by Mark Tufo
“Getting?” I asked sarcastically.
Something got lost in translation or he was just too tired to grab onto the barb. He just shrugged.
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing, Alex.” Alex had been expecting me to elaborate with my plan. Unfortunately I didn’t have one. When I didn’t answer right away Alex took that as a cue.
“There’s a small town up ahead called Vona,” he offered.
Now it was my turn to shrug, "So what.” Vona, Detroit, fucken Paris, where could we go without a flesh eater joining us for company?
“They have a sheriff’s office,” he concluded.
Light and hope began to not so much blaze but at least glimmer. A sheriff’s office should have holding cells and a bit more fortification than the average house. “Lead on, Tonto!” I yelled.
“Who the hell is Tonto?” he retorted.
“Never mind, how much further?”
“Ten minutes at the most.”
“Alright, we’ll scout ahead.” I accelerated past him. It would be safer to have my Jeep go in first. It was much more maneuverable and would be easier to vacate a hostile area if the need arose. Five minutes later I was taking the off ramp down into Vona. Alex stayed at the top of the ramp with the engine idling. If I wasn’t back in twenty minutes the plan was for him to leave. I knew he wouldn’t, but that was the plan.
My guts felt like I had swallowed a salamander. As calm and collected as I could, which wasn’t working very well by the way, I turned to see if I could garner any information from my early warning detection system, Tommy. I was neither alarmed nor relieved.
“Hey buddy, got any feelings?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“I got a bunch, Mr. T,” he said with a small smile on his face.
I waited for a second, hoping for some sort of revelation. Then it dawned on me that Tommy’s ‘feelings’ probably had more to do with how much he liked Pop-Tarts than with the outcome of our lives as we entered into Vona.
“Hey Mr. T.”
“Yeah Tommy,” I answered as I slowed the Jeep down to around 15 mph, slow enough to look for trouble and quick enough to get away from it.
“What’s it mean when you put your hand over your mouth?” he asked.
I was about to answer that it generally means to be quiet, but the universal sign for that usually only entails using your pointer finger. “I’m not sure Tommy, why?”
“Well, Ryan has one hand over his mouth and the other hand is pointing to his throat and he’s shaking his head from side to side.”
My foot involuntarily slipped off the gas and onto the brake; I stalled the car.
“What’s the matter, Mike?” Tracy asked. “The last time you stalled your car we had almost hit a moose four wheeling.”
“This is worse. Something or someone is blocking Tommy’s abilities.”
As if on command we all stared out the windows, convinced that whatever was causing this was within range. But Vona in death was a lot like Vona in life, dead. Why they had a sheriff’s office was beyond me, maybe if they had a rash of cow tippings they could lock the hooligans up. Or maybe if things got real bad and mailboxes started to get smashed they would have somewhere to put the bad guys. Hell, we were three quarters through the town and I hadn’t seen a bar or a liquor store, so no real need to even lock up the town drunk. Ah, wasteful government spending at its best.
“Tommy, can Ryan write?” I asked hoping beyond hope. It seemed like a far-fetched idea, but I was open to suggestions. “Maybe a small note to kind of let us know what’s going on?”
“Oh God!” Tommy moaned.
I ground the starter a little bit in response to his alarm, looking around wildly for what had caused the distress in his voice. I was still on edge but when nothing visible showed itself I relaxed a bit. Just a bit, this was still Tommy we were talking about.
“What’s the matter Tommy?” Travis asked. Even Henry, shifted uneasily, could feel the change in atmospheric pressure in the car as we waited for Tommy to elaborate.
“All of Ryan’s fingers are all crunched up and broken looking,” Tommy murmured almost silently, a small sob escaping him.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” I said nervously.
“What’s that mean, Mike?” Tracy asked me, panic beginning to well in her chest to match mine and Tommy’s. Only Travis seemed the least affected, but I noticed his knuckles turning a brighter shade of white as they gripped his shotgun.
“We’re being hunted, I think,” I answered.
