by Mark Tufo
“Your hair smells good,” I told him before I finally let him go. ‘Call me.’ I mouthed, making a mock phone with my pinkie and thumb. He skittered away pretty fast, mission accomplished.
“Mean, man, that’s just mean,” BT said.
“Listen, you know as well as I do, he was either going to give me shit for the next ten minutes about how I should have saved the box…or worse, fifteen minutes telling me how it worked.”
“True, now what?”
“Same as it ever was, I suppose.”
We’d all had a few minutes to reflect on what had happened. I was proud that, as a whole, we were able to get past it fairly easily. Some better than others, Henry didn’t even seem to care. He had immediately gotten out of the truck, went to the side of the road, took care of a little business and then waited patiently until someone put him back in so he could lie down. Must be nice, I thought. Not the shitting in front of everyone, that part would be awkward, I’m more referring to the part about just curling up and going to sleep. Oh and someone picking me up and putting me in the truck would be nice as well.
“We’ve got to get going, Mike,” Ron said. “I know Lyndsey’s son Jessie and husband Steve, and the women for that matter are more than capable, but I don’t feel right being away this long.”
“I understand completely. Again…thanks, Ron. I swear I’ll be better to this truck.”
He didn’t even acknowledge that last part, we both knew better.
He got into his truck.
“Um…you forgot one,” I said after he shut his door.
“He wanted to go with you,” Ron said as he pulled away.
“Glad to have you aboard,” I said to Gary.
Chapter 9 – Stephanie and Trip
“Honey, it would be better if you stayed in the middle of the road,” a clearly nervous and agitated Stephanie said to her husband. He’d miraculously not hit anything yet, but even blind luck has to find its target eventually.
Trip dutifully slowed down. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now.”
Stephanie waited patiently for him to continue. “Well, apparently, you’re still thinking about it.” She almost put her fingernails through the seat cushion as he came within a fly’s wingspan of clipping a parked cop car.
“About what?” he asked, turning almost completely around to look at her.
“Oh, my God, Trip! I swear you’re going to give me a heart attack. How about you stop the bus for a moment and we talk.”
“Fair enough,” he told her, slamming on the brakes and nearly sending her flying into his seat. When the bus was completely stopped, he smiled and looked at her. “Okay, you first. Do you have any spare tickets?” he blurted out before she could say a word.
“What?”
“The show, it sounds like you and your friends are going to have a great time and I just wanted to know if you have any spares. I mean, I can make it worth your while. I have all sorts of party materials and I’ll even throw in the bus ride for free,” he said excitedly.
“Trip I…”
“That’s cool.” He bowed his head. “I know how hard it can be to get them sometimes. If I give you money, can you get me a shirt at least? Three xl.”
Stephanie laughed. “Oh, Trip, what would you do with a triple xl shirt?” She rubbed the side of his grizzled face.
“Blanket for me and you,” he told her.
“You know there’s no show right?”
“You hired this bus under false pretenses? Are you smuggling weed?” He looked around for any hints of trouble. “I’ll help you, but I don’t like the illegal stuff.”
“Just about your entire life is one illegality.”
“Should we go look for Ponch?”
She’d thought a lot about the man her husband called Ponch. He had a haunted look about him that she was not able to explain, that and the speed and strength he had displayed when he had launched her husband off the truck and onto the fire escape defied explanation. She sat somewhere in between wishing to seek him out and avoid him at all costs.
“Would you even know where to go?” Stephanie asked, hoping that her husband’s break into lucidity would be short lived.
Trip pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper from his back pocket. He unfolded it before handing it to his wife. It was an address, and she didn’t need to see the name on top to realize whose. Although it was funny to see that John had scratched out ‘Mike’ and wrote ‘Ponch’.
“Why not?” she asked. It wasn’t like they had a plethora of other options to explore, and just maybe she would find out what Mike was hiding.
