by Bobby Adair
Ah, karma. Yes, karma.
Opening the door and stepping out into the drizzle was pretty anticlimactic. No angels sang. No trumpets tooted. No confetti rained down. Just me, standing in the rain, getting wet, and thinking it smelled odd out there, but damn, it felt good to stretch my arms out and not touch a wall. I spun around a few times looking up and letting the rain fall on my face. You know, like a hippie under a rainbow. Then I lost my balance, fell on my ass, and got mud all over my jeans.
Seriously, it felt a little weird. Scary. I tried to remember exactly on which day I’d last been outside. I couldn’t. I still can’t. It’s been too long. I never consciously decided to stop going outside. I just went outside less and less as it became more and more dangerous—I did mention the Shroomheads and the neighbor kid with the AK-47, didn’t I?
Now I’m wondering if I’d stayed in my hole for another six months, maybe I’d never have been able to walk under an open sky again.
That thought kinda freaks me out.
I wandered around my yard for awhile, looking at the fence, looking at the house. Mostly the house was the same. The paint was faded a bit more. The doors had been kicked in though. That was new. Inside, the house had been ransacked. The damn Shroomheads can’t quite figure out that people keep food in their pantry and in their cupboards, not under the mattress or in the closets. Definitely not under the couch cushions. Fuckers. I never even made the last three payments on that leather couch.
The other thing about Shroomheads, they’re not potty trained. You know, even a dog knows enough not to shit in his bed. Shroomheads will shit and piss wherever they happen to be standing when they get the urge. Disgusting, stinky vermin.
I guess some of ‘em must have lived in my house for a while. Piles of disintegrating Shroom crap were scattered around the house. Piss stains on the walls. Anything that could have been broken, was. Outside of a few light bulbs in recessed lamps that survived, little in the house was worth salvaging.
After I got done looking around my place, I checked the neighbors’ yards and didn’t see one Shroomhead nor any sign of fresh Shroomhead turds. I didn’t see anything but a dog about a block down and some birds in the trees. Lots of birds, actually.
All in all, it was an uneventful little two-hour excursion. I’d like to say I was pretty bored and disappointed by the whole thing, but the truth is, maybe it was thrilling in just the right degree for someone who’s been in a giant fiberglass hotdog for two years.
The most surprising thing I found during my trip was the stench of my bunker when I tried to go back inside. God, the whole place smelled like farts and armpits. I guess being in it, I developed a blindness to the smell.
Note to self: shower every day. Ventilate. Maybe pee outside when the Shroomheads aren’t around.
October 17
Yesterday’s adventure left me lying awake last night chasing thoughts around in my head. I think I was reveling in the excitement over getting back outside.
Right now, I’m eating my dinner, and I have to brag a little because I went outside again this afternoon. I stayed out a little longer. I ranged a little further.
I know I mentioned yesterday that locking myself into the bunker wasn’t something that happened all of a sudden. It’s not like I got home from work one afternoon, saw on the news that the Shroomheads had eaten everyone, and then got down in my bunker. It was as far from that as you could possibly imagine. Turns out, it takes a long time for the world to fall apart. I guess maybe momentum kept it moving for a good while after the end was inevitable.
Back about the time the power went down for the last time, we were probably two and a half years into the Shroom-demic (I’m loving making up these words). Things got so bad so slowly you almost didn’t notice how shitty and hopeless everything really was. Even on that day, the power going out wasn’t a surprise. Outages and brownouts had been plaguing us for at least a year by then, getting longer and more frequent.
The Shroom fungus had to chip away at modern life for a long time before it collapsed.
Six months or so later, I locked myself into Bunker Stink—the new name for my apocalypse survival capsule. Things outside were wild then. It wasn’t just the Shroomheads you had to worry about. It’s like the people, some of those with guns anyway, started living out their Mad Max fantasies—probably an exaggeration.