Tracy’s tension eased a bit. “Well duh. Zombies have been after us for three weeks now, what’s so new about that?”
“No, this is different. This isn’t just about some zombies stumbling across us and trying to eat us. We’re being singled out, purposefully tracked.”
“How? That’s not even possible,” she yelled back, more in defense of her sanity than in any answer to transgression on my part.
“Possible? You’re pulling the possible card out?” I asked.
“Okay, sorry. But how?” she said in a more subdued voice. “And I guess, why? And who?”
“Maybe we taste better,” I said. Tracy glared at me. “Sorry.” I held my hands up to ward off any attempted blows. “Poor choice of words.”
“You think?”
I was scared shitless but I was trying my best to put on a brave face for Travis, Tommy and Tracy and, well, if I’m being honest, even for myself. “I’m pretty sure about the ‘Who,’ somewhat sure about the ‘Why’ and not a fucking clue as to ‘How.’” I laid out my concerns about Justin and how he could potentially be guiding every nearby zombie to our location. Tracy wasn’t buying it. I’m sure the majority of her reasoning had to do with plausible deniability, what mother ever wants to think her child could bring harm unto others. Tracy looked over at me like I had just spit into her Cheerios. “It’s a theory, I didn’t say it was fact.”
“Come up with something else, college boy,” she said as she crossed her arms over her chest and turned to stare out of the windshield.
Lesson learned. Fact number one – never throw one of your children under the bus in front of your wife.
We started slowly back on our silent trek through Vona. We were almost out of the center of town when we came upon the nondescript sheriff’s office. I passed by slowly looking for any sign of problems. I was really getting sick of the ‘calm before the storm’ crap. It was quiet, eerily so. The place wasn’t much bigger than your average Laundromat and about as appealing, but it would fit all of us easily enough. The two windows in the front were barred, thankfully, and the door looked heavily fortified enough. Why I kept remembering the motto for the roach motel, I don’t know. My brain put its usual sick spin on it. ‘Humans go in but they don’t come out.’
“Man, I just don’t like the looks of this,” I said out loud to no one in particular.
Tracy mirrored my unease. “Then let’s just go.”
“Yeah, but I like the idea of sleeping in the Jeep on the road even less. So it’s really the lesser of two crappy situations that I’m contemplating. Vona it is then.”
“You sure?” my wife asked, looking around the cabin of the Jeep like all of a sudden it went from matchbox size to palatialness.
As if in answer I yawned. My non-response was the worst decision I had made thus far. I put my hand on the door handle and was prepared to head out when my wife stopped me.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Cooking an omelet,” I shot back. One of these days my brain-to-mouth filter will work but for now I’ll have to just go back to what I do best, back-peddle. “Aw hell, I’m sorry Tracy, I’m just beat.” Did that get me off the hook? I looked over cautiously, when confronted with a wild animal (in this case a female human) it is best to avoid direct eye contact and make no fast furtive movements. I could tell by the way her hands were folded in her lap that I was in little danger of being struck but as I slowly ra
ised my gaze, the look of fire in her eyes confirmed my suspicions: I was still in the doghouse.
“Talbot, are you going to check to see if the door is open?”
The question was reasonable. My reaction was not. All of a sudden the thought of vacating the relative safety of our rolling arsenal seemed like the worst idea ever presented. Damn her logic! I was going to suggest that I’d pull up to the front door and she could give it a quick yank, but we all know how well that would have gone over. I even began to form the arguments in my head like ‘I’ll stay behind the wheel and you can hop in so we can get away fast.’ Or ‘Have you ever seen how bad you drive a stick?’ or even better ‘You’re smaller so they won’t want to eat you as bad.’ Dammit. “Sounds great, can’t wait,” I forced through a Cheshire cat smile. I pulled onto the gravel parking lot. The crunch of small stones under my tires set a flock of ravens into flight. ‘Oh pissa.’ my brain slipping back into my comfortable old Boston idioms. Otherwise known as “Cool.”) 'That doesn’t seem too ominous,’ I thought sarcastically.
