Still Alive (Book 2): Zombie Island

by Javan Bonds

  The comrades flanking me moved forward and to each side of Smokes and also began emptying their rifles into the blue nudists. I decided it would be best to save my ammo—they could take care of this. It wasn’t like I was being a pussy or anything, honest! I was just thinking ahead. I’m guessing the doc was just hiding in the corner still playing with his watch, I never looked back to find out.

  This wasn’t even close to fair, the peevies had brought their teeth to a gunfight. They were up against a wall of lead and were torn into pieces with no chance of getting within reaching distance.

  Floyd–Deacon Grimes—was now out of sight and it wouldn’t bother me to just let his ass go find another church to convert. The Oracle began trudging down the center aisle while the other shooters silenced the occasional peevie lying injured on the floor. I walked after the determined Smokes, trying to ignore the eviscerated blue bodies and destroyed organs covering the large room. It was impossible to tell if the dead had voided their bowels before or after they went to the big zombie farm in the sky. There was reeking shit nearly everywhere; it was difficult not to step in it. I’ve smelled Mary’s leftovers and they are fucking roses compared to this stuff.

  My large black friend carried himself with such purpose that I was sure that he knew exactly where the deacon had gone, and that his mission was to send this lunatic straight to Jonestown.

  Smokes opened one of the doors leading from the back of the stage and I blindly followed, knowing there was no danger until he gave a signal. My faith will forever remain strong…unless I find some insignificant reason to fear for my life.

  We walked through a short foyer and a couple rooms with absolutely no distractions when the seer stopped at a door. “Take a peek, mufucka.”

  I shook my head at his gesture. “How bout hell no?” faith began to wane.

  He stood back and turned his head before pushing the door open with his shotgun. A bucket had obviously been placed at the top of the door to fall on anyone that passed through. The oldest trick in the fucking book, only this one was meant to kill you, not just piss you off. The liquid that poured out of the bucket was red; I don’t think you even have to guess what it was. It was impossible for him to know about that. Was he just testing me? I would either be blue and spraying nasty everywhere right now or he would have stopped me at the last moment. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It helps me sleep at night to think my friend wouldn’t have let me kill myself at his suggestion.

  This is almost as bad as a Stephen King novel, nothing happens at all—until the very end. Yeah, there’s a possibility of action, but when one of the main protagonists knows exactly what’s going to happen scene by scene, it’s pretty boring. I know that I could have opened the door and could have been drenched in stinking, infected juices. If the reader is excited by what could have happened, maybe they should write their own version of my events.

  The Oracle closed his eyes and stood stark still. It seemed like he was communicating with someone through telepathy or some shit. I know you know exactly what I’m talking about, even though he wasn’t moving, he had that expectant look on his face like when you watch someone talking on the phone. After a brief silent prayer or whatever the hell it was, he waddled through the door and gestured for me to follow. Like a cocaine addict that has overdosed several times, I still ask for another snort. I followed like the devoted disciple I had, in such a short time, convinced myself I was, ready and willing place my life in this man's hands and allow myself to view more grotesque violence, horrible death, and rotten, filthy images I will never be able to forget.

  We started walking down another hallway past the bucket of sour blood soaking into the carpet. I began thinking we were in some kind of rat maze. I mean, shit, I’ve been in some big churches with lots of hallways, but we probably walked three miles in this one damn building! I never knew Methodists were such walkers.

  Smokes shoved his shotgun at a room in front of him. “In dat room, cracka.” I followed him without question into a Sunday school room lit by a large window.

  The light was shining down on what I figured was the only reason for my visionary friend to enter: a bowl filled with single wrapped Reese’s Cups. He made a beeline to the candy bowl on the table and started ripping open peanut butter cups with inhuman speed. As he did this, I heard a maniacal laugh from on down the hallway and what sounded like an industrial fan starting up. I spent my entire life in the boonies, I know what one of those big chicken house fans sounds like when you turn it on full speed.

