by Joseph Zuko
“Get it off me!” Devon fights from his back. I pull the screwdriver out of its jaw and step quickly over to Devon on the ground. He flails wildly. He stabs the screwdriver into its shoulder, chest, arm and neck. None of his stabs do any real damage and the infected doesn’t seem to notice. I step right behind the infected and grab it by its hair. I pull its head back hard as I slide the screwdriver into the base of its skull. Again its like I flipped a switch. Its body goes limp instantly. I use the handle of the screwdriver and its hair to pull it off of Devon.
“Thanks, dude,” he gasps. I put out my hand to help him up. He grabs it and I lift him to his feet. As he gets up I look him in the eyes. I see the change on his face. The fear takes shape before he can get the words out. I feel hands on my neck.
It is my heavyset friend with the gun. He is back and he is hungry. I feel his grip tighten on my neck and his body and mouth are not far behind. My reflexes take over. In one move, I tuck my head forward and slap at his hands. This loosens its grip on my neck and I fire an elbow straight up and back. The hard part of my elbow smashes into its jaw and it slams shut. Its teeth break in its mouth. I twist out of its grip and face the monster. It opens its mouth, half its tongue and a bunch of teeth fall out, roll down his belly and fall to the floor. Its jagged, bloody mouth snaps open and shut. It is something straight out of a nightmare. I step close again and drive that screwdriver deep into its chin. He joins the others on the floor. I don’t get it. They were dead. You can beat them, stab them, shoot them, set them on fire, peel the skin from their face and nothing. They keep coming at you, but one little stab to the brain and off go the lights.
“Wow, dude you really killed the hell out of those things,” he rubs the back of his head.
“Please stop calling me dude or bro. I hate it. You sound like a stupid kid when you talk that way,” I take a deep breath and turn away from him. I am exhausted. My nerves are shot. I feel like shit for calling him stupid. I need a cup of coffee, a shot of whiskey and a large cold beer. I grab a few more waters from the fridge, a couple packs of jerky and Snickers bar. I am starving. Well, North American man starving. That means I have not eaten anything for the last five hours. I see a display of folding camp chairs. I plop myself down in one and tear open the Snickers. I open the water and take a swig. “I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. I just re-killed five people and I’m really hungry,”
“It’s alright. My dad says that all the time to me. I mean he calls me stupid. He’s a dick. I don’t want to talk about it,” his head drops. I really feel like an ass now.
“Hey, grab a seat, and get some food,” Devon pulls out a Mountain Dew and grabs himself a few Snickers. He plops down on a chair beside me. I finish off my chocolaty snack and open the jerky. I look down at my legs and feet. I am wearing dress shoes with very slick soles. My pants are polyester dress slacks. They are cheap and I never have to iron them, but it is like wearing a plastic bag on my legs. This is the wrong attire for a ten-mile hike. I will sweat too much in these pants. I might slip and fall in these shoes. Or worse, twist my ankle. I finish off the first bottle of water. This store is a jackpot of supplies. When I first ran in I did not realize what kind of store this was. Now I feel blessed by the gods. I quickly eat a few more bites of jerky, finish off the second bottle of water, get up and walk the aisles.
“Are you shopping du...?” Devon stops himself from finishing his sentence.
“I can’t make it home dressed like this and armed with hammers and screwdrivers.”
“So we are looting then?”
“Well there’s no one to ring us up,” I cruise the aisles and spot the back wall of the store. It has a selection of boots.
He has a mouth full of Snickers as he talks, “Cool, I’ve always wanted to loot. Like, just a little looting not enough to go to prison.”
“What size shoe do you wear?”
“Nine.”
“I’ll get us some boots,” I grab a pack of hiking socks and head for the back room where they keep their footwear.
