Tomahawks & Zombies

by Joe Beausoleil

  “The last news broadcast I heard said the infection rate is less in Mexico. Must be something in the air or in the burritos. So we took a shot just as a hoard of those things was closing in. It’s like they herded the living. They closed in on all sides. El Paso is rotten, the dead totally took it over. ”

  What he was saying didn’t make sense, the Mayan curse started in Mexico. How can it possibly be safer than anywhere else?

  Tex goes on, he does like to talk, “My buddies and I figured the cartels pretty much were running the area so it would be a breeze to get through. I didn’t expect them to be working together. What’s the world is coming to?” he said with a shake of his head.

  When asked where we can cross he didn’t have too much help, he suggested trying one of the smaller crossings to the west. When asked if he knew what day it was he said “Who the hell knows or cares?”

  “I only know about what’s going on in Texas but the army is going crazy. They set up these random check stops. Any wagon burner they find they take to safety. I don’t know why and with an M-16 pointed at me I didn’t ask. ”

  He paused and slowly grinned at me, like he hasn’t noticed me the whole time, “Sorry chief, the army ain’t around here to save you. Not in Mecico anyway.”

  That’s the last straw. Two things I can’t stand are racists and bullies and I have the feeling in my gut that this guy is both.

  I walk up acting like I’m admiring his Mustang, running a hand along the smooth paint of the miraculously un-dented front fender. I calmly pull out my machete sticking it in the canvas rag top, pulling it along leaving a gash about the length of my forearm,

  I give him the same grin back, “No worries, Tex.”

  Apparently he thought it was best he be on his way. Without another word, he started his car giving us the finger as he sped off.

  Ron doubled over with laughter managed to say “I can’t believe you scalped his Mustang. “

  Neither can I.

  January still not sure. Does it even matter?

  Near Agua Prieta, México.

  We were on edge about approaching the border, not knowing what to expect or what we are going to find. We estimate that we are a few miles from the States, making our way using back roads. Ron was at the wheel when we saw a battle in its final stages. A minivan on the side of the road with the undead swarming around. A lot of undead.

  They seem to move in groups, like a flock of birds or a school of fish although much less coordinated. They bumped into each other before correcting their course. Maybe they just see the same meal and have the same on thought on their minds. Two long haired surfer looking guys, one with a handgun and one with a rifle both firing at the zombies. One used the rifle to push a zombie away with the buttend before firing point blank. It crumpled to the ground as a chunk of skull was shot away. Without pausing to look at his handy work, he spun around aiming and firing from target to target. The handgun surfer fired at zombies closing in. His movements were erratic, his aim was poor. The undead kept coming.

  Ron accelerated, slamming into a group of zombies; a horrible dull thud, as bodies flew everywhere. I hit my head on the roof as the truck bounced driving over at least one of the undead. Steam hissed from under the hood, blinding Ron’s view. Before we came to a stop Dave and I jumped out, machetes in hand. We swung at the downed zombies before they could get up. If they could get up. We didn’t give them the chance to find out. With a wet thud my blade sunk in deep. I had to place my foot on its face to pry the blade out, sending a shower of black green sludge high in the air.

  A few more shots from the surfers and the zombies were all down. Arterial blood sprayed over the side of the van, the guy with the rifle grabbed his neck as he slowly sunk to his knees. The blonde surfer, the one with the handgun, rushed over to his friend, kneeling down to check him out. From where we’re standing we can see his friend’s neck was ripped out. Bleeding out in seconds.

  “Damn Kirk,” He said as he raised his gun and fired into his dead friend’s head. We stopped in our tracks. He leaned down picking up Kirk’s rifle, clearing the chamber. No one moved. He leaned the rifle against the blood-soaked van. He looked at the sky wiping a tear from his eye. I’m not sure he even knew we were there. We were standing a few meters back, staring at him, not sure what to do or what to say. He turned and looked at us. I notice a bloody bite mark on his shoulder. He followed my gaze. Touching the wound, noticing it for the first time.

  “Shit.”

