by Javan Bonds
No one moved from the table, but the split of two different conversations was obvious and I turned to encompass The Prophet and The Old Friend in my vision. "Smokes and Crow already have bunks." I was going to talk to every new crew member as soon as possible to decide sleeping arrangements because I didn’t want to hear bitching during the middle of the night because someone didn’t like their bunkmate.
I was about to continue when Smokes chimed in, "So you want top bunk scats?" It was horrifying that he could actually ask the handicapped guy a question like that, but his mischievous smile made me realize he was being sarcastic, and I guess I needed to let them work out their relationship on their own.
Bradley was apparently good-humored about things like this and grinned back at him. "I know you like being on bottom so yeah, I’ll take the top. Besides, I am a bed wetter." Even though they had just met today, these two were shooting the shit like longtime friends and though I had yet to attend one of my high school class reunions, I pictured that the atmosphere must feel like this.
I don’t know why I found their exchange so funny, but after an excessive bout of laughter, I wiped a tear from my eye, stopping cold as I was just about to offer to give Bradley a brief tour. I had not even thought about him being unable to go downstairs. Holy shit. Just this small detail was sickening...how the hell would a paralyzed person have been able to travel five hundred years ago? Bradley could see I was struggling and understood my dilemma, offering, "It’s cool, bro. I know I can’t go below deck. It ain’t gonna rain, so I can just sleep out here. Mary loves to catch bugs."
The monkey coincidently chose that moment to leap into the air, successfully snagging some sort of flying insect and consuming it in one bite. Smokes congratulated Mary while I shrugged my shoulders; there was no way I could make the ship ADA compliant, but I would try to pick up a tent or some type of shelter on our trip to town tomorrow. Maybe the weather would be fair tonight, but it wouldn’t stay that way.
I’m glad that things seemed to be happening in sequence, and though I’ve always debated whether or not to believe in luck or just coincidence, Smokes really had me wondering about fate, and the predestination of our lives. His earlier words seemed to ring true, "Everything will happen in steps as part of the plan." Yeah, that is fucking creepy. I can’t recall if that’s a quote from the Bible or from a rock song, but it’s so familiar, and it is actually becoming fact. Is this Smokes’s plan? The Director’s plan? God’s plan? Maybe I will survive through enough seasons or sequels to know the answer. Either way, I can no longer see any event as mere chance, and Smokes role was neither the token nor anyone’s sidekick. In that moment I cast him as The Oracle.
Mo Journal Entry 10
We laid out the plans to make our scavenging run on "Wally" and made our way below deck to bed and I still felt horrible about leaving Bradley to sleep outside, so I brought him a blanket (even though it was hot as hell) and he assured me that it was okay. By the way, "Wally" is Hammer’s name for Walmart and it let me know without a doubt that she was at least the same age as my mother (the only other person I’ve ever heard say that). Who the hell says that? Especially in sober, adult company? That is something I would expect to read in a text message from a thirteen-year-old girl or hear from a redneck survivalist—oh wait...never mind.
Again, Smokes pleaded to sleep in my quarters and other than that heated argument, it was fairly easy to settle the rest of the sleeping arrangements. I was finally able to get to my quarters and write up this journal entry, I’m not sure what time it was when I started or when I’ll finish, but I am sincerely glad I do not write as slow as I talk. Throughout my life, I’ve been accused of having an extremely heavy southern accent; even by my peers. I make no attempts to deliberately sound like a backwoods yokel and my "hickish" speech patterns obviously do not determine my IQ any more than Smokes's dialect determines his. I may sound like a toothless inbred, but I’ve never had any cavities and wouldn’t have sex with my sister even if I had one—probably.
When I woke this morning I felt refreshed and ready for a quest. I stuck my head in and noticed that the crew quarters was awake and Crow had already gone to the galley to prepare some fish for breakfast. As the rest of us walked up the stairs to the temporary open-air quarters of the sixth crewmate, I promised them all we would scavenge enough that none of us would ever be forced to eat fish for breakfast again. Crow can make some tolerable fish, don’t get me wrong, I just don’t think I can bring myself to eat it for every meal for the rest of my life, with or without condiments.