“Trav, can you hand me the .357?” I asked.
He checked to make sure the cylinder was loaded. “You want me to come with you, Dad?”
The answer was obviously yes, but I had already had this battle once with Tracy and she was not about to go 0-2. “No,” I gulped out. I could feel some of the tension in Tracy drain out. “Grab the AR and cover my retreat if needed.” I didn’t want him using the shotgun, the last thing I wanted to do was pull buckshot out of my ass. I looked over to Tommy again, hoping for some divine intervention, but there was nothing, no last minute stay of execution from the governor. He shrugged in response. I took a deep breath as I stepped out of the Jeep, the cold wind whipping across my face. I sucked in a shock of super frigid breath, my exhalation leaving a long plume. It was five purposeful strides to the front door of the sheriff’s office. I did it in fifteen small cautious ones. ‘Be locked, be locked, be locked!’ The handle turned quietly, the door silently slid open. The pea soup murkiness inside the jail was broken only by ribbons of light that streamed in through the dusty windows. Dust lazily swirled about in those rays of sun. The smell was intense. I staggered back. Tracy had got into the driver’s seat and Travis stepped out to get a clearer shot.
I jumped when she yelled, “What is it?”
Well, if they didn’t know we were here, they did now. I did not turn my head away from the door to respond. “It smells like Henry after a bean burrito.” It was kind of funny I think. Tracy actually turned green with the olfactory thought of that. We had only been removed from the stench for less than a day and this was not something you quickly forgot. “Death.”
“Get in, let’s go,” she said nervously.
I loved the suggestion, but when I wasn’t immediately attacked I let curiosity get the better of me. Plus being the gun nut that I am, I figured we could get all sorts of new armaments from here. “Hey, pull up here and turn the lights on.”
“Are you serious? I think we should just go,” she replied.
“You’re probably right, but come over here anyway.” Travis walked alongside the Jeep constantly scanning for problems. Tommy nervously stared through the window, but not the front. He was looking back the way we had come. Whether he sensed something coming or wished we were heading back, he didn’t say. Tracy pulled up closer, the headlights perfectly straddling the sides of the office door, lighting up the outside wall perfectly, and the inside, well not so much. “Um, could you maybe back up and get one of the headlights to shine into the door way?” I asked as nicely as possible.
“You didn’t say that’s what you wanted,” she shot back.
If I ever wanted to have relations with my wife again it was abundantly clear to me that I was going to have to not say what had bubbled to the top of my brain plate. “Yep you’re right,” I struggled to get out in a civil tone. When did ‘common sense’ not become a common virtue? I hope to God she never reads these journals.
She backed up with a jerk, the Jeep stalling. Okay, this is about the time in any classic horror movie where the monster makes itself known. I jumped a measure or two when she turned the ignition over, the reverberation of the catching engine off the wall drowning out all other sound. This should be it. I tensed. A hand, a mouth, a bite, something should be happening soon.
“Oops,” Tracy said out the window.
That was pretty much the sentiment I had when I thought I had messed my underwear. Again, these aren’t proud moments. I’m not some action movie star with stand-in stunt doubles, or a character on an Xbox360. I don’t get multiple retakes or extra lives. This life is a one shot deal, something goes wrong and I can’t hit ‘reset.’
