by Javan Bonds
Once we had stopped, we decided it would be best to find a working vehicle onsite before making our way to Easy’s UAB dormitory. I’m amazed–maybe we have subconsciously learned walking is not the only form of transportation.
I had been to his dorm only once and I don’t even remember the reason why–probably when he first moved in or maybe he had been awarded some type of scholarship for awesome people. The one thing that has stuck with me about that apartment was the fact that it was just so clean and perfect, the strong aroma of his cologne permeated everything.
The three of us made our way in the direction of a few airport utility trucks. I was crossing my fingers in hopes that they weren’t dead and that the keys were close by. I figured with my luck, each would have at least one dead body rotting and festering in the cab.
My large companion veered to the left as we walked. I asked calmly, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Listen cracka,” he gestured to the airport. “I know dey’s a ‘Chicken-Fil-A’ in dere and I’m a gemme a chicken samwich and some waffle fries.”
I wasn’t going to ask him what he wanted to drink, we were already in unforgivable territory. Was Smokes turning into Hammer now? He couldn’t seriously believe any restaurant in there would be open.
Hell, how did he even know if there was a Chick-fil-A in the airport? Was he guessing or had he seen it in one of his visions from the future?
He continued walking away. I shouted to his back, “You do know it will be closed, right?”
“What nigga, you think I’s stupid? I used to work at da one in Guntersville, maybe I can get da frya up.”
The ridiculousness of his idea dawned now and he stopped and kicked his foot at absolutely nothing. “Shit, I wanna fuckin’ chicken samwich!”
He wanted some normalcy and I could relate. “We’ll get you one tonight when we get back, I think I’ll have one too.”
The Oracle began walking back in my direction. I smiled and tacked on, “And a Dr. Pepper, bitch.”
By the grace of God or the master direction of The Screenwriter, the first utility truck we inspected had nearly a full tank of gas and a ring of keys resting on the seat. When something like this happens, I see our good fortune as predestined fate and believe the words of The Oracle. I’m faithful–that is until something shitty happens. Then I am back to being mired in doubt.
The three of us squeezed into the truck, Hammer taking the wheel for some reason. Maybe it was because deep down we all feel safer having a driver who’s a stickler for traffic laws, or it could just be my lack of initiative, but she always seems to be the one behind the wheel. Following the fifteen mile-per-hour posted speed limit, we cautiously made our way to the end of the parking lot where we passed an empty tollbooth with blood smeared across the inside of the cracked service window.
I’d never seen this airport when it was not busy and I breathed a sigh of relief after getting off their property; it was eerie as hell. I can’t really describe the feeling of being near a place that used to be bustling with activity but is now deathly quiet. It had a Langoliers creepiness to it.
“Lady, da lights ain’t workin’! Why da hell is you turnin’ da blinker on?”
After the first few attempts, I realized that it was pointless to argue with The Expert about her driving etiquette; these battles were as unproductive as arguments revolving around race with Smokes. I have learned to sit back quietly and take it most of the time while The Oracle had to bitch about everything.
There’s nothing to be gained from debating with crazy people–Hammer, that is–I’m not saying black people are crazy.
See? I don’t even need help making myself sound like a Grand Wizard.
“Just because the lights are off doesn’t mean that I won’t get a ticket.” she stated adamantly as if a paddy wagon was waiting just around the corner.
He shook his head, unable to understand her caution since this was probably the only automobile moving south of Guntersville. “But dey ain’t no otha cars on da road!”
I wanted to correct him because there actually were cars on the road, they were just stopped or wrecked. I was wise enough to remain quiet. Their bickering continued for a few more blocks of coming to complete stops and signaling before turning. The Expert made cautious, wide arcs around the stalls and the few fender benders we encountered. I briefly wondered if she recognized that these vehicles were dead. Maybe she had created some other reason there were empty automobiles in the middle of normally busy streets in a normally busy city. Somewhere in her unstable mind, we were still traveling in traffic and were still beholden to its rules.
Birmingham felt a lot like Guntersville directly after May Day. There were no craters from huge explosions, grotesque leftovers of obvious mutilations, no burning buildings or military presence, nothing to indicate The End of the World. There was just peevie shit splattered copiously and the eerie absence of bird chirping. If you were blind and not able to smell the gut wrenching excrement surrounding you, you might think this was just a really peaceful day.
If I think about it too long, I start to wonder if maybe we are just three crazy people traveling through Alabama cities during a lull in activity. If I had not spent the past month running away from blue nudists and seeing a group of bad guys destroy my hometown while using zombie guard dogs, I might feel right in thinking we are escaped mental patients, good pals that murdered a state representative, stole his plane, then landed illegally at an international airport. I’d have to be pretty messed up, but I guess it could happen.
We came to the UAB dormitory building where my brother roomed. I was almost certain Easy was inside and just waiting for his older sibling to rescue him. You know, because I’m the badass of the Collins’ offspring.
I exclaimed, “Just park here–right here! Right on the street and we can use the stairs!”