People were robbing and raping by then. Sometimes killing each other for little or no reason. The police and the Army disintegrated during that time. At least the last time I saw a man in uniform doing anything to promote social stability was about a month after the power went out.
I spent a lot of time out in the dangerous world before I took my solitary vacation from the apocalypse. I did a lot of sneaking around back in those days. I shot my share of Shroomheads—not exactly legal at the time, but definitely condoned—and even used my rifle to scare away a few dudes who looked like they might want to make some of my shit into their own shit. I suppose they went off to find easier prey.
So if you’re starting to worry that I might get my inexperienced ass munched by a Shroomhead with this sudden desire of mine to go out into the world, well, you’re right, I might. That’s a chance we’re both going to have to take. I’d hate to leave you wondering what happened by dying before the end though.
Yesterday, I didn’t see any Shroomheads around. That must have been luck. Maybe they prefer to stay out of the rain, you know, they wouldn’t want to wash off their stink.
I meant that sarcastically, but it just might be true.
Today when I went out the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the Shroomheads were lurking. I wandered around the neighborhood a bit, seeing them here and there, scrounging, humping, and generally just tearing shit up. It’s like they hate anything that was built or manufactured by normal people. Weird.
The Shroomhead count in the neighborhood seemed pretty thin to me. That made me wonder whether they’d all gobbled each other up or had gotten killed by the macho knucklehead poser boys back when there was still plenty of gasoline, guns, and bullets around. Or maybe they just moved on to meatier suburbs.
Wrong guess.
I found myself on a corner on someone’s lawn, hiding behind three century plants—they’re a kind of cactus. The cacti were the centerpieces of a rock garden that used to look nice enough to give an HOA president a woody. Now weeds are growing up through the rocks, and the tall stalks on two of the plants are broken and leaning into the street. It was a good place to hide while looking up and down the roads. From there, I saw down to Mazzy and Rollo’s house and across to the elementary school. I can’t say for sure why I’d wandered in that particular direction and why I was interested in the state of their house. Well, in truth, I’m just lying to myself. I was hoping that maybe Mazzy had survived and was down there waiting for a chivalrous knight to ride in and rescue her from the monsters. Expressions of gratitude would, of course, follow.
No such luck.
Their house looked as deserted as all the rest. What’s worse, the Shroomheads looked to have set themselves up in a little Shroom commune in the school across the street.
I watched for a little while, trying to get an idea of how many might be inside. Turns out, it was a bunch. The more I saw, the more nervous I grew, thinking of how many might be sneaking around that I couldn’t see. I felt inclined to get my big hairy butt back to Bunker Stink.
So, here we are. I’m scribbling crap on my paper, eating a bowl of rehydrated mush that doesn’t look anything like the picture on the package and tastes—I don’t really know what it tastes like—maybe lunch lady socks.
October 18
I spent a lot of dark hours last night staring at the bunk above mine, listening to the shadows, thinking about too many things to sleep. I thought about locking down my bunker hatch for another undetermined number of months on the unfounded hope that my Shroomhead neighbors would eventually leave. That line of thinking flew in the face of my desire�
�no, who am I kidding, my need—to blow my hair back.
Sitting underground in my fiberglass shell, I’m little more than a frightened hermit crab waiting to die. I’m in good health. I might last another thirty or forty years, but my supplies won’t.
Through all those ruminations, I came to my only real choice. I reaffirmed my decision to go out into the world. That led directly to the necessity of finding a way to take control of a Shroomhead infestation at the elementary school.
Somewhere before the dawn when I was dozing off and snapping back awake, I developed a plan. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.
Ok, that “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk,” part is what we call onomatopoeia. My best childhood buddy, Curly Joe, used to say it all the time. You see, there used to be these things called black and white movies, and way back in the day… Oh, fuck it. Too much explanation required. I’ll keep it to myself from now on.
I just realized, I should at least tell you about onomatopoeia. It’s one of my favorite words.
