by Javan Bonds
☠☠☠
When we got back to the Cora that night, my Old Friend told me of what had transpired down below. After hearing the gunshots, Bradley noticed the morbidly obese Oracle crying silently. He asked with alarm, "You okay man? It ain’t nothing, they’re probably just putting down a peevie."
With overflowing eyes, Smokes looked up at him and pointed up in the direction of the roof, "Naw mufucka, my cuz gone down wit it."
I didn’t want to believe what my high school classmate was telling me, but I cannot honestly deny that the soothsayer probably knew this was going to happen from the beginning. It nearly reminds me of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane if the Son of God were played by the kid from The BLINDSIDE.
Mo Journal Entry 15
THE FOLLOWING DAYS of clearing buildings went fairly smoothly. Besides the fact that we spent most of our waking hours in close proximity to man eating dead heads, the entire party remained relatively safe. There were no deaths on our side, no one alerting a zombie horde of our presence, and no more of an injury than one of the Williamsons rolling his ankle.
This seemed like a piece of cake, going into buildings to finish up any starving, thirsty peevies or even luring the stupid animals out into sunlight with a dead fish or some Vienna sausages. And it was, for the most part, until only a few hundred yards from the Cora, on Blount Avenue, we took another loss.
We had come to the city bus and knew it had to be cleaned out. It was an obvious place the undead would use to nest and we were not going to carelessly approach it as we did with the shed on the roof of Best Western. When I say "bus," I don’t literally mean one of those mass transit, public transportation, Greyhound-like vehicles, this was more of an airport transfer van with a few benches in the back and an automatic wheel chair lift coming out of the doors on the side. This is a small city in Alabama, a huge bus would be overkill and there just weren’t that many places to go anyway. All the doors were sealed and we went around back, not expecting some zombie bus driver to pull the lever and slide open the door up front.
I know Smokes would tell me black Jesus is going to send me to white people hell because of this, but I gave his female cousin her name because of the memorable way in which she died: she will forever be remembered as “Rosa," you know, the bus and all that. Yeah I know, the SPLC would put me on their racist terrorist watch list for using this line of thinking.
When the fellowship came around the bus, the last person in the group was one of the female Williamsons and she trailed the group, remaining near the taillights of the bus with her weapon aimed casually at the rear entrance, keeping our six. Gene extended his claws and jumped up on the bumper with pistol in hand and reached for the door. Thankfully, no one was extremely trigger-happy and he didn’t have any rifles pointed at him, because his moves were fairly shocking. He swung the door to its hinges, hanging on it like Spiderman, and apparently had expected The Expert, who was just well enough to join us, to toss a smoke or flash bang grenade in to make clearance easier.
He either had not thought to discuss his plans with her earlier, or she was suddenly worried about breaking some kind of city transport ordinance, because nothing happened for a few seconds. He braced himself on the narrow piece of rubber, looking out at her and wondering why the action had paused, when there came a shuffling from inside the dark compartment. An elderly blue cannibal came hurling out, sagging blueberries drifting in the wind behind, pushing against the almost completely open door which caused The Tech to lose his precarious balance and begin a slow motion fall backwards. With the agile owner of Excalibur Comics no longer in the line of fire, the monster was summarily killed by bullets from several rifles. But Gene’s cartoonish wheeling of his arms as he crashed backwards slapped Rosa as he came down. The gunshots that ended Grandpa Peevie’s existence had caused her to tense and slide her finger into the trigger guard. The bump from the Brotherhood of Steel armor wearing Tech apparently added that extra pound of weight onto the trigger and she fired harmlessly into the wheel of the bus to her side. The geek smack combined with the rifle recoil sent Rosa to the ground behind the bus.
Blount Avenue is a very hilly stretch of road and though this seemed to be a pretty flat section, there was a small dip just behind the vehicle; a dip just deep enough to force the bus to ignore its brakes and roll back far enough to crush the life out of Rosa Williamson. It stopped within nanometers of crushing The Tech, who had also taken out Dr. George. They lay in a heap to the side, unable to do anything but watch in desperation. In a cascade of bad moves, we needlessly lost another one of us.
It was shocking and horrifying to see a person get run over by a heavy vehicle. The sounds of bones cracking and organs squishing is sickeningly beyond description. It happened so quickly no one could say anything until, after what seemed an eternity, some of the Williamsons began screaming and wailing. I’m surprised Gene did not join in, we’d found his mother’s body just days ago and now he was seemingly at fault for the death of a teenage girl. He must have been strong in the Force or simply in shock. I’m not sure even I could have remained stone faced after surviving less than a centimeter from one of my comrades that didn’t and I pride myself on appearing cold—Gene doesn’t. I’m sure The Tech will never forget the sound of a last breath being forced out of a little girl only inches away as she was violently pancaked by a rapidly flattening tire.
At the time, and until just now, I saw both of the Williamson deaths as horrible wastes and completely avoidable tragedies. Going back over the events has made me realize that they were necessary. Every story must include grief, so without these sacrifices, the losses might have been more damaging to the story. I realize it sounds heartless, but Tal and Rosa had to perish so that the script could continue according to PLAN.
