Riding The Apocalypse

by Frank Ignagni III

  Max and I met a decade ago at a bar in downtown San Jose. The Cardiff was the name, if memory serves. It was my turn up at darts as Max had beaten the previous guy. We were chatting during a friendly game of Cricket when a young, Corona-drinking wannabe tough guy decided he did not like my T-shirt. I don’t remember the shirt, but I am sure it was sarcastic as I often wear those ironic tees. However, I am a lover not a fighter, and so tried to ignore his alcohol-induced comments.

  After tossing my last dart of the game I turned to sit down and concede my defeat to Max. Before I could take a seat, the aforementioned wardrobe critic intentionally bumped the beer out of my hand in a not-so-subtle move. He and a few of his buddies got a good laugh out of it and I was stunned for a moment, the loss of an adult beverage always hits me hard. Before I recovered enough to turn toward him, Max had strategically placed the fleshy part of his calloused hand between his thumb and forefinger just below the punk’s larynx. He then proceeded to redirect him rather forcefully against the electronic dartboard. I think I actually saw the asshole’s feet leave the floor for a second.

  “You owe my buddy…um…wait…what’s your name?” Max said as he glanced over his shoulder at me.

  “Remy.” I laughed.

  “Get my buddy Remy here another beer, and not one of those sissy Coronas you are drinking!” Max said in a calm but authoritative tone.

  I had a fresh Samuel Adams in my hand three minutes later.

  Despite this smooth move, Max was not a large guy. He was a drink coaster short of six feet, though he always insisted he was six feet. Regardless, he was a strong, sturdy son of a bitch. What he lacked in height and reach, he made up with leverage. If you ever accidentally bumped into that guy, you would bounce off him like a pinball. He had his dad’s Italian skin and Italian affectations. What was left of his hair was black and curly. Max actually looked like his name.

  When I called, Max had no idea what was happening. He had been at the garage since the wee hours of the morning using my tools to work on his Ducati motorcycle, his usual Sunday ritual. News media are not often heard on the iPhone I bought him as a gift and for work logistics. In fact, I am not sure he has ever used the internet access I pay for every month. If he was listening to anything while wrenching his beloved Italian Ducati motorcycle, it would be a cassette of eighties rock music playing on the last remaining boom box in the Western Hemisphere.

  “S’up, Rem?”

  “You watch the news today?” I asked.

  “Naw, man, just—”

  “Lock the fucking gate!” I shouted louder than I originally intended to.

  “Dude, I won’t forget, man, I was just tired last—”

  I interrupted him. “Shit’s going down. Before you go outside, look around, make sure the yard is clear. Then lock the gate. Oh, and take a tire iron outside when you go to the gate. If you see anyone walking around, don’t confront ’em. Just get inside after ya lock the gate. Lock the gate and stay inside. I got my key and will be there in a bit. And turn on the fucking office TV”—I glanced at my TV—“channel 245.”

  “What the hell, Rem? You sound—”

  “Just do it! Two forty-five!” I snapped. Damn, I hated raising my voice to Max. “I am on my way.”

  My phone rang seconds after I hung up with Max.

  It was Emily.

  My heart skipped a beat. That heart fluttering was disconcerting, unexpected, and unwelcome. Damn it, this was going to make things complicated.

  “Remy, I am on my way to Mom’s. Oh my God, it’s crazy out here. There are police and military everywhere,” she said, almost whispering.

  “Probably National Gua—”

  “Remy, I saw one,” she murmured.

  I sat down. “Where? Are you safe?”

  “It was on Page Mill, it was trying to get into the car in front of me. It…she…was a woman, I think? She was so pretty, but—” Emily had to catch her breath. “But, but she was trying to get into the car. She was moaning so loud and clawing at the windows.” Emily started to cry.

  “It’s okay, Em, just take a deep breath.”