Hammer made those stupid baby noises adults make in an attempt to communicate with infants which we all found annoying as we approached the table where Mary was drinking out of a water bottle before returning it to her master.
”Awwwwwwwww, is thomebody thiwsty? That’s a big ole sip! Goo-goo, gah-gah–" and all of that shit no one wants to hear. Bradley must be used to people talking to Mary as if she were a toddler with a learning disability, because he just smiled and basically ignored the incessant gibbering.
"I think we should find a truck before we head out.” The Old Friend went straight to business and skipped the usual small talk.
I was beginning to think we were in the graphic novel The Beyonders or Lord of the fucking Rings with our entire party seemingly content to walk cross-country for the rest of our lives! It took a guy in a wheelchair to remind us that Henry Ford gave us an easy way to get from here to there without spending days traversing less than a handful of miles. A weight seemed to physically lift from the shoulders of each delegate; the realization that almost every automobile was now available hit us like a blast of refreshing water and we all readily agreed.
Hammer volunteered to search for a worthy automobile and immediately began scaling the rope ladder. I didn’t expect the task to be difficult, but it was easy to guess that the job would be taken by the only other healthy individual above deck: the new tribe members had been listening to Smokes's stories about how I was the lead protagonist, though I felt kind of weird when he called me The Hero. Anyway, they all seem to accept my role and I became the boss or at least some sort of star character that did not lower himself to do menial tasks. I in no way think I’m better than anyone, but I can’t blame Smokes for raising me onto a pedestal; I am the Captain of a pirate ship and the first survivor he met. Anyway, our only other choices for vehicle recon were a man who gets winded after merely walking a few steps, an asthmatic who lives in a fantasy world and who most likely keeps a bottle of SPF 50 in his pocket at all times, the arrogantly uninvolved Apache, and Ironsides.
Just so it did not appear that I was being lazy, the best excuse I could give Hammer before she disappeared over the side was, "I’d go with you, but I stubbed my toe this morning." I’m fairly certain no one was convinced.
"Can we go to my house tomorrow?" I’ve never been the leader of anything, so it took me a minute to realize Gene was asking me and by the time I looked at him, he’d reminded me, "I’ve got a few things that could be useful."
I knew that his DeLorean and Starfleet communicator badges were precious to him, but I still wasn’t convinced this should be a priority.
"We should be able to...if everything goes right today." Since this infection started, I’m always on edge waiting for the next fucking shoe to drop.
Before I could continue, Smokes spoke too loudly to Bradley, one of four people sitting quietly on the deck of a docked boat in a dead city. "You call da zombies ‘undead’ or ‘living dead’?"
I’m not sure why, but Smokes seemed to be baiting Bradley again, testing his knowledge. Despite the fact that the peevies were technically not zombies, I wasn’t going to argue for either side of this debate—putting a brotherly hand on Gene’s shoulder, we all walked over to lower the gangplank.
Gene spoke low to me in a conspiratorial tone, as the argument behind us quickly escalated until both men were screaming. Mary began her hissing and I wondered if these hot debates were going to be
an every day occurrence. I faced Gene, turning my back on the others. He said, "I have some solar panels at my house that I believe I can use to convert the ship from propane power to solar."
I had thought about that; propane would never be expensive and I’m sure we could easily find bottles at Walmart, but there could be a propane expiration date; it will definitely run out at some point. Then what? At least with solar, we wouldn’t have to worry about getting refills. I wondered if cloudy days would be a problem.
If The Tech had told me, given me just one practical reason for hitting up his pad, I would have agreed to go first thing this morning. "Well hell, Gene. You shoulda said something. I thought you just wanted to pick up the rest of your Wolverine costume. I’ll make sure we get over there tomorrow." He smiled sheepishly and dipped his head, I had pegged his true ulterior motive.
Gene stood there with a completely oblivious look on his face, assuring me I was currently the lone sailing ship expert on deck so I began single-handedly lowering the gangplank.
We both remained speechless as I worked.
The Tech finally asked a typical question only a movie fan would ask. "So who do you think Hammer looks like?"
I guess it was my inner-nerd that understood his perspective. I somehow knew he was asking which popular Science Fiction female character she most closely resembled.
