Riding The Apocalypse

by Frank Ignagni III

  “Look, man, we both told you we’d come with you, why don’t you just let us go with ya, brother?” Max asked.

  “ ’Cause it isn’t your demon, Max, Emily planted this seed in me, and I want to see it through. Not just for her, but for me. I want to be that guy she wanted me to be, that guy I should have been. Look how fucked up it is out there!” I said, pointing to a fire in the storage yard across Hamilton Ave. “You have a sister and family most likely still living in New York. You should not be going with me on some death wish grudge hunt for some fucking politician that was banging my ex girlfriend.”

  “Hey, you know this fucker is part responsible for all this shit, right? That makes it our fight too!” Buell shouted as he climbed out onto the roof from inside the garage. “Stop being so selfish, man.”

  “Look, I understand you guys are trying—”

  “Look, Rem,” Max said as he grabbed both of my shoulders. Jesus, he had a firm grip. “We are in this together, Rem. I don’t know if my family is alive or not. I pray to God they are, but I am not getting to them anytime soon. We have waited long enough. Let’s go out in a blaze of glory, and go get the fucker who is behind this.”

  “What if he isn’t there, Max? What if I drag you there and risk your lives for nothing? Two days ago you guys were ready to just chill here and wait this out. You were gonna let the military—”

  “That was over eighty-four thousand seconds ago, a lot has changed since then,” Buell added, chuckling as he joined us. “We’ll just turn it into a crazy-ass road trip if he isn’t there. I don’t want to wait here till those assholes cross the highway and find our little hiding place. Whadda we got, a day or two? If we sit as quiet as mice peeing on cotton, then maybe they will pass us by? Then what? Look at those fuckers,” Buell said, pointing to the monsters who were at the gate, reaching up at us after hearing the conversation. “They aren’t going anywhere. I am getting cabin fever. There are a lot of miles out there. Let’s go log some!”

  “I wanna smoke some of these guys anyway, I am tired of hiding. C’mon, Rem, let’s make this our swan song. Don’t make us beg to have a purpose, man. I know you want us to go, dude, so just say it,” Max said as he lightly pinched me on the left nipple, then assumed a boxer’s stance. “Stop playing hard to get, it’s not sexy.”

  Max was right. I honestly did want them to go, but the idea of them being killed or hurt for my crusade worried me. Yet Max made a valid point, what were we truly living for? Maybe the military would eventually take control, but it was still never going to be the way it had been, least not in our lifetimes. Thinking rationally, I wondered how realistic it was that Paul from Campbell was going to eventually pick up his hunter green Jeep Cherokee? Would he ever pay me the eleven hundred dollars for the replaced freeze plugs and water pump? Would Buell be writing video game code anytime soon? How about Max? I didn’t see a ton of paychecks coming out of the downtown county office. I certainly wasn’t going to be paying him anytime soon.

  You know what, fuck it, I thought. I had officially convinced myself to get off the fucking cross.

  “Okay, guys, you want in, I would love for you to be in, and I am not afraid to ask for your help. I love you, guys. You are my family. Let’s go hunting for a crooked politician!” I proclaimed as I embraced Max and patted him on his back. Damn, he squeezed hard.

  I felt as if a burden had been taken from my heart. My concern for everything else in this life melted away. We had a quest to go on, and a purpose to ride. I was going to follow through, no matter where it took me, or how far I got. A shot of adrenaline coursed through my veins.

  “I don’t need much motivation to hunt Democrats, Remy, especially this one,” Max added.

  “That’s what I am talking about, Rem,” shouted Buell. “You hear that, you stinky fuckers?” Buell yelled, looking to his left, over the roof and down to the parking lot. Subsequently, he threw what was left of a can of Diet Mountain Dew in the direction of the dozen creatures mobbed against the fence. “We’re coming for you! And we are bringing soap and deodorant! How do you like me now, bitches!”

  Buell laughed and went back through the hatch to the garage. I watched him disappear, and my eyes immediately went to Max. He was watching the approaching swarm. He looked somber.