  I turned to take a look down the hall when the Oracle shouted through his peanut butter coated mouth and lips. “Ain’t shit out der fo you, white bread.” I wisely chose to remain where I stood.

  After several minutes of the big fan spinning and The Oracle sending himself into a diabetic coma, he walked to the door, shoved an empty chocolate wrapper into the end of his long gun and held it out through the doorway. When he brought it back in, we could see that the white of the candy wrapper was nearly covered with red specks. I don’t think you need to have passed high school algebra to figure out how long we would have remained uninfected in that dust cloud.

  Wow, did this guy get his terrorism training from cartoons? I completely expected his next volley of attacks to be fucking water balloons! This guy doesn’t seem to want to kill us immediately, he wants us to be washed in the blood. Oh shit! I get it now.

  The fan cut off just as Smokes devoured the last piece of candy. He should’ve at least saved me one. I don’t know if the battery for the blower ran out of juice or the nutcase behind it just figured we had gotten the shit in our eyes by now, but the huge part of our duo stepped out into the hall and I followed, trusting him fully. I still had my eyes squinted, though.

  We came to a 90° corner and I could see the light shining from what I found out to be an exterior, window framed door. This was the end of his run–or at least the end of this damned hallway. The two of us continued side-by-side; I pulled the rifle off my back and began to psych myself up as we neared the corner. Why the hell wouldn’t this newest incarnation of The Villain just go outside and how the fuck did I know he was around the corner? I guess because the climax is more exciting with a dramatic last stand!

  We stopped and both of us peeked around the corner to see a door with EXIT above it and nothing but the sun shining through the pane. No insane preacher ready to shoot us with a squirt gun of blood, no peevies with sunglasses sewn into their heads, nothing. I was fucking let down. It was like a movie that’s really good until the end and you find out it’s all a dream or something. You’re so pissed you want to walk out and demand your seven dollars back!

  I stepped around the corner, about to start berating Smokes for not shooting the crazy deacon back in the sanctuary. A figure in a gray suit simultaneously appeared from out of the room at the far end of the hall holding something baseball -sized. He threw it in my direction and my first thought was “Nade!” The Oracle immediately stepped from his cover and pushed me into the room on the opposite side. Before I even hit the floor, what I thought was a grenade impacted on the wall behind where I was standing and made a small splash. It was no grenade, he really was using water balloons! What the fuck? Am I starting to see the future or is this just fucking Nickelodeon?

  Even if this guy had turned me into a fucking monster, did he think I was just going to lay my gun down and say “Okay, you got me?” If he had hit me with that thing, it would’ve just pissed me off and I would’ve killed him even harder!

  I was amazed the fall had not broken my nose or otherwise injured me severely. I turned over to see my savior step from his corner into the light.

  He spoke in his professor voice and I realized I would need to remember this for my journal. He spoke to Deacon Grimes. “Your heresy will no longer be tolerated here! Your villainy has led to the transformation of dozens of humans and I am here to bring your reign of terror to an end.” I actually expected him to continue and ask George Romero “to
forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

  Our enemy said, “I am The Lord’s right hand; I will strike in the day of His wrath. He will judge you and fill the places with dead bodies…. Smokes drew his pistol and fired; one can only tolerate so much blasphemy in one day. We heard a whimper from the end of the hallway and the sound of a body collapsing. Deacon Grimes’ holy quest was ended.

  All this happened before I could fucking stand up. I stood beside my friend and saw the prone body in front of us. As we moved, I noticed a splash of blood and the remains of a balloon a few yards ahead, I knew exactly what had occurred. The Deacon had launched another infected missile at the instant the zombie prophet launched his own missile of lead straight at the nutcase. The Projectiles met halfway down the hall and one of them tore through the other before finding its intended target, the chest of the mad cultist.

  “Mufucka got what he deserve.” I had to agree.

