by David Rogers
But there was no way Candice would be able to hoist a long extension ladder up if Jessica left to go do things; the ten-year-old lacked the strength to make any sort of serious attempt at something like that. And leaving the ladder in place was a risk that Jessica couldn’t take; any other survivors who wandered by would be free to come right up. In fact, seeing such an obvious modification to the house would likely draw their attention.
Aside from Candice being at their mercies, it meant the house and its supplies would be free for the taking. Not a plan Jessica was remotely happy with.
The other possibility that occurred to her was to not destroy the stairs; but merely modify them. If she took out a number of the stair treads, she could maybe rig up some sort of ‘draw bridge’ with the ladders to span the open distance. The problem with that was she knew she’d probably need to create at least a six or eight foot gap, and that was a lot of stairs to remove.
She was not terribly handy. At least, not in the ‘fix and build’ things sense. The treads could probably be attached to the ladders, but how to do so securely, and in a way that didn’t create a dangerous long inclined slope from one side of the gap to the other was stumping her. The gap would have to be long enough to not be jumpable, and high enough for the house-side to not be easily reachable from the ground. That meant it was critical for the ‘drawbridge’ to be stable for crossing, or she or Candice could get hurt if they fell.
Frankly, Jessica hadn’t any real clue how to go about it. Or how Candice would manage the retraction that any better than she would trying to haul up a big ladder from the ground. She was still mulling things over, wondering if maybe she should go back out and find a hardware store and wander through it looking for inspiration, when she got back to the house.
As she approached the line of vacation homes, her eyes sweeping automatically across the scene, she realized something was different. Pulling herself out of her thoughts over the stairs, she looked again and realized the second house on the right had someone sitting on the front porch.
Jessica braked in surprise. The truck came to a skidding halt, tires screeching a little on the asphalt, but the figure on the porch didn’t do anything. It was a man – he had a pretty thick beard that was evident even from dozens of yards away – and he appeared to be just whiling away the afternoon in a wooden chair.
“Who’s that?” Candice asked.
“I don’t know.” Jessica answered slowly.
“Is he a bad guy?”
“I don’t know?”
“Well, how do we find out?”
A fair question. Jessica saw the man was looking at them; or, at least, his head was turned in the direction of the truck. As she watched, he lifted something in his left hand to his mouth. A few moments later, he lowered that and lifted his right hand next. She realized he had a drink in one hand, and was smoking something held in the other.
“We should ask him I guess.” Jessica decided. “Stay in the truck and keep watch around us so nothing bad sneaks up, okay?”
“What are you going to do?” Candice asked.
“Talk to him.”
“Okay.”
Jessica eased the truck forward slowly, trying to keep from appearing aggressive, hung a U-turn so her side of the truck faced the house in question, and stopped at the base of the stairs leading up to it. She checked around the area at ground level, then rolled her window down and leaned out some.
“Hello.” she called up.
“How’s it goin’ ladies?” he slurred back.
“He’s drunk.” Jessica realized. Aside from his speech, he was sitting slumped and crooked in the chair like gravity was taking a toll on him, had a pint bottle of liquor in his hand, and an open cooler with more bottle tops sticking up out of it on the porch next to his chair.
He wore a dirty and heavily stained t-shirt that looked like it hadn’t been washed in . . . ever, even though she was sure some of the stains were vomit. His jeans were similarly worn, bearing dirt and frayed holes and no signs of care or cleanliness. As she studied him, he lifted a fat cigar to his mouth and took a long, sloppy puff that included a cough, necessitating his needing to start the puff over, and a lot of drooling and dribble from his lips as he worked the cigar’s end to a cherry red glow.
“Surviving.” Jessica answered before she let the pause grow too pregnant. “How are you doing?”
“Not bad considerin’ how fuckin’ fucked things are.”
“You staying here?”
“Hell yes.” he said, but without any sense of anger or offense in his tone. Instead, he made the words come out like he was extremely amused by them. “Where the fuck else would I be on a fine day like this?”
