Timothy

by Mark Tufo

  “Holy shit, I wasn’t expecting that answer. I thought you were going to go with something like ‘I would raise him right, then he wouldn’t be that man after I was done with him.’ Or some such shit. The thing is, sister, that if it wasn’t him, another would have risen and done something along the same lines. It’s just the way the game is played.”

  “Game? He killed six million people! That’s a game to you?”

  “Not my game. Cosmic crap.”

  “You really don’t strike me as the philosophical type. I can’t imagine you sitting in your study, sipping brandy, dwelling on life’s existential moments.”

  “Fuck you, bitch.”

  “Ah, there’s the Tim-Tim I know.”

  I slammed her up against the wall. “Don’t you—don’t you ever—call me that again! I will end you, no matter how much I enjoy these little talks! You understand me?”

  She was turning red and choking. I had her neck gripped so tightly she couldn’t nod in agreement. Her eyes began to close when I finally let her go. She slid to the floor, convulsing as her oxygen-starved brain tried to fill in the void. I kicked her once for good measure. Man, that felt good. I was going to keep her around for a while just so I had the ability to let out some frustration. Nothing like a decent punching bag to work off some release! “I thought we already talked about that,” I told her calmly.

  The alarm was still blaring and the battle was still waging, but it was further from me with every step I took. The problem with my escape attempt was that I didn’t know how to get out. It wasn’t like there were a bunch of signs pointing to exits. I was going to need a guide. That’s when it dawned on me that I needed to go into one of these offices and wrangle me up one. Now, if this was really playing out the way I wanted it to, Chance or Doc Rosamilia would have been in that room, but instead I got a plumber. Had to admit the guy was pretty dedicated to his trade; there’s a full scale battle going on, and he’d got half his body up and under a sink.

  “Be out of here in a few minutes.” His words were muffled.

  “Oh, no problem, take your time,” I said, getting closer. I was hoping he had a gun or something. Nope, not so much as a slingshot. He did, however, have a large red plumber’s wrench. Thing had to weigh nearly ten pounds, I thought as I picked it up. “Sorry,” I told him when he moved his head to the side to see me and what I was doing. “I’ve always loved playing with tools.” He looked at me strangely, like this was an opening line in a porno movie, but that changed quickly when I brought the wrench completely over my head and smashed it down onto his right knee cap, shattering it into a bunch of little pieces. He sat up quickly, slamming his head into the plumbing so hard he actually knocked himself out for a few seconds. At least that had the benefit of keeping him from screaming.

  “There, there,” I said almost tenderly. I’d pulled him out from under the sink and was wiping the sweat off his forehead. He was moaning in his unconscious state, his eyes began to flutter, I could see the shock and pain begin to register as he awoke. “You’re okay,” I said soothingly.

  “I’m in so much pain,” he breathed out.

  “I bet. I busted the fuck out of your knee cap. But I need you to stop being such a pussy now. Can you do that for me? You might actually make it through this day if you can.”

  “Who…” He paused as he tried to fight through the hellacious hurt. “Who are you?”

  “Well, aren’t you just mister rudey pants.” I don’t know why I thought being flirtatious at this point was going to be advantageous, and it wasn’t like it was something I was actually good at. “The proper way to greet a lady is to introduce yourself first.”

  “You smashed my fucking knee, you psychotic bitch. I think we’re past that!”

  “Listen, dickhead, I’ll smash the other one too if you don’t tell me your name. I tried the nice thing, now I’m done.”

  He laughed. It was a short stunted thing, but he actually laughed. “That’s your version of nice? Fine, we’ll play whatever game this is. My name is Gary Reilly.”

  “Hello, Gary. Was that so hard? Do you know your way around this place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, you’re going to show me the way out.”

  “Listen, crazy bitch, I’m not sure how you think I’m going to be able to do that now that you’ve hobbled me.”

  “Should have probably planned that out better. My bad, but if you can’t get me out of here you’re useless, at least in that state. I’m sure you’d still taste delicious.”

  “Taste?”