Mo Journal Entry 16
DAMMIT, SMOKES SAID we’d be back and everything comes around. I had genuinely wanted to avoid this place; I’d hoped Smokes would forget I said we could return to it later. Well, it was later. The entire clearance team topped a hill to stand in front of Guntersville First Methodist.
The property appeared as it had when The Oracle and I first passed it on our way to pick up some ketchup. No swinging doors exposing rushing peevies, no dried blood trails leading into the building, just another peaceful weekday afternoon at a local church, except for the occasional spray of fresh shit with naked footprints leading through it in the parking lot. The Williamsons that were not attending to their deceased clan members, readying them for cremation, kept a circle perimeter as we drew nearer to the front doors. It was a cloudless day, nice, except for the starving zombies laying in wait. Since we had blown the causeways they had a limited food source so the ones on the island had to be starving. You can never be too careful. That same creepy, spray-painted message greeted us when we walked by the marquee, “COME BE WASHED IN THE BLOOD.” Yeah, I was glad there were twenty of us; there was no way in hell I would go in there alone. Even before May Day that would just kind of scream “Hey, we’re a cult, come be sacrificed!” This was the kind of thing I would have run away from as quickly as possible before being cast as The Hero. That and the fact that I was part of a small army gave me the courage to enter this house of horrors.
When we opened the double doors, I expected to see a sanctuary decorated with hanging corpses, at least a couple of crucified sinners, and a maniacally laughing preacher standing in front of a baptistery full of blood. It was kind of a letdown when all that lay before us was a hallway lit with burning candles. Not as exciting as my expectation, but still fucking weird.
A few of our company remained at the door to keep a watch on our rear, but of course I couldn’t have been one of those smart people. I had to get a front row seat to all the disturbing action. We turned a corner to see a closed-door at end of the candle trail, clearly inviting us to enter. Of course, the plot must move forward, so we moved forward to our impending dooms.
Before I go on, I have to ask: why the hell were there so many can
dles? Did they keep those burning all the time or did they know we were coming? Well, I guess they had to be lit or it would not be entertaining. It still seemed like a fire hazard.
My dad moved to open the door and I nearly just turned around and fucking went home. I would have preferred to go outside and set the building on fire. Of course my dad would bitch about needing a place for community meetings. I don’t see why we couldn’t just use one of the damned courtrooms in the courthouse. I mean, what could he possibly hope to find in there? I’m sure we weren't going to find a district judge infecting people or draining fucking peevies of all their blood; any decent survivors would have found us by now.
“Are you serious?” I was incredulous.
“What? We need to go in there.” Smokes cast a knowing smile at him, Daddy would remain faithful until he was blue.
I could only sigh in exasperation. “Hammer, throw a flash bang in there.” I reached forward and pulled my dad back.
“I was gonna do that!” Sure you were, Daddy. It’s like my father is a Klingon; he’s trying to die a glorious death. Problem is, I am not.
Wait, The Oracle knows what’s going to happen. So he wouldn’t just let him open the door and be mauled to death, right? I guess that’s what “you’s always at da place you is always post to be,” means. I was destined to interrupt my father.
The Expert cracked open the door just enough to shove the little canister through, pulled it tight, and covered her ears. Remembering what happened when The Villain stunned our entire team back at the Douglas town hall, I not only covered my ears, I shut my eyes and I turned the fuck around. I really didn’t feel like having a headache.
After a pop, Hammer rolled in, rifle at the ready to destroy any blinded and deafened flesh eaters. I expected to hear rapid fire bursts of lead tearing through untold numbers of the naked blue scourge.
I was surprised when, after doing a 360, she rose, lowered the muzzle, and shouted, “Clear!”
Well shit, this was not only anti-climactic, it once again proved Smokes was a prophet. I know I speak most of the time as if he already has a copy of the script, but I would really like a reason to doubt his wisdom. It really pissed me off that he was right again. Hammer’s mumbled “Waste of a flash bang!” made me feel like more of a jackass for not placing my faith in The Oracle.
Gene rushed forward to stand in front of a table with some kind of goblet resting on it. “Blood wine?”
I stepped forward to see the obviously used drinking receptacle and a large pitcher of something dark. Remember that goblet at the end of Indiana Jones? It reminded me of that.
I leaned forward and sniffed the substance. A coppery tang assaulted my olfactory. “That ain’t wine!” I wanted to add: “It would be cool if it was!” But I realized that might reveal my secret nerdom. “And put that damn cup down, don’t drink that!” I swatted at his hand.
I guess this is how they, whoever they were, were infecting people, using tainted blood. It would be a pretty easy way to go, but why the fuck would anyone willingly and deliberately drink zombie juice? It should’ve at least tasted like Kool-Aid!
Wait a minute…I had just made the assumption that there was a “they!” Maybe this was just some sort of sick prank and Ashton Kutcher was about to jump out of the closet and tell me I had been punk’d. I was conditioned to think like we were in a movie. I still haven’t seen any cameramen. And what the hell made me think the blood was infected? I was probably assuming that’s what I would do if I was some kind of lunatic preacher.
