious. Earlier at the table I had been tempted to offer the malnourished-looking creature giving me puppy dog eyes a bite of fish.

  He explained, "I have a good bit of Monkey Chow in that crate over there but if I run low on that we’ll figure something out." He told me that Monkey Chow was basically large chunks of dog food specially designed for monkeys, but that she could basically eat anything we could eat.

  Shit, how long was I gone? They had accomplished more in the past twenty-four hours than I had done in a week!

  "Oh, and she only weighs seven pounds, but that’s by design, so she doesn’t get diabetes," I suppose he could read my incredulous look when he started describing her food and this was enough to put me at ease.

  I laughed, "Well, maybe we should put Smokes on the same diet because I imagine insulin will be hard to come by from now on."

  My former classmate agreed with a chuckle. I’m not the type that needs to fill the air with constant conversation and have no problem with comfortable silences. I felt the conversation was over but Bradley continued with random monkey facts. "Mary’s twenty-one," he began.

  "So—" I was about to say something about that being pretty old for an animal.

  "...they usually live to be forty or forty-five." That was pretty damn surprising.

  We began moving out of Bradley’s presidential suite after I gave a final once over to the cage. The lower quarter was solid in the front and I quickly realized the reason—poop has to go somewhere. "This is cool man," I said, which really meant "Thanks for giving me some insight into your relationship with Mary, this has been very interesting," but just seemed a lot more masculine and saved time.

  Mary wasn’t a pet and I have no problem with indoor service animals. Throughout my life, no dog I have had has ever been allowed in my house. I, like my mama, couldn’t fathom an animal being inside without a damn good reason. It just makes sense to keep a service animal inside; how else could they help you out? But a pet should live outside where God intended. What’s worse than a Chihuahua or some other useless ankle-biter stinking up a house? And then there are those people that find a way to call their everyday pets "service animals." I saw a special on TV about a woman with a "service dog" that helped her with anxiety. I shit you not. It supposedly stopped her panic attacks. If I had to carry one of those ugly little rats everywhere with me, the nasty looks people would give me for dragging the shit machine through Walmart would make me feel so humiliated that it would counteract whatever anxiety relief the creature supposedly provided.

  After we were through talking about Mary and I had admired this palatial room, we moseyed back out to rejoin the rest of the group. And as I had expected, soon after we returned Smokes came back to the table and joined in the various talks as if nothing had happened. Even later, I wasn’t sure if I needed to apologize or explain myself or even broach the subject because I’m not sure what the hell the actual subject was, but he never mentioned, so neither did I.

  After the entire group was finished eating, we all scattered about across the deck and if my mother had not been present, I would label our current activities as "shooting the shit." Smokes, myself, Gene, my father, and Bradley—basically every male member of our current delegation plus the female imp who rarely detached herself from the shoulder of my Old Friend—sat around the table as the zombie prophet spoke his gospel to my dad who listened, accepted, and was "saved" (or something like that).

  Once my father had become a faithful follower, he was quickly accepted as a member of our congregation and we began immediately passing the baby food and diving into the meat of my dad’s newfound faith. I noticed the female side of our party was over near Crow’s lounger and umbrella, undoubtedly talking about us, jewelry, clothing, or something equally stereotypical of the fairer sex.

  "So you are saying that we will eventually start some sort of settlement that will be fairly safe from the peevies and will be secure for how long?" My dad was seriously enjoying trying to get Smokes to make a slip and prove that he did not have an early copy of the script.

  The Oracle chose to be somewhat vague. "Non-specific. The zombie-free city will be attacked by a group of villains who may use the undead as a weapon."

  I’d seen the movie to which he was referring. It was still amazing to me how almost every saga in the genre followed the same basic storyline. My father nodded in acknowledgment as if this was more than enough answer and I almost laughed. Smokes had explained that my dad was the leader of The Similar, but Daddy had apparently already decided that he was included in "us" and not "them" and was part of our merry little band, even though his own band was still complete.

