by Javan Bonds
I was shocked at hearing another human voice and a bit taken aback at the strange profanity, but I quickly lifted my bow and aimed in the general direction of the source—the bridge behind the boat. With as much authority as I could muster, I said, "Freeze and put up your hands!" I actually said that. I’m not sure what I was expecting the person to do, but I must have sounded like a real badass because I heard something clatter to the pavement and shortly after I could see two meaty hands rise into the air. Then the rest of him stood, and there was an awful lot of him.
"Dude, what are you doing out here?"
"Bra, Im a find me a pimp-ass ride and take myself to find my bredren in Huntsville. Dis a ghost town, yo."
I consider it more of a "zombie town" or "graveyard," but I wasn’t going to argue details. I was having a hard time picturing this guy outrunning zombies and his voice almost pushed me over the edge of laughter. I don’t know if I’m the only one, but I compare every person I meet with actors or characters from various forms of entertainment and this guy made me think of the kid from The Blindside, sounded exactly like Chris Tucker, and the red T-shirt incited thoughts of Fat Albert. Immediately I wanted to make prank calls with this guy.
"Da fuck you smilin’ at, dawg? Bra, you sound like a young a Tommy Lee Jones, hillbilly style" he raised an eyebrow at me.
Apparently I’m not the only one that compares people to celebrities. I don’t hear the resemblance between my accent and Texans’ accents. I had never thought of this comparison for myself, but I think Tommy Lee Jones rocks, so I wasn’t complaining. I stood up a little straighter.
He shifted his stance to lean on the hood of the car beside him, "You one a dem gay-rapers?"
He paused as if to allow me to defend myself, but before I could protest his assumption he cut me off, "You wants me to come on you little cruise ship and drink some Jesus juice, right? You like whatcha see here, dontcha?" he said as he rubbed down his body with his hands.
I was a little disgusted at his petting of himself as well a bit offended at his assumption. I was not sure how to answer him. "I’M NOT GAY!" I shouted in an unconvincing tone and then continued in a less exasperated tone, "I’m just happy to see another survivor, is all."
Looking at his still-unbelieving face, I finally ended his accusations with, "I’m not gay, and I’m pointing an arrow at you."
I narrowed my eyes threateningly as he threw his hands back up in a surrender gesture. "Okay bra, we coo, we coo."
We seemed to move forward pretty quick in our relationship; he was also glad to see another human, weapon or not. Though I didn’t relax my bow entirely, I was not holding the string as tightly. I asked in a friendlier tone, "What’s your name, man?"
"Smokes."
I had no problem with using a nickname, but I also like to know the given name of a person, so I felt compelled to press. "What’s your real name?"
Smokes rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Mufucka. Marl."
My eyes widened; I was genuinely intrigued now. "Like Marlboro?”
He sighed and seemed to shrink. "Shit man, I wish. It’s Marlon. Marlon Williamson."
It was obvious that he disliked his real name even more so than I disliked mine and I opened my mouth to tell him it was okay but he continued, seemingly angry now. "Listen cracka, you go on and starts queer-ass gigglin’, an’ I get some of my hard-hittin’ niggas in da Crips to take care of you wit a pair ‘a pliers and a blowtorch, hillbilly boy."
Smokes obviously thought I was about to make the same kind of name jokes that I had endured all of my life. I really couldn’t help it as I raised an eyebrow, "You mean the Bloods? Dude, I’m white and even I know that," I gestured to his red T-shirt. Everybody knows Bloods wear red and Crips wear blue.
Before he could launch into another insult-laden tirade, I inserted, "Anyway, it’s cool man...my name’s Elmo."
Son of a bitch immediately began to chuckle hysterically. "Why ain’t you fuzzy? I’ma tickle da shit outta you!"
I have heard this one so many times that it has almost no effect. I visibly drew tension on the string and stated calmly and coldly, "I’m still pointing an arrow at you."
