by Mark Tufo
“He told me to get somewhere safe. And that was it. The zombies started biting him. I ran that time. I came here. It was the safest place I could think of, and I knew Mr. Springer had food and a stove down here. We used to come here to go “camping”. Mr. Springer said he sometimes felt trapped in this place, and he wanted to go topside and see the stars again. He tried, but the people in charge said he couldn’t, so he did this.”
Porkchop was pointing to the stove, hotdogs and beans. He then did something I had not been expecting and was honestly frightened of. He stood and walked over to each flashlight and turned them off. I think I may have been shivering by the time he got to that third one. I was going to plead to his sense of compassion to leave it on. He had his reasons I suppose, and if worst came to worst, I would wrestle one away from him.
“Look up,” he told us.
“Holy shit,” was the best I could come up with on short notice. Mr. Springer was the Michelangelo of glow in the dark paint. He had recreated the constellations in painstaking detail. Even Tommy was amazed.
“Aries, Andromeda, Cassiopeia, there’s hundreds here. They’re perfect.” I could see Tommy’s jaw had grown a little slack. “I swear, if I look at it long enough, I can see it move.”
I sighed in a sort of sadness and cold longing, with an edge of desperation, as Porkchop turned the flashlights on. For a brief moment it had felt like we’d escaped and were no longer trapped levels beneath the earth.
“He held the zombies off long enough for me to get away. So I came here.”
“I can see why.” The door rattled again. I’d swear I saw the bolt bow out a little.
“We used to talk a lot, me and Mr. Springer, mostly about our homes and food, sometimes zombies. He told me once that he didn’t think zombies could bite through the fireman gear. I didn’t really believe him. I haven’t seen anything yet that stops them, not even concrete walls.”
I looked over to the uniforms, my feet quickly taking me to where my eyes had been looking. I gripped a sleeve of the protective clothing; it was thick and heavy. I was more inclined to agree with Mr. Springer. Especially after I read the tag that said the material was woven with a Kevlar mix. Anything that was designed to stop a bullet should be able to stop zombie teeth and fingernails. I put the jacket on, might as well have donned a piece of clothing consisting entirely of knitted together mosquitoes. If the zombies didn’t kill me, the incessant scratching would.
“These could work,” I said, fidgeting about, trying to get into the impossible position of having the material not touch me.
“There’s a shirt in the locker,” Tommy said, noticing my discomfort.
I thought I was going to do a happy dance at the possibility of putting a layer between the torture device and me. That was of course until Tommy pulled out the wadded up ball of clothing.
“It’s dirty,” I told him.
“So,” he responded evenly. “Stop being a prima donna.”
“You want me to put on dirty clothing from someone I don’t even know? And that somehow makes me a prima donna?”
“Would it matter if you knew them?”
“No,” I answered honestly.
“And that most definitely makes you one. What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.
“Scabies, maybe.”
“I don’t think you can catch scabies from a dirty shirt.”
“What about flesh-eating bacteria?”
“I guess…I don’t know. Porkchop, did Mr. Springer complain about any large skin lesions?”
Porkchop just tilted his head, not getting the question. Tommy seemed to thoroughly be enjoying himself. “Just put it on.” He tossed it at me.
The end of a sleeve landed in my mouth. That alone would have been enough for my gag reflex to kick into gear, but the wafting stench that followed it completed the job. Before the zombies came, I’d smelt jock reek during my youth having played sports, and I remembered that acidic stink of testosterone along with sweat and a teen’s innate ability to let it age for a few days at the bottom of a locker. This was easily one of the worst funks I’d ever had the displeasure of smelling. But this shirt had all of the above ingredients along with what could only be described as essence of boiled skunk nards. The resultant putrefaction was tearing up my eyes and clawing through my olfactory senses.
I was like a cat trying to avoid water as I put the shirt over my head, all stiff-armed and clearly agitated.
“What’s the matter with him?” Porkchop asked Tommy.