I flip the light switch on the wall. The back room of the Big 5 lights up and I find a stack of boxes labeled North Face. I pop open a box of size elevens and pull out a set of waterproof hiking boots. These things retail for like two hundred bucks. When I put them on they will be the most expensive shoes I have ever worn. These boots remind me of Sam and his closet full of expensive shoes, like a lady would buy and collect. Sometimes I would joke and call him “Sex Sam and the City.” Because he had a collection like the character Sara Jessica Parker played. I think he said one time, he had somewhere around thirty thousand dollars worth. I couldn’t believe it. How was that possible? He said he had been collecting them since he was in college. He had like a hundred pair of shoes and most of them were over three hundred bones when he bought them. No matter how many times he explained his collection to me it always sounded over the top. I own about five pairs of shoes, one for work, one to workout, sandals, work boots and one pair of Converse Chuck Taylor’s that I wear around the house. It was such a funny, silly, Sam thing to collect, but he loved them. I pull the boots from the box and I realize that I am crying. The reality has sunk in. I killed my best friend, but only after he had already died once. I think I am going to throw up but I just ate and drank all that water, I don’t want it to go to waste, so I fight it. I force a hard swallow. I push all the thoughts about what has happened and what I have done down deep into my soul. I will think about it later. I will cry later. I will throw up later. Now, I have to get ready and go save my girls. I wipe the tears from my eyes and I clear my nose. I don’t want Devon to know I was crying. Not that I am ashamed, I was crying in the car not even ten minutes ago, but I can tell he is rattled and on the edge. He needs me to be strong so he feels safe. That will help him be strong. Panic breeds panic. I get myself together and I step from the back room with our new boots.
“We need new pants, shirts and a backpack.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet,” I toss him his boots. I find a pair of camo cargo pants that fit. I pull off my work shoes and dress socks. Devon goes to work on his third Snickers and has not moved from the chair.
“Move your ass. We need to hit the road before more of those...people find us in here.” I drop my slacks down to my ankles. I am standing in the middle of the store in my underwear with five dead bodies on the ground and this kid keeps filling his face with candy.
“Move it!” I use my “dad voice” and then he snaps too. He hops out of the chair. Before I put my new pants on I notice on the shelf a pair of spandex shorts that hold a cup. I have the same brand for my Krav Maga class. I didn’t wear a cup for the first month of class. I thought it would be uncomfortable to do the cardio part in class with a big plastic thing between my legs. After I took a real hard shot to the balls and I couldn’t move for five minutes, I went out and bought the cup. I remember when I was buying it the lady at the counter said there was no return policy for this kind of equipment. I would hope there is no return policy for jock straps. I would hate the idea of wearing another man’s used nut shield. The memory makes me smirk.
I grab the box and make sure it is the right size. I put spandex shorts on and slip the plastic cup into position. I have no idea what I might face out there, but I do know that if you get hit right in the dick or balls you can’t move for a very long time. I would hate to die because I could not move after I got hit in the grapes.
I slip on the new pants and the cotton feels so much better against my skin than the polyester dress pants. I get the thick socks on and slide my feet into the new boots. They feel great. There is a black long sleeve Under Armour shirt on the rack and I grab it. It is the kind meant for football so it has little pads on the shoulders and elbows. I pull off my tie and button up shirt. I pull the new shirt over my head and it fits great. I find a light camo-hunting jacket and grab that too. I grab two sets of shin guards from the soccer section and strap them on my shins and
forearms. This should help against those biting bastards.
In the last corner of the store is a display of guns and knives. I step up to the counter and look over the twenty or thirty rifles and shotguns. I have not shot a rifle or shotgun since I was in the Boy Scouts, that was twenty-three years ago. The last gun I shot was a year ago and it was a handgun my brother helped me buy. The two of us shot off a couple hundred rounds the first day I got it and I was a terrible shot. Even my brother said there was only so much practice could do to help with my aim. My body was blessed with quick hands, but cursed with horrible aim. My wife Karen was a better shot with the handgun. Still I need more protection if I am going to make it home. I go behind the counter and try to take down one of the shotguns, but it is locked into the display. I look over at the dead manager on the ground.
“Devon, check that one for keys,” I point.