"Doctor Crusher?"
The only leading redhead that came to my mind was the doctor from Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Gene was too busy contemplating my answer to realize that I had just outed myself as a closet Trekkie, and admitted that Hammer was potentially good-looking.
He responded, "Well, you could compare her to Gates McFadden, but I believe she is closer to Admiral Natasi Daala of the Imperial Navy, from Star Wars.
"Dat fuckin’ bullshit, yo! Living dead is vampires," could be heard shrieked from behind.
"The argument is moot because the things we call ‘zombies’ are nothing like the traditional monsters in the Romero movies, so shut the hell up," I wanted to shout over my shoulder, but that would mean getting involved.
I was about to ask Gene if there might be anything else at his place worth taking as we heard a vehicle pull up and looked to see a giant, white Chevy Dually truck approaching from the near distance. I’m not a car fanatic nor a mechanic, so I couldn’t tell if it was a 3500 or a 2500 without reading the number, but I could see Hammer had made an expert decision, this automobile looked formidable and could probably plow through any barricade that wasn’t solid concrete. Even though I have discussed the issue in these pages, the idea of human hostiles was always at the back of my mind, but I realize now that the former pawnshop owner had found a vehicle capable of outrunning most others plus hauling a shitload of supplies. I could tell by the look on Gene’s face that he was appreciating this masterpiece of machinery at an entirely different level than myself; it appeared he just had a spontaneous nerd-gasm on himself.
"Holy ‘stang!" he exhaled with quivering excitement. "It’s the Gorgon!"
Wasn’t that a monster from Godzilla or something? I thought before I spoke.
The tech understood the clear confusion on my face and clarified, "Admiral Daala’s Imperial flagship!"
Oh. That should have been obvious after his earlier comparison; I just can’t quote Star Wars canon like a preacher quotes the Bible. Although it wasn’t in the shape of a wedge, it was quite massive compared to most vehicles, so I suppose one could think of it as a Star Destroyer.
I turned to inform the two master debaters that our chauffeur was en route and noticed they were practically drooling over the truck.
Smokes screamed louder than the distance required. "Dat a pimp-ass ride, dawg!" Then, quietly he said, "is a little ‘git-r-dun’ for my tastes, but I ain’t gonna be picky.”
As The Expert parked in the middle of the small lot, exited the vehicle, and came on board via the recently lowered gangplank, Crow emerged behind us with her favorite staple and began to set the table. We gathered around without any sort of conversation—I would like to have been told some details on our new horseless carriage, like where the hell Hammer found such an awesome vehicle, its projected reliability and amount of fuel, overall engine health, etc., and whether she had found the keys or was some sort of Fast and Furious genius car thief.
None of us spoke until the food began a circle around the table with The Oracle, predictably, being first to break the silence. "Shit bra—hand me dat Heinz!"
He grinned excitedly and hurriedly reached past Bradley to retrieve his prized condiment and immediately became stone faced, totally silent, and deliberate when he remembered that the woman of his dreams was in the vicinity. I was the only one who noticed his forced masculine dignity; I imagine he pulled his gut in, too. I sat down and noticed that Crow had conveniently positioned her seat next to Hammer’s and I sincerely felt sympathetic toward the overweight prophet that sat across the table with a muted look of desire for the unobtainable woman in his eyes.
The other three around the table discussed a grocery list with occasional additions made by Crow and me. When cokes were mentioned, I remembered that pretty much all of the chips were on the same aisle, so I had to say, "We gotta get some Salt and Vinegar Pringles."
Okay, it was more of a demand than a request, but it was reasonable when considering they were some of the greatest potato chips ever. But the thought of them sort of started us off. I had to add, "And some of the spicy Doritos, whatever the new ones are."
Bradley added that he and Mary would like some blue tortilla chips; Gene hoped there might be a couple of bags of cheddar cheese popcorn left on the shelves. Apparently all we really wanted was a truckload of junk food, so I could not do anything but stare as Hammer replied casually, "Oh, there was a Frito-Lay truck driver that made it to the shop; his 18-wheeler is still parked behind Bottom Dollar . We can stop on the way back from Wally to pick it up and grab some more outdoor gear from the shop.”