  He gave a sad resolved shrug and calmly said, “If you guys were only five minutes earlier.”

  With that he smoothed the hair out of his eyes before putting his gun under his chin. Before we could register what he was doing he pulled the trigger. I can still hear the echo of that shot.

  Looking over the scene we stood there dumbstruck. The surfers put up a good fight, bodies lay all over. He was right. If our paths crossed only five minutes earlier.

  I wanted to know who they were. I don’t know why it matters not now anyways. I pulled out their wallets, the one with the handgun was 23 years old from Los Angeles, Myles O’Conner. His friend was Kirk Sloan, also 23 years old from Santa Barbara. Combined they had $245 US, they have no use for it. We decided to keep it. I don’t consider it looting but I don’t feel good about it. I feel like a grave robber going through Myles’ possessions. Turns out they were surfers. Ron found a map of Baja California on the dash, with a few of what I’m guessing are choice surfing areas circled in red. Further proof was the three surf boards strapped to the roof. I’ll never know if it was just an extra board or if there was a third friend who didn’t make it this far.

  Radiator fluid was still pouring out of the Apache; the old girl couldn’t take the collision when we hit those zombies. We pushed it off the road, it’s only the radiator that needs replacing. One day someone can salvage her but I doubt anyone will, after all there are newer vehicles up for grabs. I feel silly getting sentimental about a truck. I just saw two people die. Not these monsters but people. Ron siphoned out the gas from the Apache, while Dave and I tossed out the minivan’s back seat and the stuff we don’t need to reduce weight. Less weight the better the gas mileage. Gas stations are either dry or full of the undead, siphoning from abandoned cars is a nerve wracking dangerous necessity. The longer we can put off hunting for fuel the better. Myles and Kirk’s wardrobe was mainly shorts and t-shirts but they provide a much needed change of clothes as we have been wearing the same clothes since before Loma Bonita. We smell pretty ripe. Going in through their stuff we found a folding shovel. It seemed like the right thing to do so we started digging. To save time we dug one big grave laying them next to each other. With all this death around I’m not sure why we even bothered. No, I do know why. We still have decency in us no matter what’s happening all around. Something ingrained in us. Humanity. Maybe? Empathy, I don’t know. Being surfers I’m sure they would appreciate using their boards as headstones. I wrote their names in black felt on their surfboards, Kirk Sloan and Myles O’Connor, I’m not sure about the date so just wrote January 2013. Tex was right, what does it matter?

  In case the undead can dig we piled rocks on top of the grave; these two died fighting, they wouldn’t want to nourish those they fought. Kirk and Myles were just like us, just guys trying to get home. No one said any words over the graves, we had none to say.

  January something.

  Without incident, we crossed the border at Ronlas, Arizona; there were neither guards nor people, we just drove in. We had nothing to declare.

  Later that day well into the United States we saw a figure in the distant. He was alive. I knew it. Just by the way he moved you knew he was alive. Uninfected and walking alone on a desolate stretch of highway. As we got closer he heard us. He turned his head and then jogged off the road, his red backpack disappearing into the trees. Ron stopped around the spot we saw the figure leave the road. We cautiously waited. There hasn’t been a survivor to talk to since Tex and his mustang. I think
we all wanted some kind of outside contact, to know what was going on, to reinforce what we thought we knew, or just to know others are making it through this.

  You can’t blame him for wanting to stick to himself. Alone and on foot, I can imagine how exposed and vulnerable he feels. I wouldn’t want to be out there by myself. The undead are everywhere and groups of people seem to be not banning together but rather taking advantage of smaller groups, the weaker, those alone. Just because someone is still alive there is no guarantee they won’t harm you. Better to play it safe.

  Dave was getting tired of waiting so I opened the door and placed some stuff on the road; a few of the surfers extra t-shirts, beach towels, a pair of the surfers shoes (that don’t fit anyone in our group) and a can of pears (No one likes canned pears). It wasn’t much, we don’t have much. Just a token to let him know that not everyone is looking out for only themselves. Ron honked the horn as we drove off leaving the lone traveler. We aren’t looking to add to our numbers to our group. We aren’t looking to save everyone but if we can help someone without putting ourselves at a risk then we will. After all, that’s what’s separates us from the undead .