  “I’m a zombie, Gary. Haven’t figured that out yet? Thought you’d be a little smarter than that.”

  Gary winced as he sat up and tried to pull away. He was hesitant to move his leg, even slightly.

  “You cannot be surprised, can you? Dumb plumbers have to think don’t they? You’ve seen what they do around here. I’m an experiment that exceeded their furthest dreams.”

  “I’m not a damned plumber.”

  “Well, I guess you do seem a little too good in shape to be a stereotypical pipe man. Soldier with some plumbing skills, I take it? Probably a good thing I busted your knee first and asked questions later. Being the demure little thing that I am. So where’s your gun?” I looked around.

  The room wasn’t a much bigger than a maintenance closet, would have had a hard time missing it.

  “I’m off duty,” he grunted.

  “This is your idea of fun then? Eh, whatever, I like to eat people; I really shouldn’t shit on your ideas. So, can you get me out of here or what?”

  “Can you breed?”

  “That’s a pretty direct question considering we’ve just met.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t mean with me. You just broke my knee so I think I’m entitled to ask a pointed question or two.”

  “Why that one then?”

  “Because if you can make more of you I’ll just sit here and take what you plan on doling out. If you can’t, I plan on helping you with the idea that once I get better I’m going to hunt you down.”

  “You sound so heroic right now, if I identified as female I just might have jumped your bones. But let’s get something straight. I’m a zombie. More importantly, I identify as a male zombie. Then there’s the fact that I’d more likely eat any prospective lover, and if it ever got to that point, I’d eat the baby just for good measure.”

  Gary studied me for a few seconds. “I believe you. Now I want to know what are the odds that you are indeed going to let me go if I show you the way out?”

  “Zero if you don’t do it.”

  “That’s not good enough. You just told me you’d eat a baby. That doesn’t give me much faith in the notion that I’ll walk away from this. Figuratively.”

  “What if I pinkie swear?”

  “Oh, that should do it. Are zombies bound by the pinkie swear seal of good faith?”

  “I think I like you, Gary. Listen, here’s the deal. If you don’t help me, I’m going to mash up that other knee then I’m going to spend a good half hour ripping through you like a lion through a zebra’s hindquarters. If you help me, there’s always the chance someone intervenes on your behalf. Or just maybe I’m in too much of a rush to do what comes naturally to me. Or just, this is the slimmest of odds now, but maybe I just walk away. I let you live. So to be fair, I’d say it’s a coin flip out there; in here, those coins end up on your eyelids so you can pay the ferry man.”

  “I’ve had worse odds. There’s a mop bucket in the corner.”

  “You think I’m going to clean up if I make a mess?”

  “No, it has wheels. I’m going to have to sit on it and you’re going to have to push.”

  “That’s probably a better idea.” The bucket looked like it had been around since the Reagan administration. The bottom was nearly rusted out and the handle that pressed the extra water out of the mop had been taped together with nearly a roll of duct tape. I had my doubts it was going to support my guide’s weight.


  “A multi-billion-dollar secret government facility and this is the fucking mop bucket? Thing probably cost seven hundred of my tax dollars.”

  Gary winced and stifled a cry as he worked to get onto the bucket. “Could you help me please?”

  “No. You weigh twice what I do. Just because your knee is broken doesn’t make me think you’re not lethal in some way. Either get your ass up there or let me dine.” His first attempt sent the bucket skittering across the floor and his ass smacking against the ground in a jarring manner.

  “Bet that fucking hurt.”

  His gaze said it all; once his eyes cleared and he didn’t think he was going to pass out, they then tried to burn holes in me.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll help.” I placed the business end of my electric stick dead center on his chest. “You so much as twitch and I’m going to keep pulling this trigger until you’re medium rare.” I could tell he was thinking about it as I leaned down and let him brace against me. He wouldn’t have won, and he knew it. When his ass was firmly seated on top of the bucket, I stood back up.

  “Which way when I open the door?”

  “Right.”

