Still Alive (Book 2): Zombie Island

by Javan Bonds

  As I tried to shake off my horrified disgust, I turned to the Oracle and had to state: "You live in the last apartment at the end of the hall, don’t you?”

  I don’t know why I bothered to ask because I was positive even before he clicked his tongue. "Dayum straight, cracka. Got me a street view.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose as if holding back a migraine. Of course. It seems like nothing in my life has ever been easily accessible, but I was somewhat grateful for the transparency and the anti-climactic unfolding of this story. I would have never started writing this journal if I had known it would be so relatively uneventful, I mean, I’m glad I haven’t really been confronted with hordes of undead, but I would’ve preferred to leave behind a more exciting read.

  We made it to Smokes’s door and I aimed my weapon in preparation of blue cannibals to pile out as he casually began unlocking the several deadbolts. I noticed every apartment door had just as many locks as his, so maybe it was a normal security thing around here, or maybe somebody on this floor got a great discount on them. He opened the door and walked in without hesitating, not worried in the least that there might be any manner of danger around the corner. This allowed some of my tension to dissipate.

  My obese comrade bolted to another room and I was so shocked that he could move with such lightning speed that I wasn’t able to tell him to stop. I assumed he lived alone or had psychically transported into the apartment before we arrived, because he was clearly confident there would be no enemies. I moved to see him through the doorway. Digging through a large chest freezer, he came up with a five-gallon Ziploc bag that looked to be packed with oregano.

  The Oracle asked, "Yo, White Bread, you want some dis shit?"

  I wasn’t that ignorant, I knew what he had. I had plenty of friends throughout high school and beyond that smoked weed. While I never had a problem with them doing it, I never felt the need to partake.

  "Nah man, I’m good."

  He honestly looked offended. "But it’s not habit-forming!"

  Nothing against the drug itself, but I would just rather get shitfaced drunk than worry about sneaking around to get stoned. "That’s what I hear but it’s just not my thing."

  His face said I had just insulted his mother. "You ain’t gonna OD on it!"

  Was he really quoting a scene from Walk Hard? This was getting kind of drawn out so I pulled a Nancy Reagan and just said, "No."

  He tried one more time. I guess he really wanted to convert me into a toker. "It doesn’t give you a hangover!"

  I slapped my forehead. "Allergic reaction."

  I was hoping this would make him give it up and he snorted. "Good. Dis my personal shit anyway, cracka."

  He came out of the room, tossing the bag from one hand to the other. He offered to The Tech. "How ‘bout you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

  Gene looked around sheepishly. "I have the same allergy. I do like hallucinogenic mushrooms, though. Got any?"

  I frankly wasn’t surprised this malnourished lord of the geeks with debilitating asthma claimed an allergic reaction. And this claim was probably legitimate, but holy shit. Shrooms? This kid may only weigh ninety pounds dripping wet, but he’s hard-core. I don’t see anything wrong with this either, an adult should be able to use the intoxicant of their choice. Maybe it was cool; I couldn’t recall ever seeing this drug firsthand or its effects.

  "Fuck that, Frodo—dat da red man’s shit. Make ya crazy, dat shit."

  Really? That was news to me: I didn’t know illegal drugs were divided between colors. Before I could add anything to the conversation, The Oracle pocketed his bag and moved to the bedroom. He dumped out a loaded clothes basket onto the bed and opened a drawer in the nightstand.

  He started taking what looked like CD cases from the nightstand and placing them in the basket. "Most my shit can stay here. You gonna wonna see dis shit, fo sho."

  I thought that he might have found several outfits in his size at Walmart and that’s why he wasn’t worried about clothes. I was curious to see what treasures he could be placing into the basket. Gene was practicing intimidating poses in the full-length mirror and I was leaning against the wall, picking something out of my teeth.

  Smokes walked out of the room with the clothes basket. He turned and shrilly asked, "da fuck y’all waitin’ on? C’mon foos!" He gestured for us to follow.

