by Javan Bonds
I could tell by the way she nodded her head that she knew, as I did, it would be a few hours journey...almost impossible, especially with Smokes drag-assing, to get there before sunset.
Writing this entry, I am sick as hell that we never even considering finding a vehicle; you would think that at least the fat guy would suggest we find a more luxurious mode of transportation. Hell, he was in the middle of picking one out when I met him, so what the fuck? We three idiot amigos walked around the corpses in the parking lot, which were already drawing flies, and stopped at the curb of the highway. Hammer’s flaming red hair was almost painful to look at in the sunlight. She was average height with a soldier’s posture, and it was noticeable by the way she carried herself that she was experienced in the use of firearms. My father, the fair-weather prepper survivalist, would have had a few interesting discussions with her on military tactics.
"So how long was you gonna stay in dat store?" I knew Smokes would eventually begin a conversation with The Expert that would inevitably last throughout most of our trek across the city. He completely disregarded my earlier warnings to remain silent when not within the safety of the building and she was happy to respond to everything he said in a normal tone of voice. Stealthy we were not.
"I didn’t have a reason to leave until you boys showed up and offered me a ride on your boat. I could have lived in there for as long as I needed to."
Did we really? I was debating whether it would have been less annoying to be stuck with an entire field trip of elementary school kids. I doubt any six-year-olds carried assault rifles, though
"What da numba a mufuckas get killt by you?" Dear God, the heaviest number of our trio was going to ask pointless and random questions over our entire trip.
She answered his question with two questions. "You mean in the Service? Directly or indirectly?" Hammer didn’t seem like the type that would shy away from talking about her service, but Smokes obviously did not understand what she was asking and stammered an answer that sounded like a question.
"Both?"
She let out a long sigh and appeared to be counting. "Well–" she began as our group started north on the highway. I could only shake my head as these two chatterboxes carried on loud enough to awaken every bloodthirsty monster still on the island.
Mo Journal Entry 8
Smokes casually mentioned that we should be meeting up with our "Old Friend" pretty soon. The "Old Friend" becomes part of the group of lead protagonists—someone the main character has known for a great number of years. This companion may be a coworker that was introduced at the beginning of the tale, a former classmate, a distant relative, or any fellow met by chance that hasn’t been seen by the hero in a considerably long time. Recognition will be mutual and almost instant. Even if they do not share viewpoints or values, the two will find plenty of common ground. Though they may not have formerly been close, their camaraderie will be seen as time-tested and they may appear to be, or even become better friends than they ever really were. Perhaps the dire circumstances allow them to put aside whatever had kept them apart for so long.
Just as my foot touched the yellow of the center line of the highway, Hammer whispered urgently, "Nine o’clock!"
She spun on her heel and dropped flat on the pavement as she aimed her rifle in that direction. Smokes and I were not sure what to do and scattered to either side of the road, Smokes taking up a position behind a light pole that covered an infinitesimal fraction of his bulk while I took a knee in the much deeper and more protective ditch on the opposing side from Bottom Dollar. We both glanced back and forth from each other to the general direction our expert had indicated. We could see a single figure moving in one of the police cars in the causeway barricade. If this lone individual had intended to cause us harm, I’m pretty sure we were easy to spot. The largest target, Smokes, had not yet been shot and there appeared to be no other potential hostiles, so the three of us slowly crept closer until it was clear that it was a man, pulling himself through the car. We stopped at the intersection of the four-lane and Highway 79, the road that followed the Peninsula in the Southwest. From this distance I could easily make out this interloper’s features and I instantly went back in time to my senior year of high school. I could hear the crowd like I was there:
"Go easy on ‘em, Easy!"
"Yay! Go Eagles!"
“Engage ‘em Gage!”
