by Ron Tufo
To say that the Talbot home was quiet and somber that night would have been a most pathetic understatement. Melissa sat in the corner of the living room softly sobbing and breaking into woeful tears the whole night. She resisted any attempts at contact, even by the kids, whom she adored and adored her. It was more than I could bear. Dad and Gary both saw how much I was not able to cope with it all. It was dad who said, “Let’s go for a walk up to Wink’s place and get some fresh air. It will help you, son.”
Mark picked up on the message from my dad and asked if he could join us. I gave him a huge hug, that was all the yes he needed.
The Rescue at Lookout Mountain Nursing Home
Death is fatal. Usually. - Ron Talbot
For the first few days after the initial zombie sighting, no phone calls to mom’s nursing home at Lookout Mountain were ever connected. Why do nursing homes always have these colorful, hopeful names? They should be called Where You Came To Die Nursing Home or Last Call Nursing Home or maybe even Bingo Blast Death Center, and while we are on the subject, I think it is very telling that in every nursing home there are six hundred seventy-three women and two men, one of which has already kicked the bucket but no one has gotten around to dumpstering him yet, and the other one has no freakin’ idea where he is and just sits in his wheelchair, sleeps and drools. But more to the point, it is astounding to me that modern communications could be rendered useless in so short a time.
It was determined at a family meeting that we should rescue mom from the nursing home. I really wanted to do something about this family meeting crap. Most of them, at the time, were called by Lyn, and every single one of them ended with someone other than Lyn having a very undesirable task put before them to accomplish. Maybe I could have shot her? Nah, dad wouldn’t like it. He never lets me have any fun.
This particular meeting was no different than any of the others. The only exception being that both Gary and I were volunteered together this time to drive to Lookout Mountain and attempt a rescue. Neither of us was looking forward to a successful conclusion because a successful conclusion meant we would have to take her with us back to the house.
Mark actually volunteered for the trip. Oh well, the boy is young. He will learn. All eyes looked at me. I really didn’t want my son to be along for this one, or any mission; not until he was seasoned a little bit more. Gary knew what I was thinking. He jumped my thoughts anyway and thanked Mark for wanting to come. Said it would be good experience for him and he could provide cover for us. Mark beamed at the opportunity. I just hoped he would still be beaming when we returned from this picnic.
Lyn may be the prettiest, petite-est, and nicest girl in the world but she rules the family with an armored gauntlet. Years of corporate life had ruined this poor lass. She knew expertly how to manipulate anyone around anything. She had skills and morals worthy of a used car salesman. We never stood a chance. Even though we had both been sold down the river into the open maw of all the zombies waiting to take a bite from Mrs. Talbot’s two oldest baby boys, Lyn had everyone believing we were on a Holy Crusade to save the matriarch of the family. Damn, how does she do that?
Everyone pitched in and loaded supplies–supplies being guns and ammo, potato chips and beer–into the truck, since no one said we couldn’t enjoy the ride. I tossed in a six-pack of Coke for Mark. Both Gary and Mark looked at me funny. Gary gingerly removed the coke and replaced it with another six pack of Miller Light, his favorite.
“Ron,” he muttered, “Mark is coming out to expel things with us. The least we can do is let him have a couple of beers after it is over.” Even though he was right, it didn’t mean I had to like it.
If Mark had been beaming before, now he was shining like the Winter Harbor Lighthouse beacon up on Schoodic Point. He was going to get to shoot stuff and drink beer. They don’t call Mainers the Northern Rednecks for nothing.
The nursing home was only about twenty-five short miles away but our hearts were already pounding, especially given how none of the other shortish road trips had been what we would describe as uneventful. We had no idea what to expect, so I guess it shouldn’t have been that big of a surprise when we turned the very first corner and ran smack into our closest neighbors, Clara and her two older sons. As we pulled up to say hi, it was Gary who first noted the winds of death smell that accompanied them. Maybe their color was a little off also. I believe I’ve already told you I am not the fastest thinker in the family.
Without so much as a “Hi. How are ya,” Gary drew my .32 pistol from the glove compartment and proceeded to put neat little holes right where they should be. His only comment was, ”Well, that had to be done.” Mark was not beaming so much anymore. I was kind of happy about that in a twisted sort of way. Seeing zombies up real close, then being a witness to killing them, and not through the site of a Gatling Gun, he was showing just the kind of reaction I had hoped he would. Quite a bit different from shooting them from a hundred feet away. Death is not an appealing sight no matter what form it comes in. His most human reaction to witnessing it close up was reassuring to me that he would likely still become a good man and not some psychopathic killer.
I just started to think about bodies piling up and what would have to be done about them. The zombie killing didn’t bother me, but the damn disease or whatever it was that created them to begin with made my mind fill with the creepiest of visuals. Oh well, I’d never cared much for Clara anyway, kind of a bitchy air-head.
The next few miles of the ride were an exercise in scouting. We looked hard for any signs of real life. We stopped at one local mechanic shop to gather any free range tools that may be escaping and to see if anyone was home. Andy, the mechanic, was there. Kinda. We saw him under an old Chevy pickup on which he had been doing an engine replacement. I yelled to him and didn’t get any recognition.