“He’s afraid of catching leprosy.”
“What?” I ripped the shirt off. “Can you really catch that from a shirt?”
I should have known by Tommy’s smile that he was full of shit, but I was having a hard time distinguishing things clearly through the haze of odor. Plus my eyes were nearly closed tight. The door rattled again, I didn’t need to have my eyes open to hear a screw fall to the ground. The sound was small, but the actual event was monumental.
“Porkchop, get some gear on,” I told him.
“I tried, it’s too big. I can’t even walk in it.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day, because I’ll carry you.”
“Then what, Mr. T?” Tommy asked.
“Well…see…now I’ve got this all figured out.”
“Oh no,” Tommy and Porkchop said in unison.
“Et tu?” I asked the smaller boy.
“My name is not Brutus and you are no Caesar,” he told me.
“Impressive.” And I meant it. “Fact remains I have a plan. Come on, let’s get your stuff on. You too, Tommy. Looks like we’re joining the volunteer force.”
I’m not going to say I got over putting that gross ass shirt on, but it helped that I was assisting Porkchop in getting dressed. Once I placed the heavy jacket on, it hid a fair amount of the smell, kind of like locking it in Tupperware. Although there was some sticky fluid around the collar of the neck that about made me freeze in motion every time I turned my head and felt the material adhere to my skin. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing,” became my chant.
“He going to be alright?” Porkchop asked Tommy. I was down by his feet pulling his boots on, and Tommy was doing the straps in front of the boy’s jacket.
Tommy shrugged. “Mrs. T is really the only one who would be able to tell us.”
“You two crack me up. Porkchop, I’m going to turn around. Will it be alright if Tommy helps you get on my shoulders? I want to do a sort of dry run here and see how this is going to work out.”
Porkchop looked to Tommy quickly, then me, and nodded. I went down on my knees as Porkchop stood on the narrow bench. He looked like he could go swimming in that suit. The kid might like to eat, but he’d been losing weight fast since I’d met him. Tommy picked him up and easily deposited him on my shoulders. It wasn’t too bad, felt like a small backpack. I grabbed my rifle and maneuvered around. Tommy caught Porkchop before he fell over.
“You realize that you need to hold on, right?” I asked him.
“I did not realize that,” he said, flustered.
“You ever done a piggyback ride?”
“Technically, Mr. T, a piggyback ride is where he would wrap his legs around your mid-section and his arms kind of around your neck. This is more of a shoulder ride.”
“Always one in the crowd,” I grumbled.
“I’ve never done either.” He looked down as he said it.
I would have questioned him further, but I remember him telling me that his father was a world-class d-bag. Well, maybe not with those exact words, but the sentiment was the same.
Tommy propped Porkchop back up.
“Okay, kiddo, I’ll hold on to your legs with one arm, but you’re going to have to hunch over and grab hold of my shoulders. Okay?”
“Okay,” Porkchop answered, but he looked far from thrilled about it.
I got him back up there. I bounced a little and made a couple of quick movements to my right and left. Porkchop’s ar
ms encircled my neck much like I thought they would. The kid was strong enough to choke out a bear. I tapped his arms. But apparently the universal signal for “ease up” was not one he was familiar with.
“I think you’re killing him,” Tommy said to Porkchop as he looked into my reddening face.
Porkchop finally relaxed. “Shoulders,” I moaned, grabbing my raw throat. “Hold on to my shoulders.”
“I was,” Porkchop countered.
“Hold on, Mr. T. There’s a strap here. Lift your arms, I’ll connect it around your chest, and then Porkchop can put his legs under it so he can’t fall off. That way he won’t have to hold on to your shoulders as hard.”
“Sure, anything that keeps him safer and me with more air is fine with me. You good with that?” I asked Porkchop. I was smiling at him, attempting to keep him at ease, but my insides felt like they were liquefying, and I could pretty much squirt out everything within me. I know it’s gross, I’m just letting you know how I felt. Keeping him safe was the only thing that mattered in this whole equation.
