by Javan Bonds
After finally reaching our decimated home and walking through the ashes, I really wanted to get revenge on those bastards. This was the place Mama and Daddy had reared us; a place many of my friends considered to be a second home, where they knew they were always welcome. The thought of it made even my hardened heart sink.
Being the first to reach the driveway, he slammed on his brakes and hustled to stand where his office had been only yesterday. He looked somewhere between the points of crying and screaming by the time the rest of us had parked and were approaching. I wasn’t sure if I should comfort him or join in his anger–this had also been my home for most of my life, but there wasn’t much of the building itself that I would really miss. Hey, I might be shallow and superficial, but I don’t consider myself very materialistic; I don’t have a metric ton of gold medals to store in a trophy room, like Easy.
He walked to where his closet would have been and began pushing the blackened skeleton of the crumbling house out of his way. I knew what he was looking for: a manhole with a ladder that led down to a narrow, framed entrance room that led to his bunker which was simply a large shipping crate, reinforced with steel and cement, which contained his armory and ammo. It also stored food and a few other odds and ends he decided would be useful after the End of the World. Yes, I realize I never mentioned this earlier, but I knew that if I had, and then my journal was stolen or lost, Daddy would kill me because I had given the location of his secret cache. It was obvious before we had entered that the military had not discovered the bunker to scavenge or destroy the contents. Sitting in the underground metal can, watching Daddy poke around, I’m guessing that we’re going to gut the damn thing when we leave, so if you read this entire journal, find this information, then feel the need to find this property, I don’t think anyone is going to be upset if you come to sit in an empty container under a burned out house.
This set up was "the poor man’s nuclear fallout shelter." Buying the shipping container and making it accessible from the house didn’t cost $5000, and it was actually pretty cozy. Featuring battery-powered lights, it made a great storm shelter and my dad was able to store some of his survivalist crap down here, even after he had bolted several gun safes to the walls. Most importantly, not many knew of the existence of this bunker.
I felt really bad about leaving Bradley above ground. Even though he would probably not have too much of problem making it down the ladder, it would be completely impossible to get the damn chair down the manhole, and I would have felt like even more of an asshole having to step over the crippled guy in the floor–there’s just no way everything can be made handicap accessible. Everyone had radios and my dad promised it would not be long. He was a bit disappointed, but Bradley remained and agreed to wait in the tank. The rest of us filed down the ladder and you can guess who the last down was.
"Mo’fucking skinny-ass white people! Y’all coulda at least made the damn hole bigga.”
I briefly considered letting the morbidly obese prophet go before I did; that scene where Rabbit tried to shove Pooh Bear’s honey-fattened ass through his door hole flashed across my mind. What? I’m not ashamed to admit that I watched Winnie the Pooh as a child; don’t judge me. The bipedal contingent of the squad was assembled at the base of the ladder and the group began moving toward the closed door of the shipping container. My dad held the door open and gestured for the object of his strange, seemingly non-romantic crush to go ahead of him–I’m comparing his infatuation with my gay celebrity crush on Christian Bale.
I can imagine the look on your face, but just because I am not ashamed to admit my love for one of the greatest actors of all time shouldn’t diminish me in your eyes. He’s fucking Batman, John Connor, and Moses! I would bet money that he is currently alive and if the two of us did actually meet, I guarantee there will be no romantic exchange. Even though this topic has been broached several times when my friends and I were drunk, I would not be aroused even if he were wearing the Batman suit. Why the hell do I feel the need to justify myself to you? If you are reading this journal then I am most likely dead, and your opinion of me means less than shit anyway.
Hammer simulated a curtsy as she walked by my dad. "General Tommy Franks held a door open for me once and the next thing you know…”
I’m not going to speculate on where that story was going as something that sounded like "don’t kill me" came from the other side of the door and she fell over. I’m guessing that if you’d ever met him, you would immediately recognize his voice. My dad’s announcement echoed my thought. "Doc, it’s us! Don’t shoot!"
It was obviously a little late for that warning because as he stepped over her, I could make out a small bullet wound in Hammer’s left side below her breast. After she was shot by The Villains, she had decided it would be more comfortable to wear only a loose-fitting T-shirt; the Kevlar vest saved her life last time and it obviously would have made a difference now.
"I’m so sorry! I didn’t think anyone would ever find me and I just panicked," Dr. George repeatedly apologized to my father and to Hammer whom he had shot with a 22 revolver.
Am I the only one that is surprised we ran into him, especially now? I’m hoping I’ll be alive for at least a sequel and I was not planning to discover anymore main protagonists this late in the story. I guess that’s a good sign. I looked over at Smokes; he was nodding knowingly at the Doc, who was obviously mortified that he had just shot someone. Some type of physician, be it a general practitioner, a pulmonologist, endocrinologist, or even brain surgeon, is always needed in almost every saga of almost any genre. Normally more of a lover than a fighter, The Medicine Man will always be close by when needed to perform medical miracles and is usually overprotective of his patients, especially when that person is one of the main protagonists. If The Medicine Man dies or gets bitten, the character will immediately be replaced by someone he has adopted as an aide, and the change will not have that much impact.