Tracy repositioned the Jeep, the one headlight cutting through the dark. The small office was mostly lit up but I still imagined the worst lurking in the musty corners. To the right was a desk with a small wilted plant on top. Most likely the chair once seated a cheery older heavy-set woman. The receptionist would have known everyone and their mother in this one car town. Beyond her desk was the door to the town sheriff’s office. How did I know this? Well the door said ‘Sheriff’ making that thought fairly self-explanatory. For the life of me, I could not get the image of ‘Andy’ from Mayberry out of my head. As long as Barney Fife didn’t show up everything should be fine. A half empty gun rack stood against the left side, it looked like the sheriff hadn’t been caught completely off guard. I imagined him dying in the line of duty to protect those he served. I didn’t know him and never would, but he was a hero as far as I was concerned. My attention was brought back to the rear of the office. Back there were the holding cells. I could see the heavyset metal bars but nothing more, the light from the Jeep penetrated only that far, as if what lay beyond had decided it did not yet want to yield its hidden prize. Whatever the secret was it was definitely the source of the stink. What kind of survivalist was I? I didn’t even have a flashlight with me. Shouldn’t be too big of a problem though, I walked over to where the gun case was and grabbed one of the two remaining utility belts. The heavy weight of the club-like flashlight felt comforting in my hand. I hoped that the 4 D cell batteries that powered the potential bludgeon still held juice. Like any smart person in my predicament, I made sure the light was pointing right in my eyes when I turned it on. Nothing like a case of temporary blindness to get your adrenaline running. I immediately pulled the light away and swung it from side to side praying that I was in time to stop whatever was hurtling my way. The smash as glass struck the floor brought Travis running through the door. The loss of light as he stepped in front of the headlight pitched the room back into darkness. Unless our would-be assailant was a desk lamp or hiding on the ceiling (where the flashlight was pointed) we were going to make it through the next couple of minutes. I wonder if John Wayne ever had these moments.
“You alright, Dad? What’s going on?” Travis asked, stepping completely into the room as he realized that he was blocking the light source.
I was alright, that much was true, but how to answer the second part, that was a little trickier. Did I lie and tell him that I was fending off legions of the living dead? I still carried some semblance of pride in me. I would lose any salvageability of that woeful human trait if I told him that I had inadvertently blinded myself and then damn near shit myself as I knocked over a lamp in my haste to thwart an as yet unseen enemy. Nope, lying seemed the best course of action. Pride would stay intact. Integrity would have to take one for the team. “Saw a bat.”
Travis looked up. Completely unconvinced, he looked back over at me.
Damn, he must have got that scrutinous eye from his mother. I pointed the flashlight towards the holding cells, mostly to take the attention off of me. The sight was disturbing to say the least, but not as bad as it could have been. Locked in the cell furthest from us was a man. He looked on the younger side. The blue tinge of death by frostbite, however, made age recognition a complicated task. He was curled up on the small cot in a fetal posi
tion, most likely trying in vain to preserve his body heat with the small airline style blanket.
“Poor bastard probably got locked up the day this whole thing went down.”
“Are we going to be able to get him out of there?” Travis asked.
“What’s taking so long?” Tracy yelled from the Jeep.
“Just doing some housekeeping.” I went back to where I had got the flashlight and grabbed the oversized key ring. I really thought they only used those in movies. I hesitated for a moment as I placed the key into the lock. What if it was a zombie playing possum?
“Dad?” Travis asked. The implied question went unasked. I had done my job well. My paranoia had been genetically passed on.
Dammit, I wasn’t going to go in there and be in the middle of moving him when the damn thing decided to sit up and gnaw on my femur. “Go tell Mom to be ready. God forgive me for what I am about to do.” The Catholic in me would have a very difficult time letting go of the guilt I was about to heap on myself but the survivalist part of me would get over it. Frozen brain matter sprayed against the far wall as I carefully placed a well-aimed shot through the man’s head. A soft crackling noise replaced the roar of the weapon in the confined space. It was long moments before I realized it was frozen blood dropping to the floor. Add that onto my list of growing nightmare fodder. I dragged the body across the floor of the office, thankful that frozen congealed blood didn’t leave a tell tale sign of my sin. I unceremoniously dumped the nearly decapitated body on the far side of the building. Little did I realize then my mistake, but I might as well have been chumming for sharks. I had just laid out the number one food group for our enemy.
I left the front door open in the expectation that the majority of stink would be gone by the time we got back. We headed back up the off ramp, which I have to admit made me somewhat nervous. For so long the laws of the road had been ingrained in me that to just drive as I pleased hadn’t quite settled with me yet. Alex was anxiously standing by the truck when we pulled up.
