Riding The Apocalypse

by Frank Ignagni III

  As the monsters moved to my right, I became downwind from the swarm. My God, the stench. I didn’t purposely look to see the origin, but I couldn’t help it. I saw stained clothing with wet, black feces running down the legs of some of the monsters. This in combination with their overbearing body odor was almost too disgusting to bear. I dry heaved after seeing this, and tried breathing through my mouth as much as possible from that point forward.

  Within minutes all the visible monsters were up against the far side of the cyclone fence. They were clawing at Max and moaning loudly as they snapped their jaws. Their bloody fingers left streaks that contrasted sharply with the silver cyclone fencing.

  “What kind of motorcycles do you stinky fuckers ride? Monsters?” Max said out loud, dancing back and forth to keep them from all pressing at one point of the fence.

  I could hear him through the helmet intercom, and I smiled for a couple of reasons. Partially because it was such a droll joke (Ducati makes a model called Monster), and also because this was Max’s way of putting us at ease. Even though we were stationed out of his sight, Max knew we were listening.

  Max kept his distance from the fence, but emoted enough dialogue and noise to keep the monsters’ attention. I looked away from Max, back to the angry mob and saw a little boy who was getting trampled at the base of the fence. I felt sorry for him until I realized how absurd it was to feel sorry for a monster who feels no pain and is trying to eat my friend.

  Hard to wrap your head around the concept behind these fuckers, it really is. I still felt terrible about it though. Child monsters make my heart hurt.

  I quietly opened the glass door in front of the office and flinched when I heard the alarm chime.

  Beep-Beep-Beep!

  I froze in my tracks.

  Not one monster seemed to notice. They were too engrossed in Max’s stand-up humor to acknowledge the faint noise to their right. I opened the door until it locked in the open position and waited for my cue from Max.

  Behind me, Buell waited on his motorcycle in launch position. I could not see his face through his tinted visor, but he seemed as serious as I have ever seen him.

  Or at least I think he did.

  Paramount to this plan were Buell’s riding skills. My role was getting the damn gate unlocked so Buell could get out and draw their attention away from the gate, thus allowing me to follow. The twelve foot long cyclone fence gate in front of my garage can swing open to the street, or back to my garage. So I am the swing man, if you don’t mind me stealing another sports metaphor.

  I watched through my fogged-up face shield for Max’s go-ahead. Once he gained the swarm’s undivided attention, he would give the signal. From what I gathered it was getting close to go-time. Only Max could see them all from his position, but it looked clear to me. I felt a tremor in my stomach when I realized it was going to be my turn to execute any moment. For the tenth time, I looked down at my set of keys to make sure I was holding the right one. Sweat dripped down my face from my matted hair under my helmet. I ignored the sting of salt in my eyes, and focused on Max. He was standing atop an oil drum getting an eagle’s eye view of the street.

  “Good thinking, fucker, climbing up there! You are pretty short to begin with!”

  Buell never misses a chance.

  “Go-Go-Go!” yelled Max into my right ear bud.

  I bolted toward the front gate, pushing the KLR as fast and quietly as possible, keys in hand. I ran rolling heel to toe, like I had many times in my youth. I had perfected the skill trying to avoid my parents’ notice after stealing rations for late night snacks.

  Max was violently banging his weapon of choice, a tire iron, on the steel drum at his feet in front of the monsters, hoping to mask the noise I made. I had reached the gate but it was difficult to get the key in the lock because of the thickness of my leather gloves.

  Did I have to put the gloves on beforehand?

  Just then a low-flying military jet roared past me overhead, presumably coming from Moffett Field, a nearby Air Force base.

  I was turning the key in the lock as I looked to my right and saw her. The aircraft had temporarily pulled her attention away from Max, and her eyes met mine after she dropped her head down from the sky.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, of all times to buzz my tower?” I grumbled.

  She emitted a bone-chilling rasp as I hurriedly unwrapped the chain. I had opened the lock just as the girl spotted me, and the race was on. She immediately started lurching in my direction. Her black eyes pierced my visor and looked into my soul.

  My soul was panicked.

  “C’mon, Rem,” I grumbled to myself.

  “Make it fucking happen, Rem!” cursed Max through the intercom. He had seen the girl, and was unable to draw her from me.

  “Got it!” I replied triumphantly swinging the gate out.

  She was there.

  She had blond curly hair and could not have been more than ten years old. Her face was grayish white, eyes black, and she looked particularly unscathed for such a battle-tested undead monster.

  Where was the blood?

  She lunged at me and the collision that ensued knocked the gate between us into my shoulder with surprising force. After falling down after the initial impact, she quickly got to her feet, and lunged again. I strafed to my right, holding the gate in front of me like a shield with my right hand. In the same motion I reached for the aluminum bat I had previously stuffed in my leather jacket.

  Could I do this? She was just a little girl. My God, why did I have to do this?

  She was not going away, and me clearing the area was my part of the plan. I felt my stomach churn as I drew the bat over my head. With my left hand I swung as hard as I could and brought the bat straight down toward her skull with all my might.

  The impact was in-fucking-sane.

