by Mark Tufo
Three figures materialize in the trees at the closest point. Breaking into the open, they begin sprinting directly toward Trip and me. The zombie peeking around the tree is to my left, the three directly in front and, to my right, I see two other speeders break out of the tree line and run into the fields. It’s a classic, tactical move. The very nature of it and that they are using it gives me the absolute creeps.
Well, that’s not good.
There’s no time to contemplate it further. The three racing toward me are the immediate threat. They aren’t screaming or moaning, just running full tilt. Shifting slightly to orient more directly toward them, I bring my M-4 to my shoulder, center the reticle on the one to the left, flip the selector switch to ‘semi’, and fire.
I select semi because I need headshots and I don’t want the barrel dancing around. Their heads are bouncing and moving, but the distance is close. The subdued sound of a round leaving the barrel rises slightly above the sound of their feet pounding across the ground. The projectile rapidly closes the distance, impacting high upon the first one’s forehead. A splash of dark liquid sprays outward from the forceful connection of bullet and bone.
The speeder’s head rocks backward and it nearly tumbles backward from its continued forward momentum. Recovering with a stumble, it resumes it dash, only to meet up with the second round I sent flying. This one sails through its open mouth, knocking out the lower teeth before hitting the upper palate and rocketing into the brain tissue. Its motor skills suddenly cease and it’s driven to its knees, sliding forward for a foot before falling onto its face.
I quickly shift my aim, targeting the next. My first round bounces off the side of its cheek, taking a large chunk of skin and gouging out a huge crevice. It doesn’t even flinch from the injury but crashes to the ground from the second round entering through the nostrils. The third, seeing its partners go down, veers to the side. It only manages to turn its head slightly before a round takes it just below the temple. It falls so quickly that my second round sails over its head, impacting a tree along the edge of the forest with a solid thunk.
Seeing the three down, I wheel around searching for the other two. I’m thankful their timing is off. They should have attacked along with the other three. My sight takes in Trip, who is crouched behind me and eating a cracker while staring at the woman behind the tree.
“I don’t think she likes you,” he comments, taking another bite of the wafer.
“It’s a good thing I’m not trying to date her, then. Now…could you please move? I’m expecting company from behind,” I state.
“They’re over there.” He points off to the side without even looking. He shifts to the side a couple of feet, all the while not taking his eyes from the woods.
How in the fuck does he do that? I think, not doubting him and orienting in the directing he is pointing.
Sure enough, I hear the sound of someone moving through the grass a couple of seconds later…exactly from the direction Trip indicated. The two speeders that exited from the woods previously emerge from the tall grass on the run.
“You’re a little late,” I mutter.
My sight was almost centered on one of them, so I barely have to move the barrel before firing. Four rounds later, the two join the other three in whatever afterlife zombies have. I turn toward the woman, who is still peeking out from behind the tree. I had expected her to join in on the fun to make it a three-sided game, but this appears to be a spectator sport for her.
I slip my zoom to the 4x setting and her face rushes into more clarity. She has one hand on the side of the trunk while looking around the massive bole. Her eyes are glazed over, but her expression is…what? Thoughtful? It’s also apparent she doesn’t think I’m a good aim. I can’t imagine an intelligent zombie showing only its head. It’s the only vulnerable part, but here she is presenting me with a stationary target. Who knows what is going through that dead mind of hers?
Well, I know what will be in just a second.
I center the small crosshair and pull the trigger. Compensating only a little for the anticipated bullet drop, after all, she’s not that far, but sub-sonic rounds aren’t known for their ability to accurately reach long distances. The carbine bucks slightly, but her head doesn’t entirely leave my field of view. I’m awarded with a spray of dark blood which splashes across the tree trunk. Her head vanishes from view as she falls to the side from her cover. I keep my scope on her, but she doesn’t move.