“Do you think you can find an extra ticket for him as well?” Trip asked as he turned around and started the bus up again.
“Probably.”
“Oh great, he’ll be so excited. Now, I just got to get on the highway and to his house before the show starts.”
Chapter 10 – Doc and Porkchop
His head was pounding. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, or eaten for that matter. His life had been a whirlwind of pain and loss after his wife was savagely killed in front of him. Eliza had opened his beloved’s throat and then let her psycho brother drain her dry. It had been a horror that had fundamentally changed who he was as a man. Doctor Baker had been reduced.
He reasoned that, if he still had a soul, it had been diminished as well. The world he lived in was dimmer—muted might be the appropriate word. He still had enough about him to realize he might be going insane, but not enough to care. A sliver of light as thick as a pencil and as bright as a laser blazed across the cell. Doc Baker scurried into the corner lest some new horror be unleashed upon him. He couldn’t fathom anything worse than what had already happened, but Eliza was imaginative if nothing else.
“Doc, are you in there?” a familiar voice asked softly.
Baker didn’t fall for the bait. Eliza had been breaking him down mentally for weeks. He didn’t yet know what this new angle was, but he wasn’t sure how much more he could bear.
“Doc, it’s me…Porkchop,” the rotund little boy said.
“Pork…” he croaked. “Porkchop?” His throat was so dry that he almost choked on the words.
“It’s me, Mr. Baker…Dad!” Porkchop said as he threw the door wide open, letting the full intensity of the sun sear across the small cell.
Doc tried as best he could to sink into the walls to be free of the light. The light that hid nothing, the light that revealed all. He wanted nothing to do with it. There were things out there he never wanted to see.
Doctor Baker had taken Porkchop in after the boy had been forced to dispatch of his abusive father with a videogame guitar controller after the man had eaten his wife, Porkchop’s mother, and had next set his sights on the boy.
“Where’s…where’s…” he wanted to say Eliza but couldn’t bring himself to actually verbalize the words; to do so might bring her presence.
“I think she’s dead,” Porkchop said, coming in another step, his nose wrinkling at the stench in the cell.
Doc knew those words should bring some warmth and lightness to his heart, but the shroud it was enveloped in would not yield its Boa-like constriction.
“They’re gone, everyone is gone,” Porkchop said. “Even the zombies.”
“Close the door,” Doc said. He was ready to curl up and die.
“We can leave, Mr. Baker.”
Doc stared at Porkchop’s form until he began to take definition, the blurring image fading into that of a scared boy.
“For what, Porkchop? I’ve lost everything.”
Porkchop didn’t seem hurt by the words. He knew Doc’s wife and kids had been mercilessly slaughtered while the man had been forced to watch. He would have been next had not everyone merely left.
“I’m still here.” He thrust his chin up.
“Porkchop, I just want to die.” Doc turned his back to the light.
“If you want the door shut, do it yourself.” Pork
chop was crying as he walked out.
Doc cried the moment he was alone. His body rocked with the sobs, tears fell in sheets. His face puffed up and his sinuses threatened to swell closed, and yet he still kept going. On some level, he wondered if he could die from the dehydration effect of so much water leaving his system. His face was a mask of agony as he wailed; primitive guttural sounds ebbed and flowed to a high keening and everything in between. The sense of loss was so acute he did not know if he could go on. Even as he stood, he could not figure out why.
He shielded his eyes as he stepped through the doorway. Birds sang off in the distance, light streamed through the long narrow corridor he found himself standing in. Chipped paint hung in sheets. He wondered if it was lead-based and laughed at the absurdity of worrying about that. He leaned against the wall, the force of reality threatening to crush him. His face pulsed with pain.
He tenderly reached up and touched it. The angularity of it was unfamiliar; a coarse beard covered most of it, something he had been meticulous in maintaining when he had a wife and kids. He nearly slid down the wall.