  As we exited he turned as if by habit and locked all the deadbolts. He then led us out of the building, completely sure that he was safe in the lead so I didn’t even raise my gun through the entire walk. However, no matter how many times he proves that he can see the future, I don’t think I could ever be completely comfortable following a guy with his hands full. There could easily be a hungry blue monster around the corner! His confidence was going to get us all in trouble one of these days.

  When we got to the truck I had to take a look in Smokes’s treasure basket. I was surprised there was neither drug paraphernalia nor thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry inside. In fact, it was just a Walkman and a bunch of CDs. I had to look closer to realize they were audio books. I automatically knew these were for me. He had made sure to bring these so that I could study and possibly gain some of his wisdom concerning the zombie lore. The collection was pretty impressive: Slow Burn series by Bobby Adair, Day by Day Armageddon series by J. L. Borne, Shawn Chesser’s Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse series, all of the Ex-Heroes books by Peter Clines, Flirting With Death by Boyd Craven, Rhiannon Frater’s Last Bastion series, D. J. Molles’s series The Remaining…these were just a few of the recognizable titles among the dozens of books. But the only books in this collection that I knew well were the Zombie Fallout Series by Mark Tufo.

  Most of my education on zombies has come from movies. Up until a few years ago I was not much of a reader at all. The realization that a shitty e-reader and digital books are cheaper than the cable TV I never had time to watch anyway convinced me to start entertaining myself the way humans have since the beginning of history. I think I have a pretty good imagination, plus I was just getting tired of watching reruns of Scrubs.

  I found novels like the Dave Robichaux books more entertaining than the few typical novels on the undead I had scanned through. When I got recruited to become a full-time homeless person on a medieval boat, I was even more thankful I had become a reader. I don’t even remember how–perhaps I was intoxicated from my diet of fish–but I somehow stumbled upon Zombie Fallout. I was hooked immediately and devoured the entire series. I like to think of myself as a kind of Michael Talbot, chronicling the end of the world.

  I can’t say what the rest of the country looks like right now, but I must believe that Mark Tufo is alive somewhere and is still working on his books. Yeah, I’m not sure how he will get them published with the death of civilization and all, but we’ve gotta keep the faith.

  I turned to thank the prophet but before I could say anything, he nodded and said, "Fo sho cracka, maybe this make you smart as me!" When he chuckled, I knew it was okay to join in his laughter. I started the Gorgon and we were homeward bound.

  We were about to turn at a stop sign and I really made a complete stop, turned on my blinker, and looked both ways before moving. I slapped my forehead: why? I know this is Hammer’s truck and I’m not even on the insurance, but am I really worried about my driving record? Wait a minute; she’s not even on the insurance! She stole this truck! I was seriously debating asking one of the others to drive when I remembered to call Daddy.

  I reached for the handset. "Hey Daddy?"

  He hesitantly responded. “Loud and clear."

  "We are on our way back and–" he cut me off.

  "Affirmative. We are at Lowe’s and will return to the ship in no more than an hour. Over."

  Well, apparently things get done when I’m not around. Maybe I need to disappear more often. I’ll probably eventually get mutinied and exiled from the island for being worthless anyway, so there’s always hope.

  "Sounds good, be sure to pick me up a bur
ger at Hardee’s."

  He did not see the humor in my sarcasm. "Roger, over and out."

  In case you haven’t realized it yet, I refuse to make any attempt at proper radio etiquette. This is not because I have no idea what I should say; I just enjoy driving my father up a WALL.

  Mo Journal Entry 3

  MY HOME THE Cora, finally came into view as I traveled north on southbound Gunter Avenue.

  "You know, I could get used to this. Being the only vehicle on the road, going any speed I want, and doing it all in a badass stolen truck." I joked to Smokes in the passenger seat.

  "Shit homeboy, I call dat Tuesday!"

  Wow, Smokes intentionally made a joke and it was actually funny. If I thought the trophy shop was open today I’d go get him an award.