  Smokes walked away from the group at this point. Maybe he was getting more information from the screenwriters, or maybe he was still pissed at me. I was halfheartedly working on an apology or a defense or a rebuttal or something, and figured I would go ahead and go over to where The Oracle stood, by himself, looking over the side of the boat. I spent the entire walk coming up with absolutely nothing and just supposed I would wing it like basically everything else I did. I really didn’t understand my own reasoning here. I normally catastrophically embarrass myself and butcher every damn word I say, so there was no advantage in ad-libbing monologues; certainly not ones designed to restore peace.

  It did not appear that he was aware of my approach and I began as I came up to his side, "So…" I jammed my hands into my pockets as I tried to begin my bumbling apology. I nearly jumped as he spoke like he’d felt my approach.

  Looking back, he seemed he already knew every word that would ever be spoken between us and everyone else mentioned in this journal. "We stop by my crib next time we ain’t doin’ shit?”

  Well, I wasn’t exactly sure where he lived but hesitantly agreed. "I guess. I was planning on taking Gene to his house tomorrow, so while we’re out…" I let the sentence trail as he nodded.

  "I gots some grass at my pad, you dig?"

  I hung out with stoners in high school and was accused of partaking more than once, but honestly, I had never used marijuana. That is not to say I hate people who smoke; I think it should be legal everywhere. I just preferred getting intoxicated with liquor. Yeah, I will admit that I smoke cigarettes when I drink, but I would rather be too drunk to walk than drive to Waffle House at two o’clock in the morning with rampant munchies.

  "Naw man, it’s just not my thing."

  "Da fuck wrong wit choo, you pussy-eating faggot?"

  This horribly contradictory insult might offend no one and would probably even receive laughs in the right situation, but I instinctively cringed, remembering the most traumatic relationship experience of my life: Eternity.

  I’ll be the first to admit I’ve never had much luck with women; sure, I got laid a few times in high school and at parties but none of them were anything to write home about or even brag about to my friends. I’m not hung like a mule nor was I a quarterback, so none of the girls I’ve ever hooked up with have even come close to rating seven out of ten. I’ve really only had one serious girlfriend who I thought I was going to marry and let me tell you again, that was a big fucking mistake. Even if the human race is to somehow survive, it will still take hundreds of years to see the return of the Internet and even come close to what was social normalcy just a few weeks ago. Nevertheless, I will go ahead and let you know something from experience: never start a relationship with anyone you meet on the Internet.

  A few years ago a friend and I spent the majority of our weekend surfing Yahoo messenger; pretty much begging any woman with a Web Cam to flash us. Yes, it was as completely pathetic as it sounds. We were over twenty-one, and rather than go to a party to find moderately attractive, drunk females, we sat in my room for hours on end looking for a glimpse of something that a twelve year-old boy would barely find erotic. My mom had to think we were gay—two guys sitting in a room and whispering for that many hours.

  Anyway, one night my friend w
asn’t able to come over and partake of our customary loser session so I was forced to search alone for hours for topless attractive females, obviously desperate women who spent their weekends surfing chat rooms. During my quest I ran across username “foreverurs.” I was astonished to find that this person was, and had been born, female, was just a little younger than me, single, and had a Web Cam and microphone...as I did! At first glance, she was not terrible looking; maybe I needed glasses. Certainly her looks were improved by the effort it took to find her.

  I shit you not; her real name was Eternity—surprisingly spelled correctly. Later I learned this was due to the fact that both of her alcoholic, unemployed parents were drunk off their asses when she was born. After she told me her name, my first response was that it sounded like a porn star name, and though she was nowhere as pretty as one (as it turned out), she was just as loose as I would imagine a retired porn star would be. She was from Alaska, and my stupid ass began a long distance relationship with her.

  After we started officially dating, her favorite thing to say was "Eternity and Elmo, together for ever." Thank God it was not to be. I didn’t really want to be damned for eternity, and actually started mumbling that phrase under my breath whenever she said it. During the time that we were "dating" over Yahoo, I started the process of moving out of my parents’ house and into a duplex a couple of miles down the road. I refused to go somewhere as cold as fucking Alaska, even for the possibility of getting laid, even during the beginning, when I still thought she might actually be okay, so she got a plane ticket and took a trip down here.