Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time

by Richard Johnson

  “Highlander, there can be only one!” Russ shouted from afar. Soon, every zombie within earshot joined the rumble and Rob had to backpedal as they swarmed around him.

  Using his entire weight, Rob swung wildly and connected. The powerful blow met the thick skull of a tow truck driver and Smokey’s Lord of the Rings Collector’s Edition sword snapped in half. Out of options, he opened the alley gate with the entire neighborhood following him. In a fluid move for such a big man, Rob hurdled Jim and Cindy’s fresh grave and dropkicked Cliff square in the chest, sending the emaciated zombie clattering across the bricks.

  The feral mob closed in while biting at Rob’s limbs and trying to pull him down. All he could do was toss them off one at a time. But no matter how hard he body-slammed, clothes-lined and karate-chopped, they came right back after him. Thankfully, the ladder touched down and Rob hustled up while his friends hurled insults and projectiles at the raging pack of savages.

  The loud commotion brought even more cannibals to the scene and the growing rabble pressed in tighter and tighter while Rob egged them on, just out of reach. Finally, the surprising genius of the plan came into focus as Smokey pulled a rope and the gate swung shut, trapping the mosh pit of zombies inside.

  Success. They’d packed in seventy two poor souls like cattle and the streets now appeared empty. After making sure Rob’s pseudo-armor held up, the gang climbed down, leaving only a sickly Blake behind to guard the ladder.

  Rob led the way, carrying a wooden bat spiked with nails and a brand new attitude. The others huddled behind their battle-hardened “tank” and brandished their own assortment of garden tools, kitchenware, and construction implements. They were just as likely to injure themselves or each other, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Fully exposed, they’d need to rely on stealth and speed to get the goods and return.

  Rob farted loudly.

  “Damn, hold it in, will ya?” Charlie whispered as they approached the nearby convenience store. In a rare bit of good luck, it was unlocked.

  They were used to the smell of countless bloated bodies baking in the sun, but the stench from inside was on a completely new level. Sour milk, moldy fruit, rat droppings and a sticky substance on the floor all combined into a hodgepodge of funk. Mike plugged his nose and waved everyone in. “Remember, quick and quiet.”

  The men spread out and grabbed whatever their hearts desired most. For Charlie, it was canned peaches and jars of applesauce, while Russ took armfuls of cigarettes and trucker-speed. Of course, Rob went straight for the candy aisle while Left-Nut, still dreaming of future hook ups, snagged shampoo and toothpaste. Oddly enough, Trent hit up the toy section and grabbed balsa airplanes and other junk for his unlikely new best friend. If he was putting on an act, he was doing a great job of it.

  Bruce was the most practical of all and searched for Pepto-Bismol and the softest toilet paper he could find. The poor diet had wrecked more than their breath, and these items would be priceless. He tossed economy-sized packs into a shopping cart and moved swiftly down the aisle, but his rusty cart squeaked as he turned a corner, and an eerie sound rose in response from the back of the store.

  Everyone froze in place with their weapons at the ready, but no attack came. The store grew quiet once more as Rob strode to the rear like a knight searching for a dragon to slay. “All clear,” he whispered. Then he looked at the floor. “Ah, shit.”

  Charlie rushed to his friend. “What is it?”

  Rob pointed and uttered what might be the single most disturbing word in the English language: “Zom-baby.” A sickly-looking toddler emerged from the filth and inched its way towards Rob’s foot. The starving abomination opened its tiny, toothless mouth and tried to gnaw through Big Rob’s sneaker. He didn’t have the heart to dispatch the wretched creature. None of them did.

  Finally, Russ removed his faded REO Speedwagon shirt and lovingly wrapped the small child up. He disappeared into the deep freezer and shut the door behind him. A minute later, the father of five returned shirtless and visibly shaken.

  Charlie tried to cheer him up by pointing to the crude homemade tattoo on Russ’s arm depicting a smiling monkey masturbating over a Chevy symbol. “How did that seem like a good idea?”

  “You would be surprised what sounds cool when you’re huffing spray-paint,” he replied and sniffled away tears. “My kids liked it, though.”

