by Urban, Tony
Before I could stop myself, I smacked his hand away from the gun.
“What the hell man?” His face was confused, and I thought I saw some anger mixed in.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But Jesus, LaRon. We can’t kill Stephen King.”
LaRon raised his eyebrow. “He’s already dead, Mead. He’s a zombie.”
“I know.” I looked back to King who had become tangled up in a rhododendron bush, snarling and growling as he tried in vain to free himself. “It’s just I can’t. We can’t.”
I thought he might punch me. Or maybe pull out the gun anyway and blow away Stephen King. It would have been the smart thing to do, after all. And if he’d been some random zombie, I’d have done it myself.
I risked a glance at LaRon and saw his hands at his sides, not on the gun. Not balled up in fists. And there was even a smile on his face. “Yo man, I get it. But what are we gonna do with him?”
It was my turn to smile and I glanced at the Jeep.
LaRon must have read my mind. “Aw, hell no. We ain’t taking him with us.”
He was right, of course. Even if he was Stephen King, we couldn’t bring a zombie along on out adventures unless we wanted to die.
As I ushered Stephen King into his house, he thrashed and clawed at me. I got him through the door and he stumbled, falling onto the oak floor.
“Sorry about that, Mr. King. But you need to stay inside where it’s safe.”
He growled as he awkwardly climbed back to his feet.
“And I know you heard this all the time, but I just have to say it. You scared the shit out of me.”
13
September 2
After leaving Bangor behind, we tooled around Maine but found a whole lot of nothingness in the center of the state and eventually turned south again. We ended up in Portland so LaRon could get his zombie killing fix.
I watched, amused, as he used the Gatling Gun so long that I could see the exertion had physically exhausted him. Well, part of it was the exertion. The other was the fact that he’d been hitting the marijuana hard all morning long and his eyes were so bloodshot they looked like they might spontaneously bleed.
“How about we take a break?” I suggested.
He pretended he wasn’t winded. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
Relief washed over his face as he resumed his usual spot in the passenger seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his chest rising and falling rapid fire.
“What was that? Seventy-five?” I asked.
“Shit man, a hundred and ten at a bare minimum. You need to work on your counting,” he said with a grin.
“What can I say, you’re just too damned fast?”
As I drove, he dug through a duffle bag. “Everything okay?”
“We’re getting low on ammo. Real damn low. You see a gun shop, you best pull in.”
It didn’t take more than half an hour of driving aimlessly before we came across a sign for Abe’s Ammo. Turning into the parking lot, we saw Abe’s was the largest store in a shopping plaza that contained a handful of other businesses, a gas station and two fast food restaurants. Abe’s itself featured a rambling storefront painted camo green, brown, and black.
“Will this do?”
LaRon nodded. “This state ain’t all bad.”
What was bad was that a few hundred zombies had made the plaza’s parking lot their home. And there were just enough cars parked haphazardly throughout the area that the Jeep’s bladed wings couldn’t be extended and were useless.
“Do you have enough bullets to take care of this?”
LaRon shook his head. “Not even close. Shit!”
“Don’t worry about. We’ll find somewhere else.” I started to turn the Jeep back to the exit, but felt LaRon grab my arm.
“Naw, man. I got an idea.”
I looked to him and saw him staring off to the side. Following his gaze, I realized he was looking at the gas station. “We’ve got plenty of gas.”
“I know that. I don’t want to get gas for the Jeep. I want to use it on them.”
I still wasn’t sure what he meant, but when he pointed to the side of the gas station, it started making sense. Parked at the back corner of the building was a fuel truck. Its silver tanker blazed almost white under the midday sun.
“You aren’t thinking…”
LaRon smiled, blissful and high. “We’re gonna light these bitches up.”
I ran down four zombies which loitered around the gas station, keeping the RPMs low and the engine as quiet as possible and we didn’t draw the attention of the hundreds of others who meandered about the parking lot.
