As Diego exited the car to go to the next, The Oracle leaned into the vehicle. Thumbing up the lock on the opposite door, he again stood up and smiled. Not knowing exactly why, only that this was ordered by the voice, the job was now complete. Only one more task in the vicinity must be finished.
“Every fucking radio in every fucking car! What the fucking hell?” All the radios were dead. Diego Diego was furious. Raging, he couldn’t do anything but storm away in a fury.
His new friend caught up with him and easily matched pace. “Take it easy, bra.” Gesturing to the gas station up ahead, he offered to try and ease the troubled Latino. “Wanna grab a coke.” Shrugging, D supposed it couldn’t hurt.
Entering the parking lot of the gas station, Smokes walked directly along the curb between the convenience store and the highway. His friend slowed and watched with confusion. When Smokes was nearly even with the entrance to the business, he made a ninety degree turn to head straight toward the door. He passed a closed Frito-Lay truck; he nonchalantly flipped the latch to lock the rear roll down door. Grinning from ear to ear, he felt The Screenwriter was now satisfied. The reason may not have yet been known, but this was what The Screenwriter commanded.
After completing both tasks, he was now free. At least, for what was left of the day. He could grab a shopping bag once inside the store to load down with packs of Bubblicious and Reese’s Cups! For some reason, his nicotine craving didn’t seem to be present. Newports were on his mind every time he stopped at a convenience store. Now though, grabbing some smokes didn’t even cross his mind. Maybe after a considerable time of not nursing his habit, the urge would strike him.
Getting a Dr Pepper from the cooler and dumping a box of beef sticks into one of the pockets of his cargo shorts, D looked at his friend. “We probably ain’t got time to walk back to The Hill before it gets dark. You wanna make camp here?”
Smacking at least four entire packs of bubblegum, The Oracle gestured to the door. “Naw dawg, Publix.” D wasn’t sure if he understood that final word around the pounds of watermelon flavored gum.
“The grocery store?” Smokes nodded and started walking out the door. Diego began a question to his exiting friend’s back. “But...?”
He would just say, “Trust me, wheat bread.” It ain’t like he ain’t been right so far. The Latino began walking out the door, putting his faith in The Oracle. Doing what he’s said has kept me alive so far. I better stick with him.
“Aye aye, Capitán! I’m right behind you,”
Convincing his Hispanic friend it was safe to enter the large supermarket was difficult. Hesitation and slow acceptance have been foreseen, but The Oracle didn’t realize his friends stubbornness would be such a pain to get around. Eventually though, both survivors stood inside Publix, entirely unmolested. D finally felt comfortable enough to put his gun back in his waistband and move around the cavernous building freely.
Though the two of them had taken what they wanted from the Exxon, it just now dawned on Diego that everything in the store was now free. Realizing there were no peevies in the grocery store, he ran to the aisle containing Fritos, laughing maniacally the entire way. He shouted out a poor attempt at Singing. “Ay yI yI yI yI! I’m a Bandito, I love corn chips, I do. I love corn chips, I take them from you!”
Smokes finally rounded the corner, shirt smeared with what looked like ice cream. He rolled his head to the left and spun on his heel. “Mon, mufucka. We gotta get our shit set up.”
Diego followed, not understanding. Once at the spot, it made sense to him. Smokes was laying out blankets as pallets and fifty pound bags of dog food as pillows. At least we gonna be comfortable even if we sleeping on a linoleum floor.
The record screeched to an abrupt stop in his mind. “Fucking seriously? You really think I’m sleeping on the floor with those things everywhere? Let’s at least go to one of the back rooms. I’m sure there’s a manager’s office or–“
“No.” The Oracle interrupted authoritatively.
“But we could at least–“
“I done told you, wheat bread. No!”
“Motherfucker.” D clenched his fists. “Why?”
