by Mark Tufo
‘Go on’ he signaled with his hands, clearly getting a little irritated.
“But,” I said hastily, trying my best to erase an unabolishable image, “it’ll only work for about fifty or so people.”
What little light had been in Jed’s eyes quickly extinguished. I outlined Alex’ plan, and Jed nodded in agreement to most or offered some better alternatives.
“Women and children, right?” Jed asked, even if it was a statement.
“Without a doubt.”
“What about Tracy and Nicole?”
“Oh, I’ll want them to go, but they won’t.”
“Can’t you make them?” he asked seriously.
“That’s funny, Jed, how long were you married?”
He nodded in acceptance of my unwritten truth. Women ruled the roost. Men were merely figureheads. ‘Yes dear’ was the accepted vernacular in any successful union.
Chapter 21
Next Day – 12/18
Journal Entry – 18
* * *
Different Day. Same Zombies. See how I substituted zombie for ‘shit,’? ‘Cause that’s what it smelled like, one giant pile of fresh maggoty dog shit. If this were summer, the sky would be thick with flies. It would be nearly impossible to breathe without swallowing some of the offending little beasts. Because of the fetor, intake of air was a nauseating task. Appetites had dropped off the charts. Last night, I had grossly underestimated how long our food supply would last. It might be indefinite. Nobody could work up any desire for food. Sometime during the night the zombies had made it all the way up to the gates of Babylon. Single digit amounts of feet kept us separated. Being this close and seeing the devastation the disease caused on these people was excruciating. Skin tone ranged from fax paper white to plum purple and everything between. There were your ashen grays and your burnt siennas. The thing that they had in common was that none of the pallors were healthy looking. Strips of torn skin hung like rags on more than most. Knees and hands were bloodied. Congealed gore splattered the masses like an all you can eat lobster fest gone bad.
For all the broken bones and shredded skin and clouded visages, there was no suffering. There was no self-pity or loathing or hate for that matter. There was only determination and hunger, wanton hunger. It was from this insanely close distance the morning’s firing squads commenced. The stench began to liquefy in the air as the bullets tore through the rotting corpses.
I know I have gone on and on about the stench of the zombies, but unless you have lived through it, you can’t truly assess how disruptive the smell was. Just think when you’ve watched a movie about some snowbound people in say, Antarctica. So you’re watching and these suffering fools teeth are chattering and they have frozen snot coming out of their noses and they can’t feel their fingers or their toes. I mean they are just miserable, and you the viewer are sitting there trying to experience what they are feeling and you’re like ‘boy that sure looks cold’ as you munch your buttered popcorn. That doesn’t really grasp the full effect for you. Until one day you get some tickets to a football game and it’s in Green Bay in December. You are outside for a maximum of three hours in the warmest gear created by mankind, and you are still freezing your ass off. It takes a thermal nuclear reaction to get the circulation back in your feet and hands and that is just a taste of what those poor souls lost in the Antarctica are going through. So now back to my problem.
If you, the reader, really, REALLY, want to know what was going on in Little Turtle, go feed your dog or your neighbor’s dog some chili, slathered in hot sauce and maybe throw in some chocolate cake. Okay wait for it, WAIT. Now about a half hour later, your dog’s innards are pretty much going to rupture, so make sure he’s outside. Now while this steaming pile of shit is still warm and fetid, place it in a plastic shopping bag—DON’T TIE IT UP! Now place the carrying handles one on each ear and inhale deeply. You must walk around with this bag draped across your face continually. Is this starting to punch through? Now, every time the dog crap begins to harden up and lose some of its edge, go grab yourself another refreshing pile of fresh dog offal. While you are breathing deeply of this savory concoction, try to eat some enchiladas or maybe some lasagna. Oh hell, just try to sleep with that thing affixed to your face. Yeah, not quite as much fun anymore. So that, my dear reader, is why I am going off the deep end to explain the stink. It’s all-pervading. There is no relief, no giant bottle of Febreze. There wasn’t even a prevailing wind that could help relieve us. We were surrounded by the never-ending miasma of decomposition.
By noon that day of death layered upon death, I noticed something strange. The zombies were getting taller. I jumped down from my tower and ran for the clubhouse. I voiced my concern to Jed after taking a few deep breathes which I instantly regretted. “Jed, you have to call a cease-fire!” I finally spit out.
“If it’s about the bullets, Talbot, I already feel your concern, but we’ve got at least a week’s worth,” Jed replied.
I was still breathing heavily from my run over. I had been reluctant to take deep breaths and it was only partly because I had let my cardio routine lapse in the last few months. So I rushed out my words without explanation. I pretty much got the response I deserved.
“The zombies are getting taller…” next breath I finished with “…Jed.”
“Booze is tougher to get than a fresh T-bone, so I know you haven’t been drinking. Some of that wacky tobaccy then?” Jed asked with a raised eyebrow.
As much as it pained me, time was of the essence, two gulps of unsavory air, a brief respite and I started over again. “Jed, that wall out there is eight feet tall.”
Jed nodded in agreement, looking a little perplexed with why I felt the need to run in here and let him know that.
I elaborated. “The zombies standing at the wall are sternum high with the top.”
“Huh.” The dawn of recognition had not lit yet.
“We’ve been shooting so many...”
Jed finished, “Oh shit. The live zombies are standing on the bodies of those that have fallen.”
“Another couple of hours, Jed, and they’ll just start falling in. And once that happens we won’t be able to stop them.”
“What then, Talbot? We can’t wait them out. They aren’t just going to leave.”
I could only shrug. “I don’t know, Jed, but we have to deal with this more immediate issue. We can think of something else later.”
Jed gave me a look that said he believed that as much as I did. “It’s over then,” he said as he made his way over to the emergency P.A. system that had been rigged all around the complex. “Cease-fire!” he yelled. He was midway through his third call before the shots began to trail off. There were still one or two distant shots as if those person’s trigger fingers were having a difficult time relaxing.
Jed laid it out over the speaker. The Little Turtle complex’s bubble had just been burst. Whether anyone thought we could shoot our way out of this mess was irrelevant. They had all just been notified that this course of action would lead to our demise. Inaction meant the same thing, but there was a lot less satisfaction in it. Normally quiet means peace; this, however, was the quiet of the dead.
It was disturbing to say the least. As I walked home, the feeling of being in a fishbowl gave me the skeevies. Almost all the way across the wall, the zombies were peering in at us. I didn’t want to look at them. I could feel hundreds of sets of eyes on me and it wasn’t because I was the pope, more like a leg of lamb. Hands in pockets, head bowed, I entered the house. Tracy was peering out the window at the wall. She shivered involuntarily.
“What now, Mike?” she asked without looking away from the scene she was fixated on.
Again with the shrugging, I was getting real sick of being asked questions I had no answer for. It was like being in 12th grade all over again. But at least then I was usually stoned and didn’t care. Now was the time I had to have answers, our lives depended on it. My shrug, at least, had a desired effect. Trac
y pulled back from the window to look at me. Okay so maybe not so desired. I felt like an albino under the withering gaze of an Arizona sun, my cheeks flushed.
“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 tactic, the spitting volcano erupted, Mount St. Helens 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 his 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 i
t. 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 come to friendly fire, the 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, friggin’ 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?”