“How do you want to do this? I won’t be able to watch your back and cut a trail.”
Tommy had still not seen the shining path I was laying out before him. I motioned with my face toward the wall.
“Yeah, what about it? It’s an axe.”
“What’s next to the axe, Tommy?”
“A fire hose. What do you want me to do with that?”
“Really? How old are you? Fine, let me make this real clear. What’s the fire hose hooked up to?”
“I would imagine high…OH, I get it! That’s actually one of your better plans. There’s only one thing.”
“Yeah, go on, killjoy.”
“The hose is only two hundred feet. What do we do after that?”
“Well, let’s just hope we’ve found the way out by then. We’ll have Porkchop holding the flashlights, so at least we’ll have light. That hose, when turned on full blast, should be able to send those smelly bastards careening down the hallways like a particularly thick loogey down a drain.”
“That’s gross even for you, Mr. T.”
“I know, I kind of wish I hadn’t said it.” I was looking at the hose. It would buy us some time while we looked for an exit. Then it was going to come down to the rounds we had and the axe, which I was going to take.
“I know the way out,” Porkchop said as Tommy helped him get his legs under the straps.
“You do? Are you sure?” I asked. I don’t know why I didn’t just trust him, and it wasn’t because he was twelve. I would have asked the same question to my wife, although she would have punctuated her answer with a punch to the shoulder.
“I said I did.” I could just about hear his eyes rolling in his head as he spoke. “Mr. Springer showed me the way. We couldn’t ever go because it was guarded, and you needed a keycard, but he said if I ever needed to get out…that was the way to go.”
“Why did he think to show you a way out, Porkchop?” I was curious.
“He said stuff like this taking over the world shit always went to hell, and that I needed to be prepared to run from it while the getting was good.”
“Smart man.” Whether someone from the inside wanted to significantly increase his or her pay grade or outside influences wanted to end the reign, this place was a magnet for trouble. “How close is it?”
“About three-quarters of a hot dog.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard that sort of measurement. If we were talking about how fast Henry could get through three quarters of a hot dog, then we were already outside and this was all a wasted exercise. If we were talking about Nicole when she was around six and wouldn’t eat anything that didn’t come out of a Doritos bag, we were pretty much going to waste away inside these walls. Porkchop, I think, was a perfect blend of the two. We were three or so minutes at a regular walk from getting out. Of course, we’d be running if we could; but more than likely, a few dozen zombies stood in our way.
Porkchop was leaning back as far as he could, testing the tensile strength of the straps that held his legs in place.
“That’s not helping my shoulders any, kid,” I told him.
“Yeah, be careful, he’s old.” I appreciated that Tommy was trying to lighten the moment, but not at my expense. Talk about the M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank calling the AH-64D Apache Longbow Attack Helicopter green…or something like that.
I knew my limitations. I hoped Tommy knew them as well when I asked him a question. “You going to be able to handle that hose?”
“I should be fine.” He grabbed the business end and pulled out a good ten feet or so. “It’s not like it’s hooked up to a fire hydrant.”
I walked over to the door and put my hand on the bolt. Tommy had a hand on the large red valve. “Wait, before I open this door, are we sure it’s going to do more than just get them wet? I mean, I’m not trying to baptize the fuckers here. I want this thing to slam them against the far wall.”
“I don’t know about slamming them against walls, as it’s only a three inch diameter hose. It will keep them away though.”
“This sounded way better in my head.”
“Mr. T, all of your plans sound better in your head.”
He was being serious. I could only grunt in agreement.
“You ready?” I asked Porkchop.
He had his helmet over his head and was leaning over, his head next to mine. His glove-covered hands were draped over my shoulders and were grabbing anything that felt sturdy. I’d thought he would be able to hold a flashlight so he could be our light source; that was, of course, until he once again rolled his eyes at me and showed me that the helmets, which we all had on now, had built in lights. Each one of us was now covered in heavy gear, wielding traditional weapons, and now potentially had a secret weapon. We knew the way out in theory, and we were three-quarters of a meat by-product from escape. This is the best I’d felt today about our chances of escape.
