by Mark Tufo
"Max," BT answered.
"Huh?" I asked turning back around.
"The dog's name was Max … and mush!"
For a fleeting moment I didn't think I was going to be able to get enough traction to get this train moving. I was feeling like the little engine that could. My feet were moving faster than they had a right to but I was making damn little headway. It was the roar of Travis' shotgun that got me going. My first half-dozen steps had worn a smooth spot through the ice and snow and I took off, not like a rocket, more like a snail late for a hot date.
For an hour and a half we were in stalemate mode. We were making better time with the sleds, but not enough to outpace the zombies. We had traveled maybe three miles. Travis had taken over the other sled for his mother. Nicole intermittently got on and off depending on her fatigue level, and how bad she felt for those laboring to usher her along. My legs were screaming in protest. All higher thought had been replaced with the plodding effort of putting the next foot in front of the other and outpacing the deaders. Strain oozed into pain, pain stumbled into numbness, numbness dispersed leaving behind pain. Ever faster I cycled through those stages, stopping always longer in the depths of misery.
Night quickly descended. It seemed to happen in between steps. I was lost in a state of fugue, fatigue and torment. Occasionally Tracy would come up beside me and pull, sometimes it was Tommy, once or twice Brendon actually came to help, but he mostly pulled the other sled when Nicole was on it. I sometimes saw Jen up ahead, never speaking but always waving us forward. I would have raised my hand to wave back but the effort was beyond my capability. My chest was rubbed raw and bleeding from the contact with the old hemp rope. I heard distant gunshots but they did not hold any significance for me.
The smell of rotten meat was the only thing that kept me moving, that and the desire to be away from it. No matter how far I traversed it always seemed to be creeping right up behind me. I couldn't even tell if my legs were still moving; I had lost control of my extremities.
"Mike!" someone screamed. Cognitively, I barely registered the fact that someone was talking to me.
The sensation of falling was capped off by my knees painfully striking the ground. My legs shook uncontrollably. I was done for and unfortunately so was the poor bastard I think that I had been pulling. I fell off to the side, my face making a loud slapping sound as it also found its way to the cold, icy surface.
The lights of God blinded my eyes. This was not the ethereal, pleasant, loving lights I had encountered previously. These were harsh and glaring. Promised Land, ready or not, here I come. My labored breathing was overshadowed by the eruption of firearms coming to life around me. 'God has a fifty cal? Fucken sweet.' That was what actually went through my mind. Something swung passed my line of sight. The bright lights illuminated a flying spider man. I would have sworn I heard a battle cry just as this figure slammed into a tree on the far side of the clearing, making my fall to the ground seem like a tender caress in comparison. The figure stood up, wobbling a bit and brought his gun to bear. My vision blurred as gore splatter from above rained down on me. Spider-man had disposed of at least four or five zombies that had come within biting distance of me.
'Spidey is an awesome shot.' I thought right before I passed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - JOURNAL ENTRY 27 -
I had no idea what time it was when I finally came to. Whenever it was, it wasn't long enough. My legs were still throbbing and more irritably still, they were twitching randomly. I looked like I was trying to do River Dance. It took me moments longer for the fog to lift.
"Zombies!" I yelled, hopping out of the cot I was in, my legs giving out as fast as I tried to stand. The resulting heap I made on the floor was not a flattering sight.
BT had not left my side since I had collapsed from exhaustion. I was to later learn it was more to do with the company we were keeping than any outright concern he had for me. "Mike, Mike," BT said, standing from the chair next to my bed that I had not noticed previously.
"Zombies, BT. We gotta get out of here." My lips were pulled back in fear, my eyes so wide the whites were showing all around. "Where is everyone else?"