Mark looked at him on his creeper and said, “Hi Mister Webster…how are you doing?” Still no answer. Gary and I both looked at each other and thought the worst. Mark hadn’t gotten to that point yet. He was always joking with the old mechanic and grabbed his feet to haul him out from under the truck.
Before Gary or I could warn him not to do that, he had the creeper all the way out. Andy was not all there anymore, in the most physical sense, from the chest up and attached to him was the reason why. The zombie who used to be his wife was still chewing on his torso. Mark did what I was already doing, except I wasn’t throwing up all over Andy. Funny, Gary was usually the first in this contest. This time however, he was the one with cool head.
“Mark, you need to back up now,” Gary scolded. Mark was already on his knees and scrabbling back as Gary was taking aim with the pistol. I was yelling for him to wait a second until the zombie cleared the truck a little bit further, I mean, hey. It was a really nice old ’55 Chevy Task Force, freaking rare and awesome; I didn’t want to get zombie goo all over it because, naturally, I was already planning on recovering it on the way back.
Mark was just getting his wits about him again. He turned to me and was almost but not quite in tears. “Dad, I don’t think I am ready for this.”
“Son, no one is ready for this. Not ready for the zombies or the killing or the bad people that come out of the closets around nightmares like this one. All we can hope for is that we care of each other and survive as a family. That, and hope I find lots of trucks I can get to keep.” He smiled at the small dad joke. We both felt a little better having faced up to a bit of reality; it didn’t seem quite so overwhelming–for a moment.
“Hey dear bro and dear bro son. We need to go, so if you are done with your hugfest let’s get moving.” Ahh, I could always count on Gary’s deep and profound sense of empathy.
There was literally no vehicle movement on the roads. That worried me. I had hoped to see a bit of traffic because it would have been proof positive that some other folks had survived. Nada. Nothing. I could only hope that some people were still hunkered down. We pulled into an empty gas station to get our fuel topped off
before we realized there was no power to the pumps. Whether or not we could bring any juice on line remained a moot point as we quickly noticed a larger bunch of zombies gathering around the gas station.
Gary had his head buried inside a circuit box when I started tapping him on the shoulder: “You done yet? You need to finish soon! I think you should leave this for a later time.” He pulled his head around to tell me to leave him the fuck alone while he’s working with what still might be high voltage electricity when he looked over my shoulder to see the enemy infantry coming around the short curve, closing on our position.
“Damn…is that still Abner’s ornery wife leading this parade?” Gary whispered to me.
“Yeah dude, I think it is. I just can’t tell if she is leading this little march or the zombies are following her as a source of mobile protein.”
So if we lived through this little escapade, we both made notes to never, ever leave our weapons in the truck again then walk far enough from the truck that it would be cause for concern!!! He ran to the left and I ran to the right and that, folks, was the piece of stupid blind luck that may have saved our bony white asses that day. That, and the fact that Ida, Abner’s little puss bag of a wife, was trying to direct the zombies as to which way to go. First she pointed and yelled Gary’s way. “Get him!" and all the zombies headed to the left. Then she decided they had a better shot at me, so she screamed for them to go the other way. Kind of funny in a scary movie sort of way. Zoms bouncing off each other trying to follow her directions and getting nowhere fast.
One thing though, this answered the question as to whether or not Ida was leading Littlefield’s Legion of Doom. She was. Good. It would ethically make it so much easier to shoot her.
The zoms made no progress for a moment while they were losing sight of which piece of meat to chase. Because of that hesitation, we were able to run around the group and make it back to the truck. As they all began to regroup and come for us, I mashed the accelerator to the floor. My little Ranger answered the call with the same urgency I had. Ida was not pleased.
So now, maybe we knew why there no other folks were around. If they had been as stupid as we were and not blessed by that ridiculous Talbot idiot luck, then there was a good chance they never made it past the first day.
We would come to Doc Jefferson’s place a few miles before we would get to my mother’s nursing home. I was really hoping he and his family were still alive and relatively safe. We decided to pull in and find out for sure. There were few enough human allies remaining that it surely seemed like a wise course to pursue.
We pulled into their meandering driveway slowly and beeping the horn. Doc was known to have a gun or two around, and no one liked to be surprised by unexpected guests anymore. We came around the final curve and the shotgun blast boomed out. Right through the side of the truck.
“Son of a Bitch. Why do they always have to shoot at my truck!”
Then we heard the doc. “David, lower your shotgun. I told you I would make the decision to shoot first.”
“You, in the truck. Don’t come any closer or I will tell him to start shooting again.”
I stood on the brakes real quick and yelled back to Doc. “Jefferson, it’s us. The Talbots. We brought old Abner in a while ago with his ass full of gravel. Remember?!”
“Ron? Ron Talbot. That you? I should shoot you just for that!” but we could hear the smile in that response. “Well, what are you waiting for? Drive up into the garage where we can all be inside. The house is secure.”
Once inside we got to meet Doc’s family. His teenage grandson, David, was about the same age as Mark. The moment Mark questioned him about the PS4 he saw they were off on a video game tour of David’s room.
