by Tufo, Mark
“They want me to give up,” I told him.
“And are you?”
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
“You need to bring help,” this from my false self. They wanted me to bring in the rest of the squad. Of course they did. It meant more food.
“Tommy, any action back there?” I asked, not taking my eyes from the three.
“All clear, Mr. T.”
“BT, I need you over here.”
“What’s going on?” he asked from the window.
“I’m…I’m not entirely sure, and I’m going to need you to verify it.”
“Want to give me a heads up?” he asked as he strode over.
“Not really; I think you need to experience this without any bias from me.”
He stepped up next to me; I took a step back, hoping to signify to the zombies that this was who they needed to talk to.
“Just because you took a step backward doesn’t mean I volunteered for…whoa. What the hell was that?” He shook his head.
“What do you think it was?”
“I told myself to give up.”
“Hold on for another second.”
“Okay, now I’m telling myself to call in the squad. Mike, what is this? Because I don’t like it!”
“It’s deception on a master level. If the little turd they sent worming in wasn’t so wooden, or, you know, stiff, in its delivery, I would have thought I came to the conclusion they’re sending all on my own. Once they refine this, it could be a game changer—and not for the better.”
“This Dewey’s doing?”
“It’s got to be. We haven’t had the poison-tipped bullets long enough; at least, I don’t think we have…I don’t really know how long it takes for the virus to mutate into whatever this is.”
“How could he influence them like this?”
“You’re seriously asking medical questions from someone that did most of their symptom checks on WebMD? You do realize I had Ebola over a half dozen times, according to them, and maybe Crimean-Congo sleeping sickness twice.”
“Fuck you!” BT shouted at them before flipping a thick bird. “Don’t like that one bit,” he said before backing up into the center. “You might find it interesting, what with all your batshit imaginary friends lodging in your headspace, but not me, man. Not me at all.”
“What the fuck are you getting mad at me for? I didn’t do it.”
“It’s the insane shit, Mike! It follows you like a lost puppy.”
“This one isn’t on me. Just so happens we’re on the front lines and that’s where crazy originates,” I said, and for once he didn’t disagree. “Two can play at this game.” I did something I didn’t like and was unaccustomed to. I opened up my mind; maybe I could push my own agenda. “Down on your knees!” I forced through my brain and into the zombie I thought was doing the mind-meddling. Its head cocked to the side like BT’s aforementioned puppy, though there was nothing cute about this. A flap of its scalp, like the worst comb-over known to man, flopped down, smacking the zombie’s cheek.
“That’s just fucking gross,” BT said.
“Knees!” I said it with enough force I thought I might be slicing through my neural pathways.
“Damn, Mr. T!” Tommy had a hand up by his head.
“What’s going on?” BT asked.
“Just trying to say hi.” A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over most of my body. The zombie I was attempting to manipulate seemed frozen. Aware enough to know what was happening, enough self-control to not do what I demanded, yet not enough to break free. Got the distinct impression he was pissed off. That was good, as far as I was concerned. The two with him took a step forward.
“Kill or not, Mike?” BT asked.
I wanted them all dead, but that would break their hold on the rest and then we’d be in the midst of a battle we had little chance of winning.
“We’re not surrendering, and we’re not bringing the rest here.” I released the thoughts, denying their requests. Kind of fucked up, really; I’d matched wits with a zombie and came up wanting. But seriously, what can be expected of a military man accused of eating crayons? (Old joke—for those not aware, other services generally refer to Marines as eaters of the colored wax, although, in a firefight, their best strategy was to give the Marines all their ammunition. Then, oh yeah, we were great. They always thanked us profusely. Misplaced anger; I wish I had every branch here with me right now. We might give each other crap in downtimes, but when the fan was spewing shit, they were all you could count on.) The zombie stared at me for a few moments longer, though he did not attempt the Jedi mind trick again.
I was wavering. If they were the brains of the outfit, they needed to die, but they’d come under the flag of a parley; did I honor that? Was I in any way obligated to?
“Fuck this.” I shot the one I’d been talking to. There was a look of shock and betrayal on his face before his eyes crossed over and he fell forward, his busted skull spilling its contents on the pathway.
BT didn’t hesitate and took out the other two before we headed further inside.
“I thought you said not to.”
“Changed my mind.” I rubbed my head, wanting to clean off the greasiness that I could feel sluicing around inside of it from the contact.
“Got movement back here,” Tommy said.
“There was no other way,” BT said.
“I know man; just so sick of the same fight. I remember watching the Terminator as a kid, never wanted to encounter one because they were relentless, they’d never stop coming; I should have, but I’ve never given the zombies that same credit. Always felt like there was an end to it somewhere. My mistake. How many, Tommy?”
“All of them, Mr. T.”
Didn’t have to move to see what was happening—I had the same thing in front. Zombies were coming out of the tree line, making themselves known. We had somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred rounds between us; given the number of the enemy, I could see we were going to fall woefully short.
“This isn’t exactly Fort Knox; we going to fight through or pull an Alamo?” BT asked.
“Alamo didn’t work out so well.”