The heaviest of the duo closed his eyes for an exceptionally long blink. “Listen. Dey don’t like big buildins, dey in small rooms.” D looked as if he was about to question The Oracle who beat him to the punch. “Trust me, scats.”
Arguing was pointless. There was no reason for the Latino not to trust him. In fact, trusting Smokes was why he was still breathing. If this shit goes bad, I’m ‘blaming him. A lot of difference that would make, he smiled bitterly.
When he broke his silence after an eternity, he spoke through the darkness. “If we get jumped before the sun comes up, I’m gonna kill you, homes.” It might have taken several hours or only several minutes, but Diego finally lay down and drifted off. Little did he know, his large black friend was asleep long before his final words.
Smokes wasn’t afraid. Though he sometimes wished to be like everyone else, for the ability to fear the unknown, he could rest at peace. Was this Blessed Assurance?
You’s always at da place you is always post to be.
CHAPTER 5
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Surprisingly, D slept solid through most of the night. There had been no naked plague victims breaking into the store and assaulting the survivors. Assuming the thick glass of the sliding doors kept sound from getting through, he hadn’t even been awakened by noise from the crazies outside. It made him wonder if there actually had been any blue infected people. Maybe me and Smokes are just two homeless nuts sleeping in an abandoned building!
That was his thought just as he cracked his eyes open. Laying on his back, he could make out a figure standing over him in the darkness. Color might not have been discernible, but he could have guessed the shade of the naked form looking down at him and smiling. His gaze couldn’t break away from what looked like the end of a misshapen hot dog resting on a couple of shriveled figs. This was of course surrounded by a bush of matted hair.
A dark spray of something resembling slimy Gak was being expelled from the rear of the peevie. This broke his concentration away from the spectacle of miniaturized genitalia long enough for him to look up at the solid orbs grinning down at him. Before he could move his hand to the machine pistol laying at his side, the thing let out a roaring gurgle that could have been a laugh before it dropped its teeth on his neck.
He shot up, panting and sweating. Reaching for his gat, he peered around for his compadre. Thank Dios, only a dream! Where Smokes at, anyway?
Before he was able to call out for his friend, he had to reach up to feel his neck. It wasn’t wet. No pain. Nothing felt ripped or torn. The dream just seemed so horribly vivid, D was astonished there were no teeth marks.
Standing, he looked up and shouted. “Yo, homes!”
The prophet stopped at the end cap, drinking an instant breakfast. "Da fuck you want, wheat bread? I ain’t got time to wait on yo slow as.” He raised his hand and pointed at his many wristwatches. “It da 7th! We gots things to see and peoples to do.”
Smiling at the intentional mix up, Diego was about to ask if he had gotten an extra breakfast shake. Just then, The Oracle tossed something underhanded at him. Catching it, he looked at the can. “Slim Fast, really?”
“Gotta watch yo Figga. Sko, homeslice!”
Exiting the supermarket with nothing more than full bellies and some grab bags of Fritos, the pair of wanderers started across the parking lot. Not heading straight north, D was confident they were moving in that general direction. It was so quiet, a person speaking anywhere in the county could’ve been heard.
Diego clicked his tongue to make an echo that seemed to reverberate for a considerable time. “Another lonely day, right ese?”
Speaking over his shoulder, The Oracle chuckled flatly. “Maybe fo you, wheat bread.”
Again reaching the point where the four lanes split, they traveled north, right up t
he middle of south bound Gunter Avenue. The party would not stop unless commanded, or if they were to stumble upon an ice cream truck.
Most of the journey was made in relative silence. This bothered Smokes to no end. Peacefulness only gave The Screenwriter more opportunity to play and replay events in his mind; events that had already occurred and were yet to take place. From now on, he would do his best to always keep himself occupied, quieting the voice.
With his chin quivering, he almost broke out into sobs passing McDonald’s. Though the building would be used by humans, at some point, for some reason, Smokes knew he would never eat another Big Mac. At least, not from this location.