The coast was clear as we parked beside the massive tanker. LaRon wasted no time before jumping out of the Wrangler and jogging to the rear of the truck.
I followed and watched as he pulled a hose as thick around as my thigh from truck. He quickly connected it to a valve. I’m sure I could have figured out how all of this worked on my own given enough time, but LaRon seemed too familiar to be learning on the fly.
“Is there anything you can’t do.”
“I can’t dance for shit.” He glanced up at me. “You learn to do a little bit of everything in the Army. You think your Jeep’s thirsty? Try keeping a fleet of Humvees running day in day out.” He took a deep drag off a joint.
“Think that’s smart?”
He stared at me, confused and I mimed smoking. “You think I’m gonna blow us up?”
“Maybe.”
“That shit only happens in movies.” But he pinched the joint off and dropped it into his pocket. He finished connecting the hose and pointed to a lever above where it connected to the tanker. “That’s your shut off valve. Soon as you open that, fuel’s gonna come out about a hundred gallons a minute.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re manning the hose.”
“Me?” I didn’t like this plan.
“Can you drive the truck?”
He had me there.
“I’ll circle through the lot and you douse the bitches. Once we’re finished, you shut the valve and meet me at the front of the truck.”
“And then what?”
LaRon only grinned. He hopped into the cab and I had no opportunity to protest. This was his show and it had begun.
I held onto the hose and jogged close behind the truck as he drove toward the zombies. The weight of the hose was shocking and, by the time we were amid them, I was already out of breath. This plan got worse with every passing second.
The brakes shrieked as LaRon stopped the truck and if any zombie in the area hadn’t been aware of our presence before then, that sound beckoned them like a homing beacon.
The creatures shuffled toward us, growling and snarling. The scent of their death cologne on that hot day sickened me. The closest were a few yards away and I knew it was time to act. I grabbed the lever and tried to turn it. Only it didn’t budge.
I tried again. Nothing. “Oh fuck!”
I looked behind me and a half dozen zombies were within feet of it. All my weapons were in the Jeep and I had a feeling I was screwed. My only thought was that I could dive under the truck and find some axel or part to hold onto while LaRon drove me to safety, but the realistic part of my brain knew I wasn’t strong enough to hang on for more than a few seconds.
With no other options, I tried the lever one more time, jerking down on it with all my body weight. And finally, that time it turned.
The hose went rigid and gasoline shot out the end, soaking the ground. I ran to it and picked it up, no easy task, then aimed it at the zombies like a fireman trying to snuff out flames.
The fuel soaked them, and the creatures stumbled backward. Several, knocked off balance by the force of the flow, fell to the pavement. I doused every zombie close enough to reach with the hose, then glanced at the cab where LaRon watched. I gave him a thumb’s up, and he drove again.
We repeated this stop, spray,
and go act seven times. It took nearly fifteen minutes but, eventually, all the zombies had received their baptism by gasoline and I closed the lever, which was much easier than opening it.
I ran to the cab and climbed inside and LaRon drove us away from the zombies.
“You stink, man.”
The smell of petroleum filled my nose and, had apparently, permeated my clothing. Maybe even more pores. “Sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Now what?”
He parked at the mini mart. I grabbed a spear from the Jeep, but LaRon didn’t take any weapons.
“Don’t you want a gun or something?”
“Naw, man. I’m good.” He reached into his pocket and from it pulled a lighter. “This.” He took one of the red plastic jugs of gasoline from the Wrangler. “And this, is all we’re gonna need. You’ll see.”
I watched as LaRon strolled toward the zombies, many of which were coming our way. I was amazed at his nonchalant attitude and wondered how much of it was genuine bravery and how much was the constant marijuana fog.
He opened the nozzle on the gas can and poured a trail of fuel along the pavement, stopping when he was a few yards from the nearest zombies. Then, he set the can on its side and returned to me.
“Sit back and enjoy the show, Mead.” He watched them come and when the creatures reached the can, LaRon knelt at the beginning of the gas trail, flicked his lighter, and lit the fuel on fire.
