by Mark Tufo
BT cautiously walked up to the window to better survey the damage done and to try and assess our odds of success.
“What’s going on BT? Can you see anything?” Alex asked.
“Yeah, damnedest thing. They pulled back about hundred feet or so, and they are just standing there looking at me.”
“How many?” I asked. ‘Please say, two maybe three PLEASE!’
“Two maybe three… hundred.”
‘Well that’s what you get for wishing, how many times my mother told me to be more specific when I asked for something,’ I thought to myself in disgust.
“They’re just kind of standing out there in a loose semi-circle. Guys, I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it but they look like they’re waiting for something.”
“Or somebody,” I finished.
“Mike, what if the zombies at the window were just a distraction?” Alex asked me. A new thought furrowing his brow.
It took me a quick second to get over the initial shock of how many zombies we were actually contending with. “How so Alex?”
“I mean we knew they couldn’t get to us and I think they knew they couldn’t get to us, but they sure did keep us away from the windows,” Alex stated. “That sure would keep us in the dark to how many of them were out there.”
“Or they were just stalling us,” I said. These new developments were coming faster than I could recognize them.
“What’s going on Mike? You seem to know more than you’re letting on,” Alex asked.
“Not really Alex, it’s just a feeling I’m getting. I don’t have any ‘knowledge’ but all the same I think the quicker we get out of here the better off we’re going to be.”
Alex kept looking at my face hard, trying to glean some inkling to what I was feeling. There was nothing there to give him.
“Brendon, can you hit the zombies from here?”
“Shit yeah Mike, its a hundred feet. I used to shoot gophers at a hundred yards back in Missouri.”
“Take a shot every few seconds, so that they don’t get any crazy ideas about coming back. Apparently the thought of dying again doesn’t sit well with them. Jen, you ready for round two with the door?”
She stomped out her cigarette and nodded grimly.
“BT, how much help will you need pushing our causeway through the door?” I asked.
“Seriously Talbot?” BT answered, looking at me like I had asked him if he could cut up his steak by himself.
“Fine BT, but we’re not going to have a lot of time for you to build up a head of steam and get that thing going. The fucker’s got to weigh half a ton.”
“You worry about protecting my ass. I’ll get this to the truck.”
“Alex, I want you to put on as many clothes as you can and still be able to move, including gloves.”
“Why don’t I just make a run for it, they’re a hundred feet away, I only have to go six. I’m not Speedy Gonzalez but shit, a tortoise would like those odds.”
“I’ve got a feeling Alex, that as soon as we open that door they’ve got a surprise waiting for us.”
“Yeah this plan just gets better and better,” Alex answered grimly as he grabbed a pair of sweat pants that he had been using as a pillow.
“See, hang around with me for a few more weeks and you’ll be able to pass as a New Englander, no problem.”
Alex grumbled something in Spanish, it had to be swear words and a colorful variety too because his wife was trying to shield her kids’ ears.
Alex looked like a sumo by the time he was finished, I thought it might be better to roll him to his destination. The killjoy didn’t see the humor in my revelation and he let me know in no uncertain terms. We positioned the bars by the door. BT rolled his neck in a large circle in preparation. Jen had her hand on the handle. Alex was dripping sweat as he waited tensely for the shortest sprint in human history. Brendon kept the zombie crowd at bay. Travis and I positioned ourselves on either side of the door to lay covering fire when and if needed. The plan was ready and it looked pretty damn good on paper, if I do say so myself. Too bad the paper wasn’t of the toilet variety, because the plan went to shit in a hurry.
“Ready?” Jen asked everyone.
‘No,’ I thought, but I nodded.
