by Dan O'Brien
The Bronco rolled to a stop, the powerful engine switching off. Dan and Kenny stepped out. Dan grasped the bag and threw it over his shoulder.
The sun began to slink just below the horizon.
“So tomorrow,” began the loveable behemoth.
“Whatever you want, man.”
“Right. Right.”
Together they moved through the door of the building into the interior. The first room was wide open with beat-up couches littered about and a few televisions that looked like remnants from the Cold War. The room’s five occupants were scattered about the room doing their own thing, except for two of them. Those two were sharing a couch in front of a television, and one of them was sitting very still, seemingly engrossed by the images on the screen.
The one closest to the door was a thin man and shorter than Dan––certainly smaller than Kenny. With wiry brown hair and cold gray eyes, he looked with dissatisfaction at the world; Brandon was a ghost from the past.
“Any trouble?” he asked.
“A bit, nothing unusual,” Dan replied.
Brandon grunted and moved away, sitting down in a plastic-covered chair in front of a dirty table where an assault rifle lay; its parts were carefully placed in rows. Dan’s brother Jesse sat farthest from the entrance. His long dirty blond hair was pulled into a topknot, and his glasses were composed of two separate frames melted together. His brown eyes scanned the pages of a novel carefully: Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky.
He was thin like Brandon, but tall like Kenny. Dan made his way toward his brother while Kenny lumbered toward the far couch where Will sat. His brown hair was mussed, though it almost looked purposeful. There was one long strand of hair that he combed over his ear.
“What up, fuck-cheese?” spoke Will as Kenny approached.
Kenny looked at him and shook his head. “You have to be the biggest waste of fucking space in the world, man. Sitting here with Starfish, smoking, and watching old shitty movies.”
“Starfish happens to understand the intricacies of attempting to find peak experiences in a post-apocalyptic world, my man. Just because you are too big and dumb to get that…”
“What the fuck ever, man.”
“Does the giant wish to argue?”
“I can’t wait to fucking punch you in the throat in your sleep.”
The previously stationary figure that sat next to Will on the couch turned. It was a zombie; more importantly, it was Starfish.
The zombie’s mouth was wired shut like the others, but on top of that he wore a hockey mask with black sunglasses attached to the cross-stitching. His arms had been removed and dirty, slightly viscous, black garbage bags wrapped its torso. It was really a dead, armless torso that ran amok on occasion.
“Starfish contributes more than you do,” said Kenny.
“The fuck if that is true. I grow herb, my friend. We all need to find some peace in a dark world.”
“Why the fuck do you waste your time doing that when there is literally a millennia’s worth of booze sitting in that dead town we once called home?”
Will turned around, placing an arm around Starfish’s shoulder. The zombie groaned and moved its shielded head, bumping into Will’s shoulder. “See, even Starfish here finds your lack of understanding disturbing.”
Kenny smirked. “I am not sure Starfish is an accurate representation of all counties accounted for.”
“In a world that has little left, art is even more important. My skills are necessary to bring joy to those left behind.” Will then gestured toward Kenny with a dismissing hand. “Even those Neanderthals with no vision, such as yourself, can appreciate the idea of enjoying the world, even a desolate one.”
Kenny moved quickly, grabbing Will by the neck and lifting him over the couch. Will screeched and flung his legs about, scrambling up the side of Kenny’s torso. The joint he had been smoking fell to the ground and was crushed under Kenny’s boot.
“That’s fucked, man. That’s substance abuse. All that work and your big Frankenstein foot crushes a perfectly good joint.”
Kenny threw Will back on the couch with ease and an eventful grin. “That's what you get, ya stick figure. Watch your mouth or I will throw you another beating.”
Will mumbled something unintelligible.
“What is that, Gumby?”
“Revenge is a bitch there, Quasimodo. Just you wait and see.”
Kenny scoffed and moved deeper into the compound, beyond the first room and into the shadows of the dormitories. Dan approached a statuesque black man. He wore his hair short––nearly a buzz cut. A cut-off shirt revealed a body tempered for war. He was working over a Wing Chun dummy with fierce precision as Dan approached.
“How are things here, Allen? Anything unusual? Any deadheads?”
Allen headed security operations, but in an unofficial manner of course. He spent most of his days and nights walking the surrounding property, checking traps and the like. “Nothing. It has been very quiet. The guys are restless though. Will especially is getting mouthy and antsy.”
Dan nodded. “Tomorrow we will all go in. We’ll take the van and the Bronco, grab supplies, and hit the chains.”
Allen smiled grimly.
“It wouldn’t hurt. What happened in town?”
“Bob got loose. Had to put some rounds in him.”
“Pharmacy Bob or Auto Store Bob?”
“Neither. Liquor Store Bob.”
“He seemed more squirrelly than the others lately. It makes sense.”
“I want to secure them all again, weigh them down and re-bolt.”
“You got it, boss,” replied Allen with a nod.
Dan stood for a moment, as if he were going to say something else. Allen looked at him expectantly. Moving past Allen, he patted him on the shoulder and raised a hand to get his brother’s attention.