"Chill dawg! You know I had to." He put his hand on his hip. "Yo Momma musta hated you if she give you a name like dat."
I was more at ease now, letting the bow go slack and drop. This guy seemed like someone I would have hung out with before the End of the World.
I figured I might as well invite him to join my merry little band. "Sometimes I think the same thing. You want to come out to the boat? We got food and…shit.” I made sure to throw that little teaser out on the end, the mention of anything edible obviously sealed the deal.
"Aight homeslice, but I ain’t puttin’ lotion on in fronta you, gay-raper."
I almost laughed. "Maybe later, then. You got any guns?"
He leaned over and reached for what he had obviously dropped to the ground earlier "Sho as shit, bra." He lifted what I assumed to be a Mac9 or Uzi and it did not appear as intimidating as it was meant to be as he held it loosely between two meaty fingers, showing it to me like an action figure or something. I had only asked because I was hoping he actually did have some sort of firearm so at least there would be one on the ship, even if it was only short range and probably didn’t have more than one magazine of ammo. Smokes did not strike me as the type of person that would gain my good graces and then murder me in my sleep.
It took a lot of effort and an excessive amount of sweating to walk the several hundred yards and make his way onto the ship, but Smokes finally stood before me on the deck, doubled over and gasping for breath. I considered making a remark about my surprise that the boat did not start sinking when he came aboard, but I remembered the machine pistol he had placed in his waistband, and even though he did not seem like the type of guy that would react violently to someone just making a joke, I didn’t know him very well yet so I was not sure what his reaction would be in his exhausted state. In fact, I realize now that I knew very little about him at the time.
Before I go any further I would like to address his "waistband" situation. Who the hell makes pants like that? I know who wears them: these stupid "gangsta" wannabes. And no, it’s not a racial thing, white guys look just as stupid dressing that way. I would not have believed that pants that size existed if I wasn’t looking at them, and I still had trouble wrapping my mind around it. The pants would have been just as baggy on an elephant as they were on Smokes.
"Who dat fine ass bitch?"
He threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Crow. She was so quiet I had forgotten she was there and had not thought of introducing him to her or even mentioning that we had a guest on board. I looked over his shoulder to where he was pointing and raised my eyebrows, wondering how much shit I was about to take, but he cut me off before I could speak. This was the start of was something that would happen fairly often, "You hittin’ dat ass, my brotha?”
"No man, I don’t think–"
"If you ain’t gettin’ none, you mind if I tap dat?" As I opened my mouth to reveal my suspicion that Crow liked women, he continued. "She into brothas? I’d give her a jungle fever, mmm hmmm."
Thankfully, he finally stopped speaking and I gave him a few seconds before I even bothered an attempt at responding. "I don’t think she’s into our kind." I really didn’t give a shit if Smokes got some from her, but I was confident he didn’t have a chance.
Before I could say anymore, he cut me off again. "She racist?"
I was flabbergasted. Did he think I was black and then did he think I thought I was black? Or was he referring to her being Indian? I was so confused that I completely bypassed his question, "I don’t think she likes any kind of…meat.”
He stuck his hands in his enormously huge pants pockets and whistled loudly in realization. "Shit bra. I guess you ain’t da gay in our lil’ crew."
I was glad that he finally came to the conclusion that I was not "the gay" and I almost laughed at his pr
esumptuousness. He had no idea if there were others somewhere on board but he’d already grouped himself into "our little crew." I fully expected him to continue before I could respond, and he did.
"Every group in every zombie movie has a gay," he raised one finger as if counting off characters in a script. I wanted to ask him how our situation seemed like a movie since this was something I had been considering myself, but I thought better of trying to get a word in when he raised another finger. "Obvious-like, I’s da token black guy," before I could ask him what role I would play in this film, he lifted a third digit. "And you is..." he trailed off, thinking so hard the action was almost audible. "You white and you look pretty average, so I s’pose you could be the main character; some kinda hero anti-hero."