I rise and cautiously advance toward the barricaded road, wary of any zombies that might still be hidden. Arriving near the military vehicles, near where the woman lies at the edge of the woods, I halt. I don’t move for some time, until it becomes apparent that there isn’t anyone else around. Unlike the roadblock we just left, cars are crammed close to the barricade of the military-style vehicles. However, they are shot up in the same manner as the first one we came across. The vehicles are bullet-ridden with bodies lying in all positions, some draped out of windows, others lying on the pavement or grass. I can’t see what shape they’re in and I’m not really interested in doing so.
The sunlight reflects off spent cartridges that litter the ground, inches deep in places. Gazing out over the plains, I wonder where the people were headed and why the military was trying to stop them. It could have been that the people were just fleeing, but I’m not sure why they would be stopped here. Was the military hiding something, or preventing something? I’ve wondered if the creatures we encountered were brought in with Mike, Trip, and me, or whether there were some here to begin with. Mike certainly seemed acquainted with the zombies, and the night runners are like the ones from my world, so that’s entirely possible. However, something certainly happened here that the people were fleeing.
Without seeing anything that warrants halting any longer, we make the rest of our way to the blockade.
“Yack, you should come here,” Trip stated.
“Did you just call me, Yack?” I ask, exasperated. Trip might have an angel on his shoulder, but he’s a devil to deal with sometimes.
“Why would I do that, Jack?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Is there a reason I should come over there besides you showing me that you found another Twinkie? I’m not sure I could stomach watching you eat another one,” I comment. Even though the wrapper says different, I still think of them as Twinkies.
“There’s FTEs,” Trip says, pulling a heavy cardboard box out of one the Humvee-style vehicles.
“Those look a lot like MREs,” I say, approaching. “It’s not fine dining, but I’m starving.”
“Hey, man, I found them.” Trip declares, shielding the carton.
“It says there’s twenty-four in there. I’m pretty sure not even your endless stomach can handle that much.”
“There’s only eighteen, and I’m pretty hungry.”
I walk over and snatch one of the meals before he has a chance to protest further. He’d probably tear into them and devour them before I could get one otherwise. The only thing left would be a confetti of plastic wrapping drifting slowly down and carried away with the breeze. I hear him snort in derision but ignore him.
“Not cool, man. I already had to share with someone else,” Trip says, pulling out two empty plastic wrappers.
I sit on the side rail of the vehicle and pull out one of my knives to cut into my package. Making a slit in the gray plastic, I scan the area. Seeing one plastic wrapper Trip discarded, I rise to take a look; more out of curiosity than anything else.
“Hey, wait a minute. This one has been opened, and not that long ago,” I state, now alert and looking around for more signs of someone around.
I note the second empty wrapper which lodged under one of the wheels. Setting my container down, and making sure Trip doesn’t abscond with it, I circle the area with my M-4 at the ready. Whoever feasted here not long ago may still be around. It could have been Mike, but then again, it might not have. Nothing else in this land has been pleasant to deal with, and
from the looks of the blockade, I don’t want to meet any of the residents. I’m dressed in a military fashion, and from the scratches and dents along the sides of the armored vehicles, they may not be well-liked at the moment. And from the looks of the dead bodies and torn up vehicles, the military doesn’t like anyone else. That kind of puts me in a rather difficult position. Assured that no one else is nearby, I make my way back to Trip, who is rifling through the cardboard container.
“Fine, you can have another one. This one doesn’t sound good. Here,” Trip says, thrusting a package into toward me.
“Liver and onions? Yeah, um, thanks. However, that’s not what I meant. One of the packages was opened and eaten a short time ago.”
“You think they’re still around? I mean, I found this box fair and square.”
Exasperated, I run my hand down my face. “Let me see if I can explain this in ‘Trip’ terms. We’ve been here a couple of days and we’ve seen no one else except Mike.”
“Who?”
“Ponch.”
“Oh yeah. Where is he by the way?”