"Mike," BT said grabbing me by the shoulders to help me back onto my cot. "We're okay," he said, gently placing me down with no more difficulty than a child would have putting their favorite toy away. My legs were still flailing. I was more than a little self-conscious about it and placed my arms on them, trying to slow them down. "They've been doing that since we got here," BT said pointing to my legs. "Was freaken the shit out of me for the first couple of hours. Kind of used to it now, can damn near tell time to their rhythm."
"I'm glad I can be a source of entertainment for you."
BT got grave seriously quick. "Mike, I know we've been through a lot and I count you up there with some of my best friends but what you did back there…." BT sniffed. "Man, I don't know that anyone I've ever known my entire life would have done that for me except maybe my mom."
"She as big as you?"
He laughed. "No, she might have been 110 after Thanksgiving dinner but she was tough as nails. Mike, I don't know that I can ever repay you."
"BT, this isn't about keeping score. It was just my turn. Next time though it's on you." BT did something very uncharacteristic for him and leaned down and gave me a hug. I accepted mostly because I was too tired to do anything else.
"I'm gonna go get your wife," he said, standing up. My shoulder was suspiciously wet from where his cheek had rested.
"One thing, BT."
"Yeah." He stopped.
"Where the hell are we?"
"You don't know?" he laughed as he left.
I heard footfalls coming down the hallway towards my room. Unless Tracy had gained 100 pounds and now had combat boots on, this wasn't her. I was apprehensive, even if BT had given me no reason to be. Paranoia was the foundation from which I had survived thus far. I did not see a reason to deviate from the norm, distorted as it might be.
I could see nothing as the figure stopped in the doorway and was now silhouetted in the light from beyond him.
"Happy Birthday little brother, what took you so long?"
"Ron? Ron!" I jumped out of the bed to only be met with the previous fate. Isn't that the definition of insanity, to repeat the same action over and over, expecting different results?
"The one and only," he said, picking me up and placing me back on the cot.
"Getting a little sick of that."
"Eh, stop trying to stand and it won't happen."
"That's what the world needs…a pragmatist."
He gave me a hug to rival BT's. "Didn't think you were going to make your own party."
"Wasn't so sure myself." I told him.
"I've heard."
"Yeah?"
"Nicole has been telling us your story from the day it started. She's damn near a tape machine the way she plays it back."
"I know. Where are you up to?" I asked him.
"When Paul and Alex left to go down South." Two more souls I missed. "Are you up for joining us?" His affirmative nod left unspoken that the extended Talbot clan was in good shape, if not whole.
"I don't think I'm ready, Ron." That had more to do with listening to Nicole's retelling of our story than anything else. I could not go through those losses again, not now, not ever.
Ron, as intuitive as ever, picked up on my mood. "We need a break anyway, Mike, Nicole can finish the story later on. I've had to keep Dad on a leash from busting in here every twenty seconds."
"Alright, but I can't walk and I'm sure as hell not going to let you carry me in there."
"Got that figured out," he said, leaving the room and coming back quickly with a wheeled office chair.
"That'll do, I guess."
"One more thing, Mike," Ron started, as he got me into the chair. I looked up at him. We've been over this ground, nobody prefaces anything good with 'One more thing…' and ends it with 'you've won a million bucks!!!!
' It's always more along the lines of 'One more thing…I ran over your cat.' "Naw, maybe I'll just let you see for yourself," he said as he began to wheel me out of the room and down the hallway.
"Is it about Dad?" I asked nervously. We had lost Mom not so long ago and I was concerned that it might have been too much for him.
"Dad? Hell no. This zombie stuff has been the best thing for him."
"Really? How the hell is a zombie apocalypse the best thing for anyone?"
"He's been doing what you have been doing Mike, protecting his own. It's brought a spark to his eye that I thought Mom's death had permanently extinguished. Come Spring he was planning on making a trek out to get you."
"Are you kidding me?" I asked incredulously.
Ron shook his head. "He's been worried sick about you guys. If the weather hadn't been so crappy he would have left a month ago. I've been barely holding onto him telling him that if you were alive you'd be trying to get back here."