He also had a seven-year-old granddaughter named Rebecca. Pretty and bright little girl who was thrilled to learn we had a little girl staying with us, also. She immediately started begging her dad for Iza to come over for a visit soon. Like today, soon. She hadn’t had any friends over for obvious reasons and even the Doc thought it would be a great idea if we could swing it. Got the feeling it would take some of the pressure off him. His wife had passed away of an incurable illness some years ago and he was a single grandparent with young children. A tough row to hoe.
We made Doc aware that Ida’s Army was approaching. He snorted like an old bull going once more into the ring. “Figures, doesn’t it. That crotchety old witch has been a thorn in my butt for years. Well, let them come. We are certainly impenetrable in this house. It is all brick and barred windows; I have braced all the doors. Nothing short of a cannon blast will get to us. Don’t have to shoot them, just have to wait them out. I do wonder why the zombies haven’t taken chunks out of her though? Maybe even the zombies know she would make a lousy meal.” Damn, I was jealous of his fort!
Promises were made to David and Rebecca that we would be back for a visit as soon as we could. Very glad to know we had at least one small group of live allies in town. Oh yeah, we did encounter a few more more zombies after leaving Doc’s, and we did get in a bunch of target practice with various weapons. I did like firing my dad’s old 30.06 rifle, even if the thing had a kick that let you know you were shooting something that could bring down a deer at a hundred yards–though you’d never get that much clear distance in the Maine woods. One time I stepped out of the truck to get a clean shot at a dumpster-diving zombie who looked like his lot in life hadn’t changed that much, and did not set myself properly. Damn thing almost flew out of my hands as I landed on my butt when I took the shot. My darling brother, being the kind and caring soul that he is, came up behind me and picked me up off my ass. Then he proceeded to take my rifle and exchange it for the little single shot derringer he had brought along as a joke waiting for just the right opportunity. I will admit under duress however, that it was funnier than hell.
Gary liked his new 308 rifle most. Packs just about same ammo as my father’s 30.06 with a bit less kick. Asked him if he maybe wanted to trade. Hey what did I have to lose? Next time I shot my dad’s rifle, it was going to be from a mobile mount on the fence back home. Man, that thing hurt! No taker on the trade, though.
Mark asked me, “How much further to Grandma’s? Gary looked at him with a most serious expression and answered, “It will be on our left. You will know just as soon as we pass through the Gates of Hell.”
The parking lot for Lookout Mountain Nursing Home was devoid of activity. We pulled in and then sat in the truck for a few minutes while we formulated a rough plan for what we were going to do next. We visually checked our environs then drove around the entire building complex to be sure that no zoms were looking for their next snack.
Sounds good, right? Actually, Gary and I were both so damned flustered from the gas station fiasco, it helped measurably to assure ourselves that we still held onto our man cards, along with other parts, by being way more vigilant in our approach. We opened the doors to the truck. The next sound Gary heard was a Beep-Beep as I locked the doors. He looked at me like WTF, and I answer with a completely straight face. “Hey man, we are talking about my truck here! I wanna be real sure no one is going to hoist it on me while we are inside! That all right with you?”
And then the little shit makes a big show of looking all around again and then at me. “You do know there is no one here, right?”
“Don’t care, man. I ain’t taking any chances with my truck!” Mark shrugged at my brother. He had been around me long enough to be aware of my questionable priorities.
As we start walking toward the front door, we begin to hear some not too calm screams, assuming there is such a thing as a “calm scream.” We do the manly thing and start backing up fast. The swinging doors burst open and out pour all kinds of nursing home personnel. Doctors, nurses, cleaning people, administrators, you name it! They all make it as far as the parking lot and stop to see if anyone or anything is still chasing them. Only seconds later, out come a horde of zombies and the screaming starts all over again. The nursing
home folks start to move away, but remain clustered in a group. Maybe they figured there’s safety in numbers? Now the zombies are all in the parking lot too, albeit moving in that classic zombie shuffle. They are also staying in the classic zombie scrum. So we’ve got people in a group on one side of the parking lot and zombies in a group on the other side of the lot, Talbots in the middle of the whole mess, as usual.
The automatic swinging doors opened once again and all the people out in the parking let out a stage whisper “GASP!” I looked at Gary and Mark; they were staring wide-eyed at the door. Slowly and queenly out rolls a powered wheelchair with my mother in it, so help me God. Her jaw was snapping, her head was doing the exorcist thing, and her hands were making pentagrams in the air!! FUCK! Every single zombie in the lot hung their head down and started skulking away from her. One snarl from her and they all stopped and shrank even further into themselves. They declined to chase the free meals that were in the lot with them. They were just trying not to be noticed by my soul-snapping mother! Even the non-zoms from the nursing home staff were cringing at her jawing, and she hadn’t even turned her attention to them. Both groups went from loose gatherings to ultra-compact clumps. Not only was there safety in numbers it seems, there was even more safety being in the depths of a glued together clot where you couldn’t see darkness and darkness couldn’t see you.
“OMG, my mother is the Zombie Whisperer!!!”