The door swung open and hell came through. (Actually all hell broke loose, but poetically the last sentence sounds way better. I might be fighting for my life but it doesn’t mean I can’t go for the dramatic overtones.) My hunch proved to be true, much to my chagrin. Why do my hunches always involve the negative? Couldn’t I have ever had a hunch about the winning lottery numbers? I could have been waiting out the apocalypse in my gun turreted castle somewhere in the mountains of Vail. As soon as Jen stepped clear of the door, the first of the zombies tried to gain entry. I can only figure that they were hiding against the exterior wall just in the event that we would open the door. There could be no other explanation. Travis’ shotgun roared; I immediately found myself covered in a visceral mixture of bone and brain. The salty, metal taste of blood drained down my throat. I would have puked if I had had enough time to really comprehend what was happening. The zombies Brendon was ‘holding’ at bay broke for the opening in our defenses as soon as the first of their brethren hit the ground.
The bars started their slow arduous journey forward. A couple of things stuck out immediately. The first was the disgusting taste of raw innards as they made their way down my gullet. The second was that the bars weren’t moving nearly fast enough to beat our adoring fans to the truck. The third and possibly the most important was the quarter inch high threshold that was about to become a major roadblock. BT had managed to get the bars to within a foot of the doors and he was gaining momentum. Through it all Travis’ gun roared as he kept our attackers at bay. As soon as BT hit that threshold those bars would stop and then we’d be sunk, the door to the building wouldn’t be able to close and we would have actually built an awning for our guests to arrive through before they dined. All we needed was a red carpet. We were all about ambiance at Club Chez, home of the delectable jellied brain.
“PULL IT BACK!” I screamed.
“I can do it Talbot,” BT grunted.
“Dad, I’m out!” Travis yelled. “Look out!”
I had turned to yell at BT but when I looked back over towards Travis, the terror in his eyes told me all that I needed to know. My time on earth was measured in seconds. Jen’s pistol destroyed what little hearing remained in my right ear. If she had fired her shot any closer she could have made a lead earring for me. The world around me was reduced to the bitter smell of smoke and the incessant ringing in my ears. Travis seemed to be yelling something. I couldn’t hear it. BT had completely ignored my plea. Jen, I think, was still shooting her pistol but by now all I could hear was a distant crack, like maybe somebody was slapping a baby’s ass two rooms away. I had a second or two to decide what to do, although there was no real choice, so it was basically like when my wife would ask me to do something. She would ASK because it was the civilized thing to do, but I didn’t really have the choice of NOT doing it.
Before BT completely sealed off the door, I stepped outside and through the outer edge of our make shift ‘A’ frame. BT looked at me like I had gone insane but to give credit to him he didn’t stop pushing. The leading edge was, at the most, three inches from the threshold by the time I got a good hand hold on the bars. It was at this point I was probably the most thankful that I suffered from the affliction known as ‘survivalism’ because I was almost completely sure that the world was going to end badly, one way or the other. I had stayed in relatively decent shape over the years. I had done miles and miles of cardio and tons and tons of weight lifting (obviously I’m talking cumulatively). I wouldn’t be able to beat BT in an arm wrestling competition even if I used both arms and a leg, but there was an underlying strength there that might not be obvious on first notice. I bent slightly at the knees and thrust up like I was Superman trying to leap a tall building. The result
ing effect wasn’t nearly as cool as seeing the Man of Steel jump. Something felt like it splintered in my back. Red pain flared out, wrapping around the base of my skull. The pain was all consuming. All my other senses were lost. The world turned scarlet as I fought against the laws of gravity. My heart pumped in overdrive. Adrenaline flooded every fiber of my being. The curtain of ruby parted slightly as I strained upward. The bars moved a fraction of an inch or my ankles collapsed, either way something was giving.