When I was a little kid, I used to watch a TV show called Batman. Whenever Batman would punch or kick somebody, a colorful graphic would splash on the screen and say “Bam,” or “Blap,” or “Pow.” I remember hearing two teachers at school talking about it, and they called those things onomatopoeias—words that sound like the sounds they describe—and it kind of stuck with me. I repeated it to myself about a hundred times that day. At dinner I said it, and my mom washed my mouth out with soap.
Back on track with the infestation.
Did I tell you yet that I used to hunt? Yeah, well, I’ve got some guns. And I’ve got a shit-ton of ammo. Forty-three thousand of 5.56 rounds for my AR-15, six thousand rounds for my Desert Eagle, and ten thousand rounds for my 12 gauge. I’ve got a sweet pump-action Heckler & Koch FABARM. Then I’ve got a bunch of .308 ammo for my Remington 700 and a bunch of miscellaneous ammo for my other guns.
Here’s the point. I’ve got lots of shotgun shells, a whole lot more than there are Shroomheads in the elementary school. I know, I know, you’re thinking that I’m gonna go all Rambo on ‘em. Nope. Like I said, I’ve got a plan. That’s why I’m going to the hardware store later this morning. There’s a Home Depot two miles up the road and a Lowe’s across the street. I’m pretty sure I can get what I need at those two places, plus there’s a Walmart and a couple of grocery stores all in that area. I’m only shopping for one item, but I need all of that item I can get. Everything else I need, I’ve got here.
No wait, there’s one more item I need. Good thing I thought of it. I don’t want to hurt anyone. You know, in case I’m not the only normal person left in Katy, Texas. I need spray paint. Shroomheads can’t read.
October 18, entry number 2
Turns out, getting something done in the apocalyptic world is a lot like getting something done at the county courthouse, you know, replacing a license plate, filing a property tax appeal, applying for an unhappiness certificate, I mean marriage license. Everything involves waiting. Honestly, when I crawled out of Bunker Stink and felt the rain on my face yesterday, I figured my days of waiting around and doing a lot of nothing were over.
It didn’t turn out that way.
Stop laughing. I know everybody knows that.
A man can have his dreams, you know. Don’t be a hater.
I’m maybe a mile down the road, halfway between my house and the Home Depot. I’ve been careful coming down here. I coulda drove to Home Depot in five minutes, but then every Shroomhead in the ‘hood would have crawled out of the turd hole he lives in and chased me down.
Not a good plan, that one.
The bike up in my house in the garage? No fucking way. First, you gotta pedal. Well, now that I’ve lost like a hundred pounds, that’s not a big deal. I’m a muscley lean stealth machine now. Did I mention that I was a big guy, not just fat, but big? I’m 6’5’’. For a couple of years I was even a wrestler—part-time. I used to be on TV back here in my day.
Sorry, I forget who I’m talking to sometimes. For wrestling, just think of people dressing up to pretend they’re something they aren’t, and putting on a big show of fighting with some other guy in a different costume. It was all fake. We weren’t really fighting. We made money because people liked the show. Lots of shouting. Lots of name-calling. People got knocked down. The spectators paid and rooted for their favorites, like maybe their cheers and jeers would affect the outcome. They didn’t. We knew who was gonna win before we started. Kinda like politics.
Holy shit. I just had another epiphany.
By the definition I gave you, I might be kind of a dipshit.
I may have to update my definition. I’ll get back to you on that one.
Back to the bicycle thing. Bad idea. You can’t defend yourself when you’re on a bike. That, and when you get going kinda fast, the wind blows across your ears so you can’t hear anything. Then you’re so busy looking for shit in the road—roads nowadays always have crap in them that’ll puncture your tire or bust your wheel—that you don’t pay attention to what’s going on around you. You never know the places that a Shroomhead might attack you from. Bikes. They’re out.
That’s why I was on foot.
Right now, feet are the best transportation. Maybe later I’ll find a tank or something, and I’ll make a hobby of driving around town and running over Shroomheads. Come to think of it, that sounds like fun.
