by Mark Tufo
“You don’t know?” she asked. It sounded accusatory to me, but it was intoned with defeat.
I walked over to her and wrapped her up in a big hug and then I lied. “We’ll get out of here.” And she believed it about as much as I did.
The preternatural silence was occasionally disrupted by the staccato sound of gunfire. Apparently there were still a few die hards on the walls that weren’t willing to give up so easily. I was going stir-crazy sitting in the house. I couldn’t find anything to do that even remotely kept my mind from thoughts of zombies. Crossword puzzles – zombies, model building – zombies, reading – zombies.
“This sucks!” I said as I stood up from the couch. No one argued. We had been sitting in near silence for over an hour. “I’m going to see how Alex is doing with the truck.” This was not a source of easement either.
When I told Tracy about the idea her eyes had lit up like Christmas trees. It had warmed my heart to see the new life that had been breathed into her, even if it was only short-lived. She was a smart person and she could see that I wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic about the plan as I should be.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you think the truck can get through?” She had asked.
“I’m having my doubts, but if the timing is right it’ll have a good shot.”
She searched my face for the answer she was seeking. Shit, I must have had the words emblazoned on my cheeks.
“You’re not going,” she stated flatly.
My eyes told the truth. “It’s women and children and even then we won’t be able to get them all out.”
“Fuck that!” She screamed at me. I stepped back. At 5’2” and 110 pounds she scared the shit out of me like no drill instructor double her size could. Her vehemence was unmatched. “Well, I’m not going!” She yelled as she circled the room like a tiger waiting to pounce on its prey. And I was the one feeling like the goat. “What if the truck gets stuck, what then Mr. Bad Ass Marine? You’ll be delivering canned goods to the zombies. All they’ll need is a can opener and a fine Chianti and they can have a huge smorgasbord.”
I put my hands up in a placating manner. I might as well have tossed the whole can of gasoline on the fire. “Calm down,” I begged. Ooops, wrong tact, the spitting volcano erupted, Vesuvius incarnate.
She pushed past my arms and punched me full force in the stomach. Whoa, I hadn’t been expecting that. I bowed over from the force of the blow, the wind knocked right out of me. Good thing she didn’t follow up with an uppercut, that would have been real embarrassing. I was busy gasping for air as she retreated. It looked more like she was circling for another opening.
Finally being able to come up to a near stand, I was ready to answer her. Her pacing hadn’t slowed. I was choosing my words carefully. “There aren’t many alternatives, Tracy,” I pleaded. “If some of us can get away that makes it worth it.”
She huffed. “To what end?” came her question. “Where are they going to go? What are they going to do? Better to stand here and fight until the end.”
“But they’ll live to fight another day. We can’t be the only holdouts.” I hoped that was true, or truly what was the point. A truckload of women and children wasn’t going to repopulate the planet.
“I’m not going,” she stated. Her pacing stopped as she stood in front of me, daring me to disagree with her.
I thanked God she wasn’t leaving and cursed the fates at the same time. She was forsaking the best chance of escape. I had to press further regardless of the threat to my stomach.
“What about Nicole, are you answering for her too?” I asked.
Tracy lurched forward, I at first thought it meant the start of round two and prepared for my defense. It turned out it was more of a swoon. I was reluctant to put my guard down as I stepped forward to keep her upright. She pushed me away.
“We live as a family,” she gulped, “and we’ll die as a family.” She spun and left the room.
Ten minutes later, still standing there I couldn’t tell if my stomach was more upset by her punch or her words.
CHAPTER 22
Journal Entry - 19
Alex was busy welding the front plow into place. I stood back and watched, uneasy in the feeling that the greenish yellow arc of light was burning my image into the brains of the hundreds of zombies that were watching.
I had turned around and was looking back at the drooling masses when Alex clapped me on the shoulder.
“You get used to it,” he said. “Just pretend you’re a famous celebrity and they are your adoring fans.”
That didn’t help. “Most fans don’t want to eat their object of adoration,” I said as I turned back around. Alex laughed.
A few minutes later he asked, “What do you think?” as he grabbed the plow.
“Looks impressive,” I said as I finally wrested my vision away from my adoring fans.