  I was jubilant when I saw the gangplank being lowered before I even cut the truck off. Now I wouldn’t have to scream, throw rocks, and eventually give up and just climb the damn rope ladder. I didn’t know who was lowering it; I was confident that at least my mom and Sarah had stayed behind with the cook. Since I was sure Crow had not magically become a charitable person, it had to be them. I prepared to explain my disappearance this morning.

  The three of us waited on the sidewalk. Before any figures could be seen as the plank lowered I heard a scolding question. "Where the Sam Hill did you go?"

  Good God Mama, this ain’t "Looney Tunes." I have heard second grade girls use more adult expletives! I chose not to respond until both sides could see each other fully. I then merely threw a thumb over my shoulder at Gene in a Starfleet uniform and then at Smokes, who was smoking what my mother would assume was a hand rolled cigarette. She simply nodded in understanding as we stepped onto the wood of the sailing ship.

  I was just about to ask if she had been waiting for us when I heard the distinct rumble of an 18 wheeler in the distance. She had probably been on the lookout for the other returning team and it was only coincidence I had arrived first. Well, no avoiding my dad accusing me of going for a joy ride and Hammer bitching about me stealing her stolen truck. I realized "We picked up Storm Trooper armor and weed!" would not be a satisfactory reason for disappearing. I gulped as the convoy of two Humvees and a Lowe’s 18 wheeler came into view. We already had a Walmart and a Frito-Lay truck, how many more was Hammer going to collect? There were boards sticking out of every window in the Humvees and I was sure the tractor-trailer was packed with more than enough supplies to build at least one sister ship for the Cora. I could actually hear the anger in my dad stomping through the parking lot; I just kept rehearsing the excuse in my mind.

  I stepped down onto the sidewalk. I positioned myself so that I was at an angle with the Frito-Lay truck’s front end protecting me mostly from where my dad would surely appear.

  Before he even came into view he bellowed, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  My mom was far enough away or simply had her selective hearing aids in because no other sound was made. I was just grateful he wasn’t carrying a rifle.

  The truth was that I’d promised my two friends a ride to their houses and I didn’t want to break my word. But for some reason, the truth did not seem like it would suffice. I struggled to come up with an explanation that would stay his anger; It suddenly hit me and I had to fight a smile. "Well, we went to Gene’s to pick up some armor and melee weapons, and he has some solar panels we can use on the Cora!’" I guess honesty really is the best policy.

  The armor and melee weapons part didn’t sound as geeky in my head, but I swear my voice cracked. He raised an eyebrow and seemed to be mulling it over. I was hoping this might be enough of an excuse to keep me from getting screamed at or forced into manual labor or whatever punishment my dad could think up. He finally said, "Well, sounds like it might have been worth losing three pairs of hands."

  "You really only lost two pairs. Just the thought of physical labor would give Gene an asthma attack."

  He snorted. "He might could have driven the forklift or something."

  Good point. I’m sure that if there was a simulator video game for a vehicle, The Tech could surely do stunt jumps with it.

  "So..." my dad hesitantly began as if speaking to a retarded child. “You didn’t actually get any of the solar panels?"

  For some reason, decent excuses were not coming to me. I should have explained that some of this stuff was just too cool to leave behind. Maybe I could have attempted to justify the Darth Vader costume, the bat’leth, the Claymores…but I ended up just giving a blanket excuse. "I would feel safer transporting them in a tractor-trailer. We can get them all in one trip with one of the 18 wheelers. Plus, I realized this armor would protect from bites and these swords can kill silently."

  It was a reasonable answer and I felt somewhat validated. We walked back to the truck to unload more of a Dungeon Master’s wet dream.

  I must have pulled off that lie fairly well because he nodded in understanding. But really, I pulled that out of my ass. Holy shit, who needs a solar panel when you can dress up like a fucking storm trooper with a battle axe!

  It looked like they were going to build a plantation house in the parking lot. I figured the plans for the construction supplies would be unveiled later. Dr. George, The Medicine Man, and The Expert joined in helping us carry some of the badass armor and weapons to the Cora.

  "Any trouble at Lowe’s?" I was guessing they had run into as many raiders as had been at Walmart.