  “Convenient, back to the battle. You lead me into a trap, and you’ll be the first to go. I know you’re thinking to yourself that I don’t have a weapon that can do you in quickly. That may be, you can take a couple of shocks before there’s any permanent damage. Now, Gary, I’m sure a big strong man like you probably could. But remember, I only need to take the smallest nibble from your ear and you’re a zombie, and trust me, for a guy like you, that’s worse than a death sentence.”

  I opened the door and took a quick look outside, still empty. I pushed Gary and his makeshift wheelchair out into the hallway. The fucking thing squealed like I’d stabbed a pig with a pencil, repeatedly. The front left wheel wobbled badly. If this thing made it to the end of the corridor, I’d be amazed.

  “Gary,” I said as we kept going, the sound of the battle getting significantly closer.

  “This is the quickest way out and my best chance for you to just leave.”

  “Quickest? Is it also the best? For me anyway.”

  “This is the way, zombie.”

  “It’s Scar … Tim.” I was fucking mortified. I didn’t know if I should correct myself or not. He did not need to know I was having a war within.

  “Scartim?”

  I pushed him faster, the wheels wildly going back and forth, somehow defying the fact that I was pushing it straight.

  I could see zombies up ahead, putting me entirely too close to what I’d started. Just because I’d taken a shit on the facility didn’t mean I wanted to step in it. “I’m getting nervous, Gary, and I’m a nervous eater.”

  “You’ve got a left coming up.”

  We’d no sooner taken that left when I heard the approach of people, moving fast. Had to be more soldiers coming to surround the zombies. The scientists surely weren’t coming to save their experiments. No, they were too busy tinkering with things better left alone. They don’t have the time or, more importantly, the inclination to fix their mistakes.

  “How conspicuous do we look?” I asked. I couldn’t help but laugh when he looked over his shoulder to see if I was serious. We needed to hide. Lovely Rita meter maid’s access card was turning out to be huge. I zipped it past the door panel and waited for the telltale click before letting myself in. The light was out, which was actually kind of a bummer. I was hoping that Ms. C. Rose of the psychics’ department was in so that I could get a bite to eat. All this running and escaping shit was famishing. I shut the door tight before turning the light on.

  “Talk about utilitarian.” There was a small, wooden desk with an old laptop and an even older dot matrix printer on top of it. Behind it was a decent office chair, where Ms. C. Rose presumably sat, according to her white lab coat draped over it. There were two folding chairs for her guests. A picture of a smiling boy holding a football was on the wall. I will always love you inscribed on the picture from a person named Kevin. In the corner was a tall file cabinet, and that was it. I don’t think she had a wastebasket.

  “She’s a unique one,” Gary informed me. “Sort of like you, Scartim. I don’t think you’re a zombie, not completely anyway.”

  “You don’t believe me? That’s not a great position to take, Gary.”

  “It’s the way you talk, your mannerisms. Zombies don’t give a shit about where their tax money goes, Scartim. So what the fuck are you? Some delusional bitch that thinks she’s a zombie? I’ve heard of those crazy people that used to go meet out in the woods and would drink bags of blood they bought off hospitals and called themselves vampires. But you know what, Scartim, they weren’t vampires, they were just deranged fucks with bags of blood. They didn’t have fangs, not real ones anyway. They didn’t need to be afraid of the light, or maybe they did because normal people would shun their stupid asses. But what the fuck is wrong with you, Scartim? No one wants to pretend to be a zombie, especially in this day and age. What the fuck do you do? Get bags of beef jerky and pretend its human meat? Tell me, I’m fucking curious.”

  “You sure are stupid.” I grabbed that heavy ass printer and swung it hard enough that I cracked good old Gary’s skull wide open. Well, maybe not wide open, but he was pouring blood out of a five-inch gash above his right temple. I’d rung the shit out of his bell, he fell to the side and off his ride. He cried out when he struck the side of the desk and then the hard tile floor. “Even if by some weird stretch I wasn’t a zombie—which I am by the way, but we’ll get to that later—I’ve already proven myself to be extremely violent. Haven’t I? How could provoking me in any way seem like a good idea, Gary? Can you tell me that? I thought you military types were a little smarter than that.”

