by Javan Bonds
When I say "unreal," I don’t mean the hulking bad asses with power armor and ridiculous firearms, though he probably had some of that. I mean this was unimaginably cool and I had to make an effort not to drop and bow at the feet of this collector of everything my inner nerd wanted to squeal about needing. On the wall before us hung more fantasy melee weapons than I could name. I easily recognized a bat’leth and several batarangs. The Tech was currently wearing Wolverine’s claws like he had been born with them, and I was assuming the Predator wrist-blade things were displayed with the suit. There were Claymores, Rapiers, scimitars, battle axes, battle hammers, and spears—items stylized across universes from D&D to Warhammer. Strange looking shurikens, multi-bladed throwing knives, several alien daggers…it seemed endless. There was an entire wall hung with lightsabers, Darth Maul’s red double blade at the top in a Samurai sword rack. The only thing I couldn’t spot was that Halo energy sword; how disappointing.
"Holy hell, Gene! How did you pay for all this stuff?" I was pretty sure owning a comic bookstore didn’t provide one with a yearly income that would cover all this.
He smiled, "My dad made a Hutt’s ransom from his investment in America Online before he died."
The way he said it, it was obvious that his dad had died years ago and had not been killed by the peevie virus. He looked down and said blankly, "My mom lives upstairs and she’s in a wheelchair and…"
Are you shitting me? I knew what was coming, he wanted me to go check on her. With almost no prodding and no kind of pleading or deal making, I had resigned myself; I would go find out about his mother. I glanced over at Smokes who was making an obvious effort to look at anything besides me. Bastard. I nodded and silently agreed to take care of it.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked as it opened and I had goose bumps all over my arms. I had absolutely no idea of the layout of this house and every board seems to groan as I walked. I had to keep telling myself that a peevie wouldn’t really have been in the house for weeks waiting silently to jump out and bite me. I had to keep repeating “Peevies are not really undead, they can’t just hibernate.” I peeked around the corner and took a step. A fat cat ran across my foot. I’m amazed I didn’t shit my pants or scream. Then I started wondering why a cat would be so obese if there was no owner to feed it. This feline looked like it had been taking diet tips from Smokes. Oh God, there was only one reason it would be so overweight with a dead caretaker. Actually two reasons, fortunately it wasn’t the one I had originally assumed.
I passed through a room and noticed the enormous animal’s food and water bowls were under automatic droppers. Thank You God, now please don’t let me find a half-eaten lady was my thought as I turned into what was apparently the dining room. A woman sat in a wheelchair with her head on the table. I could clearly see that she was dead. As I drew closer I spied an empty bottle of pills by her hand; beside it lay a note that said, "See you on the other side, Gene. It didn’t hurt. Love, Mom. May the Force be with you." I imagine overdosing on sleeping pills wouldn’t hurt but I was still trying to think of a way to remain empathetic and considerate while I told Gene that his mother had killed herself. It looked as if she’d been dead for nearly a week. At least it wasn’t yesterday; I already felt guilty enough.
I am extraordinarily grateful that I did not have to search every story of the house to find her. I’m now wondering why the hell a lady in a wheelchair lived in a multi-story house anyway. Maybe there was an elevator I didn’t see or one of those wheelchair lifts at the stairs. I eventually found my way back downstairs and I had the perfect consolation for Gene.
When I reached the base of the stairs, I saw Smokes carrying a box through the automatic doors and Gene waiting in a TNG Starfleet Captain’s uniform. I’m guessing he had all kinds of costumes stored down here.
"Did you find her?" He looked genuinely worried. I really didn’t want him to start crying.
I gave my rehearsed line. “She has become one with the Force and her transition appears to have been peaceful." Yeah, I used my geek lingo and it actually seemed to help. He appeared relieved that his mother had not suffered. I was wondering if The Tech would do something ridiculous like leave her corpse in the kitchen to rot.
He finally exhaled and said, "I guess we’re going to have to put her to rest."
I was going to suggest not burying her, I doubt the three of us would break much ground, and I don’t think I need to go into detail on what a flesh eating monster would do to a body that it only had to dig up to get to. I should have known that our resident Jedi already had a plan.
"Go up to the barbecue pit, and wait for me there." Gene said. He told us like we knew exactly where it was.
☠☠☠
Thank God the peevies are nocturnal. It only took several minutes of searching the yard like bumbling idiots for Smokes and I to locate this makeshift crematorium. There were stacks of logs and fluid-soaked kindling beside the pit and we began to throw it all in. It’s funny how we just automatically accepted that we were going to fucking burn a body in a barbecue pit.
Gene came out of the house pushing his mother. He had graciously waited until he was upstairs to lose control of his emotions and I could see by his reddened face that he wished he had come back home sooner; we would all harbor regrets after the world’s end. Mrs. Stanley was now dressed in a white robe, I guess she had a few costumes of her own. Now that I think about it, I’m extremely glad she was handicapped. Wow, I really am an asshole–but otherwise, I probably would have been tasked with being a pall bearer. The Tech rolled her to the pit and gently lowered her down. He stood up straight, blew his little Star Trek whistle before saluting, and dropped a single rose he’d grabbed from a small side garden onto the body. He then started a flame with his Federation Zippo and stepped back as the fire swelled. I was hoping for some kind of sound or misty flow signifying that she had materialized into another essence on a parallel plane, but after nothing more than a few minutes of listening to the crackling of wood, Gene signaled for us to head back to his bridge and begin collecting weapons and armor.