  After regaining their composure, the crew finished up looting the store and gathered by the register for their next move. Charlie noticed a disheveled creature standing in the middle of the road near the corralled zombies. “Rob, you better bring it in before a crowd forms. Curious bastards.”

  The giant propped the door open and whistled, and the lone zombie ran right into a storm of hacking, slashing, bashing and poking. Even Left-Nut got a lick in on the hapless straggler.

  “Now that was a rush,” he said while pulling garden shears from the dismembered corpse’s neck. An arterial spray of blood hit the ceiling while Left-Nut giggled like a frog-stomping schoolboy. “Money shot.”

  They exited the building and split up, with Left-Nut, Bruce, and Russ hauling the spoils home while the others made their way to the shuttered Halloween Store. Weeks of wearing the same clothes had left them badly needing a wardrobe change, and even cheesy costumes would be an improvement.

  Russ crowbarred the door open, but they hesitated to enter. Trent articulated why. “It’s blacker than Shaq’s butthole in there, I’m not going first.”

  Charlie clicked his flashlight on and boldly led the way. Closed at the time of the outbreak, the place was decorated with fake webs and leering displays, ready for a Halloween rush that would never arrive. Even more ominous was the idea that real monsters could be lurking nearby, and every pirate, mummy and alien looked ready to pounce in the dim glow of the flashlight.

  Charlie picked a cowboy outfit for himself and a Thor costume for Rob while Mike quietly snuck a French maid getup into the sack. Meanwhile, Trent searched for the kids’ aisle and found himself alone in the dark, wondering if he’d heard footsteps nearby. The hair rose on the back of his neck and he got the distinct feeling that something evil was nearby. Noticing a figure in his peripheral, Trent turned and swung his sledgehammer with a startled fury, striking something and falling down in the process. A decapitated mannequin tumbled onto Trent and sent him further into a frenzy. He tossed the dummy and limped back to the others, hyperventilating and swearing at the same time. “This place is giving me the creeps. You’ll have to get Blake’s Pamprin without me. I’m out.”

  “Okay,” Mike said as he saw fear was causing the old Trent to peek out from whatever hidey-hole he’d been in. “I’ll help carry the clothes home and you two can get the insulin next door.” Mike looked back to Charlie as he left. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the ladder ready.”

  “Damned right you will,” Charlie said. “And nice outfit,” he added with a wink.

  Minutes later, Rob and Charlie pried the vet clinic open and found a heartbreaking scene. Countless dogs, cats, and the occasional rabbit had died in their cages, literally left to rot. Some had struggled to break free by gnawing at the bars until their teeth gave out. The tragedy was too much for Rob to process and he took his helmet off and slumped to the ground.

  Ignoring his friend rocking back and forth like a child, Charlie found several lifesaving vials in the fridge and a box of penicillin for himself. He turned to Rob. “Come on, buddy.” Just then, a faint scratching noise could be heard.

  “What was that?” Rob said.

  “Don’t know, don’t care. Let’s go.” Charlie made his way to the door.

  Rob ignored him and frantically searched the cages for any possible survivors. He had almost given up when a faint movement in a trashcan caught his eye. Rob carefully pulled a tiny ball of fur out and held it up to the flashlight. Satisfied, they hustled across the street and up the ladder.

  “Check it out,” Rob said. “We got the medicine and I found a k
itten. Only bummer is I think it was born without eyes.” He put the little thing down on the coffee table.

  Smokey pet it. “He’s cute. What are you gonna name him?”

  Rob smiled. “What else? Elvis.”

  Mike examined the squirming critter and fought back a belly laugh. “That not a kitten, it’s a baby raccoon.”

  “You dumbass,” Left-Nut said and quickly backed out of swatting range.

  “What was it doing in the clinic?” Bruce said.

  Mike examined the raccoon as it made weird cooing and clicking noises. “Its momma might have left it there to forage and never came back. My bet would be one of those big-ass rats got to it. Nasty critters.”

  “What about its eyes?” Rob asked with fear in his voice.

  “It hasn’t opened them yet,” Mike said. “But it looks healthy otherwise.”

  Rob breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “We can keep it?”