  “Then the car just took off and hit the side of the car in front of it. It clipped the bumper and kept going. It was so loud! She…it…turned toward me, Rem. She was right in front of me. Her eyes were so black. I hit the gas and went into the grass and drove around her. She had blood all over her blouse, and her face was so pale. I might have nicked her on the way around, I don’t know.”

  “Just relax, concentrate on your driving. How close are you to your mom’s house?” I asked.

  She muttered something unintelligible between sobs and that’s when I said it. Oh brother. I didn’t want to, didn’t plan to, but there it was. I was shocked as the words came out of my mouth. “You and your mother should not be alone. Do you want me to come get you and her? We are going to hole up in the garage till this gets under control.”

  “Oh, Rem!” She cried harder.

  “I can get there, I know the back roads. We have a bathroom at the garage, and you and your mom could stay in my office. It’s fairly isolated and well fenced.” I could not believe I was saying this. “Just give me a few min—”

  As I started to lay out the framework in my mind’s eye of how I was going to get there, get them, and make it back, Emily broke into my thought process.

  “Rem, thank you but we will be okay.” She spoke in a controlled voice. “We will not be alone, my friend, he—”

  “Got it,” I cut her off, relief and jealousy surging within me.

  I had a feeling she was seeing someone else. I could tell by her demeanor of late. But who was I to judge? And anyway, it never stopped us from seeing each other before.

  “That is your decision; if you reconsider, call me.”

  Chapter 4

  “No worries, Rem, loud pipes save lives, man.”

  I loaded up my Kawasaki KLR650 motorcycle with both side bags and attached an additional bag atop the metal gas tank via magnets. I had grabbed and packed as many supplies as I possibly could in the short time since Emily left me.

  Bad choice of words.

  Thankfully, my commuter motorcycle was a dual sport. The KLR was street legal, but could handle the off-road equally well. I hated to leave behind the KLR’s stablemate, a lightning-fast BMW S1000R, but the BMW was less practical if I needed to divert off the main roads. With the correct rider, the KLR could go just about anywhere. I wasn’t necessarily the best rider, but I was more than capable when a spirited ride was appropriate. I am no Buell on a motorcycle, but then, who is?

  I pushed the engine start button, and she revved to life. I must confess to feeling a thrill of excitement here. She has never let me down, and I felt confident in my decision to bring the KLR to the garage. I call my motorcycles “she” or “her,” even though they are not like most women I know. She never leaves, she doesn’t ask me to see sappy movies and doesn’t mind if I sit on her and fart. Helmet, gloves, jacket, and out my garage I went. I was careful to peek back and make sure the electric garage door closed behind me. I took the freeway hoping I could lane split between the traffic. No such luck, the cars were jammed too tightly and constantly changing lanes.

  Where was everyone going?

  Now it was my turn to have a first encounter with the monsters, but it was not as modest as Emily’s. I saw at least a hundred of the creatures methodically marching down the on-ramp from Saratoga Avenue. Where did they all come from so fast? I watched the undead break through a blockade of military vehicles at the top of the ramp and march toward the jam-packed freeway, clogged with slow-moving traffic. I was in a state of disbelief, it looked so surreal. I mean, fucking seriously?

  My first thought was to hit the brakes. The same reaction I would have if I spotted a highway patrol officer on the side of the road sporting a radar gun. There was no reason to make drastic movements though, as the monsters were moving unusually slowly. I later learned this was their normal pace. The monsters soldiered on
at slow walking speed, almost a mosey.

  Attempting a shortcut, some of the monsters fell off the overpass directly onto the hoods and roofs of the cars below. The cracks from the bodies crashing down on the vehicles were loud enough to penetrate my insulated helmet and freak me out even more. One of the monsters folded like a taco as it came crashing down from the overpass to land squarely atop a roll bar mounted on a pickup truck. In spite of its obvious trauma, the beast still tried reaching into the window of the cab with its last working appendage. The rain of undead caused doors to fly open as people were spurred to flee on foot, causing more traffic and chaos.