Flames raced up the path and reached the gas can within a second. The fire hit the gas can and the it exploded with a small whoosh. The flames leapt into the air and lit a zombie in a yellow rain slicker on fire.
The monster awkwardly spun and twirled as first its clothing and then its body burned. It bumped into a tall, almost skeletal man in a plaid shirt, then collided with a woman in cut kitten sweatshirt. At his touch, those two also caught on fire.
LaRon’s plan was indeed solid and it was coming together at breakneck speed. One after another after another the zombies were set ablaze. Less than two minutes later, it seemed like the entire parking lot was a massive, raging inferno.
LaRon bounced on his feet and as excited as a kid who just saw Santa Claus live and in person for the very first time. He grabbed the camera from his pocket and snapped some photos, then tossed it to me.
“Gotta make a Kodak fucking moment out this.”
He posed in front of the burning zombies, grinning, flexing, pointing, giving, giving the peace sign. This was his moment in the sun, but as the fire grew behind him, I realized that moment might be short lived.
“It won’t be long before the whole block goes up,” I said.
He glanced back and nodded. “We better get our asses lootin!”
We ran to Abe’s Ammo making a wide circle around the fiery mass of zombies. The plate glass window at the front of the store was shattered, giving us easy access. Although it was partially burglarized, there was still plenty for the taking.
To me though, everything in the store may as well have been from another planet. “What am I supposed to look for?”
“The Gatling Gun takes 50 caliber. We need a bunch of other shit, but you’ll never remember all the numbers so focus on 50s. I’ll check here, you look in the storeroom.”
That sounded good to me. I headed into the back where there must have been fifteen metal storage racks, each filled with boxes and standing taller than me. Fortunately, the boxes were numbered, and I began scanning for something indicating 50 caliber ammo.
I was nine rows deep when I found it. There were twenty cases or more. I grabbed one off the shelf, excited to show my friend this prize.
“Guess what I found?”
I moved toward the storefront but only made it half way there when I heard a muffled thud.
“LaRon?” There was no response. I waited. Listened. “LaRon? Everything okay bout there?”
I hear another thud. Then, LaRon’s voice. “Get away from me you fucking Freddy Krueger bitch!”
I tossed down the box and grabbed my spear as I ran toward his voice. Before I got there, I heard something between a scream and a gasp.
I ran into the store, conduit spear in hand and ready to battle, only to see LaRon standing atop one of the display cases, surrounded by more than twenty zombies, all of which were on fire. The flames had set the store ablaze too. The carpet burned like dry grass and flames licked at the walls. At anything that was flammable.
The sight of it overwhelmed me. I stared, to shocked to move. To fight. To help.
One of the fire zombies grabbed on to LaRon’s pant leg and he kicked it away. Then he kicked it again in the head and it stumbled backward a step, but other zombies immediately took its place.
I looked past them and saw all the zombies from the parking lot, the hundreds of burning zombies, marching in our direction. Dozens were at the front of the store, pushing their way inside, and a flaming sea followed.
LaRon’s shoelaces were ablaze and he kicked his feet, trying to put it out, but the flames only spread, claiming his shoes, then licking at his pants. All the while more and more burning zombies packed in around him.
It looked like he was standing on an atoll in the middle of a fiery ocean. Arms reached for him. Hands clawed at him. The flames spread up his pant legs, toward his midsection. That’s when he started to scream.
My mind raced. What could I do? How could I possibly get in there and save him? No matter how many scenarios I ran through my mind, they all ended the same way. With both of us dying.
The flames had reached the ceiling and the cheap tile lit up like tinder. The entire store was burning, floor, walls, and ceiling. And the oasis in the middle was LaRon on the display case, fighting for his life. And losing.
Then, he saw me. He’d been flailing wildly, fighting against the flames, and his body turned my direction. Before I could react, our eyes met. I saw a measure of relief in his face. Some hope clawing through the pain.