“For Porkchop,” he said, taking a step rather than faltering. It took him close to a half hour to make it down that corridor. When he pushed through a door he found himself in a cafeteria. A lone boy sat at a table crying, an industrial-sized can of baked beans open before him.
Porkchop was self-salting the beans as he ate, large tears falling into the container. A spoonful of the caramelized side dish was halfway to his mouth when he saw Doc enter. He was out of his seat and halfway to the doc before the spoon stopped rattling on the floor.
“You look like shit!” Porkchop said, almost knocking the doc over as he slammed into his legs.
Porkchop’s arms encircled the man. Doc reciprocated. Somehow, Doc managed to tap untouched reserves; more tears flowed, striking the boy on the top of his head. He didn’t notice as he was making his own puddle on the floor. After a few moments, it was difficult to tell who was supporting whom.
“There’s…there’s food,” Porkchop said. “Lots of it.” He pulled away. “You need some.” He grabbed the man’s hand and led him over to the table he had been sitting at. Porkchop helped the man to sit; he pushed the beans under his nose.
At first, the smell of them had turned Doc’s stomach, making him want to heave the snot and bile that was beginning to coagulate in his system. Then the survival switch kicked in. He didn’t wait for Porkchop to return with a spoon, he stuck his dirt-encrusted hands into the slop and pulled out heaping handfuls, shoving them in his mouth, not even bothering to chew.
“My mom said it was rude to eat with your hands,” Porkchop said, thrusting the spoon between Doc’s mouth and the can.
Doc looked up at him. A bean-stained grin formed on his lips. He took the spoon and started using it like a steam shovel. “Bigger spoon,” the doc said around mouthfuls.
Porkchop came back with a ladle and a can of beer. That seemed to appease the doc who was now drinking the beans like one would a tall cool glass of water. Doc popped the top of the beer, and in one long pull, emptied the contents.
“Another, please,” Doc said after a heavy belch.
Three beers and another can of beans later, Porkchop was finally able to sit and eat his own meal. The only sounds for the next hour were that of the contented slurping and subsequent masticating of food.
“Excuse me,” Porkchop said.
“For what?” Doc asked a moment before the blast hit him. Doc fell over in an attempt to extradite himself from his spot as quickly as possible. He was scurrying on the floor pushing away.
Porkchop was laughing so hard, beans were dripping from his nose. That laugh was something they desperately needed. At times it was almost manic, but it flooded their bodies with endorphins. When the air had cleared to acceptable levels, Doc grabbed his food and moved to an adjacent table. A grinning Porkchop quickly joined him. They moved from table to table as one or the other, and often times both, would foul the air. It was one of the best days either of them had had in what felt like a century.
When they were finished, Doc led Porkchop outside. A large asphalt parking lot dominated their surroundings. They were in a factory that looked as if it had fallen into disrepair long before the zombies came. They stood on a small concrete stoop leaning up against a rusted out handrail.
“How did you get free, Porkchop?” Doc asked after taking a moment to look around.
“They just left,” Porkchop told him. “I was in an office room with a guard and then we heard guns going off right outside. He told me not to move or he was going to break my kneecaps. I believed him. He went out and never came back. There were more gunshots, and then when it stopped, I heard some of the men arguing. One even mentioned that Eliza must be dead because the vials weren’t working anymore. There was more fighting and more shooting, I don’t think it was at zombies this time. And then there was nothing. No shooting, no fighting, nothing. I didn’t want to move, though, because he said he was going to break my kneecaps. I don’t think you can walk with broken kneecaps. But I was soooo hungry…I couldn’t sit there anymore. So I tried to figure out what was worse, having broken kneecaps or starving to death. I thought that I might not mind the broken kneecaps so much if I was full, so I went looking for food.”
Doc let him ramble, the kid was in almost as bad shape as he was, and the talking seemed to be having a therapeutic effect on him even if the doc couldn’t keep up.