  I watched in horror as the first monsters exited the ramp and reached the cars to their right. Simultaneously, the cars began moving in short jerking movements, often hitting one another and further snarling the situation. The scene resembled a giant bumper car ring, but much louder. I watched one man vacate his car only to be crushed between his rear bumper and another small car. The suddenly pinned man instantly became a beacon to the encroaching attackers, as his bloodcurdling screams drew attention to his position. I noted the monsters seemed able to triangulate sound well, and made quick work of reaching the immobilized target. Deciding to move, I exited to my left and rode against the center divider. As I made my cautious way past the gridlock, I glanced back at the pinned man, and saw a large male monster grab his right arm and pull it toward his already bloodstained teeth. The beast’s skin was pale white, eyes pitch black, and his muscles bulged as he ripped at the victim’s arm. I cringed as I saw the pinned man’s forearm muscles extracted from bone as the blood spurted in all directions. The victim screamed even louder as his severed arm flashed before his eyes en route to the mouth of the hulking monster. I didn’t think the poor guy could scream louder than before, but I was wrong. His amplified scream was short-lived as a teenage girl in a blood-soaked cheerleading skirt bit him directly on his mouth, and he went silent with the bloody kiss.

  After gathering myself from the shock of what I had just seen, I again continued to my left and squeezed in between the left guardrail and the stopped cars along the fast lane. I narrowly avoided a car trying the same tactic, and was saved by the lack of two additional wheels. As I passed under the overpass, the screams were amplified and echoed in my helmet.

  I still had six miles to go.

  If you ever find yourself in a zombie scenario, I recommend a KLR650 as the preferred mode of transportation. Mine was particularly well-suited as I had installed engine guards to protect it when trail riding or in case of a crash. With the KLR’s versatility, respectable gas mileage, single cylinder 650cc motor, minimal maintenance needs, and agile handling, the Kawasaki was the optimal model for this situation.

  The left side of the freeway shoulder remained open for about another half mile. Ahead I could see smoke billowing from the slow lane, farther right. As I got closer, I realized the smoke was emanating from a series of tanks blocking the on-ramp to the right and the off-ramp just beyond the overpass. This seemed like a good strategy to slow the progress of the monsters but the creatures were spilling unchecked from residential and commercial areas onto the freeway. I surmised the military was trying to control the traffic on and off the freeway but it didn’t look as if they were having much success.

  I thought office jobs sucked.

  The smoke ahead turned out to be from a burning vehicle which had rolled off the side of the off-ramp. Perhaps the driver had tried to circumvent the tanks? Had the driver accidentally crashed, or had he been shot by the tank’s 125mm cannon for not obeying the roadblock? I decided it didn’t matter, and looked for a safer way to get off this clusterfuck.

  The road ahead became increasingly difficult to traverse. Military vehicles blocked the exits and prevented me from taking my leave. I could have waited in a long line of cars, but I didn’t feel safe exposed and just idling on the off-ramp, waiting for the military to inspect the vehicles in front of me.

  I decided to improvise.

  I gripped the throttle tighter, forcefully dropped the bike into second gear with my left foot, cut hard right. Jumping the curb on the right shoulder I proceeded up the ice-plant-covered hill which bordered the highway and the frontage road. I didn’t know what I was going to see as I crested the shoulder, but anything was better than the mess I was exiting below.

  The monster was a short and portly fellow. He sported a bloodstained T-shirt with the words Don’t Mess With Texas emblazoned across his chest. However, if I was a betting man, I would wager it had been stained with various other foodstuffs long before the more recent bloodstains. The monster’s stomach was enormous and I wasn’t sure if it was the result of eating human flesh or poor diet and inactivity. I suspected the latter. Regardless, his bloated belly proved difficult to circumnavigate. Despite his size, I actually crashed into the monster as I crested the hill. He was too wide to avoid in the short time I had to react.