The Tech lifted the pitcher and tossed it to the corner; it shattered against the wall and leaked the infected crimson into the carpet. Vandals! I would hate to be the cleaning lady at this church.
We readied to open the only other door leading from this room. This time, I chose to remain silent when The Oracle gave no indication of danger. This room featured a large window, bathing several empty and filthy bunkbeds in natural light. It was obviously designed for converts who had infected themselves to take a rest until they turned into fucking zombies. That was nearly too obvious with each mattress stained with feces, I just wondered why the curtain was open. Maybe it kept the newly infected from trying to escape the room. As I thought that, I turned to notice the door we had entered didn’t feature a knob on the inside. Smart cultists.
Another empty room led to another candlelit hallway and I just got more and more creeped out the farther we went into this temple of doom. I guess the feature film based on my story will skip all this boring walking and doing nothing, it’s the opposite of fucking exciting.
We finally came to the door of the sanctuary which were huge, thick, double doors with a brass sign to the left notifying us that weekly service began at 11 AM. I was a bit surprised, no early service. Maybe they can’t order snakes or human hearts before brunch.
My dad looked over his shoulder to a set of public bathrooms. I just shook my head, I knew he was going to say it. “Hang on, I gotta take a pit stop.”
I could only sigh, my dad had a prostate the size of a goose egg. I knew this was a House of God, but I really didn’t think He’d mind if we pissed in the corner rather than walked into a dark room that could be full of nudists ready to rip the meat from our bones. That reminds me: where the hell are all the zombies? Let’s say that half the congregation willingly turned themselves, where the fuck are they? The Holiday Inn?
He opened the door, broke and tossed a glow stick, then went in to search each stall before emptying his bladder. He walked out as if this were any other day, he normally wears body armor and carries automatic weapons, yet it was perfectly reasonable to take a piss break in a nonfunctioning bathroom in a dead city right before we run into a crazy-ass zombie making villain. And...he didn’t wash his hands or flush. The humanity! I think I will tell Momma!
I didn’t see the handicap sign and I looked back at The Old Friend to shrug. I could see this cult wasn’t going to be inclusive.
They don’t turn people in wheelchairs. Random thought, if Bradley got bit, would he be able to walk? I’ve not thought about that! Not that I wish my former schoolmate would become infected, it’d just be interesting to see him: a not so hairy, blue Donkey Kong.
The Williamsons fanned out behind us while The Oracle, flanked by my father and Hammer on each side of his massive form, moved as one to the entrance. The elders rested their back against each door frame as Smokes threw open the doors with both hands. A man in a charcoal suit stood behind the podium while dozens of naked figures rested on their knees at the altar with their backs to us. From the angle of their shoulders and elbows, it appeared as if they were posed in prayer. This was beyond fucked up!
Smokes proved again he had already seen this movie. He just threw the doors open, certain that he would not get shot or attacked, and of course, he didn’t.
The man on the stage broke from whatever crazy sermon he was preaching and looked in our direction. Floyd the Barber? I know The Andy Griffith Show was ancient before I was born, but everybody knows Floyd the Barber. I expected this guy to take out his clippers.. He spoke in a voice much too deep and serious for Floyd. “Children, have you come to accept the truth of God and be washed of your sins?” He picked up a goblet that looked a lot like the one we found earlier and downed its contents.
“Uh, no,” was what I wanted to say before The Oracle answered him. “Shit naw mufucka, we hear to cut yo crazy ass party short.”
We are? I was fine letting him continue to do weird shit.
I was about to tell the guy we had entered the wrong cult complex and tugged at Smokes’s shirt. The man on stage set the cup down and laughed through his now bloodstained lips like a crazy person. “I am Deacon Grimes and with the voice of the Almighty, I say to you that you are lost sheep. You will be the ones meeting your end today!” You probably figured out what was in the cup by now.
Why in the hell was this guy preaching to peevies? I’m pretty sure they follow a sermon about as well as I do. At least the
y don’t fall asleep. They might even grunt out “Hallelujah!” every once in a while.
The deacon moved to his left, bent down, and lifted two clasps, setting the faithful cannibals free. I never did closely inspect this locking system, but it was a pretty nice set up. The wrist and ankle cuffs all unlocked simultaneously and each of the rabid animals rose, confused why they were suddenly free. This confusion only lasted for a brief second before they turned, completely ignoring their fleeing shepherd, screamed a hungry wail and charged us, launching themselves over or under rows of pews.
The Tech and The Old Friend were beside me, my dad and The Expert were in front and to each side, and I looked back, expecting The Medicine Man to be shitting his pants. I detected no panic, he simply look down and began fiddling with his wristwatch. The Williamsons stepped back, forming ranks behind us.
The Oracle expelled the first wave, sending a spray of flechettes ripping through the oncoming monsters. Bloody chunks of the infected were flung through the air as several of the undead horde dropped and began screaming in pain. The two beside my surprisingly bold friend leaned out of cover and began unloading on the rushing zombies.