  Buell’s perfectly timed kick landed squarely on the left edge of the swinging gate, sending Goldilocks careening through the air a split second before my bat would have made contact with the girl’s head. As my bat slammed into the gravel, I watched the girl travel ten feet from the impact. She was still tumbling as I turned back to the KLR. My left hand felt like I had shoved it into a bees’ nest. But I didn’t entirely mind, the pain from the bat striking the ground reminded me again, I had not hit the girl.

  I hopped on and was on my way.

  With the gate now opened at a perpendicular angle to my garage, a temporary barrier between the monsters and me had been created by Buell’s kick. I started off in Buell’s direction kicking the gate back toward closed as I passed. He had stopped about forty feet up the road to wait in case my bike didn’t start.

  Yeah, right.

  I made a long arcing left turn and circumnavigated the mob of monsters which was heading toward Buell. We then paired up, and headed down the road about two hundred feet or so. As planned, we slammed on the brakes and quickly turned to determine the distance we were from our aggressors.

  Buell and I were now yelling at the undead, honking our horns, and revving the engines. My voice was hoarse with excitement and euphoria even as I was wrapped in terror. It was truly exhilarating, and I bellowed a high-pitched squeal in place of a manly roar.

  I hope Max and Buell didn’t notice that.

  The monsters all took the bait. We watched and waited as they approached, begging them to get closer. I looked back to the entrance and saw Max calmly locking the gate, then pumped my fist in the air.

  Phase One accomplished.

  Panning left toward the slowly moving swarm, I saw the little girl, gruesomely twisted, conscious, and writhing on the ground. She had apparently lost her ability to walk in the collision, but was still reaching out to me from the ground, arms outstretched, mouth open and wailing.

  “There’s the blood.”

  Chapter 7

  “What the hell are we gonna do with those?”

  The next few moments bordered on surreal. Not because we were facing an apocalypse, but beca
use Buell and I were riding motorcycles together and for a moment, the ride felt like any other day out for a ride. The good old days.

  You know, three days ago.

  Motorcycling is one of the most thrilling things a person can experience, in my humble opinion. The difference between riding a motorcycle and riding a motorcycle well is huge, but the learning curve for most who get the riding bug is not insurmountable. When you compare it to other thrill-seeking hobbies like skydiving or hang gliding, it seems more attainable and practical.

  Yet, as thrilling as it can be, to me, riding just for the sake of riding can get a tad boring after a while. Even for the most passionate motorcyclists, endlessly riding up and down the highways and back roads can become monotonous. When you have a purpose and a reason to ride—for example, a destination—it is more enjoyable than simply riding for the sake of riding. I assume you have heard the expression “getting there is half the fun”? This applies to motorcycling as well. The quest Buell and I were on gave legitimate purpose to the ride. For a few fleeting moments, it felt like any other day Buell and I were riding together. On many a sunny day we would find ourselves riding in town and taking the corners quicker than law enforcement would prefer. Only this time instead of going to the motorcycle dealer for plugs, advice, or even a new helmet, we were going for supplies to survive an apocalypse.

  It felt right though.

  “Let’s take Campbell Ave, Rem, Hamilton looks like shit,” Buell said over the intercom.

  “Yeah, good call, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Of course I would, even during an apocalypse, he wouldn’t let me pass.

  Hamilton Avenue is a main artery in Campbell and it led almost directly to the Kmart on Saratoga Ave, a mere five miles away. As we left the garage’s more industrial district, the roads became exponentially more crowded with cars, military vehicles, and pedestrians. Campbell Avenue ran parallel to Hamilton, but was more residential and therefore less crowded. The trade-off of more intersections for fewer cars and monsters seemed a reasonable one.

  As we turned left off Hamilton, I saw a distinct change in my surroundings. The residential neighborhood was quiet and looked almost abandoned. Houses on one side of the street were boarded up, and I could see what I guessed to be rifles moving back and forth in between the sheets of plywood. We passed more private homes, and I saw a few people running in and out of their homes from their cars or other houses, but there was remarkably little movement overall. I assumed people were hunkered down inside, or had attempted to flee. In some way, the stillness seemed more sinister than the military presence, chaos, or sirens. Many homes had garage doors open, and the garages were empty or disheveled. Debris was strewn in the streets, and in front of one home, I saw bags of spilled groceries all over the driveway. Maybe someone had left their goods on top of the roof of their car in their haste?

  As we rode slowly, side by side down Campbell Avenue, we saw a dozen monsters clamoring at the front door of one of the homes. As we rode past, a few peeled off toward us, but the rest remained at the door, pounding and moaning.

  “There must be someone in there,” I said into my helmet microphone.

  “Yeah, but not much we can do with a baseball bat and a crowbar against those fuckers,” answered Buell.

  I felt a twinge in the back of my neck as we passed by. Chills ran down my back because we weren’t stopping to help. Sure, we had a job to do, and for all we knew, there was only a television left on in the house, and the monsters were attracted to the sound. Still this was the first decision we had to make for self-preservation, and it didn’t feel good.

  We reached Saratoga Avenue without further incident and made a right. Almost instantly we were back on busy streets, complete with sirens and frantic pace.