What the holy hell? There was a definitely drivable and fairly memorable vehicle with a shit-ton of food in the back within a few hundred feet of us yesterday morning and it just slipped her mind? We could have been back here for lunch yesterday, eating fish and chips (yes I know, I’m a fucking comedian), but the supposed professional survivalist of our crew simply neglected to mention an easily accessible, stocked, mobile fortress that would exponentially increase our chances of survival like she had forgotten an extra pair of socks.
If Hammer were a dude, I might have tackled the bastard or at least said several mean things to him! Why didn’t she mention this yesterday? And what the hell happened to the driver? I was offended, angry, and wanted some answers. How am I supposed to take charge under these conditions?
Rather than walk away or scream, I chose to remain seated and dumbfoundedly replied, "Okay.”
I knew that if I asked Smokes his thoughts on the subject later, he would say something like, "It was fate, homeboy. If Cyclops had told us ‘bout her ride, we wouldn’t have got Legs or Freddy Krueger."
He never actually used these names, I just made them up; it sounded like something he would say. I guess I wanted to believe there was a reason behind it all and exploding in anger would be pointless, and very unheroic. Plus, what’s to complain about? We’d survived, got some exercise, found a couple of new party members, and could now retrieve another plentiful food source. When we were not busy planning another quest, I would have to get the story of the missing truck driver. I guess the mystery of where she had gotten those bags of chips was solved.
I must digress once more: as I mentioned earlier, when Alabamians say "Coke," we are not necessarily referring to Coca-Cola products. "Coke" is our generic term for any soft drink, soda, or sparkling beverage, or as my evil, Yankee ex-girlfriend referred to it, "pop." The same conversation is had each time one person in the vehicle goes into the gas station while others remained seated: "Do y’all wanna Coke?" "Yeah." "What kind?" "Mountain Dew!" I know that’s not hard
to understand and it’s just a reasonable way of speaking, but that Yankee-ex of mine could not get it through her dense skull. Well, more on that subject later.
Mo Journal Entry 11
I was amazed that no one else seemed to notice Hammer’s casual admittance of having neglected to inform us earlier of a reachable treasure chest. All just continued eating and chatting. Even if it had been fate that we were to recruit our two most recent compatriots, it should have dawned on her after we’d met Gene. We could have backtracked to retrieve the years’ worth of meals on wheels, and would have still been back last night.
I remained silent, trying to harden my newfound faith in the gospel of my comrade The Oracle as I caught the ass-end of a conversation between The Expert and The Old Friend. "...and I’m experienced with driving Humvees, so you boys can man the windows."
She was obviously volunteering herself to drive the pickup. She reached over and patted Crow on the knee. "And we need you to stay here and hold down the fort, honey." I’m fairly certain she ended her statement with a wink to the Cook; this did not upset me as I’m sure it did Smokes, but I did not expect the display. Did Hammer swing that way or could she just sense the attraction from Crow and was humoring it?
I swear to God, I have seen this in movies before: a barely conceived strategy was proposed and without asking for any other ideas or opinions, the quest bound party members were already loading up in the truck, readying rifles. It had rapidly become accepted and expected that there was some sort of romance between our two female companions when they remained alone on the deck and were the last to join us at the truck. Hammer and Crow said their goodbyes—it was a given that the fishing enthusiast did not so much as wave to the rest of us as our truck exited the small marina parking lot, rifle barrels sticking out of each passenger window and a wheelchair resting in the bed.
This had to be the most poorly thought out plan since the invention of plans. We were going to scavenge a few necessities from a completely abandoned building that contained supplies any retard could use to fortify the location and trap wayward explorers leaving absolutely no alternate routes if everything did not go one hundred percent according to the consensus that really hadn't been reached by everyone to begin with. I’m pretty sure this is not I Am Legend; the virus is not airborne, as far as we know, so it is not realistic (not that any of this is realistic) to assume that we are the only surviving humans on the planet. There are surely other humans, possibly even on the peninsula, and some are bound to be unfriendly. How many post-apocalyptic stories can you name in which the lead group stumbles onto a grocery store and is not forced to fight hostiles? You can’t, because that story would be pretty fucking boring.