I was about to thank him for deciding I was not the surprise ax murderer and merely an average nobody, but then it kind of made sense. Since this is my journal, obviously, I am the main character: The Hero.
I was perplexed. "Are you a film student or something? I had noticed how he spoke knowledgeably about plot, dropping the whole "gangsta" slang toward the end of his list.
He chuckled, "Hell naw, dawg. I sell dope. I just watch movies and shit."
I was hoping for a little more about his analogy of our situation, but I suppose at least we’d all been given our respective roles to play. Surprisingly, he seemed satisfied with his summation and had nothing more to say on the matter. We discussed a few more characters he assured me we would undoubtedly meet, and though I was skeptical about a few, like The Expert driving a fully loaded humvee, but he was so sincere in his beliefs that it was difficult to disagree with him. Plus, it was fun having someone besides silent fishing woman to have some conversation with. Who knew? Perhaps we were unknowingly involved in some type of epic fiction and he had already read the script. Science fiction is loaded with stories about people trapped inside other beings’ plotted universes, just pawns in their creepy worlds. But either he had skipped the last page or it hadn’t been given to him because he was not forthcoming with any sort of ending, and I could not bring myself to press him on the issue. If he was some type of fortuneteller, I didn’t want to hear about my future life as a zombie.
After having less than a fraction of a conversation with the nearly-mute Crow, talking to Smokes was more enjoyable than I would have expected. He talked faster than an auctioneer, especially compared to my slow southern drawl. But I was so interaction-deprived that I had neglected to properly introduce my sole surviving shipmate to our new recruit.
I had not worn a wristwatch since before I got my drivers license and my shitty old flip phone had become nothing more than a paperweight so I did not know what time it was when Crow began walking in our direction. She was heading below deck to get some rest before her busy day tomorrow of sitting in a lawn chair fishing under the shade of an accompanying umbrella which had been liberated from a neighboring yacht. Apparently, she had watched the original encounter and entered our little powwow with the understanding that our guest was a friendly, but just as I expected, she said not a damn thing. The moment Smokes noticed her nearing, he grew almost painfully silent, stood ramrod straight with his hands clasped behind his back, sucked in his immense gut, and noticeably blushed-yes, I was utterly surprised to learn that black people can blush.
Are we in fucking middle school? I thought. I don’t know how Smokes normally acted around women but he obviously liked Crow as if he were a twelve-year-old with a crush. I broke the uncomfortable silence. “Crow, this is Smokes; Smokes, this is Crow."
I paused for the two to exchange greetings and as I expected, Crow simply remained where she was with her arms crossed and nodded her head while Smokes offered a sheepish, "Hey."
I continued with a sigh. "Smokes is going to be staying with us for a while. I’ll show him the ropes and teach him how we do things. He will pull his own weight."
I was expecting some sort of smart ass comeback about my remark on his bulk but realized it flew right past them both. He was stone faced and had directed his eyes at the deck since Crow had gotten closer. I decided to remember that around women (or at least around Crow) Smokes becomes speechless—perhaps this little trick could come in handy someday.
"Do you know what time it is?" I asked, attempting to break through the silence again.
She finally replied, "Yes."
Waiting for few more seconds and I was met with more awkward silence. Apparently, she had taken this opportunity to be a fucking comedian. So I finally asked, "Well?"
She didn’t miss a beat, "Time for bed."
"Right," I said. I knew it was getting late because it was now dark and the only light was that of the rising moon. Not feeling like playing this game I simply nodded my head and walked into the bowels of the ship with Smokes in tow, showing him the crew quarters where he would be sleeping.
“Mufucka, I don’t wanna sleep in no bunk bed," he glanced around the communal quarters and the four stacked units. "How many peoples y’all got up in here, anyways? An I call tops!"
I could have told him that there were only two of us remaining of our original seven crew members. Then I briefly thought about messing with him, telling him the top bunks were all spoken for. Suddenly, I was so relieved realizing that I would not have to worry about sleeping in a bunk below him and instead replied, "Like I give a shit. I don’t sleep in here."