Talking to Trip is like throwing a Super Ball against a wall and watching it bounce around at high speed. You never know where it’s going to land, and it’s hard to keep up with it, but you know it’s going to be interesting whatever it does.
“I’m trying to get to that. I’m thinking that he may have been here and ate those packages,” I say, hoping something I say sinks in.
“Ponch took my food? That’s not cool, man. I’ll have to talk to him. It’s clearly labeled as mine.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I ask, watching as the ball bounces randomly.
“FTE. It stands for Food Trip Enjoys.”
I just shake my head, wondering how he’s managed to live alone this long. I set down the liver and onions Trip handed me and grab the package I originally opened. It’s shepherd’s pie which is only marginally better. Spooning the food into my mouth, I walk around looking for any other clues that Mike may have been here. It’s good to find some sign that he might have lived through the night, but I’m still not positive it was him. It really could have been anyone. I search the tangled wreckage of cars and then look out into the wide open expanse.
“Whoever it was, they had to have gone that way. I just hope there’s a place where we can find shelter before night hits,” I murmur, looking into the sun.
Something catches my eye. It’s one of those things that is out of place, but I can’t put my finger on it. Then, I see what it is. There’s a leg sticking straight out of the pavement with a boot in the air. It’s embedded into the asphalt; as if the helmet and boot at the last blockade weren’t enough. I nudge it with my toe and it stays in place. The pant legs have fallen down slightly and it looks like I can see the healthy pink skin of a shin underneath.
Nope. Just nope. There’s no way I’m checking that out, I think. I’m not sure my psyche can handle it.
The sun winding its way across the sky into early afternoon, and the fact that I don’t see anywhere that we can shelter when night falls, is reason enough to leave this place. The leg seals the deal.
Whatever forces are at work here which could cause that is beyond me. Perhaps they did something here that bent space and time. It could have been the same thing that yanked the three of us, along with our lovely zombies and night runners, into this place.
“What in the fuck happened here?” I mutter.
The odd thought arises of placing a baseball on the bottom of the boot and playing T-ball. Yes, my mind goes in strange directions at the oddest of times.
“You ray romething?” Trip says, squeezing bags of food into his mouth.
Trip is eating squished bags of spaghetti-like paste. I turn away, not wanting to see anymore. I’ve seen awful things in war but this is somehow a lot worse.
“Are you about ready?” I ask, checking my gear.
“One, maybe two more,” Trip answers.
“How many have you eaten, Trip?”
“Five or eight. Tough to say.”
“You may have eaten eight FTEs? Trip, that’s like thirty-two thousand calories. You’re going to be in a fucking food coma soon. We have to get on the move and see if we can catch Mi...Ponch.”
“Ponch is here?”
We leave the carnage and mystery leg behind, striking out on the open road. Although I don’t like being in the open, I like being in the confines of the snarled mass of cars and surrounded by the trees even less. There’s something liberating about no longer feeling constrained.
I would like to put some distance behind us, but all Trip can manage is something similar to a pregnant waddle after his record-breaking eating marathon. After a couple of miles, I take a few steps along the pavement before I realize that Trip has stopped. I’m feeling a little irritated at our pace. After all, night will be upon us at some point and I still don’t see anywhere that we could hole up in for the evening that would provide for a margin of safety.
Turning to see what the hell he is up to now, I ask, “Trip, what are you doing? We need to push on.”
“I need to make a food baby,” Trip answers.
“You need to fucking what?”
“Food baby. It’s gonna happen soon. I can feel the contractions! I’m going to need some hot water.”
“No...no...no! Oh, fuck no!” I say, watching Trip begin undoing his belt.
I do know the feeling, when you gotta go, you gotta go. But he brought this on himself. And, besides, feces are the one thing I could never really handle well. I did, but I didn’t like it one bit. I walk a few more steps and turn my back, giving him some privacy, and myself some as well.