  Down he went, ass over teakettle to the ground. Luckily for me, I managed to put my right foot down and stopped the bike from hitting the dirt as I caromed off the monster. My motorcycle stalled after my hand slipped from the clutch on impact. Consequently, I slammed my left pectoral muscle into the left handlebar. I winced from the sharp pain and was convinced I had punctured a hole in my chest—which was not as distressing as it would have been in other circumstances. I took a quick glance and there was no visible puncture. This was little consolation, however, as the pain was excruciating.

  I glanced behind me at the monster and noted his right hip had nearly separated from the rest of his body. I had heard a loud crack on impact, and was relieved it wasn’t my bike that had made the sound.

  His leg lagged behind him as he attempted to crawl toward me, arms outstretched, belly blubbering along. His teeth were chattering, and his face was red with dried blood. The heavyset monster wasn’t making much progress, and actually seemed to be crawling in a circle. I was momentarily hypnotized by the sight and stared at the awkward scene longer than I wanted to, but fortunately snapped to and refocused on the task at hand.

  I pushed the engine start button, and she fired back up. That’s my girl. I spun my motorcycle to the right, and served Fatboy a dirt cocktail. I righted the KLR and took off toward the foothills. As I sped off, I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Don’t Mess With Texas, my ass!” I felt my cheeks turning red as a result of the false bravado, and was glad nobody was present to hear me say that.

  Dork.

  Ten minutes later I found myself fumbling for my key as I pulled up to my garage. The structure housing my repair business is quite modest and lacks charm or charisma from the outside. However, what it lacks in allure, it makes up for in functionality. I had recently retooled the garage, and it was state of the art. At twenty-eight-hundred square feet, it stood on three quarters of an acre. It was a good sized lot for a business so close to downtown Campbell. The fifteen-year-old building is gray with olive green rolling doors on all sides. There are six, ten by ten roll-up doors, one on each side wall, and two front and back. The garage is connected to my office, which is located to the right as you approach the building. The front office is six hundred square feet, with an adjoining bathroom and a small private office in the back. All of this is enclosed by cyclone fencing on all sides.

  I parked the bike and went for the lock and chain on the front gate. That was when I noticed the lock was hanging on the cyclone fence, unlocked. The chain was not wrapped around the gate, thus it swung open freely.

  “Motherfucker!” I shouted to nobody.

  I hopped on the KLR and rode it through the open gate, stopping inches from the building. I reached for the tinted glass door, but Max bested me from the inside of the office.

  “Max, I told you to—”

  “Hey, Rem, gimme a sec, I gotta go lock the gate, you just left it open,” Max said with a wry smile as he continued past me. “I was out here waiting and heard ya coming so I opened the gate. Then the phone rang, so I ran inside to answer. You
were saying?”

  Ignoring his smug look, I asked who called. Max informed me it was Rich and I was glad to hear from him, though Emily would have been a welcome call as well.

  I looked back down the deserted street and saw the low speed pursuit of a dozen monsters whose attention I had drawn. I figured they came from side streets or other property.

  “Maybe the loud after-market exhaust I bought was a little much, Max?” I said half in jest. “I couldn’t help it, out of the factory, the motor of the KLR sounds like a sewing machine.”

  “I already saw a few of them milling around down the street,” Max added.

  “I think a stock pipe would have attracted less attention.”

  “No worries, Rem, loud pipes save lives, man.”

  Chapter 5

  “This is not going to do, we need a plan.”

  I entered the garage through the adjoining office door and was relieved to see Buell’s bike to my left. I should have known he would never leave his motorcycle outside, even behind my locked gate. Buell’s caution seemed prudent, so I reversed my path, opened the rolling door, and moved my KLR next to Buell’s motorcycle. A few moments later Buell came down from the roof via the catwalk which leads to the roof hatch. Simultaneously, Max entered as the electric roll-up door closed behind him.

  “You guys okay?” I asked.

  “I am good—or, um, not hurt,” Buell answered.

  “Have you been watching the television, Max?” I asked.