by Mark Tufo
Her shrill voice seemed to awaken something in BT. He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger and the behemoth on the other side barely moved as its head rocked back an inch or two. White bone shone through on its forehead for a moment before it was covered in a brackish black goop.
“Get in the car, BT!” Gary screamed, not even caring that his voice was at least three octaves higher than it normally should be.
“It’ll kill us,” BT said, not willing to look back at Gary. The beast was pulling the metal strips apart with a dexterity that the zombies had not shown previously.
The car settled down appreciably as BT got in quickly closing his door to the nightmare beyond the too thin glass windshield.
“Please, God, I’ve always tried to live my life as best I could,” Gary said as he again turned the key in the ignition. For a moment there wasn’t anything, not even the dead clicking, merely dead silence—that and the grunts and groans of the beast trying to get at them…and then the engine roared to life. Although to say that a four-cylinder Ford Pinto engine was roaring to life would be like saying that Paris Hilton was a fantastic actress (although if you count her night vision adventures she was alright).
The giant zombie was in the garage, it brought its honey-glazed-ham-sized fists down on the hood of the small car. Giant imprints were left behind as it raised its hands up to do more damage. Gary was afraid the monster would drive the hood into the fan blades, then their escape would be over before it ever even started. Gary threw the transmission into drive, and for one long, heart-stopping second, the engine sputtered and threatened to die before the car lurched forward and was immediately stopped as it ran into the zombie’s tree trunk-like legs.
“Go, Gary, go!” BT yelled.
“Sounds like Dr. Seuss,” Gary said. “Through the zombie, then we’re free. Go, Gary, go.” Gary pressed gently down on the gas pedal, trying to find a balance between more engine thrust and the car’s ability to take the influx of gas without flooding and stalling.
A deep moan came out of the zombie’s mouth. Gary had initially thought the vibrations he felt in his chest were coming from the car until he saw the zombie’s throat warbling.
“Gary?” BT pleaded.
“I’ve got the gas halfway down, we’re not moving!” Gary replied excitedly. Smoke was billowing all around the garage from the effort.
“Maybe you should put it all the way to the floor,” Mrs. Deneaux said, leaning forward.
“I think I agree with her on this one,” BT said, leaning as far back as he could—which wasn’t far considering the confines of the small car.
A stiff wind had kicked up, and the roadway was surprisingly clear. Gary was able to notice that more zombies of the traditional variety began to make their way over towards them.
“Now or never bud,” BT said noticing the same thing.
The engine popped and sputtered as Gary pressed his foot into the nearly rusted out floor board. The giant zombie had bent down and was now trying to lift the front end of the car off the ground. It appeared to be having some success.
BT quickly, and against his better judgment, rolled down his window and fired twice; one bullet tearing through the right side of the zombie’s jowl. Gnashing teeth shown through like a doctor’s examination room diorama. The second shot caught it in the forehead an inch or two from the previous wound. The zombie did not fall; but at least it dropped the car and staggered back.
The zombie was still moving backwards when the engine finally had enough thrust to get the transmission moving. The car shot out like a turtle wading through molasses. Gary did his best to avoid the behemoth, but with limited room and the size of the beast, it was easier said than done. The car was rocked to its rivets as it struck the zombie.
BT’s head almost made contact with the dashboard. The only thing preventing it was that he was wedged in tighter than a tick on a moose’s ass. Gary took a hard left away from the majority of the zombies, but it was still no easy feat avoiding them. He knew the Pinto could not sustain any more damage than it already had; a factory-new Pinto was suspect, and this had seen its best days decades earlier. Gary wouldn’t swear to it, but he thought he heard a maniacal laughter emanating from Mary’s house as they passed on by.
“Roll up your window,” Gary asked BT as he shivered.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mike Journal Entry 2
The sound of a small engine car racing past the house awoke me from my daze, that and the crazy, long-haired bastard that was looking down at me.
“Are you real?” he asked.
“Where the fuck am I?” I asked as I was peering around the room that was covered from floor to ceiling and the ceiling itself in tin foil.
“Hey...hey...hey!” he started. “I’m asking the hyperboles!”
So I know my grasp of the English language is suspect at best, but even I knew that was an incorrect sentence.
“Ask away,” I said weakly. I felt marginally better than I had when I fell into the house, but how much better was still in question. If crazy-eyed, long-haired, bearded man attacked right now with more than a plastic spoon I would be done for.
“I’m asking the questions here,” he said, trying to establish his authority.
“You said you were asking the hyperboles?”
“Why the fuck would I say that? That makes absolutely no sense,” he said, scratching his head. “Why you here? Did they send you?”
“Can I get a drink first?” I asked, my throat felt like it was on fire, which I guess wasn’t too far removed from the truth.
“I dance on my bed.”
How do these people find me? It’s like I have a heavy dose of crazy attractant sprayed all over me. “That’s nice,” was all I could think to say in return.
“Scotch okay? I don’t drink water since the government started putting fluoride in it. It makes you dumb,” he said, tapping his finger against his head.
“So how much water did you drink before you realized that?” I asked him.