Suddenly, Smokes nearly screamed to his friend, seemingly the only other uninfected person in the city. “So you thank zombies is livin’ dead or undead?”
We really talking about movie shit? Lifting his shoulders and lowering his head, trying to make himself smaller, D whispered harshly. “The fuck wrong with you, homes? Keep it down!”
Not lowering his volume in the slightest, The Oracle continued screeching. “Man, da sun up. Dey ain’t gonna getcha!”
Peering around and not seeing a single hostile, D loosened. Noticing the other cut his eyes at him, he had to think about it. Night of the Living Dead? “Suppose they’d be living–“
“Mufucka! Da hell you thankin’, wheat bread? Dey ain’t vampires.”
The argument continued for several blocks.
Even passing through the residential areas of town, the surroundings remained completely still. With heavier tree cover, D expected to see or at least hear some of the peevies. It would have made him put more trust in what Smokes said about them not liking sunlight. There wasn’t necessarily the feeling of being watched. More bothersome to Diego than being attacked was the notion that they were totally alone.
Not hearing a single bird tweet or chirp only magnified the creepiness for the Latino. People and animals disappearing was strange, but fowl also vanishing sent chills up his spine. Random splatters of black goop being swarmed upon by various insects were the only indication anything other than the two survivors lived. Ain’t much, but at least it’s something!
Coming within blocks of the county courthouse ahead and to their right, the comrades halted at an intersection. The Oracle closed his eyes and grew still. After a pause, he opened them and looked to his friend. “We prolly needs to get on dat sidewalk.” Gesturing to the curb on his right, they stepped up onto the concrete walkway.
Though willing to follow the orders, D wanted to question his black friend’s reasoning. Keeping an eye out for anything fishy on the other side of the road, Diego saw no movement and couldn’t tell if there had been any recently. Dry cleaners, nail salon, Excelsior Comics, a thrift store, nothing unusual. All of these places just looked empty.
Luisa ain’t crossed my mind since we left the apartment. Hope she’s hunkering down at the hospital with the rest of the nurses. It seemed peculiar that Smokes could somehow make him forget everything else. It don’t matter, I guess. Can’t do nothing for her from here anyway.
They finally reached the courthouse. It was massive compared to every other building in the city. Conversation on more insignificant movie trivia had begun, but abruptly died when closing on the large complex. The silence was nearly overpowering.
Smokes’ finger followed an invisible pointer. It landed on a metal ladder attached to the side of the courthouse building, reaching all the way to the roof.
“We gots to see what we can see, homey.”
Understanding his friend wanted to get a better view of the surrounding area, D made an offer. “Si, ese.” He reached down to his MAC 10.”I got a gat. I’ll go up and check the coast is clear.” Even though it’s the middle of the day and they afraid of sun, if Smokes is to be believed. At least I’ll look useful.
It was almost surprising Smokes didn’t correct or refuse him. He gestured for Diego to take the lead.
“Sho as shit, wheat bread. Ladies first.” he joked.
D laughed, simulating a curtsy as he passed The Oracle. He was over halfway up the rungs when a jolting cry from below him made him stop. “Fuck naw, ain’t doin’ it!”
CHAPTER 6
Post To Be
Stopping his upward movement, D looked below at his friend after the exclamation.
“Everything all right down there, homes?”
The Oracle, who was still standing at the foot of the ladder, lifted his hand to signal OK.
“We good, dawg. Keep movin’.”
Though his voice almost broke when doing it, Smokes played everything off as cool. Diego might have found it strange that his friend would call out for seemingly no reason, but he found everything about the gangsta strange. When the Latino made it nearly to the top, Smokes placed his hand on the ladder rung to begin his journey up.