“Chill dawg, ain’t no need in gettin’ excited.”
I was somewhat worried Hammer would have made an attempt to enter the parking deck attached to the building prior to my exclamation and was acting preemptively. That would have been the complete opposite of fucking enjoyable, so I had a pretty damn good reason to get excited. I’m surprised the parking deck scene from Dawn of the Dead didn’t flashed through his mind; then again, plenty of nasty shit goes down on abandoned streets, too.
The other two in this trio had obviously forgotten the feral ghouls that are hiding in almost every shadow. I know that makes me sound a little bit paranoid, but I really don’t give a shit. I understand the odds, but I’d rather not chance running into a nocturnal cannibal lurking in a darkened corner and possibly ending up blue and naked. I’ve seen this film; it doesn’t end well for everyone.
Thankfully, the parallel parking spots in front of the building were open. After squaring the truck perfectly, The Expert killed the engine and signaled we were safe to unbuckle our seat belts.
The building’s glass front doors were unlocked and we entered with no obvious worries. I could’ve sworn I detected a hint of bleach or some type of cleaning solution in the air. Most of the stairwell was brightly lit by an almost seamless window that stretched the entire height of the building. Actually, I guess I was wrong about that window being seamless. Four stories up we came to a hallway bathed in nearly complete blackness. There were cracked open doors on the outer-side spilling the faintest amount of light.
“Is this a joke, God?” I looked back down from the heavens before asking my compatriots. “Okay, who wants to go through first?”
“You white; you always gets ta go first, cracka. How you like it?”
“What the hell does that mean? She’s as white as I am!” I gestured to Hammer. “And what about ‘ladies first?’” Hammer shrugged. I resigned myself to my fate and broke a glow stick. “I’ll run the gauntlet but cover my ass. Take out any that chase.”
It goes without saying that the Expert is a phenomenal shot compared to me so I was more than willing to trust her acc
uracy. I can shoot; I’m just not a super soldier that can hit a bull’s-eye with a pistol at nine hundred yards. Her mastery could not be contested.
The idea of just using a flash bang had crossed my mind, but I really didn’t want to ring the dinner bell for every peevie in the city.
The husky seer dropped to a knee and aimed down the pitch corridor. “I got yo back dawg.”
Not you, dumbass.” I slapped my forehead. “You are holding a shotgun!”
He held his gun away from him and looked at it with a cocked eyebrow. As if to say, “No shit, cracka.”
I’m from rural Alabama, I have put more shells through shotguns throughout my life than I can count. Most were not what you’d call tight shots. Would you feel safe being anywhere but behind a shotgun when it sprays pellets everywhere?
Until this moment, I had assumed The Oracle had shared similar experiences during his childhood. I simply shook my head. “Get the fuck up and let Hammer take your position.”
He rose, shrugged his shoulders as he walked away. He let me know, “Whateva cracka, it yo funeral.”
He just couldn’t understand how I could trust a Specter with genetically enhanced accuracy more than a cartoon character with ADD. Would you prefer Agent 86 from Get Smart, or Hitman’s Agent 47 firing high-powered rounds in the general direction of your clumsy ass?
She got into position and held up three fingers. “On the count of three.” She dropped one finger. “One–“
“Whoa! How are you going to do it?”
She looked at me stupidly. I clarified, “One, two, go on three?” I gestured for her to let me continue. “Or one, two, three, go?”
This is a valid question. That extra half-second could mean the difference of a piece of lead in my ass. She shook her head sadly the same way I did earlier and said, "Ready–"
She tightened her grip on her rifle. “Set–”
Given no time to think, I simply started moving and passed her the instant she barked, “Go!”
I ran in a zigzag pattern, praying the expert shot straight. When nothing jumped out of the doors, I began to wonder if this floor even contained any dorm rooms. I’ve seen Bradley’s monkey, Mary, turn knobs to open doors. Peevies had started to seem pretty intelligent, for ravenous animals, and I’m not going to believe the ones I saw open doors at the Best Western were oddities. Until I see proof otherwise, I’m going to assume every one of the fuckers can lock-pick advanced difficulty doors with nothing more than a bobby pin and a screwdriver like they do in Fallout. Over halfway down the hallway, at the apex of one of my zigs, the one door that opened outwardly, collided with my face, and the back of my head collided with the FLOOR.
☠☠☠
5
Mo Journal Entry 4
Prophecy from The Book of Smokes
The Loner is a character that will be discovered secluded from the rest of the pre-and/or post-apocalyptic world and may be completely unaware that the dead walk. Regardless of seclusion or ignorance, the monsters do not bother this protagonist often. This inevitable character may be initially reluctant to join with the main protagonists, having been fine on his or her own, but will ultimately find or invent a role among the group.
☠☠☠
“DOES HE DO that a lot?” I heard an unfamiliar voice ask as I snapped back into consciousness.
“Yeah, he has a tendency to faint pretty easy.”
Well fuck you too, Hammer. Receiving serious head trauma and being knocked unconscious is not the same thing as fainting!