Bearded Man was already heading into the kitchen; I think he was muttering something about Kelly Clarkson. I could hear the rattle of glasses and then a few of them smashing.
“You alright?” I asked as I tried to sit up.
“Thought I saw bugs,” came his reply.
“What’s with the tin foil?”
“What tin foil?” he said as he came back into the room holding two large glasses filled to the top with an amber colored liquid I could only hope was scotch and not Pine-Sol.
“Need some help?” he asked as he put the glasses down and extended his hand.
I was grateful for the help, but was afraid to touch him lest my burned flesh slough off in his grip.
“Come on, man, I haven’t bitten anyone since that one time in the K-Mart parking lot, and I thought he was an alligator,” he said, seeing my hesitation.
“I’m kind of burned bad, and I’m not sure if my skin will stay on.”
“You’re funny, man! You’re dirty as hell, I’ll give you that, but you ain’t burned. I mean I thought you were when you came in, but the more I looked at you the more convinced I was you were just a dirty bastard.”
I looked down at my hands. There seemed to be some residual burn marks, but it was nothing like what I had been looking at when I was in the roadway. I winced as he grabbed my hand, still half-convinced he would fall backwards with a fair portion of human material stuck in his grasp. My body popped and snapped as I stood, but I felt like a caterpillar shedding its old cocoon and becoming a butterfly. Okay…so that really isn’t a manly enough metaphor, let’s go with a snake shedding its old skin, that works much better and probably a lot closer to the truth considering what I was now. Half, half of what I am. I had to hold onto that other half with everything I had now. I picked up my glass and took a large swallow, the liquid alternating between burning and soothing my throat.
“How did the government know I was here?” Bearded Man asked.
I gripped the edge o
f a small table as a serious case of vertigo swooned by me. “Whoa, cheap high,” I said, harkening back to a reference I had used since my youth whenever I got light-headed from rising too quickly.
“There is nothing cheap about my highs,” Bearded Man said indignantly.
I thought I had crazy cornered, shit was I wrong. “No one sent me, definitely not the government. I was trying to get away.”
“From her?” he asked.
The swoon struck again, I tried not to let him see it.
Then he moved on. “I once ate a Snickers bar on a dare.”
Who the hell doesn’t like Snickers bars? I thought, and who would ‘dare’ someone to eat one?
“Can we start again?” I asked.
“When did we finish?” he asked back.
How many gods have I pissed off? I wailed internally.
“My name is Michael Talbot,” I said as I extended my hand, thinking he would shake it, then tell me his name. He looked at my proffered hand like it was a claw.
“No way, man,” he said.
I understood not shaking hands; he could be a fellow germaphobe. But that didn’t make any sense considering that he had just helped me to stand.
“Okay,” I said, pulling my hand back in, unconsciously rubbing it against my side. Blue jean material fell way like dried sand. I began to brush my legs. More fried clothing fell to the ground.
“Dude, you’re messing with my high man,” Bearded Man said as he backed up.
I stopped what I was doing, realizing that if I kept it up I would be naked in front of another man real soon. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it just isn’t my cup of tea. Okay, so tea doesn’t seem masculine enough, let’s go with lager, yeah it’s not my stein of lager, much better).
“Are you melting?” he asked, still backing up.
“Molting more like it.” I gulped down my apprehension as I began to ask him my next question. “Do you have any clothes I could borrow?” As it was, I had to wash store bought clothes twice before I would ever wear them, and now I was asking this unkempt stranger if I could borrow some of his stuff.
His eyes glazed for half a second then some lucidity popped in for a quick respite. “Sure I’ll be right back.”
What the fuck? I mouthed. This guy was insane…I was just hoping not criminally insane. I can deal with varying degrees of insanity; I’m a Talbot after all.
He came back a few moments later with a heavy woolen poncho, white socks with yellow stripes—I hadn’t seen anything like those since grade school—a pair of pants that looked fashionable during the Nixon era, and some tightie-whities.
I gladly accepted just about everything except the underwear. They could have been brand new, but the mere fact that he had touched them made them soiled in my eyes. And these were far from Inspector Number 5’s hands; the elastic waistband was all stretched and worn out and there was a small hole in the seat.
“I was going to toss those soon,” he said as he watched me looking at the underwear.
“Well I’m glad you found it in your heart to hold onto them until you bequeathed them to me.”
“You’re welcome, want some french fries?”
“Thank you and yes.” What the hell else could I say? Who turns down french fries? Plus, I thought it would give me an opportunity to stash the underwear while he went into the other room to gather the mythical fried spuds.
I manically brushed the remainder of my singed digs off of me as Bearded Man made quite a show of preparing our side dish. The poncho which was scratchy actually felt surprisingly wonderful on my new itchy skin; the polyester pants were on the tight side and about two inches too short, but it beat naked any day. I hid the underwear in the poncho’s oversized front pocket. I was putting on the socks when he came in with a tray of steaming french fries.
“Who are you?” he asked stopping a few feet from me.