“Once I get the skirt on, I’m going to put some handholds on top of the trailer for some gunmen.”
I was still staring at the plow.
“Talbot, you all right?”
“Tracy and Nicole aren’t going,” I told him.
He nodded in solace. His wife and child were getting on the truck. Hispanic families were different from American. The males still had the final say so and Alex had exercised his right. Because the truck had been his idea, his wife and child were exempt from the selection process. They had earned a ride.
“Are you going too, Alex?” I asked
His eyes fell. “Jed said that I was eligible for the same exemption as my wife and kids, but I couldn’t find it in myself to take the place of some other woman or kid. What kind of man would I be?” His eyes met mine. “I am going to put my name in for one of the gunners on top. If God deems it, I will go with my Marta.” He kissed his hand and made the Holy sign of the Trinity on his chest.
“How much longer?” I asked, pointing to the truck. Alex seemed happy to move on from the subject we had reluctantly broached.
“Tomorrow at the latest. I’m working on a couple of ideas for the skirt. I want to make sure it doesn’t cause the truck to hang up on anything.”
We didn’t touch that with a ten-foot stick. But as Alex’ eyes briefly met mine, the point was made. He was entrusting his wife and child to this design. I jumped when a shot rang out no more than a hundred yards from our location. Alex had turned back to his task at hand. I was going to ask him if he needed any help, but this felt more like my cue to leave. I contemplated going into the clubhouse and talking to Jed, but the likelihood that he of all people would do anything to elevate my present mood was unlikely. I loved the old man, but he was a crotchety son-of-a-bitch. Then again so was I. I mean the part about being a son of a bitch, not crotchety. Ha, I could elevate my own damn mood, I said sourly as I began a slow walk around the perimeter of Little Turtle. I received the occasional greeting from some of the sentries but for the most part I was left alone. It was when I reached the far side of the complex that I ‘felt’ a difference. I couldn’t at first tell what it was, but the change was thick in the air.
I looked around trying to figure it out. It was an absence that was causing the difference, an absence of prying eyes. There were no zombies watching my every move. No zombies debating on which part of me might be stringy, which parts succulent. My spirit nearly soared. It felt like a reprieve, a last minute call from the governor. Even the air smelled a little sweeter, marginally. On this side of the complex the wall was built on top of a small rise, maybe six feet or so. The other side of the wall had the same drop off, so that would explain a lot. There would have to be a lot more zombies killed on this side before their vision would peek over the top. But it was more than that, I hoped. The air was less heavy here, that’s the best I can explain it. But I wasn’t convinced. You don’t grow up on the East Coast and not hold on to a certain measure of cynicism. I climbed up onto the nearest guard tower, startling the guard to no end. Not realizing how close I had just succumbed to friendly fire, t
he view was worth the chance. There were some zombies milling about but not anything near the volumes on the other three sides. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“How long has it been like this?” I asked the portly guard.
He was still recovering from his scare. (Must have been National Guard, I mused.)
“They started moving away around ten,” he answered.
“So about the time they started to see over the wall on the other side,” I stated more to myself than him. He half smiled and shrugged. He had no clue.
“They’ve just been leaving in streams pretty much since,” he said, kind of like he was looking for some praise, friggen idiot.
“So you’re telling me the zombies have been vacating this area for the past three hours, and you didn’t feel the need to tell anyone?!” I yelled at him. He backed away.
“I…I…I um, Fritzy said,” he stammered.
I was pissed, a potential escape route was staring us in the face and this fat fuck couldn’t get up off his ass to let anyone know. I was closing in on the guard, for what I hadn’t decided yet, but as he pulled back and covered his face with his hands I knew it was time to ease off a bit.
“What about Fritzy?” I barked.
“He… he…he...”
Great, I’m in the middle of a war and the only person with relevant information is a stuttering fool. The Gods must be crazy! I backed away some more; his speech impediment greatly improved.
He swallowed loudly. “He said he would let Jed know.”
I hadn’t gone in to talk to Jed but this wasn’t a secret Jed would have kept to himself, he sure as hell didn’t know.
“Where’s this Fritzy guy staying?”