The bars had cleared the threshold!! I might never walk erect again, but perpetually going through life dragging my knuckles like our predecessors (if you believe in that kind of thing) seemed a small price to pay. My celebration was short lived. BT had the bars moving at a good clip but he was still a good two feet away from the truck when the first of our party crashers made their presence known. Through all the gun smoke I could tell that BT wasn’t alone in his efforts to move the behemoth, but it wasn’t going to be enough. The zombies were going to come through the opening and the first thing they were going to encounter was me. Well, no one said you had to stand up straight to fire a gun. There was a moment’s hesitation from the lead zombies as they banged up against the bars in frustration, but these weren’t your daddy’s zombies. These had the ability to learn and adapt. Through the opening they flooded. I was alone and trapped in a tunnel with the enemy. My AR was firing almost on its own. Zombies fell. Bone was devastated, blood spilled, innards became disemboweled. Sure, my sight was still recovering from the blistering pain, and my hearing was nearly non-existent but SMELL, lovely SMELL was 100% intact. What a cruel, cruel world we lived in now. The smell more than anything nearly sapped my will to live. I dropped to one knee as the olfactory invasion hit me with its full force. Intestines slithered toward me with a mind of their own as the red ribbons spilled forth their contents. I retched. The sight of a small child’s fingers, one still wearing what looked like a Barbie ring came to a rest mere inches from where my face would hit the ground when I passed out.
I felt the low thrum of vibration as the bars completed their journey, smacking into the side of the truck. Before I had the opportunity to fall forward, someone grabbed me from behind and dragged me back through into the office. The smell of shit that was probably forever burned into my nose decreased but conversely whatever had popped in my back and ankle renewed their fervor of agony. Scarlet once again threatened to overwhelm my senses and all I could think about was that I now had an excuse to not go dancing when my wife asked me to. (Go back to the part about ASKING.) I was dragged unceremoniously a few feet further into the office. It was no big deal. The pain at this point couldn’t get any worse. It was many long minutes that I took to recover from the worst of it. It receded slowly, like high tide. It kept coming in to shore but each progressive wave just a wee bit shorter than the previous. Five, six days max I might feel decent again.
“Mike! Mike!” Someone said urgently as they shook my shoulder. High tide surged in with the force of a full moon.
“Fuck, stop,” I said weakly, holding up my hand.
“Sorry, Mike,” Alex said.
I wanted to say it was nothing, but the energy exerted to tell the lie didn’t seem worth the effort.
“Mike, what do we do once I get to the truck and pull away?”
I wanted to tell him to go to a pharmacy first and get me some Percocet. Then find a little Asian masseuse (I wouldn’t even care if she was cute or not) to do some deep tissue massage on every part of my aching body. But again that would call for a lot of effort on my flagging reserves and with no real promise of a pay out on my requests. What was the point.
“Mike?!” He nearly shook me again, but I think the look of wretchedness in my eyes kept him at bay. “As soon as I pull away, you’ll have an opening back into the office.”
“The best laid plans,” I said. I had never thought that far. I figured that once we had access to the truck everything else would fall into place. Yeah, not so much. Once the truck was gone, we would effectively open up our restaurant for business. Brainer King’s, McFleshald’s, take your pick. The devil is in the details.
“A few might follow the truck, but once the rest see that hole, they’ll come flooding in here,” Alex reiterated.
BT thumped down next to me. Even in my distress I could tell he was exhausted, sweat droplets the size of nickels dotted his forehead. His shirt was soaked. He hung his head down, taking deep breaths. “You did all right, Talbot,” he said with his chin touching his chest.
“You too BT,” I said between clenched teeth.
“You look like you broke your nuts.”
“I might have, BT,” came my glum reply. “But I’m married so I don’t really need them.”
Even in his wiped out state I still was able to receive a healthy laugh from him.
“Mike,” Alex beseeched.
“Right, I almost forgot.” Well, maybe not so much not remembering as it was wishful deniability.
“What’s up?” BT asked as he raised his head off his chest.
“Once the truck leaves, we’ll have an open door policy.”
BT looked at me for a second, digesting the new information.
“I guess you didn’t think this out too well?” BT stated flatly. And then he did something completely unexpected. He busted out laughing. It was infectious. In between moans I was laughing too, tears streaming out of my eyes. I won’t lie, some were from the pain but most were from the sheer mad hatter laugh.