Jessica glanced around automatically as he gestured, then reminded herself Austin would be paying attention to everything and not just the guy. But nothing and no one seemed to lurking about anywhere. Or, rather, not that she could tell.
“You ladies movin’ in?”
“Kind of.” she answered, returning her eyes to him.
“Good.” he said with an air of definitive authority. “Fuckin’ place could use some damn estr . . . estro . . . fuck, some damn women to pretty shit up. You know, improve the view.”
Candice giggled from the passenger seat of the truck, and Jessica found herself smiling despite her disapproval of the foulness of the man’s tongue.
“You want a drink?” he asked, starting to hold the bottle out toward her. “No, no, hang on. Ladies don’t want none of that.” He jammed the bottle down between his legs and reached into the cooler. Glass clinked as he rummaged unsteadily through it, then he lifted out a different bottle; opaque with a colorful label. “Here we are, proper lady’s drink. Fruity and fit to gag on there’s so much damn unferm . . . unfe . . . fuck it, sugar in it.”
He held the bottle out toward her, and Jessica shook her head as she smiled again. “No, but thank you.”
“You sure? Best thing for it.”
“For what?” she asked curiously.
“The damn apoc . . . apocal . . . for the fuckin’ zombies.” he said drunkenly, dropping the bottle back into the cooler with a dangerously loud clink of glass on glass that made her wince. But he didn’t seem to notice, or react, to the chance his cooler full of bottles might break.
“I’ve got some things to do to get us settled in, but thank you.” Jessica deferred. “How long have you been here?”
“Since it all went to fuckin’ shit.” he said, punctuating the statement by picking up his bottle again and taking a swig. She couldn’t read the label from here, but the contents were something brown colored, like whiskey or rum. And were over half gone. If he was drinking straight liquor, drunk probably didn’t begin to describe his condition. In fact, depending on how long he’d been drinking, and despite his obviously sodden exterior and behavior, he might be even drunker than he looked and sounded.
“Since Labor Day?” she guessed.
“Yup.” he nodded, sounding proud. “Best fuckin’ thing for it.”
“You didn’t have anything else you needed to be doing?”
“Do? Do?” he demanded, but still without any air of anger or offense. She was beginning to realize about the only two emotional states he seemed to have were either amusement in her confusion or pride in his decision making. “What the fuck is there to do?”
“Fight off zombies, stay safe . . . you know, things like that?”
“Oh.” he said, then hiccupped. “Yeah, well, okay, sure, there was a little of that. But just a little. After I seen what things were getting to, I figured out the best way to deal with all of it.” He jammed the cigar into the side of his mouth, but kept talking as he puffed and drooled.
“Stole my asshole neighbor’s truck and took my ass down to the Shore Shack. Loaded that fucker full of everything, hauled it the fuck over here, stashed it the fuck in the bedrooms, and been having myself a grand fuckin’ time ever since.”
She glanced around, but there were no ve
hicles in sight. “Where’s the truck?”
“Fucker broke down just after I fuckin’ got here. When I went out looking for more fuckin’ supplies.” he shrugged. “Shitty fuckin’ truck anyway; had to walk back. Ain’t been out since. Happy takes a hint, the hell he don’t.”
“Zombies haven’t bothered you?” Jessica asked, trying to keep from getting too hopeful. But if a total drunk had spent the last two months here, doing nothing but drinking, and hadn’t gotten eaten by zombies . . . she figured that could only bode quite well for her and Candice.
“Oh they wander by sometimes.” he shrugged. “I like it. Them bastards are funny as fuck to watch.”
“What do you do?”
“Drink.”
“No, I mean, when the zombies come.”
“Drink.” he repeated, blinking at her. “You okay lady?”
“I’m fine. But when the zombies come, you don’t do anything about them?”
“Why would I do anything about them?”
