by William Bebb
CHAPTER 3
Josey Meets Boris
Nicotine gum. Was there ever a nastier tasting substitute for a cigarette? Josey wondered, as he methodically chewed. It tasted like an old sock (like the ones he'd find sometimes that fell behind the dryer months earlier) or so he imagined. It was better than nothing, but Josey still wished he'd thought to grab the cigarettes that were in the truck's glove box. As far as he was concerned The United States Surgeon General can kiss my pimply ass because this morning, lung cancer is definitely the least of my worries.
Sitting on a rusty washing machine he leaned back and rested his head against the cinder block wall, and gazed up at the cloudless blue sky.
Birds flew by making loud cawing noises, as the grunts and growls continued from outside the doorway.
He thought of all those years wasted playing video games, many of which dealt with battling zombies, which in the present situation didn't seem particularly helpful. (Ironic perhaps- but not at all helpful) In games and movies there were always plenty of guns, ammunition, and first aid kits, just waiting for someone to wander by and pick them up. In reality, all he had to work with was a ruined laundry building minus a roof, a few rusting major appliances, and a four foot long crowbar.
All things considered I'd rather be at home with my air conditioner, maybe a pizza, a few icy cold cans of beer, and the undead monsters safely trapped inside my TV.
He reached into his coveralls pocket and pulled out his cell phone despite strongly suspecting what he would see again. He looked at the words NO SIGNAL on the phone's tiny screen and laughed. While staring at the phone, he wished that annoying guy from those commercials for some cell phone company that asked, “Can you hear me now?” was there.
He'd shove the damn phone down his throat and smile while doing it. He closed his meaty fist around the phone and was ready to throw it at the barricaded door when it started to ring.
His heart pumped hard as he flipped it open, and shouted, “Hello! Hello!”
He listened intently but heard no one. Looking back at the screen he felt like an idiot. It was a reminder alarm that had gone off, not a call. The message that he'd made himself said, Take pills w/lunch. It was a simple task but only if he could stroll to the truck, open the glove box where the pills were, and grab his lunchbox- without being killed and eaten by a mob of psychotic freaks that were mixed in amongst a group of undead zombies.
He felt tempted to throw the phone again, but decided to give it a reprieve and slid it back into his pocket. The nearest cell tower was twenty miles away and the fact he was sitting in a deep valley didn't help reception either.
I'm only twenty four years old. Whoever heard of a guy in his twenties taking blood pressure medicine anyway? What I really need is some beer, or a bottle of brandy, or a case of beer and brandy. I could get drunk as the proverbial skunk and wait for the cops or army to come in and deal with this mess. He pictured a pleasant possible future as he closed his eyes- A flight of helicopters, a few tanks and a mess of soldiers with some bad ass zombie blasting guns would easily be enough to deal with the mess. When the shooting was over and done with he'd come out as a heroic survivor of an undead uprising. Maybe girls would send him love letters- perhaps a few enclosing photos of themselves naked. People had been made into heroes for a lot less. The newspapers would probably show him holding his trusty four foot long crowbar, with his bandaged knee under a big headline reading- Truck driver wins battle against army of undead.
Gradually the smile faded as he considered a few other far more likely possibilities. I could rot out here with no food or water. I could be dead in just a couple of days.
Wishing he'd grabbed his lunchbox, Josey heard and felt his stomach grumble unhappily and wondered, how long does it take to die of starvation and dehydration? A day, maybe two?
He opened his eyes and sat up after an even more likely scenario occurred to him. What if the people in charge took the simple way out? It happened in a few movies and at least one video game he played. The government might not send in anyone... they could just drop a nuke on them and me. A microsecond of bright light and I'd be nothing more than, as the old Kansas song says, Dust in the Wind.
“Fuck that,” he said aloud. “Sure it’s a great song, but it’s not how I’m going out. Granted things are bad, but I’ve survived bad situations before- maybe not this bad, but bad enough.”
Like last month when Josey had been enjoying a pleasant visit to the bathroom at a Tex Mex restaurant called La Cocina Juanita. He'd been sitting there minding his own business, when a guy at the standup urinal next to his stall began peeing first on Josey's shoes then on his pants that had been down around his ankles. Being in a delicate way at that particular moment, Josey couldn't do much except shout impotent threats.
He heard the urinating prankster laughing as he left him sitting in the bathroom with urine soaked pants and just to add the final injustice he turned off the lights on the way out.
Just as his horoscope that day didn't foresee a prankster with an odd urination fetish this morning’s newspaper didn't mention a zombie uprising either. If it had, Josey was certain, he would have called into work saying he was sick.
He wracked his brain trying to remember what he knew about the undead from the movies he'd seen and in the video games he'd played. A silver bullet would kill one, or maybe that was just werewolves but then again maybe silver works on zombies too. After realizing he didn't have any silver anyway, he kept thinking. A wooden stake through the heart kills vampires.