“My goose is almost cooked, man,” he said and it was as if the zombies realized he was speaking to someone. A third of the horde turned my way and staggered toward me and they brought the fire with them.
I knew there was no way to rescue him and be the hero. There were too many zombies. Too many flames. And no time. Stepping so much as a single foot into that store would have meant death for both of us.
“I’m sorry.” I doubted my voice carried over the roar of the fire, the hungry groans of the zombies, but he seemed to understand.
“It’s aight.” He gave a slight tip of his head as the flames licked his face.
Then, I ran the other way.
I fled through the rear exit. Because all the zombies were focused on getting into the store where LaRon was either being eaten or burned alive, or both, I had no problem sprinting to the Jeep unnoticed. It wasn’t until I got behind the wheel that I dared look back at Abe’s Ammo. I half expected to see LaRon, an undead, burning version of him, emerging from the store like wraith, coming for me, eager to seek his vengeance.
All I saw was the entire store ablaze. The fire had spread to the surrounding businesses and the whole row was going up on flames. Black smoke billowed into the air, the smoke so thick it drowned out the midday sun.
It was over.
14
November 29
I haven’t felt like writing much. In the weeks after LaRon’s death, I meandered around Maine and even ventured into Canada for a spell. I took my own personal tour of Acadia National Park, dined dockside in Bar Harbor, and ended up at a rundown lodge on the coast where the scenery was beautiful and there wasn’t a zombie in sight.
It was a good life, a far better one than I deserved. The land was beautiful and bountiful. Wild strawberries and blueberries helped satiate my sweet tooth as I went cold turkey off junk food. I even managed to become an adequate fisherman. It seemed like the marine life had been spared in the apocalypse and with a rod and reel, I caught a few a week. I even bagged a couple lobsters and let me say
, everything I’d ever heard about Maine lobsters was true. All of that, coupled with canned goods, kept my belly full enough.
I made a point to exercise, going for daily jogs around the property to burn calories and melt away some of the spare tire I’d grown. For muscle tone, I went to work with my axe, only I wasn’t killing zombies. Now, I was chopping wood. I wasn’t a body builder by any means, but I thought my arms felt a little harder. I needed to do anything I could to stay in shape because, as I’d learned the hard way, you never knew when you might need to fight your way out of trouble.
Through the months, I saw several deer, two moose, and even a black bear which lumbered across the lawn one morning while I was outside gutting a fish. And believe me, it’s not just bears that shit in the woods.
The lodge had an old rifle, but I didn’t know if it worked. Even if it did, I couldn’t have shot any of them. This was their home as much as it was mine. Hell, it was more theirs. I was nothing more than an interloper. A chickenshit interloper at that. I wasn’t any more deserving of living than they were. Maybe I was even less.
It was lonely at times, but worse than the solitude was having to relive the last few months over and over again. I didn’t know how many other survivors remained in the world, but I thought they were probably better off with me in the middle of nowhere in Maine, far away from them. After all, everyone I teamed up with died and there was already plenty of death to go around without me speeding up the process.
Living out the rest of my days alone seemed a fitting solution all the way around. Besides, I liked it here. Even the bugs weren’t bad as summer gave way to fall.
I made the lodge my home until early November. The fall foliage provided a breathtaking backdrop, like something out of one of those paintings the guy with the curly hair did on public access TV. But fall in Maine wasn’t like fall in Pennsylvania and when the leaves came down, they were replaced with frigid winds that cut like saw blades into my bones.
The old lodge wasn’t insulated and the wood burning fireplace did little to keep the cold at bay. One morning I woke up with my eyelids frozen shut. I had to pry them open and lost pretty near all my eyelashes in the process. I knew that if I’d have slept a little later or waited too much longer, I would have ended up a Mead-cicle. By the time I’d have thawed out, come springtime, I’d be just another zombie. I hated to admit it, to accept it, but I couldn’t survive a winter there.