  “Protein bar for your thoughts?” I said as I tossed him a Fibre One bar. He caught it seemingly without taking his eyes off the horizon. “You good, brother?”

  “I am glad to be getting the hell out of here. I am tired of sponge baths and Shawshank Redemption. Who knew you could get tired of that movie?” said Max.

  Not me, ’cause I wasn’t.

  “You’re not just saying that, are you, Max?” I said.

  “I was being honest, Rem, stop asking me about it,” he said with a stern look as he walked over to the roof hatch. Looking down the hatch, he yelled. “Hey, Buell, we leave first light tomorrow!”

  “Fuckin-A, sounds like a plan!” came a voice from inside the garage.

  After Buell’s Big Lebowski reference, Max shot me a very deliberate look, and we locked eyes. I blinked first. I didn’t think Max wanted his level of commitment questioned again. The look was “get the fuck over your martyrdom, and let’s focus.” I couldn’t have agreed more. The plan was to leave at first light, so all the packing was to be done before bed. We scoured my entire garage for anything we thought would be useful. We were aware of what we could comfortably carry on the bikes. Optimal handling became more important than comfort though. Being nimble and not putting much load on the suspension was paramount. I wanted to be as agile as possible, so canned goods were out of the question, though I did take one can of chili. I could eat chili cold, and it had real sustenance, as opposed to breakfast bars and junk food.

  Unfortunately for Max, he did not have tank bags for his Ducati, as he had come to the garage just to work on his bike on that fateful Sunday. Improvisation was necessary. But never one to disappoint, he got creative with his bag design, Max used his ingenuity and silver duct tape. The tape was to cover the Justin Bieber image on the backpack someone had left in one of the customer’s cars.

  “Why the pretense, Max? Who is gonna see it?” Buell asked. “You got a hot date?”

  “I will know it’s there,” Max replied.

  He had a point. Buell nodded.

  Max’s motorcycle, while not a KLR, was not entirely unsuitable for this journey. It was a Hypermotard, Ducati’s version of a dual sport, sans the knobby tires. It was undeniably more sophisticated than my KLR in powertrain and frame design. However, it was not quite as reliable. It needed a little more TLC to perform at an optimal level, a reasonable trade-off considering how good that thing looked. Quite simply it was a more expensive, sexier version of the KLR—damn, it was one good-looking motorcycle.

  The distance we had to travel was just over a hundred miles, according to the GPS, which was still working, thank goodness. I guess the zombies weren’t in outer space yet.

  Knowing we would encounter roadblocks and might have to detour out of our way, we brought a filled two gallon gas jug. If there were no gas stations available, we would not be stranded. I couldn’t imagine there wouldn’t be opportunities to siphon a car, but better safe than sorry. Just the same, we were going to take some side roads, and there might not be vehicles on the fire roads. All in all, fuel should not be the problem. I guessed the problem would be the monsters, call me crazy.

  “We are out of bourbon, guys,” Max said, turning an empty bottle of Maker’s upside down.

  “Somehow I have a feeling bourbon will cross our paths again,” said Buell with a wink. “Besides, Maker’s is for the guys who drink vodka martinis, in lieu of gin.”

  “Dude, you brought it,” Max retorted.

  I walked into my office, then came back out, holding a full unopened bottle of Buffalo Trace in my right hand.

  “Told ya,” Buell said with a smirk on his face.

  I smiled at the both of them. We were about to travel over
a hundred miles through an undead-monster-infested landscape, and Max was worried about the booze.

  “I guess I don’t need to tell you guys to check over the bikes for anything loose or missing, right?” Buell asked.

  “Hey, Rem, you got a flat repair kit here somewhere?” Max asked.

  “I have one on my bike,” Buell and I said in unison.

  “Hah, should have known.”

  A few hours later Max was again up on the roof looking out as I sat on an upturned bucket staring at my packed-up bike. I liked sitting at this level with my bike. I could look eye level at the front tire, forks, motor, chain drive, and rear tire. I could smell the bike. For anyone who rides, they know the smell. It is a combination of burnt chain lube, oil, gas, and a slight hint of burnt plastic when hot. No different than a wine connoisseur with the color, bouquet, and vessel. I ran my finger along the chain, checking for moisture and tension as I had done a thousand times before. But never with the same concerns. I should always be this diligent.