I wasn’t active in sports during high school, but I had been rendered unconscious by physical blows on more than one occasion throughout my life; not to mention nearly cracking my skull in a gas station just a few days ago. That episode with the cans rolling across the mini-mart floor flashed across my mind as she insinuated to this stranger that I was a weakling.
I was unable to think of any reasonable defense. I shouted, “I didn’t faint! Getting hit in the head is different! How long was I out anyway?”
Smokes shrugged. “You was still layin’ on da flo, sleepin’ long nuff fo us to get a new friend.”
What the hell does that mean? I looked over to where the seer was nodding.
An older black man in a janitor’s uniform greeted me. “I know you’re Mo; I’m Tychus, Tychus Jones.”
I blinked, not sure if my recent brain injury was affecting my perception. I was looking at the winner of the Morgan Freeman look alike contest who clearly wasn’t a fan of StarCraft.
“Where’s Jim Raynor?” I asked as I envisioned the janitor in a set of Gene’s power armor.
I’m fairly sure he wasn’t playing along and I’m betting we weren’t thinking about the same person. He stated flatly, “I haven’t seen that man in years and I believe he died long before these blue monsters came along.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow to ask how I knew his old friend, but I asked first, “Do you live here?”
I was thinking that this guy could be part of my brother’s surviving tribe, another group that would come to be labeled as The Similar. I would nod my head as he told me of how Easy had been governing their community as a perfect benefactor; of how they are actually better off now because of my God-sent brother than they would have been with some weak mortal controlling the community.
But Tychus shot down my dreams like he would a Zerg. “Yep, just me and an old Adjutant. I’ve been working here thirty years; so far this building has been pretty safe. There were a few students here, but they said they heard something about some kind of sanctuary or something a few miles away and left a couple of weeks ago. And no, I haven’t heard from them since they left.”
“Who’s the adjutant?” I asked. I know I’m not the only one that immediately thought of the computer with the same name from the video game.
“Adjutant is my cat.”
“So, just you then? There’s no infected hiding in these rooms?”
“Not last time I checked; I’ve been all over the building.”
“And you just leave the doors unlocked? I’m pretty sure they can open those.”
“They sure can. But when you came in through the lobby, didn’t you smell the cleaning solution? Seems they don’t like that, so I mop the floors every day, just like I always have. Keeps them out and keeps me occupied.” I nearly laughed at that, thinking of the shit covered cannibals turning their noses up at something that didn’t reek.
So bleach or Pine Sol, or whatever, was a peevie repellent? I would have to remember to test that out. Maybe it was chlorine or some lemony freshness in the cleaning solution.
Tychus continued and chuckled as he spoke. “Plus it might be just me. I don’t guess they like old, chewy jerky,” he said, gesturing down to his leathery and bony frame.
I think all of The Oracle’s talk about me being The Hero has built up some type of classic savior complex in my mind. “You should come with us. Even if we don’t find this sanctuary you were talking about, we live on an island that is peevie-free. My home is the Viva Ancora, but there are plenty of houses you can live in.”
“I was getting kind of so much quiet; I know this is a safe place but I miss company. I’ll likely take you up on that offer.”
He added, “‘Peevies?‘”
I grinned. “That’s our name for the zombies.”
I had always just figured everyone was calling them peevies since it was a term used quite often on the news immediately following the outbreak. In The Walking Dead, everyone automatically understands the zombies are referred to as “walkers.” I’m just hoping this is not going to be one of those things I have to explain to every newcomer I encounter like I do when it comes to the damn boat.
I was about to speak again when he brought up another question. “Are there any cows on your island? I’d kill for a steak.”
“Fo sho, homey,” Smokes answered. “An I gots nuff weed to bake a cake wit.”
The janitor nodded with understanding and I was a bit taken
aback; senior citizens and illegal drugs have never been connected in my mind. Apparently, everyone else understood that to be a good amount, but I don’t believe I’d ever heard the saying Smokes just used.
What the hell is wrong with me? When did I become such a generous saint? Just over a month ago, I guarantee you I would never have offered a free plane ticket to a stranger and now I feel duty-bound to help everyone? I blame Smokes. If this kept up we would have to run shuttle flights.
Our new friend had no clue where the students had gone and I decided to go check Easy’s dorm room for any clues.
When I entered the spotless and pristine apartment, I noticed on the vanity a piece of paper directed to “Whom It May Concern,” in my brother’s handwriting.
In his perfect calligraphy he wrote that he and several other students were leaving for a state prison in Jefferson County that they had been told was being used as a safe zone by (at least) the local government.
His letter was dated and thankfully included a hand-drawn map directing the reader to that location.
Before leaving my bodybuilder brother’s room to give the map to our pilot, I made sure to stuff a few protein bars in my pocket. It was getting late in the afternoon, I was not holding out hope we would be home before sundown and guessed we would be spending the night in the plane once we landed near this prison–lucky us. We might need something to tide us over, I was sure the Oracle would.