At first I thought he was pulling my leg, but he just kept staring at me. “Michael Talbot remember? You just got me some new clothes? And thank you by the way.”
“Oh right, I thought I was imagining you. Whoa french fries!” he exclaimed, like he just realized what he was carrying. He started popping the steaming starch sticks into his mouth. “Mmmmm, these are so good,” he said with his eyes closed. He opened them and peered at me for a moment as if he was sifting through his memory trying to figure out who I was again. When he came up with a satisfactory answer, once more he asked if I wanted some.
He put the tray down and I ate some. They actually had some spices on them and were delicious.
“I used to be chef for a five star resort,” he said as he watched me obviously enjoying his cuisine.
“These are fantastic,” I said as I stuffed some more in my face. Apparently almost dying by fire and meeting God take their toll on one’s appetite.
“Nice poncho I’ve got one just like it, I wish I knew where I’d put it.”
“What’s your name?” I asked again as I sat down, wanting to get closer to the addictive food. Bearded Man seemed to have forgotten about them completely; this was fine with me, I was famished.
“John the Tripper,” he said with a faraway look.
“Excuse me?” I asked almost wrongly swallowing a half chewed potato strip.
“John the Tripper,” he reiterated.
I had to ask, but I already knew the answer. “Because you fall over things?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked back.
“You said John the Tripper.”
“What?”
“John the Tripper.”
“What?”
“Your name.”
“What about it?”
“I figured it might mean you fall over things, apparently not though.”
“I toured for twelve years with the Grateful Dead,” he told me.
“Of course you did. Any chance you filled in some of the down time with some serious karate and weapons training?”
“I watched a Bruce Lee film once, didn’t understand it though.”
“John the Tripper...”
He said “What?” again before I could finish.
“Shit,” I said, rubbing my hand over the top of my head where my hair should have been. “Do you have a mirror?” I asked as I patted down my entire head. I was pretty alarmed at this point.
He pulled open a drawer in the small table that I had used previously to support myself. It was overflowing with handheld mirrors of varying size and shape.
He looked up at me a little sheepishly. “Sometimes I just need to see myself to know that I still exist.”
“I can actually relate,” I told him as he handed me one. My right eyebrow, along with all of the hair on my head was gone, burnt to a crisp much like my clothes had been, three-quarters of my goatee was gone. I looked pretty sketchy to say the least. I’m not sure if I would have gone close enough to this person in the mirror to drop a quarter in a cup. I looked like I was suffering some serious malady. I just hoped it wasn’t catchy.
“Do you have cancer?” he asked as he rubbed my smooth head.
“I hope not, although that would probably be preferable to what ails me,” I told him, eyeing the top of my head with the mirror.
“Does shaving your head keep the evil one out?”
I was so intent on trying to find some vestige of hair on my head that I almost missed his comment. Let’s be honest, most of what the guy says can’t be construed as anything other than crazy and I had just become a Telly Savalas stunt double (Yul Brynner? Does that help as a reference? Okay, how about Doctor Evil.)
“What, John?” I asked finally looking over at him, my neck thankful I had stopped craning it in strange ways.
John the Tripper began to look around wildly. “Who’s John?” he asked me.
“You are. That’s what you told me.”
“My name is John the Tripper.”
“That’s what I said,” I answered, although I hadn’t, I had only called
him John now that I reflected on it.
“So there’s nobody else here?” he asked, the concerned look on his face dissipating.
‘Just the voices in your head buddy.’ I wanted to tell him, but I was afraid we would get so far off topic that neither of us would be able to recover. “Nobody else, John...” He was about to ask who John was again “...the Tripper.” That seemed to appease him. This was going to be a pain in the ass if I had to call him by his full man-given name every time I wanted to talk to him.
“Your hair…did you get rid of it because they were acting like tiny antennas?”
John was giving me a headache. His verbal gymnastics was like watching two highly skilled Chinese Ping Pong players playing a game hopped up on Red Bull. I couldn’t keep up, or maybe more like a sure-footed goat on a Nepali Mountain pass, I couldn’t follow his windings.
I shrugged. “John...(his mouth opened)...the Tripper (it closed) I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about?”
“You’re hair, man!” he said all wide-eyed. “Did you shave it off so that she couldn’t communicate with you?” And before I could answer he added. “I wished I had thought of that, had to go out about five times to get enough tin foil to wrap the whole house. There are some funky people out there. Did you know that?”
Did he just call zombies ‘funky’ people? Well that was a different slant for sure. This guy didn’t even know we were on the losing end of a zombie apocalypse, I didn’t think I had the patience to explain it to him. And for what purpose? John the Tripper seemed to be making his way just fine through his made up world.
“I mean I toured with the Grateful Dead and even Phish for a while. Smelled some truly funked-out hippies, but those people out there…” he said, pointing through his tin foil-covered window, “…there’s not enough patchouli in the world to cover up their smell.”
“Do you have guns?” I asked him, but the odds were that if he had, he would have converted it into some makeshift bong by now.
In a moment of clear thought he looked at me like I was the one on a twenty-year acid stint. “Do I look like I would own a gun?”