  With more people and cars packing the streets, we were forced to lane split to keep moving. Thank goodness for two wheels instead of four, or I don’t think we would have hit the Kmart parking lot before dark. The ability to ride our bikes between the cars was a blessing and a lifeline. We made it safely, albeit slowly, to Kmart soon after.

  The lot was ringed with police vehicles protecting the Kmart and adjacent shopping mall. We also witnessed a few skirmishes as we approached, but the area seemed well under control, considering the circumstances. We saw no visible signs of carnage or blood in the parking lot and everyone appeared human and uninfected. It was as if this particular area had so far been spared the influx of monsters. Then I noticed a car door open to my left, and blood outside the vehicle, but there were no bodies present so—although I will never get used to how red blood is in the light of day—I stayed positive.

  I half expected to see the military trucks and armed guards in front of Kmart, policing a free-for-all with looters and gunfire galore. Instead, what I saw was something quite different, and even more shocking. It appeared the police were a bit lenient on the Martial Law order while people got what they needed. If the military had desired, it could be shooting people on sight, but what I saw was something different. I saw people working together, and the police looking the other way, watching their backs.

  I smiled under my helmet to the point my cheeks pushed on the inner padding.

  I had always had trust issues but my faith in humanity in general had reached something of a low ebb recently. It seemed like the world had become a more selfish and a less community-minded place to live, at least compared to my youth. So when I saw this scene, I was both humbled and gladdened. I might have to rethink my stance on the moral decay of society, which I had been a staunch believer in. It was an altogether different form of decay now.

  A large bed sheet marked with block letters hung on the facade of the Kmart:

  “HELP US HELP U, TAKE ONLY WHAT U NEED!”

  There were at least twenty people keeping order in front, most still wearing the blue vests. Many of them were handing out food, cases of water, and other supplies. There was an orderly line of people waiting off to the side. As I looked closer I saw police officers shouldering rifles and squad cars parked nearby. But then I realized they were actually unloading a semi trailer rather than actively keeping the peace. My eyes welled when I saw how considerate and practical these people were acting on both sides. Instead of a free-for-all with every man for himself, people were working together. I realized as we got closer they were actually letting people into the store. We pulled the bikes up onto the sidewalk, because we could, and endured the cross looks from the car drivers. Cagers are what we like to call them, at least we do when we aren’t in our cars. Anyway, we went to the back of the line of people who were waiting to get into the store.

  We had decided beforehand what we needed and made a list which included toiletries and assorted dry goods. Max was back at the garage filling buckets with water while the plumbing was still working; water was not a concern and others seemed to need it more.

  “Have you heard the latest? You get the radio on that thing?” asked a man line who was pointing to the antenna on my helmet.

  He had an ear bud in one ear, which was plugged into his phone, and looked to be seconds from shorting the phone out from nervous sweat.

  “It is more for talking to other riders, so not really,” I answered.

  “They’re coming, man,” he said with a grim look on his face.

  “Who?” I replied.

  “The zombies, dude, get all you can and get the hell out of here. Radio says there are tens of thousands of them coming from downtown San Jose, and they are spreading like wildfire. A whole shitload of ’em just shut down 280 South, look!” he said, pointing in the direction of the freeway.

  I could see smoke in the distance, but it looked miles away. Downtown San Jose was about ten miles southwest of here, and we hadn’t planned on heading that way, so I mostly felt relieved it wasn’t from our direction.

  At least not today.

  “How is it spreading so damn fast?” asked Buell. “Jesus, they are so slow, can’t people just move out of the
way?”

  “I know, it’s like an inferno jumping the fire breaks,” the sweaty man said emphatically. “I sure hope it isn’t airborne or some shit like that, ’cause then we’re all fucked for sure!”

  My heart skipped a beat when he said “airborne.” I hadn’t considered that, but it sure made sense now that he’d said it. What else would make the virus spread so quickly? I looked at the people around me. Were we all infected? How would I know? Was I already infected? Should we even be here? Maybe we should not have left the garage? I took my gloves out of my helmet and put them back on.

  I looked at Buell, and as if he read my mind, he said, “Dude, we are almost to the front of the line, let’s get some shit and bolt.”

  I nodded.

  I asked around and was told people were filling a basket or taking whatever they could carry, then exiting the other side of the store. This was actually pretty impressive as well as encouraging. I did not know how long the restraint and good will would continue, but for now, people seemed to want to cooperate.

  At that moment I swore I would never make light of retail employees again. These Kmart employees were making a tremendous sacrifice and had taken a tremendous risk staying, probably accomplishing more than people making ten times their salary were doing today. I know they were doing more than I was.

  The guilt began to creep into my consciousness again, but was interrupted when a heavyset woman with a far-too-tight blue smock tapped me on the shoulder. I realized why the garment was ill-fitted when I saw the name stitched on the left breast pocket. It said Rocco.

  “Alright, guys, take about ten minutes, please consider others and take only what you need. Oh, and if you don’t have any kids, don’t take the toys, others are gonna need them,” she said as she hustled us into the store.