I got the information I was looking for with a little more yammering and headed off. I was fearful if I stayed any longer I might do something that guard would regret. Why I went looking for ‘Fritzy’ I couldn’t say. I would have been better off minding my own damn business. As it was I was thoroughly pissed off and I was looking for a punching bag to vent on. I went to his front door and rang the bell. Well to be honest, I pushed the button and I didn’t hear the familiar dingdong accompaniment. I banged my fist against the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. No luck, this stupid puke was probably passed out in front of his defunct TV with half a bottle of Jack in his lap. I tried the lock, no luck, most people in this neighborhood had always kept their doors locked and nothing that was happening now had made the place any safer. His two front windows had the shades drawn. LEAVE! My senses screamed. I paid them no heed. I walked around the back of his building. His gate was unhitched. LEAVE! That pesky voice said again. I’m not psychic in any capacity so I most likely had these feelings of foreboding after the fact, when I could sit down and write about it. But it would be nice to think I had a higher consciousness that was looking out for me, much more comforting that way. I walked into his small, unadorned backyard, minimalism at its best. He had one bleached out patio chair and an umbrella that hadn’t stopped anything much smaller than a basketball in a couple of years, laid out on his concrete slab of a backyard. In the far corner stood a small bundle of bricks and two bags of cement from a project that didn’t look like it would ever get completed. The cement in the bags had gotten wet and was set, he basically now had two 100-pound paperweights. My back ached just with the thought of moving those things. I was stalling. There was something wrong here and still I plodded on. His back sliding doors were also covered with long brown vertical shades. I pressed my face to the glass but was not rewarded for my effort. The murk from within was not yielding any secrets.
I knocked, but not nearly as loudly as I had at the front. I convinced myself that I was afraid of breaking the glass, but it was more than that. I felt like an intruder, I was now on his property uninvited, but why should that matter? I tried the door. It was locked. ‘Whew, good thing,’ I thought. My mind was saying ‘Get the fuck out!’ while my hands were popping the sliding door out of its tracks. I had pulled my gloves off and with the friction from my hands, I pushed up on the glass and as it came out of the bottom groove I then wrapped one of my hands around the side and pulled it towards me. The waft of warm, stink filled air that hit my face nearly made me drop the door. It smelled like he was cooking a zombie, or maybe it was just broccoli, I couldn’t tell. Both of those smells skeeve me out. I pushed past the greasy shades and was greeted with the low deep growl of a large animal. I froze. Out from the gloom of the hallway approached a mid-sized bear. Its throat rumbled a warning, or maybe that was its stomach. What’s worse: getting eaten by a zombie or a bear? Not much of a choice, pretty much like deciding if getting stabbed or shot is better, they both suck.
I was halfway in and out of the shades and was afraid the movement to reach and grab my rifle would cause the big animal to attack. I eased my hand back to my belt. I had the foresight to strap on my 9-millimeter but I wasn’t feeling all that lucky. It would take three or four well-aimed rounds with that caliber to take down a bear and I had maybe one or two max before this thing would be on me. Well, at least I knew what the stink was. This bear must have eaten Fritzy. The next question, however, was a little unsettling. What the hell was a bear doing in here in the first place? My hand had finally reached upon the pistol and the bear must have realized I was up to no good, at least for him. He charged full tilt. Two shots my ass, I had barely got the pistol out of the holster when the creature slammed into my legs. I fell over, my hand slamming into a foot mat. I was tangled up in the shades and rolled around, finally pulling them free from their moorings. The rail gave me a glancing blow across the top of my head. That was the least of my worries. I was kicking my legs like a marathoner in the hopes that Smoky the Bear wouldn’t be able to find purchase. Sometime during the fray I had lost the pistol. The rifle might have been in a safe for all the good it was going to do me. The bear would be digesting me by then. I was moving like an epileptic on crack, shitloads of movement with no purpose, but still no bone crunching rending. I paused for a moment, my trip-hammer heart making that a difficult process. I sat up expecting to be face-to-face with the beast. Nothing. Did I imagine it? I looked around my immediate vicinity. No, the thing had hit my legs hard enough to bruise them. A bruise was infinitely better than what I had been expecting. I sat up fully now, curiosity now beginning to overtake the ebbing fear. It wasn’t a bear. It was Bear. Over by the gate was the biggest Rottweiler I had ever seen. Bear had been a resident of Little Turtle for at least as long as I had lived here. I had seen him around the complex on numerous occasions. His previous owner must have met an untimely demise. How he ended up at Fritzy’s house I wasn’t sure. Bear wasn’t paying any attention to me in the least. All of his focus was at the back gate. As I stood up and slowly approached him, I could tell he was shaking, but not from the cold. When he heard me coming, he swiveled his massive head. His large eyes were rimmed with white and his mouth was pulled back in a perpetual grin, but there was no happiness here. This dog wanted out. Bear looked balefully at me, pleading for me to open the gate. I still wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t a bear or maybe at least a hybrid of bear and dog. He was easily 180 pounds, maybe more. I cautiously moved closer, doing my best to convey my harmless intentions to the animal.