  He looked out of it, sort of like a Russian sailor on shore leave. Just a bit too much vodka to go with his borscht or whatever the fuck they ate.

  “I’m in pain,” he mumbled. Could have been talking about his head or his knee, both maybe. The sight of all that blood was beginning to have an effect on me.

  “Tell me the way out, and I’ll send help back.”

  I’d fucked his head up, but apparently only on the outside because he didn’t believe me.

  “All right fine, just tell me the way out so I can go about my merry little way.”

  “Nothing merry about you,” he slurred.

  “Oooh, sounds like you may have a concussion. Do I look like batman yet?”

  His eyebrows furrowed as he kept staring at me. Blood leaked into his right eye, and still he looked. He cried out when I slapped him hard enough to chip his teeth.

  “I have no idea why you’re stalling, Gary, but I need to get on the move and your little third grade recess game has played out too long.”

  He had the fucking audacity to start laughing. One second, he looked like he was in enough pain to pass out, the next, this raucous amused sound is bouncing off the walls of the small office.

  “Okay, I need to think this out. We certainly haven’t been together long enough for me to drive you insane. My guess is the pain is damn near unbearable from your injuries, but still that shouldn’t have shot you over the edge just yet. So what gives? If you had a weapon, you would have used it. No, I know what it is … you think help is on the way. You’ve got that ‘I got the drop on you look,’ so how the fuck did you pull it off?” I looked around the room. There was nothing. Maybe if the laptop was open, I could see there being a camera. I grabbed the signed picture of the dreamy Kevin, at least dreamy to Miss Rose, and was prepared to smash it over Gary’s head when I saw the lens and the little red light next to it that signified power.

  “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.” Gary’s tone changed from bemusement to blood thirsty revenge.

  “What have you done?” I railed at him.

  “I didn’t do anything, you fucking psycho. You’re the one that decided to come into the offices of the resident psychic. The camera is programmed to begin recordin
g when it senses movement. A lot of weird shit happens in here, and the doc likes to record it. This may be some of the weirdest, so we’re definitely being recorded.”

  “I don’t give a shit about recorded, Gary. What I care about is monitored.”

  “Oh, most definitely.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game here. I don’t completely believe you that someone is sitting at a desk just waiting for something to happen in this room, especially during a crisis.”

  “Especially during a crisis; this feeds to the security station. Who’s the dumb ass now?” And then he resumed that infernal laughing sound.

  “You are.” I moved quickly over to his side and bit at his ear. Unlike the little nibble I had hinted at, I ripped the thing clean off. Well clean is more of a metaphor than an actual descriptor of what happened. The side of his head looked like the coastline of Maine; there were ridges and crags of torn shredded skin, blood bubbling to the surface giving the side of his head the illusion of a melting candle. The trick ended when he full-throated, open-mouthed screamed. Red spittle flew from his tongue-bitten mouth hitting the far wall with enough force to splatter off and back.

  “Well, I can see you were never a smoker,” I said around a mouthful of the cartilage-rich snack. “Chewy,” I told him as I took a bite. “A little hot sauce on this thing and we’d be in business.

  “I don’t like being fucked with, Gary. It upsets my delicate constitution.” I reached over and grabbed his remaining ear. I yanked with an upward force. His screams reached a new level and octave range. “Impressive,” I told him, honestly meaning it. “Did you know it only takes seven pounds of force to rip an ear from a human body? Wait, that doesn’t sound like much. Maybe they were talking about what it takes to break a collar bone.” I stepped in front of him and brought the heel of my hand down onto his exposed right collarbone. Instead of crying out more, which in all likelihood he couldn’t, he mostly collapsed in on himself as if I’d poked a hole in a semi-deflated balloon. He sort of folded in. He looked about half the man he’d been when I first encountered him. And no, I didn’t feel sorry for him. He was food. What the hell was there to feel sorry about?