"If?"
Ron shrugged his shoulders.
I shrugged my shoulders too. Hell, the Colorado Talbots almost bought the farm on Day One and it hadn't gotten much easier since then.
"So what then?"
We were turning into the kitchen. My eyes immediately teared up. The kitchen was packed way past fire code. Besides Tracy, Carol, Nicole, Justin, Travis, BT and Henry, there was also my Dad, my sister Lyndsey, her husband Steve and their son Jesse. Ron's wife Nancy stood to the side with their kids Meredith, Melissa and Mark. Standing somewhat at the position of attention, seemingly guarding the gathering was something that used to pass as my brother Gary.
His head was wrapped in what once was a red bandanna. It had been washed one too many times and now suspiciously resembled what one might buy for their eight year old daughter. His outfit was a hunter camouflage arrangement. On his camo clad pants was tied the largest bowie knife I had ever seen, and his mismatched combat boots were quite literally the kicker.
"What gives?" I whispered to Ron.
"He thinks he's Rambo."
"More like Gambo," I said without thinking. For all the extended Talbot clan that was in presence there were some notable absences. Ron's oldest daughter Melanie was not here and neither was my brother Glenn, along with his wife and three kids.
"Have you heard anything?" I asked Ron as I scanned the room.
A look of sorrow and worry crossed his face. His tight lipped stare made me think an answer was not forthcoming. Finally he said, "Melanie called from Massachusetts the night it started, said her boyfriend had beat her up, even bit her a few times."
My heart sank.
Ron pressed on. "At the time I just figured he had been an asshole whose ass I was going to have to kick eventually, I just wanted my baby home and I told her that." He paused to wipe his hand over his eyes. "We haven't heard from her since then. I've driven the route down to Mass a couple of times since then, just trying to find her car. More for some closure I guess, than anything else. Then sometimes I think that maybe her boyfriend wasn't infected and had just drank too much and she needs my help." We both knew that was a lie. Melanie's boyfriend Dan was a born again Christian. I don't think he even listened to music unless it was of the Gospel variety.
"I can't get the picture of her cold and hurt huddled in some alleyway out of my head."
I reached my hand up and grabbed his. The pain wasn't lessened but mutual comfort was increased.
"What about Glenn?"
"Nothing."
Glenn was Gary's twin brother, he lived in NC and for a fleeting second I thought of calling Paul on my cell and seeing if he would stop in and check on him. A small sigh for all that had been lost escaped me. Luckily the room was noisy enough to cover up my transgression. I was spared any further insight as my dad got sight of me. He started to full on cry with relief when he saw me. My cheeks flamed but then I realized how would I feel if one of my kids was missing and there was no way to tell what had happened to them. My tear ducts matched him drop for drop. All in all it was an incredible night. I was home! Gambo was going to take some getting used to. I would learn later from Ron that something in Gary had broken when he lost the connection to Glen. He shook my hand once and then took up his vigil again by the front door.
I noticed a large red scrape on the side of his face, my spider man was revealed. Occasionally he would reach up and touch it only to pull back with a wince when he got near it.
"You should put some Neosporin on that," I told him later that night. I also thanked him for saving our lives.
I kid you not, he deepened his voice to tell me that he was alright and saving lives was his business.
"Mike, I thought you were the nutty one," BT said coming up to my side when there was a lull around my chair. "You whip these people up in a blender and you could make peanut butter."
"BT, I didn't just come into existence like this. I was carefully molded and sculpted."
"Apparently crafted by crazy artisans and they did a fine job," BT said looking around the cacophony that was the Talbot's. "Are we planning on staying here?"
I didn't realize that he was serious when I answered, "You're hilarious, man." Had I looked to see his response to my words, I would have seen him mouth the word 'Great' and it would have been used sarcastically.
My sister came up carrying a tray of what at one time may or may not have been some sort of edible food product. Right now it resembled something more along the lines of what Henry would evacuate after a particularly bad bout of bloody diarrhea.