Yet he'd killed (if you can technically ‘kill’ something that was already dead) a zombie by bashing in its head. He looked over at the body by the doorway. A large black cloud of flies buzzed, crawled over, and feasted on what was left of its brain.
Of course some of them didn’t actually seem to be dead, just murderously insane. It was a distinction that provided no comfort. He looked meditatively at the body of 'Mr. Watch Me Gouge My Eyeballs Out', while listening to screaming people running around outside the building. Echoes of the meaningless screams bounced off the canyon walls.
Shuddering involuntarily, he inspected his aching knee again. It was wrapped up tightly with a long bandage he found in the bottom of his toolbox. He was sure it would be okay if he didn't run on it and walked slowly for a couple of days. But this was a feat he felt he was almost certain to have trouble accomplishing given the circumstances.
The problem with his trick knee was that whenever it 'popped' out of joint, it was fairly likely to do it again if he wasn't extra careful for a few days. Sometimes, he wouldn't completely trust it again for up to a week after it 'popped'.
When he’d lost his college football scholarship it was the same knee that was to blame. Standing six foot five inches tall and weighing in at two hundred and eighty pounds, Josey was “Built for football,” as his coach used to say. Unfortunately, after the football season started during his freshman year at college, his knee was as reliable as an alcoholic managing a liquor store.
Near the end of the first game of the season it popped out of joint, or became hyper extended as the doctor described it, when he was blindsided.
Josey was carried off the field six times, in six different games, with the same knee injury.
The coach finally gave up and had to cut him from the team, and also revoked his full scholarship. Of course, the school offered to pay some of his expenses but without a scholarship he soon realized his academic career was over before it had really even began.
Josey started to get angry as he sat and listened to the idiots outside the building grunting and screaming.
I could have stayed in college if it weren’t for my stupid knee, he thought, feeling increasingly angry. I'd have a good job, lots of money, maybe even have married, had kids, and undoubtedly would not be spending a Monday morning surrounded by murderous undead TRAILER-FUCKING-TRASH!
Screaming in frustration he started hitting the washing machine next to the one he was sitting on with his cr
owbar. This went on for quite a while. The loud crashing sound made him feel better while he pounded on it, but when he stopped hitting the badly dented machine he heard the undead screaming with a renewed sense of purpose.
“Great, now I’m a cheerleader for zombies,” he said sarcastically, looking up at the sky.
Several giant black birds circled above and he shivered even though it was already be ninety degrees. A big ugly vulture landed on top of a nearby wall and glared down at him with disturbing intensity. Seconds later, four more birds just as big and ugly as the first landed and they all stared at him. Their eyes gazed at him with what Josey felt was a wholly inappropriate appraising attitude. Feeling like a piece of meat in the butcher's display case, he sighed and shook his head.
He glanced at the dryers wobbling in the doorway then away from the barricade and stared curiously at the dark doorway on the other side of the room. Being the only other way out he finally reached a decision. “Why not?” He asked and cautiously slid off the washing machine. He stood carefully. The bad knee ached a bit but it wasn't trembling. Using his crowbar as a cane, he picked up the toolbox and limped across the room, detouring around the largest piles of debris.
While passing an old gum ball machine (the kind with the big spherical glass top) he saw a melted congealed mass inside with a rainbow of faint colors still visible. After the roof caved in the balls of gum were exposed to the weather and elements. Over the years the individual colored pieces of gum had baked in the sunlight and melted, turning them into a gooey sugary blob.
Josey imagined they looked sort of like three or four Rubik’s cubes if they were put in an oven for a few hours on broil.
On the wall near the open doorway, he read a large sign written in both English and Spanish- “Tornado Shelter, Maximum Occupancy 200.” Josey stopped and tried to imagine being in a storm and told he couldn't go down because there were already two hundred people downstairs.
What the Hell would I be expected to do? Go outside and fly a kite?
He limped slowly through the debris of the long ago fallen in roof, heading for the dark doorway wondering, what could be down there? A vampire? An alien that has tentacles and loves to eat septic tank truck drivers? A few naked nymphomaniac cheerleaders? He smiled at the thought of the last unlikely possibility and limped on.
There were old wooden stairs going down into the darkness.
He tapped the top step with his crowbar. It sounded fairly solid as he stepped forward and tried to peer into the darkness below. There was a whiff of mildew and dust, but that was all.
While reaching for his little flashlight that was tucked safely in his coveralls pocket, he thought he heard something moving. Then there was the sound of running on the stairs.
Screaming in fear as something ran into him, he fell over backward into a pile of roofing shingles and boards.
He screamed, “No!” and while he fell two distinct thoughts flashed through his mind. I'd rather get peed on at that restaurant again than be here. And, please let it be horny naked cheerleaders.
That was Josey's last thought before he whacked his head against the cinder block wall and fell unconscious.