  Was this for Emily? Not entirely for damn sure, I decided. This was about far more than Emily, but she was undoubtedly the spark. Even on the verge of death and becoming a monster, Emily helped make me a better man. But I was starting to understand that Emily was a catalyst, not my conscience. This was the ultimate purpose to ride. My life suddenly had a meaning that eclipsed everything else and I felt compelled to push forward, to put my skills and mettle to the test. My friends and I were about to take an all-terrain road trip through perilous conditions with a noble purpose.

  I stood up and looked across the garage; all three bikes were loaded up and ready for action. Buell was in the waiting room, lying on the couch watching Andy crawl through five hundred yards of shit-smelling foulness Red could not even imagine. I could hear Max coming down the catwalk from the roof.

  “Those bastards are getting mighty close. They are on the highway and down the off-ramp to Winchester. I’d guess they will be here by midday tomorrow,” Max said.

  “I will leave them a note, telling them we’re headed to a little town called none of your Goddamned business!” Buell chirped from the couch.

  I walked into my office; my leather jacket was on the floor, covering whatever was left of Emily’s reminder that we are all mortal. I was again glad I could not conjure up an image of Emily’s disfigured face. My last image of her face was dark and terrifying, but it was intact. I will always be grateful for that.

  Things had to get better from here, I thought. Without realizing, I answered myself out loud.

  “I certainly hope so, for all our sakes.”

  Chapter 17

  “It walked right out of the water.”

  Max, Buell, and I fired up our motorcycles at first light. We wheeled them out to the left, still behind the gate. Our idling motorcycles were there for two reasons. Obviously, one purpose was to warm up; but while getting them to proper operating temperature was important, we also hoped to draw the attention of the twenty or so monsters who were along the fence, wandering about the cul-de-sac. I stood there, in full gear, watching the condensation emit from our exhaust pipes. The motors were creating the illusion of smoke billowing from the motorcycles in the brisk morning air.

  I looked at Buell out of the corner of my eye, he had a crowbar in his hand and was watching the same plumes of smoke. I could see Buell working out the physics in his head. If I asked Buell why motorcycle exhausts emit smoke in the morning air, he would immediately tell me the exhaust isn’t smoking; it’s water droplets produced by the combustion engine. I could read that guy like a book. I always knew exactly what he was thinking, and I hoped this skill came in handy today. When that guy rode, he didn’t drive a motorcycle, he was a motorcycle. That makes no sense, unless you know him. Then it makes perfect fucking sense.

  As the monsters were clawing at the fence to the left, where Buell and I parked the running motorcycles, things were going according to plan. We intended to bunch them up and take action. I noticed one monster in particular. He was a large Asian man, who looked like a sumo wrestler with clothes on, and his sheer weight was causing the fence to bend at the left corner. Max needed to get the hell out here.

  I was holding a tire iron as I waited for Max to emerge from the garage. A tire iron normally is used to separate the bead or side of the tire from the rim. The tool is a heavy piece of iron shaped much like a crowbar. This one was two feet longer, thus heavier than a crowbar. It also had smaller, more pointed ends than a crowbar.

  Max emerged from the garage with my other tire iron in his left hand and a crowbar in his right. He walked right past Buell and me without saying a word, helmet and gloves already on.

  The plan was simple. Slaughter the monsters right through the safety of the fence. The cyclone fence would allow us to impale the creatures with minimum risk. Max, not wasting any time, walked right into the corner of the fence and thrust the tire iron through the cyclone fence and directly into the eye of the sumo guy. The force Max used was so strong, the iron actually went through the other side of the skull, shooting blood and gray matter into the faces of the others behind. The blood spray sent the others into a frenzy as Max pulled out the iron and lunged for his next target. I was seeing something in Max that I don’t remember seeing in all the time I knew him. He looked angry and apathetic at the same time. I realize that doesn’t make sense. He literally put our Max aside and brought out this unfeeling, angry version. The sound of the bar slipping from the monster’s eye socket was so gruesome it caused my stomach to churn its morning breakfast. Max continued on, with the air of someone tackling an unpleasant but necessary chore.