Before Jessica could start to answer, over Candice’s continued giggles she heard a motor approaching. She looked at the road automatically, but nothing was visible on the pavement. Glancing around again, she spotted a boat cruising toward the peninsula. It was cutting across the lake and making straight for the drunk’s house; or, rather, the little dock behind his house.
About the time she focused on the boat – a motor boat of some sort that looked low slung but long enough to carry eight or ten people – the motor’s noise penetrated the drunk’s alcohol induced haze. “Ah fuck, the fuckin’ guys are back.”
“The guys?” Jessica asked, struggling to keep from showing alarm.
“Yeah. They say they’re friends of mine, but I ain’t got no fuckin’ friends.”
“Why not?”
“Fuck friends.” he said, showing the first hint of something that wasn’t touched with amusement. “Just more shit they can take away. Don’t need no more of that.”
“Who?”
“Friends.”
“No, I mean, who’s going to take your friends away?”
“Fuckin’ zombies.”
Jessica looked back to the boat as the drunk lifted his bottle for another swig. Whoever was driving it was experienced; the boat was angling right for the dock without a problem. Its motor cut off while it was still out in the water, but the momentum lasted long enough for the boat to glide right up next to the wooden structure. There were three people in it, and one of them stepped up and out of the boat adroitly with a rope in hand to start tying the vehicle up so it didn’t drift off.
Whoever they were, they were armed – with long guns that were slung behind their shoulders, plus holsters on their belts – but they didn’t seem aggressive to her. Jessica was ready to take off in the truck, or grab for one of her own weapons, but the boat trio simply headed up the back stairs toward the house. One of them, the driver, waved at her in a friendly gesture, then he went up too.
She made sure the transmission was in drive and ready to go, and waited with her foot on the brake. About twenty seconds after she lost sight of the people on the back stairs, the front door behind the drunk opened and they came out onto the porch. Two men and a woman, she saw as they emerged.
“Hello.” one of the men called down.
“Hello.” she answered, trying to keep from letting her building tension get to her. One guy, even before she realized he was lost in an inebriated haze, didn’t alarm her too much. But three more people, and showing signs of being more prepared for the post-apocalypse world, just encouraged her to revert to extreme caution.
“I see you’ve met Jared here.”
“Fuck you, you asshole.” the drunk slurred. “My name is Happy.”
“No one calls him that.” the woman said.
“You fuckers better start.” Jared said, waving his bottle around. “Or I might stop letting you use my fuckin’ dock.”
“Some dock.” the third member of the trio of newcomers said. “Barely enough room for the three of us to stand side by side on it.”
“Fuck you too.”
“Can’t imagine why we don’t call him Happy.” the first man said.
“Guess not.” Jessica allowed neutrally.
“I’d be happier if you fuckin’ teetoal . . teet . . . sober assholes would tie one on.”
“I know Jared.” the third man said, clearly suppressing a smirk. “Now be nice or we’ll stop checking on you.”
“Check my ass.” Jared replied before letting an enormously loud fart rip. A really loud one; it was clearly audible even all the way down the stairs and on the road, over the noise of the truck’s idling engine. Jessica heard Candice giggling again.
“No thanks.” the woman up on the porch said, stepping away from him quickly. The third man was doing likewise, though he was laughing more than anything else.
“Where you coming from?” the first man asked Jessica. He apparently didn’t mind the smell, because he didn’t bother moving.
“North of Ocala.” Jessica said, which had the advantage of being both vague and true. Apparently news of Ocala had made it down this far, because the newcomers all winced.
“Glad you made it past all that safe then. Uh, I’m Byron.” the man said, pointing at himself before turning his gesturing on the other two with him. “Arcelia, Carlo, and you already met Mr. Happy here.”
“And we was having a damn fine conversation ‘fore you sad fuckers came by and interrupted.” Jared confirmed.
“Jessica, Candice.”
“What are your plans?”