I had not been paying attention to Devon but obviously he was behind me the whole shopping adventure, he is slipping on the same jacket as me in addition to everything else I chose to wear. He also straps on the same set of soccer guards to his limbs. We look like twins. Great. I don’t know why it matters but the idea of us rolling down the street dressed exactly the same embarrasses me. Even if the world is going to shit I do not want to get teased by the infected for looking like a couple of dorks. Devon stops walking my way and makes a sad face. It is clear that he doesn’t want to touch the dead guy’s body. I stare at him, waiting for him to comply with my request. It is a mini staring contest. One I am not about to lose. Devon’s a good-looking young man. He is a couple inches shorter than me and about forty pounds lighter with a clean-shaven face and big bright eyes. Someone might mistake him for my much younger brother. He doesn’t say anything. He only shakes his head no. He really doesn’t want to touch that dead body.
“Come on. He’s dead. Get the keys.” I try asking more like a friend than a boss. He slowly walks over to the body and digs through the man’s pants pockets and pulls out the set of keys. He tosses them to me and I find one that looks like the lock. It pops open and I pull down the shotgun.
“Shotguns. Sweet. Do you know how to shoot it?” he asks.
“No. Not really. There must be instructions around here.” The gun feels heavy in my hands. The side of the stock reads Remington 870. It is all black and has a pistol grip. I try and slide the thing that cocks it. I don’t even know what that part is called, but it doesn’t move. I pull open a couple of the drawers that sit below the display and finally find one that is full of little books. I sift through the books, find one for the Remington 870 and start reading. Look at me. I am such a nerd. I don’t know how to use this stupid thing and I am reading the instructions. Movies make it look so easy. They pick up a gun and know everything about it. The first thing it mentions is eye safety that reminds me to grab some safety sunglasses. I hate going outside without sunglasses. On the first page of the book it lists the Ten Commandments of Firearm Safety.
Number one. Always keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction. I notice as I read it that I have the muzzle pointed right at Devon. I move the gun away from him.
Number two: Firearms should be unloaded when not actually in use. I look at the gun. How do I tell if it’s loaded?
Number three: Do not rely on your gun’s safety. I do not see where the safety is. Oh, here on the side by the trigger. I can’t tell if it is on or off.
Number four: Be sure of your target and what is beyond it. I didn’t even think about that. What if I shoot this gun at one of the infected and hit someone else?
Number five: Use proper ammunition. I think this is a twelve gauge. I look on the shelf and grab a box of rounds.
Number six: If your gun fails to fire when the trigger is pulled, handle with care. I didn’t know that could happen. I could be facing down a pack of infected people and the gun doesn’t fire. Then what? I throw the gun at them?
Number seven: Always wear eye and ear protection when shooting. Check, I already have a nice pair of sunglasses I just helped myself to. I look over at Devon and he has the same pair on. Damn it.
Number eight: Be sure the barrel is clear of obstructions before shooting. Does it want me to look down the barrel? Rule one was to point muzzle in a safe direction, that doesn’t sound safe.
Number nine: Do not alter or modify your gun and have it serviced regularly. Well I don’t have to worry about that since I don’t know how to modify or service.
Number ten: Learn the mechanics and handling characteristics of your firearm.
The more I think about it this gun might not be a good idea. It is loud, that will draw attention. Someone might shoot me for carrying a gun down the street. It only holds six shots and if I run into a large group of them I will not be able to reload it fast enough. I read a little further and see that red sticking out on the safety means it is ready to fire and that there is a locking button I have to press to get the pump thing to move. I press the button and pull on the pump and it slides back. Now I see where the rounds go so I try to load one. It is really hard to get them in there. You have to really push it into the bottom of the gun. I load the six shots that it holds and pull the pump part back and forth. It loads a round into the chamber. It feels really cool when I do it. I feel how heavy the gun is and how heavy the box of twelve rounds feel in my hand. I could maybe carry sixty rounds and feel completely weighed down by it. Plus, I need to fill the backpack with some food and water.