I remembered the cheerleaders continuing their customary rah-rahs as the fourth quarter of our homecoming football game went on. I have never been much of a sportsman, especially when it comes to football; I know that it’s a good thing when my team has a greater score than the opposing team, but I have no idea what’s happening beyond that. During my senior year, my freshman brother, Ezekiel "Easy", became the All-Star varsity quarterback. That year our school saw its first positive football season in almost a decade, and although I had been present at almost every home varsity game, I could not tell you much more than that our football team fucking sucked before this season, making Easy a local hero. I spent the majority of every game with friends, sneaking around the parking lot thinking we were bad asses, smoking cheap cigarettes and occasionally coming up with some precious beer. But because this was my senior homecoming; I had taken a break from my normal routine of getting into trouble to sit in the stands and catch most of the end of the game. Of course, Douglas was tied with whoever we were playing and I heard someone say that the Eagles were going for a touchdown; the whistle blew, guys ran around and into each other. I recognized our running back moving to the end zone and deftly catching a pass that was thrown to him by my perfect brother with only seconds left on the clock, winning the game. It was easy to pick out our running back, Bradley Gage, he was 6’4” and lean. His only competition at getting laid by any girl he winked at was my brother. Bradley was in my class, and my class was a typical small-town Alabama high school class where everyone knew everything about everyone else. There were not many different cliques; the only thing I knew for a fact about Bradley (other than that he always had a really hot girlfriend) was that he did not have a nickname.
Where I’m from, most people are either given a nickname or they don’t have any friends. I suppose Mo counts as a nickname for Elmo. At least I was likable to a few acquaintances. It was rare that a football player went by only his full first name. Over the years people tried to give Bradley a nickname but nothing stuck not Mossberg, Buck, or even Brad.
Bradley and I had never been close; he was one of the cool kids who wore polo shirts and ripped and faded jeans. We saw each other nearly every day at school, occasionally at parties, and were always pleasant to one another, but no one would have considered us buddies. After games were over, a lot of the student body would hang out at the football field and congratulate players on a game well played, give words of encouragement after a loss, or having nothing better to do, would loiter, as I did. Although I did not give a rat’s ass about football, I felt duty-bound to congratulate some of my classmates, this being our final homecoming. Bradley had completed the winning play and I decided to tell him that he had made a good catch.
In the present, in the middle of the highway, I could see past the countless backslaps and handshakes my brother was receiving from everyone...and there he was; the black-bearded visage of Bradley...right there, becoming clearer. I shouted to him: "Bradley?”
"Yeah man," he said out the window of the cop car.
I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped. Here was Bradley Gage. He still had a beard; it was thicker now, but easily recognizable. His twin, full-sleeve tribal tattoos, herculean arms, and braided ponytail were new, but this was definitely my graduating classmate—the receiver who had won our senior Homecoming. Once he had gained the passenger seat, he stretched through the open window and reached out onto the hood of the squad car to grab and pull onto the ground a wheelchair. This was also new. I had originally mistaken it as a part of the barricade that had been laid across the car and was confused as the former runnin
g back lifted himself from the car and into the wheelchair.
Most of my class had moved away for work or just more exciting surroundings. The last time I had seen Bradley was graduation day and I believe I would have noticed the chair. "What happened man?”
He obviously misunderstood my question and responded, "Hell if I know. Some kind of mutant rabies or something."
I climbed out of the ditch where I’d hidden and stood near the bank on the north side of the intersection. Hammer was still crouched and guarded at my side, where she had taken position soon after alerting us to our company. Smokes was farther back on his side of the highway, using a deserted car in the Best Western parking lot as a reasonable cover.
I began walking towards him with Hammer keeping a 360° watch on our perimeter. I was about to ask how he had gotten here when a monkey appeared from within the car and perched on his broad shoulder. No I’m not shitting you, a fucking monkey.
He saw the question on my face and pointed at his furry little companion. "This is Mary, and Mary, this is…" he stopped to allow me to finish the introductions and I realized that one of the members of my one hundred-twenty person graduating class had no idea who I was. I don’t think I look a whole hell of a lot different than I did just a few years ago, and while I’m not exactly memorable, I again point out that I graduated with a hundred and twenty people.