The Medicine Man began performing field surgery on the injured Expert using the med kit that Daddy had stored in the bunker. My dad said the doctor described the bullet missing her heart but puncturing her lung and that she should survive, though she may be out of action for an indefinite amount of time. He spent most of the surgery apologizing to my dad and to Hammer who was unconscious throughout most of it. I’m just hoping that I’ll be able to understand him better once he becomes a member of the Cora crew.
"So, how did you end up down here anyway Doc?" I asked.
I wasn’t able to catch everything, but my dad translated Dr. George’s answer to my question, so some of this is paraphrased. "When you told me that you had a bunker and how to get into it a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t really think I would ever need to do so. But when they started shooting and ripping through the house, I came back here while everyone else ran outside. There was enough water and freeze dried food that I could have stayed here for a long time. When I heard you coming through the door, I just reached out and prepared to defend myself.”
I’m just glad that the Doc didn’t defend himself with a high-powered rifle or there would be no chance of saving Hammer. I’ve got to say; she’s a tough old bird. She can sprint like an Olympian, shoot like a champion, obeys the law like she has an angel on her shoulder, and can take more damage than Robocop. I know it only sounds like wishful thinking, but we cannot lose her. Cannot, as in completely impossible.
We decided that it would be pretty pointless for the rest of us to sit around and twiddle our thumbs while the doctor spent a few hours in surgery and cleaning her up, so the rest of us carried weapons and supplies up the ladder and piled them in our vehicles. Yes, I am doing as little work as possible, spending any spare moment writing this entry until I get yelled at for not working.
"Mo, you are never going to believe this." Gene seemed more excited than if he had just rescued Leonard Nimoy. "Come look!"
He beckoned and shot up the ladder; I begrudgingly followed him to one of the Humvees. Damn, he was
right; I would not have believed this. In the back of one of the trucks, The Villains had stored pallets of M4s. I guess Capt. Dickless had made his getaway in the wrong Humvee–well, unless he decided to take the one packed with rocket launchers.
"Frakking sweet, right?"
I had to agree with The Tech, this was pretty sweet. When my dad came up with another handful of boxes he was pretty stoked when I told him.
Of course he stated the obvious. “Nice, but we still need to load most everything else up.”
Despite my drag-assing, The Tech’s numerous breaks to suck on his asthma inhaler, Smokes being slow and fat, my dad taking his damn sweet time, and Bradley refusing to go down the ladder–I know I’m an asshole for that one, I just had to say it–we had pretty much everything that we needed to carry up and in the trucks before the doctor came topside to report on The Expert’s condition.
He dusted his impossibly white doctor’s coat off. "She is conscious and I believe she is stable, but I do not recommend moving her at the moment."
We all knew she would just fight him and fucking walk back to the Cora.
My dad sighed. "That’s not going to work, Doc, and I don’t think you have enough sedatives to keep her down there.”
"Oh…well, I am about out of major sedatives anyway. If we really need to move her, I can keep her feeling okay, but that’s about it."
Doctor George, my dad, and I went down into the bunker to explain the situation to Hammer and offer any assistance she needed getting back to the vehicles. Though she took it easy on her climb up the ladder, moved pretty slow once up, and accepted a rifle from Gene as a cane, you wouldn’t have guessed that she had been inches from death only a few hours ago. She even volunteered to pilot the tank. Dr. George refused at first, but finally relented as long as she allowed him to supervise. I swear to God, she had to have taken some kind of super soldier serum back in the day. Adamantium? She’s either Robocop, a Terminator, a Borg, or she’s got a stash of Fully Restore Health kits in her bag. Didn’t Wolverine have an ex-girlfriend with really long fingernails that could heal just like him? I am sticking with the adamantium theory.
My dad went down to the bunker one more time. After he returned to us, we walked from the ruins to our Humvees. I whispered to him, "You know, you, Mama, and…Sarah,” I was quick to add, "are more than welcome to stay down there with us for a few more days.”
Without looking at me, he smiled and asked, "You really think I’d forget about your adopted sister?" nearly falling over with laughter at my wince before continuing. "I’m glad you offered. I had actually already planned on asking you that. I left a note down on the bunker door in case anybody I know ever comes around here.”
I nodded as we separated, understanding that this family re-gathering had already been scripted. Catching the ever watching eyes of The Oracle as he opened the door, he knowingly smiled and tipped his head when I swear I heard The Joker say, "It’s all part of the plan.”
I’m finishing this journal entry as I wait to start up my Humvee in the line of soon-to-be roaring engines. I wondered why the hell my dad wanted to get back immediately. Granted, I yearned for safety as much as any of the others, but we were not really under any time constraints, so I couldn’t figure out why some of us couldn’t just wait in the bunker with freeze-dried food and water. Maybe he felt that he needed to return to his wife or he was just assuming that we would have some more frustrating bullshit to deal with tomorrow. It would be so much easier if Smokes would just tell us.
That reminds me, do you realize that I’ve been moving basically nonstop for almost a week? Well, I have slept pretty well every night, but I’ve been doing something all day every day! Shit, I usually don’t do this much work in a month and I am damn tired. I just need a day or two of not almost being killed constantly.