  “I don’t see why not, but you’ll need to get powdered formula and parasite medicine from the clinic.” Mike flipped the raccoon over. “And you need to pick out a new name. This little guy’s a girl.” Rob looked uncomfortable with the last bit of news, and Mike relented. “Fine then, Elvis it is. But remember, like a baby, you need to feed her every three hours.”

  Rob sniffled, paused, and began sobbing again. “I never had a pet before.” In a nice surprise, Brandon hesitantly stroked Elvis and beamed a gap-toothed smile.

  “I’ll get a box and some towels so we can make her a bed,” Charlie said.

  Still unable to speak, Rob followed him into the kitchen.

  Not everyone was excited about their new roommate, however. “That’s great. First an orphan and now a rodent. Next I suppose we’ll be housing bedbugs and carnies,” Left-Nut said. “And I’m not cleaning up any shit.”

  “You know, that raccoon already has more friends here than you do,” Blake said ruefully while grabbing his medicine. He turned to Mike after inspecting one of the cloudy vials. “Is it supposed to look like this? The stuff I use looks like water.”

  Mike took the container, shook it vigorously, and handed it back. “This is made for dogs and it wasn’t refrigerated either, but it’s all we have. It’s your call if you want to take it or not. I guess it depends on how you’re feeling.”

  “Like shit.”

  Mike rested his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “Then there’s your answer.”

  Blake nodded grimly and then jabbed the syringe into his arm with a wince. “Good thing I was born lucky.”

  Chapter 30

  Mama Said Knock You Out

  The locker room shook from blaring speakers and the stomping of ten thousand fans. After paying a seventy-dollar admission, drinking eight-dollar draft Pabst Blue Ribbons and having exhausted their stories about how much ass they kicked in high school, the sold out Vegas crowd grew anxious for the main event. It was like updating the Roman Coliseum with crystal meth and hard-on prescriptions. This was the big time, and Big Rob prepared for the fight as he always did.

  Blaaaaugh. Two chili dogs, a peanut-butter milkshake, twelve crab rangoons and a meat-lovers pizza sprayed the sink in a frothy eruption. The stench was enough to make one question the very existence of God.

  “Jesus that’s foul,” Charlie said while covering his nose. “Looks like you haven’t stuck to your diet. Is that a whole head of garlic?” It was.

  Tremors rocked the giant’s body as he lost control again and Charlie jumped to avoid a direct whiff of the nastiness. The inexperienced trainer stared at the hodgepodge no sane man would eat just three hours before a nationally televised fight.

  “It’s only nerves, I’ll be fine,” Rob said unconvincingly.

  “Good thing you’re too cheap to pay me because I’d be mad as hell right now. I mean, you’re walking into a meat grinder stuffed like a suckling pig.” Charlie paused as another pungent smell assaulted his senses — Rob’s body odor. “When’s the last time you showered? You smell like ass dipped in cabbage.”

  Rob wiped the slime from his beard and then splashed water on his ghostly white face. He peered into the mirror. “How do I look?”

  “Like you’ve been eaten by a wolf and shit off a cliff… so pretty much like normal.” He slapped his friend on the back and smiled a toothy grin. “Now stop being a pussy and get your head on straight. You’ve got a belt to win. Think about it, this could set you up for life.”

  Rob’s steely blue eyes sparkled as he imagined what might be if he could only pull off the unthinkable. “It would be nice to have extra cash. I’ll be able to pay rent on time, maybe pick up some sponsors. I might even get to upgrade from nailing fat chicks to ugly chicks.”

  “Aiming high indeed. So… not to put any more pressure on you, but…” Charlie dropped his humorous tone and stared deeply at his friend. “Look, I maxed out my credit cards and put ten grand down. Boom goes the dynamite.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I know you can do it. We’ve got thirty to one odds right now. This is our big break. Beat this guy’s ass and there’s no looking back for both of us. 2003 is the year we come out on top.”

  Rob’s eyes glistened. “Thanks for believing in me.”

  Charlie was the only person that did. Rob’s mother had died years earlier from treatable cancer and his abusive father skipped town after a teenaged Rob gave him a massive beat down. The last time he saw his dad was on the show To Catch a Predator.

