by Javan Bonds
Flat Top spoke fondly to her. "Here they are, Mama. Daddy in there?"
Rather than using a buzzer or some type of intercom, she simply called through the open office door. "Randy! You’ve got guests!"
"Send ‘em on in,” came the reply from within.
The group moved to the door. Flat Top Pirate Dude whispered to the captives to excuse the primitiveness. "We got Gene working on a phone system for the entire island; he’s our Tech.”
They entered "Daddy's" office. The man sitting behind the broad wooden desk wore a camouflage cap and a T-shirt and jeans, he was intimidating, but not in a pirate sort of way. The room was mostly lit naturally by a bare window. He stood, pushing his rolling chair back, and addressed the entire room. "So I heard there was some shooting at the hotel before the team got to you."
Randy, Robert assumed, paused and was obviously waiting to hear the details of what happened. The wench answered, "Yes sir, there were jihadists at the motel who attacked the third member of this visiting band. This gentleman here, she pointed at Mortimer, eliminated the bitten in order to ease her suffering. These two survivors remained unscathed." She then thrust the two survivors into the spotlight by shoving them not too roughly in the back. Randy sometimes found the military respect that the former pawnshop owner gave him to be somewhat charming; it made him feel important and respected. But other times he just wanted to have a simple conversation with Hammer, also known as The Expert, without all the saluting, standing at attention, and all that other currently meaningless pomp.
Mortimer answered with all the deference and dignity he could muster. "Yes sir. Delilah Weed was a valued member of our team. She was bitten right across the cheek, sir, all the way to the bone. It was my duty to put her down with the two infected that had attacked her; nearly broke my heart to have to do it, sir.”
Randy appreciated one of the rare surviving senior citizens being respectful and he nodded at Mortimer, acknowledging his sacrifice. Still, this group; what were they doing at The Hampton Inn? He was dumbfounded that anyone could have survived this long and not realized that zombies preferred to seal themselves into small, abandoned houses and rooms and hibernate there. It hadn’t taken long for his group to figure that out. Maybe the peevies were afraid of open spaces such as warehouses, even when it was dark. The survivors could only guess at the reason. Randy, a part-time prepper himself, assumed that it had something to do with the instinctual knowledge of animals that smaller areas are easier to defend. Or maybe it was just that smaller areas held body heat more efficiently. Who knew? He thought briefly back on his own small, but comfortable bunker…that hadn’t turned out to be safe for everyone, though.
He said, "Hotels are prime spots for the infected to hide out. What made your team mate charge headlong into a closed room?”
It was obvious to Robert by now these people were not from Deliverance or Road Warrior. He unclenched his butt cheeks. "We had no idea. Since the virus hit Gadsden, our group has spent nights in tractor-trailers and warehouses. That hotel was actually the first building we have stayed in that had a real bed; we think Delilah…thought there were other survivors next door.”
"How many people did you start out with?" Flat Top asked from behind them.
Robert responded without turning. "Counting myself, seven." The entire room erupted in a mumbled chorus of profanities at the number lost.
Randy, obviously the boss, shook his salt and pepper hair and sympathized. "That sucks! I guess pretty much everyone on the island has lost someone." He looked into Robert’s eyes. "I’m glad at least the two of you made it, though."
Did he just say "everyone on the island?" Then it dawned on Robert; he had seen at least a dozen people as they traveled to the courthouse. There were people walking down the sidewalk and sitting on lawn chairs beside open tailgates. He now remembered seeing vendors with an assortment of items like fruit, vegetables, chickens…a veritable flea market.
After his belated realizations, a list of questions quickly formed. "How many people are here? Are we really on an island? How did you get the zombies out of all of these buildings?”
The boss smiled at him from behind the desk. "Well that’s a long story."
He waited for Robert to respond, and he did. "I ain’t got nothing better to do."
The boss chuckled and shrugged. "I suppose you don’t, and I guess I have some time to spare. Hammer, can you go get their paperwork from Debbie while I catch them up?"
The wench with the pink camo eyepatch nodded and left the room.
“Paperwork?" Robert asked.
The boss responded, "Yeah, it’s meant to identify you and all that crap. I am assuming you are going to stay on the island." He raised his hand to tell Hammer to wait. “We won’t keep you here, you understand. You are free to leave if you wish. But if you stay, we need paperwork. You can decide when it gets here.”