  It’s that risk of the unknown that’s stopping people from helping each other. I bet there are people concerned and taking in stray animals. You used to see that one the news; people going out of their way to save a starving and mistreated animal. It’s easy when it’s a cute animal. Those same people tend to walk right past a human who is in the same situation. I’m not getting on my high horse after all I hate canned pears.

  Looking behind us to see if he returned to the road. As we round a bend in the road continuing on our way, we glance backwards. The road behind us was empty.

  January

  Benson Arizona.

  Fittingly it was high noon when we entered Tombstone’s Allen Street. We slowly passed an abandoned stage coach, its team of horses, that used to pull tourists in the hot sun now lay dead, legs stiff in the air, carcasses bloated and rotting on the dirt road. Ron always wanted to visit this old west town so he took the short detour down the historic district. It was only a few miles out of the way. Always focused on going home Dave wasn’t happy about the delay.

  “Are we going to Disneyland next? I heard they have Walt’s frozen head in that castle. What about Bourbon Street? Let’s see some tits. Come on we have nowhere to be and not a care in the world.” Sarcastic bastard.

  The wide streets were lined with one and two level clap board buildings with balconies and awnings extending over the wood walkways. With their laced corsets, ruffle skirts and petticoats, undead show girls leaned on the second floor balcony of the Crystal Palace Saloon, silently watching us drive past. I could imagine them playing the part with a siren’s call tempting passing cowboys to enter the saloon for a drink. Trapped up top, they push against the balcony’s railing as they are reach out for us with their rotting arms.

  Further down the street, the historical actors with their cap guns strapped to their sides, dusters blowing in the wind, the Earps vs the Clantons reenacting the shootout at the OK Corral until they rotted completely or dried out in the Arizona sun. Never before has a town milked 30 seconds of history as much as Tombstone, although I’ll admit even undead, Doc Holiday looked pretty good. Our private tour of Tombstone was broken up as the noise of the van began to draw their attention. Bursting out of the swinging double doors of the Oriental Saloon came more of the undead, all dressed in western wear. Stumbling out of the shaded sidewalks were tourists with cameras around their necks wearing souvenir T-shirts.

  Satisfied we saw all there was to see, Ron picked up speed, swerving away from the outstretched arms of the stirring undead just as a weathered prospector burst out of Big Nose Kate's Saloon. He staggered into the street blocking our path. The prospector stared us down. Ron hit the gas bumping the prospector causing him to spin and fall on the dusty street. Through the rearview mirror I saw him get up and stalk after us with the rest of the undead Wild West show.

  I didn’t notice any Indians amongst the cowboys and saloon girls. Indians are a side note in Tombstone, someone to attack a wagon train, to beat a war drum, to talk in halting English. We don’t really fit in the myth of the Wild West. It doesn’t matter, not now. Tombstone is a ghost town.

  We are about an hour north in the town of Benson, the few shambling undead we spotted were easily avoided simply by not stopping. No signs of life in this town. Near the outskirts of town there is a hardware store were we plan to check out if there was anything worth salvaging and to stay the night. The doors were locked. I tapped on the glass doors, the easiest way I could think of to see if there were undead lurking in the darkness of the store. No one came. We waited for a few painstakingly long minutes before breaking one of the windows and entering. Paranoid or not, we checked and double checked the store until we were satisfied we were alone.

  With that done we quickly boarded up the window, nailing in sheets of plywood. Ron parked the van inside the bay doors of the lumber area. With machetes at the ready, no one strays too far away. When we are sure it’s safe we explore alone. We’ve been locked at the hip for too long. Time alone even if it’s just to wander the isles of the store is welcome.