☠☠☠
As we walked back to the dungeon, he exhaled in relief and smiled sadly. The stoic nerd asked, "Did you see Tiberius?"
I cocked an eyebrow and answered. "You mean the cat? He’s been eating like a king. Do you want to take him with us?"
I frankly despise house cats. While my parents left food outside for a few ferals throughout my life, I never saw a use for cats besides catching mice. But I’m not Captain fucking Bligh; I was willing to allow him to keep something of his mother or a beloved pet, even if it meant I had to deal with cat hair everywhere.
He said with disgust, "Frack no, I hate that little sand panther. Leave him here. When he runs outta food and loses some weight, he can fit through the doggie door."
Well, I was kind of relieved he felt the same way I did about the demonic little creatures.
Our resident sci-fi nerd didn’t give instructions, I didn’t feel I needed them, and Smokes either knew more than he was letting on or was just rushing us so we could get to his place. There was no real hurry, but even our unhealthy companion began vigorously moving. We started loading crates of body armor into the truck. It was obvious that Boba Fett would be less likely to get bit than someone wearing plain clothes. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be the one fighting zombies with a sword or an axe even wearing Spartan armor, but we also loaded the Gorgon with melee weapons. Maybe I’m just a pussy preferring long range weaponry. I witnessed Gene butcher one with Wolverine claws, wearing no protection other than a gas mask!
On one of my last trips from the armor room, I caught a glimpse into the Captain’s Quarters as the door closed behind Gene. "You better get that Romulan Ale."
I knew what that tall bottle of blue liquid was and he retrieved, opened it, and let me sniff. I’m not sure how this didn’t expose me for the nerd I was.
I was somewhat saddened, "Dude, its just vodka."
He
returned, "Yeah, but it’s blue."
Apparently this made it other-worldly. I would have to take a shot later.
I pulled myself up into the cab; the zombie prophet was already in the front passenger seat. Our next stop was his place so I guess it was his turn to ride shotgun. He was followed by Gene who got into the back along with his suitcase emblazoned with the Federation logo.
"The bed is pretty much full. Do we need to unload at the Cora before we go to your house?" I gestured to the rear of the truck.
"Naw cuz, ain’t no big shit, I’s a broke-ass nigga."
I didn’t feel this was meant as a slight towards Gene and his treasure trove; Smokes was just letting us know there would be no heavy lifting. It didn’t sound envious; I myself am a middle-class kid from Alabama, I can relate. I mean I don’t hate people because they have money, I’m poor but I’m also a Libertarian. I backed out of the driveway with enough melee weapons to outfit a small army and I knew this was far from our last mission to the collector’s former ABODE.
Mo Journal Entry 2
I HAD NOT even considered asking where Smokes had lived before the peevie shit hit the fan. After driving instructions like "Turn at da Taco Bell" and "If you see brothas wit gats, you safe cause you wit me," I paled as I realized that we were headed to "The Hill."
I’d heard tales from my white friends back in high school about their adventures to this federal housing community. Though I doubted their wild stories about drug dealers on street corners in the middle of the day and gang members flashing machine guns, I have never been a risk taker and was frankly too much of a scared, white, suburban kid to take my own death-defying trip to this section of Guntersville. I instinctively sank a little bit lower behind the steering wheel as we approached a multi-story apartment-type complex.
My large friend clarified, "Dis da projects…my crib up dere." He pointed generally up at a building at least three floors high and I wanted to tell him to have a blast. There was no sign of life or unlife in sight, just as almost everywhere else I had been since the End of the World, but I was already scared out of my mind to be in a place I had heard nothing but horror stories about my entire life.
Smokes reassured me as we came to a stop against the curb, "Dis my hood; my peoples ain’t gonna pop you just cause you a cracka. You wit me."
If The Oracle says its okay, it’s really okay. Though hesitant, I opened my door and stepped out into the empty street. I would have figured the former elementary school across the street would have been made into a castle or something. But this was just like everywhere else: no peevies, no survivors, extra boring. Where the hell did all the zombies go and how were there so few survivors? Maybe their undead brains still had some rudimentary function and they had reasoned that there were more people further north. They couldn’t still be hiding out in the woods; there aren’t that many wild animals. Hell, maybe they just set up camp at some of the smaller grocery stores and haven’t run out of food yet…but I needed to be cautious and act like they were just around the corner. I know I’ll get my ass bit the minute I stop worrying.