“Hey bro,” began Dan somberly.
Jesse looked over the faded pages of the novel.
“Dan.”
“Almost done?”
Jesse raised an eyebrow.
“With Dostoyevsky? I was thinking of hitting the library tomorrow to pick up something new,” continued Dan.
“Sounds like a reasonable plan.”
“You want to come along?”
“Could be productive. There are a few gems I have been thinking about tackling. Perhaps I’ll finally finish War and Peace.”
Dan smiled, though it was barely noticeable.
“Very good.”
Jesse lowered the book and surveyed the complicated look on his brother’s face. “Is there something the matter?”
“Hmm…”
“Do you not want to talk about it?”
Dan sat down across from his brother.
“You know how long it has been?”
“I am aware of the amount of time that has transpired.”
“Seems like we have wasted a lot of time.”
“Wasted? Wasted how?”
“I dunno. There seems like there should be more than this. Doesn’t there seem like there should be some meaning to all this?”
“Looking for answers in an impossible situation will only bring more frustration, bro.”
There was sadness in his eyes.
“I just wonder why we bother.”
“Bother doing what exactly?”
“Simply being. Surviving. What is the point?”
Jesse placed down the book and sat forward. “I see. This is not about the time passed, but the fact that she is gone.”
Dan nodded sadly.
“If I were a spiritual man, I would spin an endearing yarn about her looking down on you, but as we both know that is not my style. On the contrary, you carry her with you, every day in your memory,” continued Jesse.
“I am not sure the memory is enough anymore.”
“For that, I am very sorry.”
“Yeah.” Dan looked around, sniffing. His eyes were glossy. Patting his brother’s knee, he stood and looked to
ward the dormitories, toward his bed. “I will see you in the morning, brother. Good night.”
Jesse sat back with his book, a contemplative look on his face. “Good night, brother.”
As Dan walked away, the sounds of Will watching The Godfather rose up as he laughed and snickered about something to which only he was privy.
Track 4
Three Little Birds
D
an reclined on his bed, arms behind his head. He was already dressed, and the sun had barely risen. His room was barren except for a mattress: no box spring, no frame. There was simply a mattress on the ground. His weapons were stacked neatly against the wall with their respective rounds laid out before them.
On the floor sat a single photograph of a woman, of his wife. She was beautiful with a fair complexion and wide brown eyes. His blue eyes watched the ceiling, his mind calm.
Blam.
Blam.
The sound of gunfire filled his senses. He was up from his mattress in one quick movement. Grabbing the automatic rifle, it hit against his shoulder. He looked down the sight with a grim fix of his lips. Moving into the hallway, he peered around at the other doors. They opened slowly, sleepy faces looking back at him.
Blam.
Blam.
The gunfire erupted again.
Dan moved down the hallway with the practiced ease of someone who is well versed in the hunt. He could hear Kenny’s voice from his room. “You motherfucker! Fucking fuck motherfucker, fuck. I’m gonna fucking…”
Dan kicked the door to Kenny’s room open with a quick motion. Kenny stood, wearing only his boxers––Simpsons’ boxers with Duff written in yellow letters all across it.
There was blood all over his bed. And a severed zombie head. In addition, a plethora of bullet holes riddled the child-sized bed in which he chose to sleep. And let us not forget the two stiff, severed zombie arms that were laid very near where Kenny would have been sleeping.
“What the fuck is this?” demanded Dan.
Kenny looked up. “I woke up with this motherfucker in my bed. I shot it, shot fucking holes in my bed.”
Dan lowered the rifle and looked at Kenny inquisitively. “Why would there be a deadhead in your bed?”
“That rhymed.” Will stood just outside the door with a big smile painted across his face from ear to ear.
Kenny looked at him. Rage covered his face. Pointing a heavy finger, he started forward. “You think this is funny? You did this, didn’t you? You little shit.”
Dan interceded, flashing Kenny a cold look. Turning to Will, he addressed the prankster. “Did you do this?”
Will shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe, fuck him for giving me shit.”
Kenny lunged forward again, but Dan pushed him back. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”
“Gotta pass the time somehow,” reasoned Will.
Dan shook his head and moved past Will, bumping him slightly. Pointing a thumb at Dan, he continued. “What’s his deal?”
Kenny moved in close, towering over Will, and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You fucking owe me sheets, man.”
Will made a funny face at him.
“The fuck I do. You owe me weed.”
Kenny bumped him. “Sheets and new fucking socks, and boxers and shit, man. How the fuck am I supposed to get murky zombie goo out of everything? I want a new bedroom set and clothes, motherfucker.”
Will stood on his tiptoes to address the challenge. “They are gonna be Smurf sheets and baby tees with that kind of attitude.”
“If you are gonna go gay, then at least get Hello Kitty. I wouldn’t mind having those around.”
Will made a face like he was touched by Kenny’s words. “I wasn’t sure until now, but I am fairly certain that you are a full-blown homosexual. There is nothing wrong with that of course, but I am glad that you finally have the courage to admit it.”