"I made your favorite," she said, sticking the plate of something under my nose. It even smelled like the aforementioned waste product.
"My favorite what?" I asked seriously.
My sister laughed, thinking that I had just made a joke. Lyndsey had on occasion been known to burn water. She had once made raspberry jello that was green and nearly as hard as a brick. Her husband Steve, unbeknownst to my sister even though everyone else knew, had paid a substantial amount of money for a doctor to write up papers that he suffered from some rare genetic stomach disorder that only allowed him to eat take-out. Her son Jesse while growing up had found multiple sympathetic parents that would feed 'the starving boy' dinner. He had actually worked out a calendar of where he would eat on any given night.
Lyndsey and Steve's dog, Baxter, had suffered for all the discarded meals. He died young and not happy.
BT grabbed a cookie thinking it was the socially acceptable thing to do, and my sister beamed at him. I shook my head frenetically side to side at him, waving my arms over my head, telling him 'no.' It was too late; he brought the thing up to his mouth. My sister was nodding in the affirmative, silently willing him onward. I couldn't watch. I turned away as he nearly chipped a tooth biting down on what might have been a pebble chip. Maybe it was only Formica, that made more sense.
BT shifted it to his stronger back teeth, trying to get some leverage.
I'd had enough. "Lyndsey, I think Steve needs something."
As soon as Lyndsey turned away, BT flung that thing with a flick of his wrist like a skipping stone. It smashed into the wall behind Gambo, who thought we were now under attack as he dropped and rolled. He came back up with his knife at the ready. I put my face in my hands. 'Oh no, what have I got us into.'
Eventually the room quieted down once Gambo realized we weren't under attack and something akin to order was restored. The room quieted as all eyes once again turned to Nicole. She was an adept storyteller and she had left her audience wanting more.
"You want to stay for this?" Ron asked me. "How about a beer?"
Tracy pulled up a chair from the kitchen table and sat next to me so she could grab my hand.
"Any chance you have some Molson?"
Ron looked at me with that 'What do you think? face'. He was a self-made millionaire who lived a frugal life. I wouldn't be surprised if he pulled out a white can that had the word 'Beer' in stark black letters.
He handed me a can of Busch. "I see yo
u're moving up," I told him sarcastically.
"Yeah, when I knew something was really wrong we went to Tozier's (the local grocery store) and damn near emptied it out."
"The end of the world and you couldn't splurge on something a little better?"
"What's wrong with Busch? It cost almost $4.50 a twelve pack."
"Is this a joke? Are you hiding the good stuff?" But I saw the futility in that tactic. Ron wouldn't needlessly spend money on a joke.
"What?" he asked.
I choked four of those things down as Nicole picked up her narrative from the Motel 6 to the Red Neck encounter. She had to stop on more than one occasion as she recounted what had occurred at Carol's homestead. The entire room was wrapped up in her story. This was the direction life was going, when families gathered around for storytelling. No more television or video games. The families that survived would be strengthened by the closeness of doing things the way they had been done in bygone eras.
Nicole had pushed on. In her story we now were at Camp Custer and it was looking like humanity had gained a toe hold; unfortunately it was all a lie. Nicole told of our escape from the camp and then of our time at the Powell farm. I wept silently as she told of Tommy's leaving. Tracy's hand pressed mine more firmly. I was in the grips of a burgeoning buzz as the story wrapped up. There was a collective inhalation as she finished, almost like everyone had forgotten to breathe.
Ron turned to me, not one to ever miss much. "How much time do we have until Eliza finds us?" he asked me directly.
"She's done with us, isn't she?" Carol asked anxiously. "What more could she want? She has her brother."
"That might have been the original intent," Ron answered her. "But she doesn't seem the type to let a transgression slide."
I nodded in assent. "I figure a month and half," I said, alluding to the amount of shots Justin possessed.