It had been like a dream. A dream he couldn’t control. The type of dream one knows is a dream, but it’s still completely horrifying. The Oracle saw himself reach the roof; D was standing on the north side of the building, holding his hand up to shade his eyes. The only route to where his friend waited would take Smokes directly by a door. That door opened into a small shed that contained the stairwell leading down inside the building. Passing by the door, he lightly turned the knob just enough to unlatch the bolt. The action went entirely unnoticed by D who was still scanning the area. Now, Smokes continued moving forward to stand beside him on his right. The Oracle did everything in his power to halt the dream; the command, the orders being given to him, the scripted events, and the vision of things that were supposed to be. This demand was something he didn’t want to partake in.
“Fuck naw, ain’t doin’ it!” As far as he could recall, this was the first time he had directly refused the control of The Screenwriter. Smokes may have been willing to play his role, but there was no way he would willingly murder or allow Diego to be murdered. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
But there was no choice. Things had to play out exactly as foretold. Demands of The Screenwriter were impossible to refuse. Smokes was able to see now, it wasn’t something that had to happen, it was something that would happen, something that might as well have already have happened. Cept fo da hurtin’. It wasn’t his decision, so he felt a little better about it.
Opening his eyes he was still standing on the ground at the foot of the ladder.
“Everything all right down there, homes?”
“We good, dawg. Keep movin’.”
As he made his way up the rungs, he begged, debated and tried to bargain with the voice. With each handhold, he slowly understood the reason for the task. Though acceptance was growing, he still wasn’t happy about it.
Take Dis cup from me!
Smokes pulled himself onto the roof. There stood his friend on the far side, shielding his gaze from the sun with his hand, just like in the vision.
Thank Black Jesus he got his back to me.
Sneakers crunched on the gravel as he walked. Turning his head for the briefest of seconds, D only did so to signify he was aware of the other’s approach.
What if I don’t? Say I just keep on walkin’. What you gonna do bout it? The Oracle mentally stood defiant.
“Do not think you can decide!”
Not by his own will, Smokes’ hand lifted and ran over the doorknob, softly turning it. He had just sealed his friend’s fate, whether it was actually his doing or not.
Should I holler? Give my bra warnin’s?
“Even if you did, how would you explain what you just did?”
Perhaps he had planned to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Was it possible to defy The Screenwriter? Did anyone truly make decisions on their own fate?
You’s always at da place you is always post to be!
But that begs the question, how long has The Screenwriter been in control? How far-reaching is his mastery? If there is a script, is there also an audience?
Standing to the right of his friend, Smok
es pointed to the double bridges of Highway 431 across the Tennessee River. “One bridge blowed up.” On the north bound side, there was definitely a wide gap in the concrete. Just to the right of the bridge, docked at the Marina, some type of boxy, old wooden sailboat could be seen.
Briefly placing his hand on D’s shoulder, the door creaking open behind them was only audible if one listened closely. After giving his shoulder a light tug, Smokes lowered his hand. This caused the Latino to turn his head from facing forward and slightly in the direction of his friend. Catching a hint of blue, D spun.
“Yo, we got atacar… sneak attack, compadre!” He pulled the machine pistol from his waistband, lining up on the approaching peevie.
Maybe it was true, the thing was stumbling around and covering its eyes. But why’s it out in the middle of the day? D thought that maybe it had just been sleeping inside the stairwell and had awakened to the smell of humans. What woke it up?
The monster kept its face down, only occasionally glancing up to see what was before it. Painful screams came from the creature, but it knew food was almost within reach. Taking his time, D lined up his sights on the downward facing forehead. Squeezing the trigger briefly, a single bullet projected from the muzzle.
Headshot! Diego watched his single improvised sniper round slam into the infected cranium. Just as the demonia glanced up, the tiny piece of lead made contact with the bridge of its nose.
Its face briefly sank in before exploding as bone, mucus, and bloodied hamburger meat erupted from the upper half of the skull. Yellow eyes simply vanished in the torrent of expelling organic material. Dropping to the ground in a twitching heap, the orbless peevie would only void its bowels for a final time.
Undead Worlds 2: A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Anthology Page 29