"Da the fuck you sleepin’?"
Since the zombie outbreak had reached Guntersville and the captain was MIA, I had taken on the role of acting Captain. I was, after all, the senior member, and one of the perks that came with the duty was that I claimed the Captain’s Quarters, which had a queen-size bed.
Upon my telling him the short version of this, he was filled with shock and fear. "Where she sleep?" He raised a finger to point towards where he had last seen Crow and in response I pointed to one of the beds on the opposite wall. His quick and angry complaint: "Fuck you cracker. I ain’t sleepin’ in hur wit a female!"
I hadn’t thought this would be a problem and I did not understand why it mattered. "Come on man. She’s not going to care if you sleep in your boxers." He opened his mouth but I guessed what he was about to say and beat him to the punch. "And no, I don’t know if she sleeps in her underwear or what kind she wears!"
Even when I did sleep in the crew quarters I never stayed awake to have pillow talk with the rest of the crew. I always just stripped down to my boxers, fell into my bunk, shut my eyes, and was asleep within minutes. My dad had the uncanny ability to fall sleep after only a few seconds of closing his eyes, so I suppose I inherited some of that. I never really paid attention to the other members of the crew while they slept. Hell, for all I know Crow slept in the nude; if she did, I actually would be somewhat sorry that I’d never noticed. But this is the way I think of it: if she’s a lesbian that means she likes chicks. I will give Smokes the benefit of the doubt and say that he is apparently straight, so that means he likes chicks; you can probably follow this logic. They are both playing for the same team, so neither should be bothered about being in the shower at the same time, right? I retract that statement. I myself would feel uncomfortable in the shower with any female but I wouldn’t care if she saw me in boxers and a T-shirt.
He argued with me for a few more minutes, watching the closed door and expecting Crow to enter at any second. He whined like a petulant child in near-sobs. "Please bra, lemme stay wit you."
I don’t know if he seriously thought I would accommodate him but I figured this was a good time to assert my authority. "Dude, I’m not having a fucking slumber party." I could see that he was almost in tears and tried to reassure him. "Smokes, man, it’s all right. Trust me. I used to sleep in the bed right across from her and it didn’t kill me."
Smokes did not appear entirely consoled but hesitantly resigned himself to sleeping with a girl in the room, "Fuck. Fine, but I’m a remember this, homeslice."
I smiled at this vague threat, my friends and I had made similar
threats to one another over the years and I could tell Smokes was not being malicious. That still didn’t make me feel sorry for him since this sleeping situation had not been a problem for any involved parties in the past, and once he got over his initial (and childish) fear, I was betting he would not even think about it.
"You better go ahead and get in bed before she gets in here," I fought the urge to laugh as he scrambled to drop his enormous blue jeans, climb into bed, and pull the blanket up to his chin. As I walked out I said, "I guess I’ve gotta show you some of the stuff we do in the morning. Get some sleep."
"You know," I said as I shut the door, "this ship is haunted." I just couldn’t help myself.
Mo Journal Entry 3
"All y’all do is sit on the boat fishin’ and shit?" I nodded my head. That’s mostly all we have done since this shit hit the fan.
Smokes appeared incredulous. "Homeslice, ain’t you neva seen no movies? We s’pposed to go get survivors and shit! We got a few more protagonists to rescue."
I laughed at his resolve to continue like we were living some kind of scripted scenario. I believe in God and that He is omnipotent, so I guess He knows what’s going to happen. But things never play out like we mere mortals expect. I rubbed my neck, considering if we should make at least a small attempt at finding and saving others.
Smokes pointed his finger and narrowed his eyes. "Listen, mufucka, even if you all don’t wanna be one of the protagonists y’all betta be loaded down wit ketchup. I ain’t eatin’ no fuckin’ fish wit no fuckin’ ketchup!"