Both survivors nodded their heads, either in understanding or agreement or maybe both. The man continued. "Now, let’s get to that STORY.”
Mo Journal Entry 1
MO COLLINS HERE, I’m still alive, just like the name of the replica pirate ship I live on. Well, technically, the boat is named Viva Ancora, but it means the same thing. I know as the reader it’s only taken the time to open up this new journal, but for me, it has been weeks since I’ve had more than a few minutes to sit down and write something before I collapse onto the bed, exhausted.
After I got back from Douglas with The Reasons according to Smokes, my parents and The Love Interest, Sarah, I ran out of pages in my last notebook. It didn’t help that the more ambitious members of my little crew used a bunch of what I had left to draw up the plans to turn our peninsula into the island it had always claimed it was. It’s not fancy, just notebooks from the CVS in town, but I grabbed enough to bore you for a long time to come. Let me begin by reminding you that it appears I am living out some bizarre version of a divinely scripted zombie apocalypse in which I play The Hero. Lucky me.
I was recruited about a year ago to be a pirate tour-guide aboard a genuine replica Caravel ship, which is a glorified title for career boat-hobo. I’ve been crewed with an antisocial, Native American “cook,” (I use this title loosely, since all she does is heat up the fish she catches all day) we call Crow. We are not what you’d call “close.” Besides the fact that she doesn’t tolerate “motherfucking white people,” she’s not really into the whole twig and berries thing either; (she likes girls).
I started keeping a journal just a few days after the End of the World, May first—yeah, May Day. That’s when the plague reached our charming little Alabama backwater. That’s also about the time I met Marlon “Smokes” Williamson, my morbidly obese black friend I have since titled The Oracle. Like some kind of prophet, this guy knows how everything is going to play out and has predicted, correctly, that we would collect an entirely necessary cast of characters who would help us survive this George Romero-esque life. Not all of them still live with us aboard The Cora, but a few have chosen to. We have our Expert, Captain Petunia Sledge (a.k.a. Hammer); The Old Friend—my brother's high school buddy, Bradley, with his helper monkey, Mary; and the world’s most sincere geek, Gene, The Tech. The landlubbers all have roles to play, and eat better than we do, but I feel safer out here on “scenic” Gunter Lake. Peevies can’t swim.
I realize, looking at this shiny new notebook, that I’ve been lazier than usual lately. When everyone and I mean everyone, my parents, the love of my life, Sarah, our Medicine Man, and others were living on the boat, it got pretty crowded; though they still spend most of their time onboard. Then there was that whole thing with battling the ironfisted former military unit, losing our first Sacrifice and wounding our Expert; but since that shit cleared the fan, folks have started making their own homes in town, and I’ve been spending a lot of time with, you know, The Love Interest. Smokes, however, insists we've got more characters to find, and another Villain to vanquish. Which reminds me; I have been promising both Ge
ne and Smokes that we would go to their pads and collect their stuff. I can’t come up with another excuse, so I guess we'll be on our way. It just felt so good to wake up naturally for once. There was no hurry, no one needed immediate saving, we weren’t under attack, hell, I thought I might be dreaming when I woke to so much quiet and a blank journal. I’d slept in yesterday’s clothes. As I walked to the head and stripped down for a shower, I thought, shit, have I really been wearing these clothes since I left my parents’ house?
As I was walking up the stairs to the main deck, I was surprised that my dad had not already come below to say something like, "Hey, let’s go do something really fucking stupid, completely unnecessary, and ridiculously dangerous. Maybe we’ll barely survive and bring back another protagonist!" But all I saw was Gene and Smokes, standing at the gangplank re-hashing some point of contention on the difference between undead and living dead; Bradley was strapping yet another weapon to the bottom of his wheelchair; and Crow sat with her hook in the water. The others were not yet present, but there was no time to waste. Today, I was going to make sure that I could carry Gene and Smokes to their former homes and retrieve whatever it was they felt so strongly would change our lives. The Tech might just have a laser cannon, though I knew it was probably another cape or mask. The Oracle could very well have some kind of zombie repellent, or…err…necessary pharmaceuticals. More likely he just really wanted his Little Debbie cakes and cigarettes.