  Maybe a hardware store wasn’t the best place to seek supplies. The staff room yielded a meager offering of crackers, instant noodles and a gallon of bottled water. With the power out the lunches abandoned in the refrigerator were rotten. But there was a calendar, with some quick math I figured out today is January 10. There is lots of wood but no food. In the store, we added an ax to our arsenal and each of us took a claw hammer. I also found a hatchet. Ron teasingly called it a tomahawk so I teasingly sent him to the toilet aisle when he asked where I got it from. He came back with a plunger. There wasn’t a debate to pay or not. Why bother? We are taking only what we need and not ruining the place if/when others come here. No one owns this store anymore; even if they did money wouldn’t help them.

  We made a platform which could be used as a bed in the back of the van, with room for supplies underneath. Not knowing what else we would need and not wanting to weigh us down we add a half dozen 2x4’s, figuring they could be used as traction if we get stuck or used to secure doors if we find places to sleep. Dave tossed in a couple boxes of nails and a spool of wire. We also took a couple empty camping coolers. With a big smile on his face Ron handed me a black felt marker. He wanted me to paint the logo from our hockey team on the door of the van; a moose skull, with crossed hockey sticks and the name of our team in a circle around it. “Hurtin’ Albertans” I replace the hockey sticks with a rendering of our machetes… to keep it contemporary. It was something to do to kill the time.

  With our bellies full of instant noodles and crackers and the place secure, I volunteer for first watch, taking the time to write this entry in my journal. I try to relax and unwind but find myself peeking out the window every few minutes. At night both the eyes and imagination can play tricks. I swore I saw movement across the road. I watched the same spot for nearly twenty minutes. Nothing. My eyes return to the spot every few minutes. Still nothing. A tree blowing in the wind looks like a shambling undead. The wind sounds like the moaning of those creatures who want nothing more but to sink their teeth deep into your flesh. A strange shadow became a looter out to take what little we have leaving us exposed and more vulnerable than you already are.

  The undead, their heart is cold and unbeating, we’ve seen them take great punishment, gun shots, machetes and bludgeoning slows them, or if you take out a limb can, cripple them but they are still driven to attack. Damage to the head or brain seems to put them down permanently. Just like windigo if you are bit by one you become one. I think about the Windigo, those monsters supposedly from myth, nearly forgotten but now they over run the land. Eating whatever they find and if there is nothing to eat they rip the flesh from their hands. Is this what is out there now? The stories tell us that a Windigo was once a human whose selfishness has overpowered their self
-control to the point that satisfaction is no longer possible. They change into a monster, an evil spirit that has a hunger that drives them. That is why Windigos are hungry no matter how much they eat. They just keep consuming and are never satisfied. There are too many parallels between legend and the present to ignore. With Windigo, its heart is ice, to kill it you have to shatter the heart or melt it with intense heat, other than that if you cut off its head. Either way, the body should be cut up and burnt.

  At least on watch you have an excuse not to sleep, a reason to peer into the darkness, a reason not to dream. We hit the road at first light.

  January 11

  I woke up to the sound of metal on metal. Last I remembered Dave was driving. Exhausted from not sleeping last night and bored with the scenery I closed my eyes. He hit the brakes hard spilling me out of my seat. I landed the floor of the van wedged behind the driver’s seat. Ron was yelling something about Dave falling asleep. Dave countered that someone is supposed to stay up talking to him when he drives because he falls asleep easily besides the damage wasn’t too bad. True enough. When we inspect the damage it’s a long scar along the side. If was my van I’d be pissed. A truck was sticking out at an awkward angle when he closed his eyes for a few seconds. Could happen to anyone…with narcolepsy. But it is the end of days, what’s a scratch on a vehicle.

  Further up the road we saw a military Humvee laying on its side, the road littered white with pamphlets. No signs of the undead as we walked towards it to investigate and scout a path around. The Humvee was empty, no sign of the driver. A breeze rustled the papers, scattering and blowing them in the air revealing the body of a young soldier. I jumped back. He had been dead for sometime but more importantly he wasn’t getting up. He was dead. Just dead. As in old fashioned dead dead. I caught a pamphlet that was floating away on the breeze.