“I don’t think this shotgun is a good idea. We need another plan,”
“No shotguns. That’s weak.”
“They’re just too heavy and hard to reload.”
“Yeah. I guess. It’s still weak.”
I look around for a better idea and see the display case with the knives in it. I see it. A few racks over is a wooden walking stick. It is about five and a half feet tall and has a nice polished finish. I pull one off the rack. It feels good in my hands. It is a solid piece of wood. It has a lanyard so I slip my hand through the string and hold the walking stick with both hands.
“You’re going to take a stick over a shotgun? Double weak,” Devon shakes his head.
“No. I’m going old school,” I grab a roll of black athletic tape from a rack on my way back to the knife display. I use the manager’s key to open the case and pull out the most expensive knife in there. This thing is ten inches and the blade feels razor sharp. I lay the walking stick on the counter and start to wrap the athletic tape around the tip of the walking stick and the handle of the knife.
“Grab one for yourself,” I get the knife wrapped up tight and it feels solid. I push the blade down into the carpet and it does not move or wiggle at all. I wrap some of the tape around the base and the center of the walking stick to give it a little better grip so my hands will not slip. I make one for Devon too.
I grab a backpack, one of those with the water bladder built into it. I open four bottles of water and fill the bladder. They also have some of those Five Hour Energy drinks and the little electrolyte packets that you pour into water. I add two of the packets to my water. I down a Five Hour Energy now and put three in my jacket pocket. There’s a display case of Zippo lighters, I grab one with an American flag on it and drop it into my pocket. I also put a few more bags of jerky and Snickers into the pack. I find a little medical kit and toss that in there. Everything I grab and load into the pack, Devon does the same. He makes sure that whatever I have he has. The last thing I throw in there is the hammer that my Dad got me. It was not the best in a fight but I might need it later. Now the pack weighs about thirty pounds. I strap a few more fixed blade knives to my belt and a machete. I can really feel the weight of everything on my body. I wish I were in better shape.
“Okay, I’m almost ready to go. We need to test these spears first,” I tell Devon.
“Test them on what?” he muscles his backpack up onto his shoulders. I point the spear at the dead bodies on the ground.
“That’s so wrong. That’s so, so wro
ng. We can’t do that. It’s not right,” Devon pleads.
“We have to make sure that the tape will hold. We’ll do it to the asshole that tried to murder us,” I motion for him to go first. He shakes his head, no. I really don’t want to do this either but I don’t want the knife to fall off the first time we face one of those infected people. I take a deep breath.
“Fine, I’ll go first,” I walk over to the body and step over its legs. I raise my spear into the air and jam it down into the body. A large spurt of blood shoots from its body and covers Devon’s new boots. I pull the blade out and another spurt of blood follows. It works great, better than I thought it would. I try slicing at something. I swing the spear down at a nearby volleyball and the knife splits it in two.
“That was really cool, dude! Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you dude. Sorry I did it again.”
“It’s fine, just keep them to a minimum.”
He nods his head at me, “I will. I promise. I’m gonna try the spear,” he steps up to a mannequin. He staggers his feet, like you would if you were taking a fighting stance. The mannequin is dressed in a pair of wild colored swim trunks. He stabs at its abdomen. The knife cuts through the plastic body like butter. He almost knocks the thing over. The kid gives me a smile and a nod.
“Sweet,” he pulls out the blade and slices at the plastic dude’s neck and the head comes clean off, “Wow. These knives are sharp,” he stares at the blade. I test it a few more times on my own mannequin. It is dressed in a fishing outfit. I lop both arms and the head off in three quick strikes. Devon chops a folding chair in half. He lets out a little laugh after the thing falls apart. It looks like he is coming around about these homemade spears.
“This thing works like really good. I don’t know if they’re better than a shotgun, but they’re very cool,” the kid runs his thumb over the edge of the blade.
“They feel light and deadly. I guess we’ll see,” I pull and wiggle the blade a little more. It still feels solid.