"Come on. Bradley, it’s Mo." I tried not to show my exasperation as I nodded when he asked, "Collins?"
He began rolling closer to us. As he and Mary neared it was plain to see that he made the three of us, armed and armored like crazy militia members, look like kids with Nerf guns. Strapped over each of his muscle shirted shoulders was a loaded automatic pistol holster, a stagecoach shotgun rested on the outside of both of his calves; I could see the tips of countless long guns poking over his shoulders, and I was guessing the undercarriage of his wheelchair was also packed with firearms.
"Dude! How the hell are ya? What have you been up to?"
I would have been happy to reacquaint myself with my fellow graduate but there would be plenty of time later for a high school reunion, so I tried not to go into too much detail. "I’ve been around. Got a job about a year ago sailing on a pirate ship."
When I tell anyone of my job, the most-often-asked question I receive is either "Huh?" or "What do you mean?" I was unsure of Bradley’s plans, but I intended to be safe on a boat before sunset, so I gave my explanation in shorter terms than usual to save time. In hindsight, I must have come off as a complete asshole to everyone I have met since the zombie apocalypse began. Every time I’ve met someone it has been in a hurry to get back to my boat. It’s easy to see they’ve all thought of me as less than a desirable dinner date. I don’t think I’m usually this much of a dick, I’m just willing to postpone insignificant conversation until I am no longer in a life-threatening situation. I take that back. I just prefer to at least keep moving closer to safety before enveloping myself in any type of conversation rather than stand around and wait for a nocturnal scourge to eat me. I’m not sure if I should still use the word "standing" now that Bradley is in our party...and now I feel bad for even realizing that.
I introduced Bradley to Hammer and looked over my shoulder to see that Smokes was slowly approaching between taking breaks for doubling over and gasping, so I decided to introduce him before his arrival. Bradley mentioned that he and his father had taken part in several national tactical shooting tournaments, so that was the reason he had so many guns. Mary was a capuchin monkey—a registered service animal given to him by a charitable organization.
He described this foundation as some sort of nonprofit that partners monkeys with disabled people. It sounded like a worthwhile cause to support, you know, if it wasn’t for the death of civilization and everything.
"Like the monkey from Monkeyshines, that old George Romero movie,” I spoke slow, low, and wistful to know one. I smiled and realized it couldn’t just be mere coincidence.
The three of us silently agreed to meet our slowly approaching companion halfway so made our way to the unhealthy behemoth. At least we were moving now, so I felt more comfortable in partaking in superficial conversation and catching up with Bradley, apparently our cast’s "Old Friend." Though I was initially unsure if I should offer to push him, that tension disappeared as he more than easily matched my pace, plus I didn’t want to upset the tiny demon on his shoulder, which already had murder in her eyes.
"So how did you–" I wanted to find out when and how he had lost the ability to walk, but I was not certain how to ask without seeming to be a jackass.
It was apparent that he was not too touchy about the subject and helpfully supplied, "How did I get crippled? A swimming accident a few months after graduation." That was the end of his story and I was happy to never broach the subject again. The topic of our discussion changed.
I asked him where he was headed, and he replied, "Well, I figured I would head north until I found some sort of safe zone with survivors..." he left the sentence hanging but I filled in the blanks: and you are a group of survivors, obviously with some sort of security to keep at bay the infected invaders and you will accept any wanderers without question that wish to join your group.
Yesterday, I would’ve found it laughable that anyone would suggest that I would be deciding the fate of others, but the wisdom of the prophet Smokes had convinced me of my part in the grand scheme of things and I filled my former classmate in on our living arrangements on the boat and then confidently proceeded to detail my newly forming plans to turn Guntersville Island into an actual island with no land connection across the lake. I looked at the rapt expressions of my companions, who were listening intently. Until this moment, my grand plan had been to have ketchup with my fish and stay put until the Marines landed. But here it was—a proposal for a real survival project. It just seemed to take shape as I spoke; I guess I was channeling the driving impulses of the main protagonist that I was destined to become.