We walked–well, Smokes walked and I crouched while praying I would not get shot by a gangbanger–all the way to the entrance to the building. The doors were, of course, locked. I was surprised that Gene was walking casually behind me, you would think an albino kid with "Wonder Years" eyeglasses and a Starfleet uniform would be a priority target for the Black Panthers, but he seemed either completely comfortable with or completely ignorant of our locale. I turned to him as he came up behind me and was about to ask if he knew how to pick locks when Smokes’ rifle cracked several times. Almost every location I had visited since the beginning of the apocalypse had been dead quiet: Downtown Guntersville, Walmart, every road, even in this place the only sound was the occasional clinking of unseen wind chimes. So, the explosion of firearms–no matter the caliber–was deafening.
I struggled to not hit the deck and scream. I whispered, "What the hell is wrong with you? Haven’t you ever heard of ‘stealth’?"
He spoke in his usual almost-screech. "Dayum home boy, ain’t shit to worry bout."
Was this a prophetic message? Could he say this with certainty? I really wanted to believe him, but I could not fully bring myself to put my life in the hands of someone who considers not getting extra ketchup on a big Mac as "eating healthy." Just as I thought that, I realized that I had once unquestioningly followed him across miles of no man’s land for condiments and decided maybe I was more faithful than I had originally allowed. I was going to trust The Oracle from now on–or at least until I had a legitimate reason to question again. Okay, probably not actually legitimate, just some reason I concoct because something could possibly happen.
The echoes of the gunshots faded and were not followed by shuffling of feet, moans, or even growls. It sounded as though we were the only three people on the planet.
I had never been in an apartment building like this. It was laid out like a hotel, a long hallway with single residences on each side. I stayed low, at a hesitant pace, and kept my pistol at the ready while Smokes stepped around me and mumbled something about "mo’fucking slow cracka." Neither of my companions seemed to understand that we needed to remain unseen and unheard as Gene trailed Smokes with the same cocky stance. He was repeatedly raking his claws together. It was disconcerting as hell. I decided that if they weren’t afraid, there was no reason for me to be. I settled into a more casual and natural pace as we topped the first set of stairs. Every door on the first floor had remained shut, but at least half of the second story apartments were open and the breeze was coming through some open windows. This was going to be like that creepy mansion with no zombies, just a dead lady in a wheelchair and a gigantic cat. I kept telling myself not to worry as I made a wide arc around each opening, my pistol trained in that direction. The zombie prophet walked in front of me with confidence, never turning to even glance through one of the doors.
As we neared the next stairwell I asked a question. "How many damn floors are there?"
The token soothsayer held up five fingers, then lowered his thumb and pointer finger. "And my pad on numba three."
We climbed the stairwell to the third story of this weird building when I decided that this saga had changed from I Am Legend to John Birmingham’s Without Warning. The infected had altogether disappeared. Ok, so where the hell are all the piles of goo? Maybe the space aliens kept a few of us uninfected for their own entertainment and had actually driven the majority of survivors insane. Maybe the infected mysteriously vanished weeks ago and that poor, naked kid we saw Gene spear to the wall was just hungry and afraid and we are all crazy. I almost laughed when I realized this could not be the case, remembering Spike, the peevie “guard dog” that took a chunk out of Walt as we stormed the para-military stronghold. There's no kind of crazy that would make people wear dog collars or slurp up human guts like a chunky milkshake. I was relieved that neither I nor the people around me were mentally unstable murderers, but it still did not answer my question: where did all the peevies go?
I was thinking this about halfway down the hall where the floor’s only open door cast light into the darkened foyer from the apartment’s open window. The afternoon sun shone brightly on the opposite wall and the three of us froze; a shadow clearly moved. Okay, forget Without Warning, this was more like The Blair Witch Project where the protagonist is never directly confronted by the main antagonist, only catches glimpses of creepy shit till he basically falls over scared to death…the only real difference was that I was not carrying around a video camera and there was no chick with snot running out of her nose. We backed up in a semicircle and readied our weapons, hearing the sound of movement. Our version of Blair Witch probably wasn’t even entertaining, but the movie scared the living shit out of me when I saw it as a kid, and it left a scar. That guy at the end standing in the corner and the stupid girl standing behind him and asking what was wrong before something knocked her out. Yeah, if I had not been
so freaked out I probably would’ve yelled at the TV; even considering how much I hate it when people do that.
I was about to look over my shoulder to make sure there was no one behind me. I heard a shrill scream. "Yo!"
I’m amazed I didn’t just shoot Smokes. What the fuck? I was just about to ask why the hell he would do that when a zombie made a mad dash through the open door. The Oracle pumped four shots into the rushing corpse.
We remained motionless for what seemed like hours with the sword wielder watching our backs. I slowly crept forward to poke the body with my foot to make sure it wasn’t getting up. I peered into the open door after sufficiently checking the unmoving blue form. Smokes got the thing right in the neck, I was pretty sure not even a peevie could survive that. I couldn’t hear anything in the apartment or sense any other movement and I was asking myself how the hell a zombie could survive alone. The things can’t open doors, can they? My question was answered, unfortunately. As soon as I entered and turned to the right, I saw several dogs, large and small, that the trapped zombie had been surviving on. Damn, that was nasty. Some of the dead dogs were bloated and that only ends one way. Several had exploded were all over the walls! I couldn’t help but feel bad for the innocent dogs that got stuck with that monster. It made me feel better to picture some of the smaller carcasses as cats.