Note to self: There’s gotta be a tank lying around somewhere.
Anyways, I was walking down the road, sort of. I wasn’t out in the middle of it. More like I was staying close to the strip malls, oil change joints, and restaurants along the way, taking care to hide behind cars and overgrown bushes. It’s best not to let the Shroomheads know you’re there. If they see you, they’ll come after you, and they’ll call their friends. It’s kind of like a barking monkey sound—hard to describe. Then they gang up and find your ass. They’re good at it, too.
I remember seeing a documentary once about chimpanzees. Those bastards hunt little monkeys in the trees. Yeah, I didn’t know that either—chimps like meat. The thing is, when a dozen or more chimps got in on the hunt, they were 100% successful. They caught and ate the little monkey every single time.
Think about that. 100%.
It’s some scary shit.
Shroomheads are smarter than chimps—maybe—and they don’t eat meat as a supplement. Flesh is their primary food source. They eat any critter with meat on its bones: people—when there were a lot of us around—dogs, cats, squirrels, deer, cows, even rats.
Something I figured out early: Don’t be the little monkey. The Shroomheads will catch you and eat you if enough of ‘em get in on the hunt.
The point of all this—and there’s got to be a point, right?—is that I was about a mile down the road from my house at an intersection with a pretty good-sized road, and I saw a big herd of Shroomheads coming up from the east. I couldn’t cross without the ones in front seeing me. I would have liked to have gone back home at that point. But that wasn’t an option.
You see, I learned another thing early on. The Shroomheads by their nature are never organized enough to all follow the road in the same direction. The damn things get curious or restless. I don’t know, hard to tell. Anyways, if you see a bunch of ‘em on the road, well, there might be another half a bunch of ‘em kind of following along with the mob, on the side streets, or going through houses nearby, or just wandering around in the same general direction. The thing is, by the time I saw these Shroomheads maybe a quarter mile up the road, maybe a little more, I knew that mob was actually another quarter mile wider than the street on each side. What that means is, if I had started sneaking back home on the road I would have been going north, and the Shroomheads would have started coming out from behind the businesses across the street heading west. They would have flanked me.
I would have been the little monkey.
Fuck that.
I chose to hide.
Of all places, I’m holed up in a nail salon.
&nbs
p; I found a storage space with a skylight built above the restrooms in the back of the shop. It maybe wasn’t supposed to be a storage space because it didn’t have a stairway, just an aluminum ladder—probably purchased at the Home Depot—leaning against the wall. The ladder gave away what it was. I pulled it up behind me. Now if the Shroomheads come in the shop, they’ll never know I’m up here. All I have to do is be quiet. I know, you’re thinking, I’ll have to be real still and hold my breath. No, not really. Shroomheads tend to tromp around and make a lot of noise. All I need to do is breathe normally and not accidentally bump a box or something while they’re in the shop. Like I said, I did this kind of shit for a while before I locked the door on Bunker Stink. I just need to wait for the herd to pass.
Luckily I thought to bring my journal along in my backpack. I say that, but it wasn’t luck. I planned for the possibility of having to get stuck waiting somewhere. I also know myself well enough to know that I get impatient. When I’m impatient, I start making stupid choices, like leaving the nail salon too early. That might lead to me getting munched and leaving you with an incomplete Shroomhead history. Writing in my journal keeps me occupied so I don’t stare at the wall and get impatient.
Let’s see. What to write about? Hmm.
Subject today: Let’s talk about those damn vaccines.
It’s weird how this whole thing went down, the thing with everybody turning into a Shroomhead. At first, it all pissed me off, you know, a toe fungus cure turning people into Shroomheads. Really? But what the fuck, we have a dickless government in the pockets of big corporations so they can make whatever bullshit they’re up to legal. I guess if some corporation decided it wanted to start robbing banks, hell I suppose they’d just buy some congressmen and make that legal too—for corporations, not normal people like me.
I won’t beat my dipshit point to death here. We’ll just move along.