  One dry heave later I shoved my own weapon into the mouth of an older woman who looked like Anne Bancroft. Her neck crackled and snapped back.

  “Sorry, Mel,” I said. Then I realized the protrusion was too low. She remained standing, and continued to lunge at me through the fence. Since I crushed her larynx on the previous stab, her attempt to growl at me was fruitless. I pulled back to try again, but the bar did not slide as easily as it had for Max. Perhaps that had more to do with his strength than I wanted to admit, regardless, I had to put my foot on the fence to get the leverage to pull it out.

  Buell was able to strike over the fence by standing on an oil drum. The height the drum provided was an advantage, though a tad risky. Swinging over the top of the fence, Buell followed Max’s lead and brought the weapon down on top of the head of another monster who was already missing part of his face. I noticed that lately there were more injured monsters. These guys had seen battle in one way or another downtown.

  This was what was coming.

  The blood splattered against my helmet visor as Buell claimed another victim. It was hard not to associate these people, or things with celebrities. Buell just dropped Kramer from Seinfeld with one blow. Giddyup! I had to wipe the visor clean with my gloves before I could get back in the fight. The smell was beginning to permeate my helmet, and a wave of nausea hit me hard. That fucking smell. Why didn’t they warn us about this in the zombie movies? I opened my helmet just in time to projectile vomit my breakfast bar at the base of the fence. I tried to stand up, and almost fell again. After taking off my helmet and walking from the commotion, I was able to regain my bearings. I felt slightly embarrassed by my battle fatigue, but the guys never mentioned it. Either they didn’t notice it or decided to spare me the shame. I think it was the latter. I put my helmet back on and rejoined the fight.

  This is how it went for five or six minutes. We let them push against the fence, then stabbed them through the cyclone holes or bludgeoned them over the top, all from the safety of my lot.

  Genius plan.

  Things were going as well as could be expected until we hit a snag. The snag’s name was Charles. There he was, my delivery driver and friend. He had been bitten on his left cheek and his pupils shone black in their red setting. I wondered how long he had been wandering out there. I must have missed him among the others in the cul-de-sac. See
ing him there clawing at the fence, trying to get at me, I felt sick. Had I not already thrown up the contents of my stomach, I would have. I looked at his eyes, black as night. Charles always talked Star Wars, and I was always eager to indulge him. We shared the same fascination with the movie series, and our talks were always fun, even if nonsensical. Now he was standing next to Emily’s abandoned Corvette and trying to eat my flesh. He was gone, and it hit me hard. Had that asshole Riley realized the infinite amount of human relationships he had dissolved?

  Anger began to well up inside me. My rage traveled from my brain to my arms, and then to my hands. I did not want my friend walking around trying to eat people. The sight of him as a monster boiled my blood. I jumped onto the oil drum to my right, reached over the top of the fence and drove my tire iron down, pointed end first, through the top of Charles’s head. As I rammed the iron through his skull, then down his neck, it did not stop until the bottom of my hand struck the top of his head. The other end of the iron had exited through his upper abdomen and sprayed blood through the cyclone fence and onto the front of my pants. The blood infuriated me even more. I tried to retrieve the iron to strike again, but failed. It was lodged in his body like Excalibur. It was stuck deep, and my bloody hands were slippery. My fists slipped off as I tried to pull up on the bar, and with nothing to anchor my weight, I flailed and fell forward. My lower body pressed against the fence and my torso flopped over the top. Had Charles not been instantly killed by my initial blow, he could easily have attacked and bitten me.

  Still I was stuck and it was not a good place to be, draped over the top of the fence, and holding on to the opposite side for dear life. I grabbed for the iron protruding from the monster’s skull and pulled it close. Keeping the iron in hand kept Charles’s body against me, an inhuman shield. Other monsters began to claw at me, but I used the dead body to block them as best I could.