"Let’s get gone, white grandpa," Smokes yelled over the radio.
Well, I guess I wasn’t the only one waiting for my dad to get the go-ahead and he answered, "Two minutes."
I’m going to speculate that he is on the walkie-talkie, explaining the day’s events to my mother–and that’s fine with me, it gives me more time to fill this journal with unimportant ramblings.
"It been two minutes, fuckin’ blue-eyed devils!"
I just had to respond over my radio, "Uh, my eyes are green.”
This was immediately followed by, "I have some Sith contacts at home that have yellow!"
Damn Gene, that was a random response. I feel inherently jealous of The Tech’s treasure trove of everything nerd and I kind of want to see it. Maybe there will be time to stop by his place tomorrow.
My dad’s only response was to start his engine. See you at the Cora!
Mo Journal Entry 26
I’m so glad to be home and even better, it’s not completely dark yet. Is it weird that in just a few weeks the Cora has gone from being a place of temporary safety and crappy employment to being "home"?
Our parade of military vehicles came to a halt in the parking lot of the Marina. This band of brothers began moving to the ship. I was unsurprised to see that the gangplank was not already lowered but that the rope ladder was waiting for us. Damn, Crow, we could have a horde of zombies behind us and might be in a little bit of a hurry. The least you could do is keep an eye out for us–at least think about your girlfriend, who’s badly injured, by the way.
I wasn’t the heartless bastard that the cook was and started climbing the rope ladder so that I could lower the gangplank for our wounded Expert. Bradley and his imp simultaneously pounced on to the net and started climbing–I’m not sure if the two were bent on racing me or racing each other, but I was not in the mood to be humiliated by a monkey and put forth no extra struggle as they shot up to the deck. It took me a second to realize what was happening when I saw another rope fall from the deck: holy shit, Bradley just lassoed his chair and was now hauling it up–I was not expecting a paraplegic to be able to throw a lasso, call me closed minded. By the time I pulled myself onto the deck, my Old Friend was already lowering the gangplank and making me feel completely useless. Shit, he’s paralyzed; maybe I need to start working out. Once the gangplank was lowered I made sure to stand there as if Bradley was just helping me as I did all the work. The others came aboard; Hammer was the first on deck with Dr. George making a semblance of assistance, Smokes sauntered on with what appeared to be food smeared on his shirt, my dad strode forward with defeat and victorious pride simultaneously in his eyes, and lastly came Gene, who was assuredly marching to his imagined theme song the Imperial March. Okay, where the fuck did the token get food? Did they really pack the MREs in his truck?
I’m guessing our arrival was fairly noticeable because as soon as The Expert could be seen, Crow sprinted to her and attempted to comfort her, repeating the question, "What did them fucking white people do to you?"
My mother obviously had her selective hearing engaged as she could definitely hear the screeching Apache while she came over to hug my dad. I intentionally did not hear their private conversation and turned to see Sarah coming from below deck.
"So," I hesitantly stammered, "I guess you heard about Walt?"
She nodded sadly and I really wasn’t sure if I had just made a statement or asked a question. It was apparent she had been fond of the little redneck and was sad to have lost her protector, but it was clear she was not in deep bereavement for a lost love.
"Did you see what happened?"
I was guessing that my dad had briefly explained the events over the radio and that she had either been listening or had heard the story from my mom and nodded in the affirmative.
"He made sure to go out with a bang." I knew that was in poor taste and tried to think of something else to say to make up for it. "And he said that he loves you and that everything will be all right."
I’m a fucking idiot. I don’t even know where the hell that came from. She smiled and walked closer to me, and like a bumbling teenager I spread my arms and she stepped into
my nothing-more-than-friendly embrace.
"It’s okay, he just wanted you to be safe."
Looking back at this conversation–if it hadn’t involved me–I might find it extremely comical, wondering where the hell this guy got these stupid lines thinking they were really helpful to him or to her. I felt like I’d stolen my dialogue from some shitty romance movie.
I could have said something about me being her protector from now on, but this always happens, especially when I’m with her. I make a pathetic fool of myself and immediately after the encounter, I think of the perfect thing to say. I am fucking Casanova in my mind.
"Reckon we ought to get them guns on the boat?" my dad said, to everyone and no one in particular.
I don’t think the crime rate of Guntersville is very high at the moment but even if it was, I seriously doubt a petty criminal would break into a military Humvee flanked by a Bradley tank, but for some reason I thought my dad had a good idea. Maybe it was fate; something that was supposed to happen for some unknown reason, perhaps it was all part of the plan. All of the male crew members began going down and retrieving armloads of rifles and cans of ammunition, followed by MREs and cases of water. We were far from starving, but none of us saw a need for leaving the food if we were already offloading stuff. Okay, this had to be some kind of supernatural mind-force crap coming from Smokes–I had volunteered to do extra work that was in no way necessary.
We were piling the rifles at the center of the deck for the time being and once my father and I had unloaded our cargo, the two of us made our way over to Crow’s fishing spot where the ladies were currently chatting about something undoubtedly pointless and were eating Jell-O cups that I am guessing came from Walmart.