As usual, Hammer brought up the rear of our trio, scanning the causeway behind us, leaving Bradley and me to recount our histories after graduation. Bradley’s accident had put a wrench in his plans of secondary education and only in the past few years had he been able to attend college; he had almost earned his degree in gunsmithing but another wrench got in his way: a peevie wrench. The story of my young adulthood was not nearly as interesting as his and since I have already detailed enough of it in this journal, I’m not going to repeat it.
My original sidekick was on his hands and knees, vomiting profusely the raw dough he had consumed the night before, giving a new meaning to the phrase "toss your cookies," and proving that he was no marathon champion. He looked up briefly as we closed and gave an "okay" hand sign.
"You Jack Sparrow?" Smokes glanced in Bradley’s direction and asked between gulps of oxygen.
The silence gave me enough time to realize what he was referencing: Johnny Depp’s character from Pirates of the Caribbean who had the same kind of monkey as Mary was, but Bradley did not understand the joke.
“Uhh…no…" Bradley was gearing up for introductions, though confused.
As he knew only what I had briefly told him of Smokes, I feared that this conversation would be convoluted; Bradley was not accustomed to the humor and racial bashing between Smokes and me; he knew nothing of our individual "roles," and would most likely take some casual insults too seriously. Ultimately, I concluded, he would become offended and end up disliking Smokes, and possibly me, too.
I quickly began speaking before the former football star could. "Bradley, this is Smokes, I told you about him earlier."
I then briefly filled Smokes in on how Bradley and I knew each other. Though it was obvious that he wanted to, Smokes was unable to bring himself to ask how a star running back came to be a paraplegic, and I was staying away from that subject. I did not introduce Mary; I was leaving that honor to my former classmate. I was sure that would give Smokes something to consider on our h
omeward approach. Past implying that the man was a pirate, I could only hope he would keep his speculations to himself.
Less than a month ago, it was Crow and me; we were the sum total of our survival camp. Guided by the motivational speeches of my personal seer and through our short travels, I had admittedly become optimistic about meeting others. We had already increased the clan by three, and I was confident we would soon encounter several of the other important characters that I had been made aware were cued for entrances. There would eventually be enough individuals to populate our future stronghold.
I’m going to tattoo the inside of my fucking eyelids so that next time I go out I will remember to get a damn car and stop all this walking shit. You’d think that one of the geniuses in our quartet, which featured a veteran senior citizen, a dude in a wheelchair, a guy that probably has a couple of heart attacks every year, and a man too lazy to fish, would have complained about our idea of a day trip. But we started walking, as usual. It occurred to me once again that not all of our delegation was actually walking, making me feel more asshole-ish than normal.
As we passed gas stations, the Waffle House, Sonic, and the First Bank of Guntersville, Hammer and I must have had some sort of psychic connection. On the same wavelength, we silently gestured at different items that would be worth salvaging later while our extremely talkative companions spoke to each other with no attention to volume. Apparently, our party failed to realize the enemy was sensitive to sound as Smokes repeated the character listing, their respective roles and likely life spans for the benefit of Bradley, who seemed interested and even had a few details to add that put Mary in the picture. But for God’s sake! They could have been heard by any conscious being on the island!
I swelled with pride as the nutty professor glanced at me when speaking of The Hero, and I was sure Hammer grinned when he told her she was The Expert. He then named Bradley The Old Friend, and while I was not going to openly question his prophetical wisdom, I would have to later speak to him about that title. While I had mentioned earlier that my classmate and I had never been anything but cordial to one another, we had not been true friends. Like most high school classmates that meet years after graduation, it probably did seem that we had been closer during school and that we had at one time hung out, in fact, with a school that size, I’m sure we did. Still, it made me wonder whether Bradley had been properly cast. After all, we had yet to meet any of our "minor characters," and certainly one of my old crushes popping up would have made my existence more interesting.