“Figure of speech.”
“You should get a different speech writer.” I closed the door. The zombies were sprinting toward us, and as of yet, we weren’t shooting. “Can’t believe the corner we’re painted into.” I was looking out the window. The zombies were assembling, getting into position to attack. Too many windows, too many of them, and not enough of us. Was utterly unsure of how I was going to pull a rabbit out of the hat when I couldn’t even find the fucking hat. “Let’s see if we can block some of these windows up and that breezeway we’re calling a door.”
BT, as always, was a one-man wrecking crew, moving display cases and furniture like it was made for a doll house. If I hadn’t felt guilty about it, I would have just let him continue on his own. A half hour later, we had the majority of openings somewhat protected. None of it was going to stop them for long; the best we could hope for was a warning before they did so.
“What are they waiting for?” I went back to my original window to check, and besides the swelling of their numbers, they hadn’t moved much.
“The night, and maybe the fog,” BT answered. “Can’t shoot what you can’t see.”
“They are seriously going to pull some Night of the Living Dead bullshit on us?” I was imagining the classic scene where the victims are trapped in a house at night.
“Looks that way.” BT had moved closer to the window and was looking up. “I’d say we got four more hours before the fun begins. The fun being where we’re killed and eaten.”
“I’m Sir Sarcastic; I’ve been knighted. Did you think you needed to explain what you meant?”
“Can’t always tell with you.”
“BT…”
“Don’t start that shit. I don’t want to hear the speech about ‘if we don’t make it,’ how we’re best friends and you’re so h
appy we met, blah blah blah.”
“I was going to tell you to get your oafish foot off mine.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“And don’t worry about my sister; she’ll find somebody new, somebody better.”
“Dick.”
“I wouldn’t even doubt if she took some cooking classes, became a world-renowned chef, you know, a way to channel her grief as she gets over you.”
“Gonna be a damn shame if you don’t even make it til the night.” He walked away.
“Too far?” I mouthed to Tommy.
He only shook his head.
It had been a few hours. We were still combatants staring across the battlefield, neither side ready to begin the fray.
“Sir! Lieutenant Talbot!” It was Corporal Stenzel.
“Still here. I thought I told you to get gone.”
“We did, sir.”
My mood, which had been dampening by the minute as the sun began its descent, took an uptick. A tempered uptick, but in the right direction, anyway. Then it took a hard dive. Sucks when you think help is on the way to only find out differently.
“The base is under a tornado warning. They’re having a severe electrical storm, lightning strikes all over the place. Until the situation is under control, there’s no help coming.” I could hear the distress in her voice as she spoke.
“Find someplace to stay hidden, Stenzel, no heroics. If we get out, I’ll call for a pick-up.”
“Sir, we can’t just leave you there.”
“If I thought you could do something I’d have you come in. No more losses, understood?”
She said nothing.
“Corporal Stenzel, your commanding officer asked you a question.”
“Understood, sir,” she said reluctantly.
“Out,” I told her. “Everyone hear that?”
“On our own, about normal,” BT said brusquely.
“Anybody know the Marines Corps credo?” I asked as I was on the move.
“Eat more crayons?” BT replied.
“Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children?” Tommy shouted over.
I’d found a supply closet and the inkling of a thought took root in the vestiges of my mind. “Think, Talbot. Cleaning supplies, coffee, sugar, giant toilet paper rolls, boxes of matches…Smokey would be pissed, especially since this is a ranger station…maybe they were confiscated.” I was pushing things out of the way, truly unsure of exactly what I was doing, hoping for some kind of intervention…it was the unopened box of tin foil that fell by my feet that rattled the thought loose.
BT was at the doorway. “What are you planning on doing?”
He startled the hell out of me. As I turned toward him, my foot caught the stack of industrial ass-paper that was better suited for sanding hardwoods. It fell over; he stopped the white cylinder that rolled toward him with his foot. But I was staring at what had been hidden behind the stack, what I hoped was the Holy Grail.
“Please be full, please be full,” I said as I reached for the large plastic jug.
“What the fuck you going to do with stump remover? Don’t tell me you and your Marine buddies used to make hooch from it.”
“Hooch? Does this look like a prison movie?” The little dude in my head was scurrying around, looking for the pertinent pieces of this puzzle that would allow me to put it all together. “Think, man.” I was holding the stump remover bottle with both hands.
BT watched as I pushed past him; I was heading for the small gift shop. It was basically two spinning racks of hipster hiking guides and a counter that had some aromatic candles; most revolved around forest scents. There were children’s coloring books that came with eight packs of the thick crayons needed to color in the Animals of the National Forest.
“Hungry?” BT asked as I held up the book.
“That’s it!” I ignored him. “Tommy, are the zombies still holding steady?”
“Looks that way,” he said.
“Okay. I need you to make a small fire.”
“Inside?”
“Yeah.” I went back and grabbed the other things I thought I needed. “BT, I need you to find tape.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“I can, but you’re not going to like it. I don’t even like it.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Find the tape first. If you don’t find that, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I think there’s plenty to worry about.”