Nevertheless, a promise is a promise and heroes do not continually let their friends down. I was going to do my damnedest to actually get there today.
I had expected to see The Tech, who was also the owner of the comic book store, waiting with the gangplank lowered, but I was amazed that Smokes was ready to go as well. I suspected he had been asleep and when I went to the bathroom he’d somehow gotten up and ready in the few short minutes I was in the shower.
They approached as I came out and Smokes spoke to me. "We hit Skywalker’s crib first, my place on da way back."
I was about to congratulate him on being generous and thoughtful, but the two of us were taken aback by the explosion of joy from Gene’s force aura. "Thank you my friend!" The Tech turned to me and I could see it was taking all of his Vulcan discipline to keep from hopping up and down. "We will need to take the Gorgon,” his Star Wars tribute name for Hammer’s extended cab Chevy HD, “and might even need to make a couple of return trips."
Damn Gene, how many sets of Marvel Universe bed sheets do you have? And why the Gorgon? Why not just take one of the damn eighteen wheelers? Ah…why question it? It’s all part of the plan. "I don’t think the admiral–I mean, Hammer,” I said, “will mind if we use her flagsh–I mean, truck, while she is still sleeping." I was hoping not to get bitched out while simultaneously keeping my secret Star Wars geekiness hidden.
"Stellar. I already checked, and your dad left the keys in the driver’s seat!" Apparently, the tech had already been down to the truck this morning to check for keys and found some.
I must have slept longer than I thought. How did the Gorgon get here after our adventures at the Town Hall and Daddy's Bunker? Hammer was injured; my dad drove Momma’s Corolla...well, I’m not gonna go ask now; it’s not cool when the main character has no idea what’s going on. Thank God Gene was on it, because there was no way I was going to wake The Expert and ask her for the keys. Since I’d joined the Cora crew, not having a vehicle of my own had not been a problem, though I understood that I was eventually going to have to procure some wheels. Maybe Smokes could get me a Cadillac low rider with tinted windows and a pimp-ass stereo set; I could park it next to his purple Escalade.
☠☠☠
Gene really did live just across the causeway. The first right turn, a few hundred yards, and we were turning down his driveway.
"What bout da bee dude? Think dey’s any honey left?"
Smokes and I were thinking the same thing. I remembered that there used to be a honeybee farm–or whatever it’s called–right back there.
Gene replied before I could speculate, "Nope, Mr. Fredericks gave that up years ago."
"Damn, that makes me want honey even more!" I always want what I can’t have; don’t we all?.
"Dis a big pad. You ain’t got no ladies in hyar takin care o the place?"
The Oracle leaned forward from the middle of the rear bench seat as The Tech answered sheepishly. "No. I don’t really live in the house anyway. My quarters are down in the basement. My…roommate lives in the main house."
I was thinking it, Smokes said it. "Roommate? You live wit yo momma, doncha?" I thought he was going to split at the seams and I couldn’t help but smile. The Tech grew noticeably embarrassed. I feared he was about to throw Force Lightning at both of us.
"She lives with me!"
I’d heard that excuse too many times, but rather than become active in that hazing, I chose to change subjects. "So you’ve got your own door to outside?"
"Yeah, just follow the driveway to the back of the house."
It really was a big house; I guess it could be called a mansion. About halfway down the drive, the CB radio mounted to the dash buzzed and my first thought was, Holy Shit, when did they put that thing in?
My father came across with irritation in his voice. "Mo, where the hell are you? Over."
I knew either my mother had to be nearby or his fear of getting busted using a profanity had kicked in automatically. The word "hell" was nothing more than a whisper.
"Right now I’m at Gene’s house and then–"
"I don’t care. I just need that truck back here and more hands!"
I was afraid of this. If I’d simply left without saying anything to anyone, I would be in trouble, but I knew that if I did explain myself beforehand there would be some reason I would be forced to stay on the Cora or go do some other damn chore. As a Southern boy, born and bred, I knew I would be minding my mama and daddy the rest of my life, even after they had long passed on. But I was the captain of the boat crew now; I had the quarters to prove it. Here were two of my crew, and I was duty-bound to honor my word and finally take these two to pick up a few of their possessions, regardless of the earful I got for it. Still, outright refusal was not in my arsenal of independent manliness.