“What the fuck, Mike?” Alex said so seriously, I burst out with a whole new round of gut splitting (bad example in light of recent events) laughter.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said grabbing on to my stomach to ease the spasming muscles. “Okay, I’m fine, sorry.” Alex’ look of consternation set me off again. BT was literally prostrate on the floor slapping his hand down on the ground because he was laughing so hard. “Okay, I’m better now,” I said through a huge grin that threatened to split my face in two, though some might consider that an improvement.
BT sat back up, wiping his broad forehead with his hand. “Whew. I think I’m done.” He looked over to me, and I’m pretty sure the pathetic look on my face is what set him off again. Riotous laughter exploded from BT; even the zombies stopped moaning for a second.
After several long moments BT was able to finally string a question together. “Did you swallow some?” BT asked.
“Swallow what?” I asked innocently as the bile in my stomach churned.
“Talbot, you have a piece of what looks like a liver on your chin.”
I absently wiped the incriminating evidence away, while also shuddering in revulsion.
“What happens if he eats a zombie, does he become one?” Eddy asked, one of the heretofore silent children.
Ah, precocious kids, don’t you just want to throw them up against a wall and see if they stick?
BT looked at me like I had the answer to Eddy’s query.
“How the fuck would I know?” I answered his unasked question.
“You’d probably have to have an ulcer or something so that the infection could get into your blood stream.” Joann stepped up and gave her educated guess.
“Well what of it, Talbot, you got any ulcers?” BT asked, with not a hint of his earlier merriment.
“Shit, BT even if I did, do you think now would be the time for me to disclose that?”
BT didn’t know whether to shoot me or laugh his ass off again.
Tracy saved the day. “BT, he doesn’t give a shit enough about anything besides himself to develop an ulcer.”
That was all it took, BT’s threatening stance instantly turned back to laughter. I hoped Tracy and Joann were right and Eddy could go fuck himself. My stomach lurched under the strain of digesting the zombie’s unmentionables.
I was SO ready to let go again and join BT, although this trip down the rabbit hole might lead me to a rubber room. But let’s reason this out, if you are out-of-your mind insane in a sane world, then it is li
ke algebra, you have a negative times a positive, so that makes it a negative. So far so good. Now if you are an off your rocker lunatic in a demented, deranged world, then you have a negative times a negative, which is a positive. I think I was on to something. It was like the old adage, if you can’t beat them, become as crazy as a fucking loon and enjoy the ride, or something along those lines.
BT had finished up his latest laugh-spell and was looking over to me while I was pondering the benefits of psychosis. “So what’s the plan Talbot?”
“Huh? Oh, what the hell makes you think I’ve got a plan?”
“I’ve known you for three weeks, Talbot. I haven’t seen you yet not have a plan, whether they are good or not doesn’t matter, you still always have one.”
“Fine, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Does it involve me getting eaten by those ugly freaks?” he asked, motioning with his head over to the door.
I spent the next minute laying out what I wanted to get done (it wasn’t much of a plan, so it didn’t require much narration).
“Yeah you’re right, I don’t like it,” BT moaned. He stood up, preparing his body for the task at hand.
I looked up with an imploring expression.
“Really?” BT asked. I just kept staring at him with what I hope were puppy dog eyes. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head.
BT got behind me and put his forearms under my armpits. He hefted me up no harder than if I was a ten pound bag of dog shit (which I felt like). My knees cracked like rifle shots as they flexed open. I took three or four shaky steps before my lower back finally decided to disengage its fusion from my ass.
“You’re a sight, Mike,” Alex said.
“That’s what my wife says,” I answered as I placed my fist into my lower back hoping in vain to unloosen the sailor knot that most likely was going to be a perpetual fixture in my ever widening list of painful areas.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Tracy threw in for good measure. She rubbed the sore spot as best she could, but this was going to take a team of Sven’s (Swedish masseuses) working around the clock a couple of years to fix.