“Hey, good boy. You’re a good boy aren’t you? Right?” They say animals can sense fear. If so, we were both in trouble. My teeth were chattering and Bear’s tail was wedged between his legs. “What’s the matter boy? Is it the zombies?”
Well, that doesn’t make any sense, now does it. He would have been better off staying in the house. I dared a glimpse back to try to ascertain what in that now harshly uninviting house had scared this brute to his core. His head lowered imperceptibly as I inched closer. My hand was inches from its massive skull. One bite and he could have half my arm. I undid the latch and he pushed the gate open with his nose. Bear looked back once as if to say ‘Thanks’ or ‘Are you coming?’ Either way, he didn’t wait long to find out. He galloped off, long s
trings of saliva dragging on the ground doing little to stop his momentum.
I should have left. I wanted to leave. I also wanted my Glock back. I had paid a lot for the gun and I loved it. Stupid gun. I walked back to the door. Even with the shades off, the place seemed darker than it should, almost as if there were anti-lights in there. Some device designed to remove light and replace it with darkness. ‘That’s crazy talk, are you hearing yourself? Yeah, and you are also having dialogue with yourself. True, true, but still anti-lights, that sounds like something out of a scary movie. Yeah well so do zombies.’ I stopped in my tracks, I hate it when I’m right.
“I just have to get my gun,” I said aloud, maybe to make it sound more convincing.
I wouldn’t have to go in more than a foot or two. I stuck my head back in the blackness, fearful that if I went in too far I would be sucked into a portal of the damned, forever lost in a land of the insane. How close to right I was I could not have known. I felt around the tangled fallen shades, convinced that I would find my prize momentarily and be able to get out of there unscathed. That is of course, unless someone was videotaping my escape from the shades. All dignity had been lost at that point. I was on all fours patting around the floor, not liking how vulnerable I was feeling, nothing. I even pulled the shades out the door to make sure the gun wasn’t hung up in the slats somehow and I had missed it.
‘Damn it!’ I muttered as I stood up and took my first full step across the threshold. I didn’t feel the rush of teleportation but that didn’t make me feel any better. I took another step and then another into the gloom; the smell worsened. I wasn’t going to be caught off guard again. I brought my rifle to the ready. Another step, still no Glock. I was halfway across the living room when I spotted a reflective glint of metal. It was partly down the hallway where my new dearly departed friend had first showed himself. I could not even begin to understand how it could have made that distance. I was feeling like a baited rabbit being led to slaughter, but I couldn’t help myself, I inched forward. I was smart enough to see the design of the trap but not smart enough to get out before it was sprung. If the design for this model town home held true, then the gun was positioned directly in front of a small bathroom, easily big enough to hide four or five zombies. Sweat beaded up on my brow. My hands were getting clammy. My exhausted heart once again began its furious beating. I stopped, waiting for some small scuffling sound, or a cough or a sneeze. But near as I can tell zombies don’t sneeze or cough or lay traps for that matter. Something sinister was happening, I knew without any doubt. If I didn’t hurry this along I was going to need to use that bathroom before I went ahead and wet myself. No noise issued from the impossibly blacker entrance to the bathroom.