"But you have eighteen wheelers and a fleet of Humvees," I found it a bit absurd that he desperately needed one more pickup truck; I began to suspect it was more of a power-play.
He conceded that I had a point. "Yeah–well–okay. What time will you be back? Over."
Well, that wasn’t near as bad as I was expecting and I could have pushed it by answering we'd be back when we were damn well ready, but instead I said, “We hope to be back before lunch, I’ll let you know when we’re on our way."
Damn. I didn’t even eat breakfast. Just as I was about to ask Gene if we could use his replicator for some nutrients, I saw three breakfast MREs in the console. I hadn’t noticed them when we started this journey.
It was then I realized the radio was still live, apparently waiting impatiently. I could almost hear a foot tapping. My dad begrudgingly came back, "Roger. Over and out.” I smiled; there were some things I was never going to go along with.
Although I knew I would get bitched out later, I had hoped to get this done and make it back before anyone realized that three of the nine survivors living on the Cora were missing. Oh well, maybe I would come back with a truckload of Gene’s blaster rifles or maybe Smokes would pick up a copy of the script detailing everything that is scheduled to happen for the rest of the apocalypse; surely that would justify a little road trip.
We got out at the end of the driveway and followed The Tech to a standard screened-in porch built onto the back of the house. We walked to what looked like a double-wide elevator door, smooth, handle-free steel, where Gene placed his thumb onto a square glass panel that I suppose read his fingerprint. The doors parted in the middle. I shit you not; the sound of the doors sliding open from Star Trek could be heard. I knew it wasn’t my
imagination when I turned to see Smokes mouth, "What da fuck?"
Gene held up a forestalling finger. "I’ll go in, and when the door shuts, press this doorbell."
I did as he instructed. When I pressed the button a familiar chime sounded followed by Gene’s impersonation of Patrick Stewart. "Come!” sounded from the other side.
As I entered I asked the question. "Was that really necessary?"
"No, but it was kriffing awesome, wasn’t it?"
I had to slightly nod in agreement, that was the most awesome way anyone could enter a door. I looked around at this glory hole of everything sci-fi: Gene was sitting in Picard’s captain’s chair surrounded by the command crew’s seating, facing what had to be a jumbotron flat screen TV. Oh my God, I put my hand on the wall. This was too much, and I secretly wished I had known Gene for years. It was obvious that Smokes was anything but a sci-fi enthusiast, paying absolutely no attention to the beautifully replicated Enterprise Bridge where we stood, or the dozens of model starships from the original Battle Star Galactica, Star Craft, Babylon 5, to Mass Effect and FreeSpace around the room. Instead he was looking up.
I followed his gaze to the electric spotlights shining down. "Uh, Gene?"
I pointed straight up and he followed my finger and casually remarked. "Oh yeah, solar panels."
He said this as if everyone had enough solar panels to power a football stadium. When I continued to stare at him stupidly he added, "I have some about the right size to make conversions to power the Viva Ancora."
I had forgotten to check, so I still have no clue if propane gas had an expiration date. Either way we had a finite supply, so our current power system could only function for so long. Anyway, how much cooler was having solar panels?
I was about to ask him what else he had just lying around, when he suddenly leapt towards another door. "Come on! I’ve got to show you something."
Of course this door also slid open for him and before I made it all the way in the room I almost dropped to my knees. He had a full scale collection of iconic characters; there stood Darth Vader flanked by Boba Fett and a Storm Trooper. Back a row stood a Cylon (a centurion, not a gorgeous blonde), a Blood Raven Space Marine and a Predator; next to them was Iron Man and Master Chief. The Tech had suits from every sci-fi universe imaginable. Hell, there was a Quarrian suit, Magneto, Brotherhood of Steel, and Enclave power armor. I picked up my jaw from the floor. There was a Gears suit, Juggernaut, Dr. Doom, and even a few suits of medieval armor…all looking directly at me. I stood there a little creeped out as well as stupefied, wondering how a super nerd who lived with his mother was able to afford this epic dungeon of fantasy goodness as he gestured to another wall that instantly lit up from the motion of his hand. This was unreal.