I looked up from ripping the crayon packets open. “Well yeah, there is, but this is worse.”
“You are absolutely shitting me right now.”
“Not so much.”
I headed to the break room, needed a pan. I knew that was going to be a stretch. Instead I found some ceramic bowls suitable for microwaving. I could only hope they would hold up to an open flame.
“All set,” Tommy said, splaying his hands out to show a small fire.
I had what I hoped was everything.
“You’re building a bomb,” BT said, “aren’t you.”
“Did you find the tape?”
“You’re building a bomb inside.” He stepped back.
“Not really, and did you find the tape?”
He held out his hand. There were two rolls of duct tape, one for packaging, and two rolls of Scotch Tape.
“I’m not helping you build a bomb.”
“Good, wasn’t asking. However, I do need something else.”
“What?” He looked suspicious, and he had every right to be.
“Fuck, no!” he said after I told him.
“Tommy, help him and hurry. We’re running out of time.”
“Inside?” Now it was Tommy’s turn to ask.
“I don’t have time to explain everything and then get you to do it. Let’s pretend this is a military operation and I’m your boss.”
“As if,” BT said, but he was on the move.
“I hope this works.” My hands were shaking, not because I was afraid of any cataclysmic blowback, but rather, our lives depended on this working, and I’d already proven how leaky my memory could be. I was trusting all of our lives to the YouTube rabbit hole I had traveled down a few years ago when I’d been unable to sleep. My boys and I had recently discovered the joys of Tannerite, two magical compounds that, when mixed together and shot with a high-velocity round, would make a fantastic explosion. The only problem was that it wasn’t cheap.
I’d heard there were less expensive ways to make your own.
Not sure if it was the best idea to leave a trail of how to make a bomb searches on my internet history; I’m sure I’d ended up on some FBI and Homeland Security lists, maybe even the ATF. Who knows. So, any of you that have ever hopped on YouTube know that one video leads to the next, and usually, before the night is over, you’ve wasted three hours of your life and are completely convinced that we once lived on Mars or that the Moon landing was staged in Hollywood. This night though, my Tannerite exploration led to something much less conspiracy-like and, hopefully, right now, something more practical.
I broke up the crayons and got them mostly melted, then poured in some stump remover and stirred it around a bit.
“That gonna blow?” BT maintained what he hoped was a safe distance.
“You get them?” I asked, not looking up. I was not happy with the goop I was making and poured some more stump remover in.
“Yeah, but why?”
“How much time until sundown?”
“Couple hours.”
“Shit—I know what’s missing. Keep stirring this!” I handed him my spoon.
“I’d rather eat your sister's tofu waffles, and those are disgusting. She doesn’t even use syrup. Pours ketchup on them. Honestly, she makes Tommy’s weird Pop-Tarts seem appetizing.”
“Hey! I didn’t do anything,” Tommy said.
“Guilty by association.” BT was tentatively stirring the mixture, his head turned and one hand up to protect his face.
; “That isn’t going to blow up,” I said as I came running back to pour some sugar in. “I think,” I added as I took the spoon. “Fuck. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to add baking soda.”
“Every time you stir that, my nuts want to crawl up into my stomach for safety.”
“What? What the fuck did you just say?” I even stopped to look at him.
“I’m afraid, man. I’m afraid that shit is going to blow.”
“Sounds like a nut pucker,” I told him, going back to what I was doing.
“Did you just make that up?”
“Of course I did.”
“Nut pucker.” He looked up a bit and closed his mouth. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
“And stop worrying. This isn’t like a traditional bomb; I’m hoping it’s going to be a smoke bomb.”
“What the fuck do you need a smoke bomb for? You know it’s going to be foggy as fuck soon enough.”
“I know that,” I told him. “Peanut butter consistency. I think I’m getting close.”
“Then why?”
“For inside. As soon as I tell you this part I’m pretty sure you’re going to say no. I need you to do it anyway.”
The sheer amount of “Fuck-Nos” I received, I think, was at a record-setting pace. It was the sun streaming in the front window that stopped the extended outburst. It was rapidly going down, and as of yet, he’d not produced an alternate idea.
“If you ever spent money on therapy, which I doubt, by the way, you should ask for a refund.” BT stormed off.
Tommy was the first to produce a knife and begin the unenviable task of butchering the original three zombies we’d killed. I was busy ripping strips of tinfoil, placing the mixture in them, and busting candles to get the wicks free. “Huh, I wonder if I could have used this wax?” I asked as I cut what I needed free from the fragrant vessels. The visceral sound of tendons and muscles being hewn through could not be successfully drowned-out by any activity I was doing. I thought about whistling, but I thought maybe that might be what serial killers do while they’re doing their wet work, and I was a lot of things, had done a lot of not-so-decent things, but I in no way want to be associated with that kind of shit.
The last bit of natural light was meandering through the glass when I stood and popped my back, surveying the eight smoke bombs I had produced. Was pretty happy with my work until I looked over at the zombie processing line. Flayed-open arms, splayed legs, and hastily scalped skulls quickly drenched the euphoria.