“This is NOT happening. Lynn and my kids are God knows where, and I’m babysitting a stoned out hippie who hasn’t had a real thought since Jimmy Carter was in office,” I mutter.
Behind me, I could hear Trip grunting heavily. “Can you keep me steady, man? I’m going to fall over.”
“Fuck no!”
“Not cool, man,” Trip says, panting heavily. “Ooooh, it’s coming!”
There’s a fifty-fifty chance I end up with Mike or Trip and I get Trip. Fucking Mike must be a saint that he hasn’t left this one behind yet, I think, trying to ignore the sounds Trip is making.
“It’s twins!” Trip shouts.
“For fuck’s sake, Trip, just hurry up. You’re going to attract every night runner and zombie in the area.”
“You can’t rush the miracle of food-child birth,” Trip puffs.
There are a few moments of silence before Trip speaks again. “Good thing I saved those moist towelettes from the food packages. Hey, Flack, can you come over here. Their color isn’t right.”
“It’s Jack!” I declare, and, in a moment of not thinking, look back while replying.
On the pavement, there is impossibly colored offal lying in a huge pile.
“What’s the matter with you?” I ask, more than a little alarmed. “They’re mustard yellow. Are you sick?”
Trip sat down on his haunches, his face not more than a foot from his release. “Smells like feet and Phrito’s. Feetos!”
“Fuck me. You are one sick bastard and get stranger by the minute,” I say, turning to continue our journey down the road. “And we’re picking up the pace.”
My hope is to try and catch Mike by nightfall, assuming he is the one ahead of us. I open up my mind in an attempt to see if there are night runners about. Where they would hide from the sun in this open expanse is beyond me, but I check to see if there are any lairs in the area. I sense a few some distance behind us in the forest. We’re not out of danger at the moment. Although, having their company is almost preferable to Trip’s road-hazard nightmare.
I begin alternating jogging with quick-paced walking. We start making better time with Trip having lightened up a bit. However, I don’t think it will be enough to catch up. Mike is unencumbered – in more ways than one – and can make better time. But, Mike also has to real
ize that he needs to find a place for the night and may hole up if he finds one. That may give us a chance.
“It’s true what they say,” Trip states, looking a little morose.
We’d been walking for a little more than an hour, and Trip hadn’t said more than a handful of words, which was more than fine with me.
“I know I shouldn’t, but I’ll bite. What’s true, Trip?” I ask, cringing for what the answer might be.
“Post-partum depression.”
“I don’t even know why I asked.”
Michael Talbot – Journal Entry 8
“There you are.”
I’d been walking for miles when I came across a bridge that crosses over the top of the highway. Sitting in the shade and eating a meal sounded like a splendid idea. I just had to make sure nothing was hiding behind the huge cement stanchions. After a quick perimeter check, which didn’t even yield graffiti, I got behind one of the columns and opened up a meal. I ate a reasonable facsimile of tuna casserole and some sort of sponge cake that would have been more aptly named ‘brick loaf’ instead. I took a big swig from a canteen I’d pilfered and peered around the edge. Lucy was coming. She was a good five hundred yards away. She would walk a little bit and then stop to look at the bridge. She could sense the inherent danger lurking in the shadows. I just hoped the pull of her stomach would bring her in closer.
She was moving agonizingly slow, her hesitation was causing me precious minutes I didn’t have. I moved slowly, getting into the prone position, resting my rifle on the ground, and clearing some grass right in front of me. She was somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred yards now. I’d feel a whole lot better if she got within a hundred. I couldn’t afford to spend too much time playing this game, and Lucy needed to die. Even though I had goggles, she would still have the advantage over me at night, and that just wasn’t going to do. Plus, I’d yet to prove it, but I was fairly convinced zombies had some sort of telepathic means of communication, and I did not want her friends Ethel, Fred and maybe Desi Jr. showing up.
“Come on, Lucy. I’ve got a pie with your name on it.”