  We reached the body and I took a knee to check for a pulse. The Oracle grunted and a series of events happened so unimaginably fast my brain still almost locks up thinking about it. Smokes still had his pistol in hand as the cultist raised up, clearly not dead. For a brief second, I feared he was actually an undead zombie as he tried to chomp down on my wrist. I probably wouldn’t have gotten near his body if I had thought about the fact that he had infected himself earlier in the sanctuary. He was still trying to spread his message of infection with his dying breath. I tried to pull away and might have peed a little bit before The Oracle put a single round into the top of his head.

  “Why the fuck did you just do that?”

  “Cracka, I just saved yo a—”

  “No, I mean why did you let me—” I trailed off, knowing that explaining my question wouldn’t get me a definitive answer. Shit like this makes me doubt his omniscience. If he knew the guy was still alive, why would he let me get so close? He’s not really reinforcing my belief with his laziness. If he really wanted me to stand strong, he can tell me exactly how every day is going to play out for the rest of my life. Actually, no, that’s kind of scary when you think about it.

  Smokes and I walked back through the labyrinth and, though extremely unfit, he didn’t even seem winded. We entered the sanctuary with a stance that told everyone we were victorious–actually, it probably just told them we were fucking exhausted from our five mile sprint. As my dad approached, I collapsed onto a pew that, astoundingly, wasn’t covered in gore.

  “Y’all get the Deacon?”

  I nodded. “No shit, he was there.” I pointed over to Smokes.

  “All right then. We got this place pretty much cleaned up.”

  I looked around at the littering of spattered shit, blood, and every other body fluid you could imagine. I scoffed. “Yes sir, nice and clean.”

  After a few seconds of his deadpan stare, I grunted and continued. “You really plan on using this place for meetings?”

  “Yeah. Where else would we meet?”

  “Oh I don’t know. Maybe the courthouse we spent so much time on? One of the gyms? The First Baptist? The fucking Chuck E Cheese?"

  He stated flatly, “This was our church and it just says ‘meetinghouse’.”

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. “I guess.”

  It would take them days to get this sanctuary clean enough for meetings. The ceiling was at least 40 foot high and I swear to God, I could see shit on it!

  And he sat down beside me. “I guess you just dealt with The Villain again. You can take the rest of the day off. We’ll finish scouting the church, you and Smokes can go on home.”

  Really? All The Oracle and The Hero need to do to get out of manual labor is rid the world of maniacs and come this close to being murdered?

  Piece of CAKE.

  Mo Journal Entry 17

  AS THE DAYS passed, dozens of new citizens were making runs from the island to scavenge in trucks, cars, boats, and even some simply walked to find anything usable. They would sometimes return with additional survivors; apparently the world, or at least my home state, was in chaos just over the causeways and suddenly the island was the best place to be. Well, it always was a major tourist destination.

  Crow and many more spent nearly every day fishing. My mom and The Man of God were teaching citizens to grow gardens in record numbers on the island, and Brother Williamson sold more chicks than he did eggs. Daniel The Builder was leading a pack of game hunters, he had more than a few volunteers. The Expert, The Tech, and a rare few were tasked with rounding up abandoned automobiles to become part of the growing parking lot that had been dubbed “the gas bank.” It was a given that my dad and The Medicine Man were just as busy governing and doctoring respectively. The Old Friend had become a Taekwondo master or something equally inspiring at his new gym The Running Man. The Love Interest was waitressing at The End of the World As We Know It grill, the first after-apocalypse restaurant to open on the island that promised a zombie-free menu.

  I’d spent most of my adult life working part-time at shit jobs, finally abandoning my miserable existence to get free room and board. (if you count a constant diet of fish as “board”). It all got stolen away from me by a plague that destroyed almost everything I had ever known. Now, I’m again back to doing shit work. I know…I know. My parents are alive and the woman I have been in love with for years is safe, so you could say I’m pretty lucky. I’ve only had everything else taken from me. A lot of survivors on the island escaped the peevies with nothing more than their lives, and it is ungrateful for me to complain, but if I didn’t bitch I wouldn’t have much to write about. Smokes and I were apparently the odd men out who were forced to search for temporary jobs if we actually did anything; privately I considered myself the island's chronicler, and my super-sized friend its philosopher, so technically, we were employed.