Jessica hesitated briefly before responding. “Survive. What else is there?”
“Well, there’s that, there’s less smart stuff, and then there’s Jared’s plan.”
“Happy.” Jared protested.
“Right.” Byron agreed.
“Drink the zombies away?” Jessica asked.
“That’s it.” Carlo nodded.
“Hell of a plan.” Jared confirmed.
“Is it working?” Jessica asked curiously.
“Hell yes.” Jared hiccupped. “I’m still fuckin’ drunk.”
“Jared—”
“Happy, asshole.” Jared protested.
“—the Happy Asshole here has kind of had a rough time of it since the outbreak.” Arcelia continued, barely pausing to even register Jared’s interruption. “It’s sort of left a mark on him.”
“You’d have marks too you found yourself on the ass end of a bad song.”
“Things will get better.” Carlo said to the drunk. “Just give it a chance.”
“The fuck you think I’m doing?” Jared demanded, gesturing around with his bottle. Then he seemed to remember he had it, and took a health swig.
“Looking for the courage to kill yourself slow?” Byron asked.
“Wasting a bunch of time sitting on your ass?” Arcelia suggested.
“Turning your liver into rock?” Carlo tried.
“Giving shit a chance to work the fuck out!” Jared said decisively.
“Oh brother.” Arcelia sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you.” Jared said, pointing unsteadily at each of the three people on the porch with him in turn. He turned his finger down the stairs at Jessica, paused, then grinned sloppily at her. “Not you though. Unless you’re interested later.”
Jessica didn’t even feel the need to blush, not with everyone already chuckling.
“Jared here is happy—”
“Damn straight.”
“—shut up.” Byron told him. “Have another drink.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Jared nodded, lifting his bottle again. As he tipped it back, Byron looked back at Jessica.
“He’s happy to sit up here working through his booze. Don’t worry though, he’s only conscious about four hours every eight or so. At least, that’s the best we can figure it. It’s not like we’re here all the time.”
“You’ve got a camp somewhere across the la
ke?” Jessica asked.
“Not exactly.”
“How’s that?”
Carlo grinned. “We’re camping on the lake.”
Jessica blinked. “What?”
Arcelia shrugged. “It’s more or less true. We’ve got a bunch of boats, including a core of house boats, we’ve sort of anchored out there in the water where nothing can get at us unless it swims or flies.”
“And zombies don’t do either.” Jessica realized. “Smart.”
“We’re getting by okay.” Byron shrugged. “Fishing, some scavenging, trading favors occasionally with our buddy Happy here.”
“Favors! Hah!” Jared laughed.
“What kind of favors?” Jessica asked.
“Well, despite appearances, Jared here is actually a rather special guy.”
“Fucked you mean.” Jared corrected him. “The word is fucked.”
“What are you going to do when you run out of booze?” Byron asked in a reasonable tone.
“Hah!” Arcelia and Carlo both snorted.
Jared, however, just gave Byron an imperious look. “Take my gator gun and go get some more.”
“There’s only so much alcohol in South Florida Jared.”
“Happy!” Jared insisted.
“You’re going to run out eventually.”
“No he won’t.” Carlo said.
“Yeah, he can’t keep this up.” Arcelia added.
“Fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you.” Jared said, again making the rounds with his bottle as he gestured at each of them in turn. He neglected to notice Jessica this time, but he did notice the bottle once more. Tipping head and bottle alike back yet again, his latest slug of booze was interrupted when he fell over backwards, taking the chair with him. There was a heavy thump as he hit the porch, then a hollow, tumbling clinking as the bottle bounced off his forehead before skittering and skidding across the wood decking.
None of the other three people up on the porch with him tried to catch him as he toppled. Jessica was momentarily, and mildly, shocked; but then she heard a low voice slurring and stumbling its way through something that sounded rehearsed. She initially assumed it was moans of pain, but after a second or so she realized it was lyrics of some sort; there was too much rhyme to them.