“Found the kitchen pretty easy. Mostly canned stuff, I was smashing them on the ground trying to open them before I found a can opener, but once I found the can opener, I was able to get them open. I was so hungry I didn’t even bother to check the labels. The first one I got was a whole chicken. Who cans a whole chicken, Mr. Baker? It was horrible…all shriveled up and white, had this thick coating of grease on the top of the water. I almost wasn’t hungry after that. I hid it under a big bag of rice so that I wouldn’t have to look at it again. Then I started making sure I saw stuff I wanted. Found a huge can of peaches, and I ate them all in maybe five minutes, then my stomach really started to hurt. I probably ruined one of the toilets, I couldn’t get it to flush when I was done.”
“Fruit can do that to you,” Doc said, smiling softly, stroking the boy’s head.
“I probably should have come looking for you sooner, but…but I didn’t even know if you were still….” He moved on, not willing to voice it. “Then I saw the baked beans and I LOVE baked beans, they’re so sweet and squishy. When I started to open them, the smell reminded me of home somehow, and then I needed to go looking. I needed to know if you were still around.” Porkchop looked down at his feet.
“I’m glad you found me,” Doc said. “How did you get my door open?”
“It was unlocked.”
“How long have the men been gone?” Doc asked, silently berating himself for giving up.
“Two days.”
“And you heard them say Eliza was dead.” When the Doc heard no response, he looked down to see that Porkchop was nodding. “That would explain why the zombies attacked and the men fled. Without her, they had no reason to stay together. I wonder how Mike killed her and I wish I had been there to watch. Did they say anything about Tomas?”
Porkchop shook his head.
“Good, I hope he’s still alive. I want to be the one that puts a stake through his heart.”
“What now, Mr. Baker?” Porkchop asked, obviously afraid.
“We get away from here in case any of them decide to come back, we get a car, and then I guess we head to Maine and try to find Mike.”
He had absolutely no clue how he was going to do that, though. He knew that Mike had gone to the Pine Tree State, but he didn’t know which pine tree he might be hiding behind. He was fresh out of options. The alternative was just to sit down and die, though. That wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, but he had two things he wanted to take care of first. Number one was getting Porkchop to safety; he had let his entire family
down including his dog, he would not fail Porkchop. And secondly, he would kill Tommy—of that he was sure. Love and hate burned hotly and in equal parts within him, they would be enough to sustain him until the end. There was one other thing as well, and he would make sure to pack it up before they left.
Within a half an hour, they were ready to go. Doc had found a gun he was completely petrified to hold. He stuffed some supplies and food into a backpack. In his left hand he carried a worn suitcase, in his right a Smith and Wesson .38. Porkchop was carrying as many containers of baked beans as his arms would allow. Doc stared longingly at a few of the big rigs around the complex. He’d climbed into one of them, the keys still in the ignition. After a few false starts and a bucking to make a rodeo performer proud, he exited the vehicle. The thing was beyond his skill set.
“Porkchop, do you want to wait here?” Doc asked the struggling boy. “Get in the cab. I’ll be right back with something that doesn’t have a clutch.
Porkchop shook his head emphatically ‘no’.
As of yet they had not encountered any zombies. Doc was hesitant to stay walking down the center of the roadway; it kept them entirely too visible. He was also not big on lurking close to houses where zombies may or may not be hiding. He knew his hesitancy and indecision were going to get them killed. Non-action was just as bad as a rash one. The sidewalk seemed the safest bet. He constantly scanned the area, looking for any signs of trouble. Porkchop was too busy readjusting his stockpile to do much more than follow along.
They had gone perhaps a quarter mile when Doc saw a group of people coming towards them—four or possibly five, he couldn’t tell from this distance. He knew he needed to get his glasses prescription renewed, but he hadn’t seen an optometrist in a while. And it wasn’t looking like he’d be able to make an appointment any time soon.
Doc stopped Porkchop’s forward progress by blocking him with his suitcase. Two of the cans clattered to the ground.