Kenny pushed Will over, knocking him through the open door frame.
“I get it, still a little sensitive about being outed and all. We’ll talk later,” continued Will.
Kenny threw up his hands and kicked the zombie head across the room, splattering brains against the far wall. He groaned as the smear oozed on to the floor.
*
A Ford Econoline Van with heavy tires sat next to the Bronco. The glass was heavily tinted, and little sharpened ridges ran along the base, above the wheels. Allen loaded weapons into the back of the van as Brandon carried a .50 caliber assault rifle, its stand, and an enormous spool to the back of the van. Jesse moved around the side of the van with a box of dusty books.
“What the fuck are you doing with those?” asked Will.
Jesse looked at him coolly.
Will was the youngest of the group.
The two men rarely spoke.
“I have finished these and plan on returning them for some new reading material.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“I imagine I do it for the illusion of order in all of this chaos, or perhaps the ability to create structure in an unstructured world.”
“That is a little weird, man.”
Jesse shrugged and continued on to the front of the van. Will ran forward. He wore a survival vest of sorts, but it was tagged all over with graffiti. Canisters of paint hung like weapons all about his person, leaving little room at his side for the sheathed bat wrapped in barbwire and covered in a hundred or so bent and unevenly placed nails. On his back his assault rifle was adorned with various bright stickers. The red bandanna he wore made him look more like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever than Stallone in Rambo.
Kenny loaded the Bronco. He laid a chainsaw on the seat along with his assault rifle. He carried two shotguns, crossed along his back.
“Looks like I’m riding with you today, Gigantor,” quipped Will.
Kenny groaned mockingly. “Seriously?”
Dan walked by, nodding at Kenny. There was a glimpse of a smile on his face. “Figured you’d want to be there to pick out the sheets,” chided Dan.
Kenny shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. Keep the shit to a minimum, half-pint.”
“Whatever you say.”
Will stepped away, feigning fear. “Gojira! Gojira!”
Kenny stepped forward, waving the smaller man away.
Track 5
I Am the Walrus
T
he sound of the engine was overwhelming, and the discussion was far from tame. Instead, it had reached a fevered pitch that bordered on accusatory.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You think that Avenged Sevenfold has no business being on a playlist for killing zombies. Are you mental, man? Have you completely lost your marbles?” argued Will.
“Your question is: What belongs on an end-of-the-world playlist, correct? In the event of a zombie apocalypse, what would I want to be listening to?”
“Correct.”
“So you agree that the choices would be purely subjective?”
“Of course.”
“Then what exactly is the point of getting all hot and bothered because I think your little band sucks balls. I’m sorry I’m not fawning over it.”
Will threw up his hands in irritation. “What does the brilliant music critic, Kenny of Bumfuck Nowhere, believe belongs on such an auspicious playlist as one that may be the last one you listen to?”
Kenny watched the road out of the corner of his eye.
“Anything by She Wants Revenge.”
“But you don’t want any Depeche Mode?”
“Fuck Depeche Mode, they don’t sound anything like She Wants Revenge, man.”
“You have got to be the dumbest motherfucker ever if you think that there are no similarities between their music. A fucking deaf-mute could tell the similarity.”
“So your argument is: someone who couldn’t hear the music––and couldn’t convey their opinion about said music that they couldn’t listen to––could do a better job of figuring out what good music is than I c
ould?”
“Precisely.”
Kenny shook his head.
“And you call me dumb.”
“Not just dumb, bordering on retarded, I swear to fucking God. Your rationale is equivalent to the guy who really believes there is a difference between hamburgers from different fucking fast food places. A Big Mac is the same anywhere, same fucking shit, different fucking day, and different fucking half-a-tard wrapping it up in crunchy paper for you.”
“I am not saying that there aren’t similarities, but I would certainly not compare them in terms of musicality.”
“Musicality? Are you a musical prodigy now? You are about as much an artist as I am a lawn gnome.”
Kenny laughed heartily. “Did I hurt the little artist’s feelings? Should we talk about those wonderfully dumb graffiti murals you plaster all over our corner of hell?”
“Fuck you. Don’t switch the subject. What makes you such a discriminatory judge of music that you can decide for everybody what constitutes good music and bad music. I don’t mock your shitty taste in music.”
“That is because I don’t have shitty taste in music.”
“What the fuck ever, man.”
“You don’t like what I got to say, then feel free to shut your fucking trap.”
“Fuck that. What about Radiohead? You wouldn’t want to have some Radiohead or Marley? You gonna sit there and look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want some Marley?”
“I am going to do exactly that. Fucking snore-fest, man. Give me ridiculous beats or give me death.”
Will turned and looked out the window. “Ridiculous. This ain’t over yet, man. We are coming back to this. You wait and see.”
Kenny laughed and shook the wheel, jarring the Bronco one way and then the other. “I’ll be waiting, poopy pants.”
*
The interior of the van was not a verbal ruckus. Brandon drove. Allen sat in the passenger seat, his automatic rifle across his lap.