  Charlie’s family took the lovable loser in, treated him as one of their own and eventually got him into college on a wrestling scholarship. After five years of grade inflation and plenty of charity, he graduated with a worthless P.E. degree and no job prospects. Two years later, Rob was penniless and living in a tent, but still struggling for a shot at greatness.

  And Charlie had one foot in the gutter right along with him. Fired from his teaching job months earlier for missing work and getting wasted at the office Christmas party, this could be either Charlie’s major rebound or his last spiral around the toilet.

  “You can blow me later. Now get your gloves on and kick that Euro-trash’s dick in the dirt.” It wasn’t a bad pep talk considering he’d downed four Jager-Bombs and snorted two lines of coke. Charlie was a little nervous too, after all.

  “Fuck yeah!” Rob punched a locker with enthusiasm and crumpled it like a pop can.

  Unfortunately, his opponent was the much-favored reigning MMA World Champion, Vladimir Draganov. Bulgaria’s favorite bad boy was a judo expert and an amateur rapist. Known for his roundhouse knockouts and million-dollar sexual assault payoffs, Vladimir would be near impossible to beat. The promoters had even handpicked Rob to be the sacrificial tomato can and banked on a highlight-reel whipping.

  But Rob and Charlie held the wildcards of stupidity and desperation firmly in their grasp, and they were ready to toss them on the table. To be sure, Vladimir outclassed Rob when it came to technical skills, training, and of course, nutrition. Rob had a puncher’s chance though, and that’s what Charlie was counting on. He’d personally seen Rob own three guys at a keg party without putting down his hot dog, literally taking a bite between knockouts. The behemoth had powerful arms, hammer-like fists, and a tree trunk of a neck.

  Now suited up and ready for combat, the duo walked down a winding hallway and stopped at the entrance to the arena, waiting for the announcer’s call. The sound of the crowd was deafening.

  “And now, the challenger, fighting out of Stormburg, Illinois… with a mixed martial arts record of ten wins and zero losses, standing at a full six-foot eight inches and weighing in at a massive two-hundred and ninety pounds… The Titan of the Midwest… Viking Rob Magnusson!” Fireworks erupted as Rob stepped into the aisle bathed in multi-colored spotlights. He raised his meaty arms and waited for a song by 80’s metal band Slayer. But the heavy tune “Seasons of the Abyss” never kicked on. What did play over the massive sound system was a song popular at countless wedding receptions and bar mitzvahs the world o
ver — a little ditty called “The Chicken Dance.”

  Panic gripped Rob as he turned to Charlie. “What the fuck? I didn’t pick this shit.”

  Charlie shoved him back towards the ring and shouted above the blaring noise, “I have no idea, dude, just go with it.” The crowd raucously clapped to the beat as the two bumbling friends appeared on the jumbo screen and on millions of televisions across the country. A thousand miles away, Left-Nut rolled on the floor in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. This was the happiest moment of his life.

  Rob slunk towards the dressing room as beer cans whizzed past his head, and Charlie tried to stop him. After much coaxing, a deflated Rob turned and stiffly made his way to the ring.

  The soundboard operator responsible for the “mix up” smiled broadly in the control room, knowing the five grand in cash he’d gotten from Vladimir would keep him knee deep in Oxycontin and Filipino hookers for quite some time. In Vegas, a person never knew when a jackpot was right around the corner.

  Thankfully, the song ended as the two men reached the metal cage amid flashbulbs and jeers. Charlie searched his mind for any last minute advice. “Get inside and use your weight. You need to wear him out fast, so lean on him every chance you get. When he tires, hug him and go for a deep clinch, then take him down and pound his face into jelly.” Rob’s attention continued to wander, so Charlie grabbed him roughly by the jaw and gave him a smack. “Focus, man, focus.”

  Rob snapped out of the panic spiral. “I got this.”

  “Welcome back. If you give him any room to breathe, he’ll knock your ass out. So what you gotta do is—”

  The announcer started up again. “And now… fighting out of Tryavna, Bulgaria, with the astounding mixed martial arts record of twenty wins, sixteen by knockout… with two losses by disqualification… standing six foot four and weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds… holder of three world heavyweight belts… known the world over as the Bulgarian Badass… the champion… Vladimir, The Dragon, Draganov!”