  He confidently replied, "Well, we didn’t search the entire store, but we didn’t see any hostiles."

  "Or any former anyones?’" I wanted to ask. Instead I chose a different conversation route. "You oughtta tell me about the TRIP."

  Never Stop Improving

  "WHERE IS THAT little bastard?" Hammer stood with her hands behind her back as if Randy Collins was her CO. She waited for him to finish his tirade before taking a breath.

  She answered, "No idea, sir. Gene and that black guy were also not in the barracks."

  At times, she spoke to him as if he were a drill instructor, though their friendship was usually more casual, like old drinking buddies. They had quite a lot in common but neither one of them would ever think of their relationship as anything more than friends—Randy, being married and perfectly happy with his wife, and Hammer not exactly single or straight. The doctor came up onto the deck wearing his perfectly white coat. Hammer smiled at him before turning back to the boss.

  The Expert gestured to the vehicles in the parking lot. "If they went for a joy ride in one of the Humvees, we can always radio them and–"

  Bradley sat drinking an instant coffee by the side of the ship. He pointed as he interrupted her. "Nope, they took your truck."

  Hammer clinched her fists by her sides. Her earlier suggestion died in her throat as her eyes narrowed with a look of murderous vengeance. "Mother of Pearl!"

  ☠☠☠

  "Roger. Over and out." Randy ended the conversation with Mo as he lowered the handset back into its cradle. He waited for Bradley to come around to the passenger side.

  The elder Collins was somewhat surprised his son had even responded. He knew Hammer was still fuming while she cranked one of the other Humvees. Randy could understand the love between owner and vehicle, But he was pretty sure that Mo said she had simply found it a few days ago, so he really wasn’t sure why she was so angry. It seemed like the type of rage that would fade quickly.

  The small convoy saw as much on the trip to Lowe’s as expected: absolutely nothing. Randy had come to the conclusion that there would be next to no action for him and whatever group he was currently with—unless the armed unit tried to retake Town Hall. They would almost never be attacked during the day, a fact that he had gladly accepted. Well, at least there were no eminent threats, just evidence of the unnatural. There were splattered feces nearly everywhere one looked and bloodied drag marks of what he hoped were animals leading into the woods. These carnivorous Smurfs seemed to have an insatiable hunger and he was thankful that he didn’t hav
e to witness any innocent animals being devoured alive.

  He was somewhat disappointed that every business they passed was empty and there were no Alamos—evidence that anyone had made a last stand against the zombies. Not merely disappointed, he was furious at his oldest son for running off with his buddies and abandoning the mission. Unless they had loaded up on machine guns or found something ridiculous like a completely solar powered, underground bunker, their personal belongings they felt they so desperately needed would pale in comparison to the supplies they could stock up on at a hardware store. Even though Mo was not particularly strong or a bodybuilding, black belted, star athlete like his younger brother, Easy, he could have at least carried a couple of two by fours. The other two of the three amigos could probably not even do that much, but they should still be there to provide a semblance of usefulness.

  The parking lot was nearly empty and every door was closed at Lowe’s. They had entered through the greenhouse section knowing that the large, darkened structure could be an easy hideaway for the zombies. All entered with rifles at the ready, Even Dr. George, who had never used a firearm in the presence of any of the party besides when he shot Hammer. The initial tension bled from the team. Like almost everywhere else they had been, the store appeared to be empty of living and un-living alike.

  "Where did they all go?" questioned Hammer like a deer hunter who had spent countless seasons freezing in the woods, always returning home empty-handed.

  Randy shook his head and smiled. "Well, they ain’t here, and that’s okay by me."

  The Expert shrugged and grunted, she had been hoping for more action. Randy swung his head in the direction of the doctor who was holding his rifle at the ready with his finger on the trigger. "Really?"

  Hammer understood the question, but this dude was either inexperienced with a weapon and one friendly “boo!” away from shitting his pants in terror, or he was some kind of super-secret Indian ninja. She laid her bet right then he'd be the first to die