  I went into TEOTWAWKI grill the other day and was happily surprised by not only having a hot waitress, but also by a great reunion. Sarah disappeared after taking my order I looked away to see a fit black man walking by me, back and forth to the kitchen.

  There was a place in Albertville that made some of the best food I’ve ever had—TJ’s Hot Wings. Their Ghost and Venom sauces would put even me under the table after just a couple. I like spicy food, but they had some suicidally painful hot sauces. I could eat my weight in Garlic-Parmesan and Cajun Wings, and I came close to doing just that whenever I had the privilege of eating at TJ’s. The cook at the restaurant would greet me every time I went inside this friendly eatery; I suppose I was one of his best customers. Tall and black, Zeke was the best cook I knew. He would always ask, "How’s it hanging, brotha?” and I would always say Zeke, my man. Ready to get my hot-on.” Now here he was, cooking on the Island. I might never eat Crow's slop again.

  "Zeke?" I stopped him as he passed my table. "How the hell are you here?"

  "I guess I made it, brotha."

  "That’s great man. What are you doing now?" I asked, as if the zombie apocalypse were a minor speed bump in our lives and we were just acquaintances having a casual discussion.

  "Cooking at this joint, man. You didn’t hear?"

  Holy shit! I’m not ashamed to admit I popped a boner. I stood and shook his hand in both of mine, then leaned in for a crab claw hug. There is good food and then there’s TJ’s. Zeke is the man that always made it happen.

  I looked at him with pleading in my eyes. "You can make some Cajun wings sauce, right?"

  "Yeah buddy. I’ll even start making wings when we've got enough chickens grown."

  I was about to start singing Hallelujah. I settled with, "I want to eat your first fryer-full!"

  He patted me on the shoulder before walking back to the kitchen. "It won’t be but a few weeks. I’ll let you know."

  I was on the verge of happy tears. If I ever have children, I’ll be surprised if their birth tops this as the greatest moment of my life.

  We still haven’t ever discussed a police force, I guess I just have a criminal mind. I really want to see Hamme
r in a cowboy hat and shiny badge. Maybe the zombie apocalypse did kill off the people who were worthless drains on society. I’m not exactly an intimidating person or very physically threatening, but I could at least be a beat cop who walks around ensuring people don’t litter. I’d rest my hand on the grip of the pistol on my hip to make sure people knew I meant business and they would tremble as they put their crap in the garbage can. Not knowing what else to do, I went down the street to the courthouse, hoping my dad would give me a job. As I knocked on the door to his office, a movie scene of me sweeping sidewalks ran through my mind. I briefly considered just running away before he came to the door.

  "It’s open!" came from the other side. I hesitantly walked in.

  After what seemed like several minutes of silence from both of us, he finally tired of staring at me and just went back to whatever he had been doing on his desk.

  "Eh hem." I cleared my throat.

  Daddy asked, "What?" without looking back up.

  It was a little late to run out of the room now. So I forced out, "Daddy–I need…do you…" I felt ashamed and embarrassed for not being ambitious enough to find something to do when everyone else on the island was helpfully employed. I have been busy, dammit, I’ve been chronicling this adventure for posterity. I straightened my spine and looked at my father. "Daddy, do you have anything that needs doing?"

  I’m obviously not extremely lazy. I was here asking for work. It could also be that I was just bored as hell.

  My dad smiled; he had the job lined up, like he was just waiting for me to ask. He said, "Actually yeah, I do need someone to go find a specific thing for me."

  I was expecting him to continue. When he didn’t I hesitated to ask what it was. Could my dad secretly be a stoner? Why didn’t he just ask Smokes if he was hankering for some wacky weed?

  "Is it a cure?" I was grasping for straws, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  His grin grew wider. "Almost as good."