Porkchop rapped on the side of my helmet with his fist. “I said I was ready, Mr. Talbot.” I looked up at him. He was smiling.
“Yeah, I was asking more for myself,” I told him.
I turned and nodded to Tommy. He slowly turned the wheel. It squeaked loudly as water began to dribble out the front of the hose. I had stopped pulling back on the bolt. I’d seen kinked garden hoses with more pressure than this fire hose was displaying. He kept cranking the wheel. I kept waiting for the point when he would stagger back from the pressure. There was a decent stream coming out; if we were going up against some fire ants we might stand a chance.
“It must run on a pump!” Tommy had to shout as the water was hitting the metal lockers and making a loud splashing noise.
“This blows. Back to ‘Plan B’ I suppose.”
“You have to flip the switch first.” Porkchop was still smiling.
“The switch? What switch?”
“There’s a pump switch over by where the uniforms are.”
“Were you going to tell us any time soon?” I asked him.
“I forgot. I’m only twelve, I can’t be expected to remember everything.”
“What do you think, Mr. T?” Tommy, Porkchop and I were all nearly head-to-head-to-head, looking at the innocuous black switch that could very well spell the difference between life and death.
“Well, I guess we’ll never know if we don’t try.” I cautiously reached out and moved the button to the ‘up’ position. It was at this point that I noticed the hose was pointed directly at my midsection. Water was dribbling out and landing on my boots. “That nozzle closed?” I asked as I pushed it away.
“Mostly. I don’t think it worked.”
Maybe off in the distance I heard machinery whirring, it was possible that was wishful thinking. Then we both watched as water swelled the hose like a snake eating a body-length sausage.
“How?” I wondered.
“It makes sense that it could be on another redundant generator in a different locale in case of a fire in th
e main generator room. Does it matter?”
“Not really. Want to do a test run?”
Tommy seemed to exert some strain as he hefted the now filled tube away from us. He opened the nozzle up, a jet of water as thick as my forearm rushed out. The force of the water was enough to send chairs and the table skittering along the floor. In many cases if they were hit right they would spiral out of the way. Tommy had to actually brace himself as he wielded the water cannon around. It wasn’t as powerful as the ones used for various crowd control measures but this was no gardening hose either. Tommy quickly closed the nozzle.
“I think it works!” He was smiling.
“You good with this?” It seemed superfluous even as I said it, as he was already moving toward the door with his new Super Soaker Supreme. “Your job is to just hold on, Porkchop. You got it?”
I knew he was nodding because each downward tilt slammed his helmet into mine.
“Ready, Mr. T?” Tommy was standing with his legs apart facing the door, one hand on the nozzle.
This had sounded so much better before I had my hand on the lock. The water stream was strong, but was it strong enough? Were we merely going to give the zombies a nice shower before they sat down to eat? We were about to find out. I slid the bolt back, pulling the door open as I moved out of the way. The water works were almost instantaneous. The zombie that had been right at the door looked a little road worn. His gray, sallow skin hung loosely from his cheeks, neck and eyes, giving him a “droopy dog” expression. Tommy nailed him straight in the face. I noticed, before the zombie was pushed back, that the skin from his face was being ripped away like stuck gum on a hot driveway. How many times had I told my kids to not spit their gum out on the driveway when they were younger? Used to spend an hour of every weekend out there with the hose, my thumb over the business end, trying to get the perfect stream consisting of high pressure and a thin line of water to pry the offending sticky substance off the ground. It looked just like that, but instead of black pavement underneath, there was the glistening red and white of muscle and bone.
For a second, the zombie let his face take the brunt of the punishment before he began to get pushed back. As the floor became soaked, he lost traction and was thrust hard against the wall. I’d love to say he was slammed up against the far side of the hallway hard enough to smash his fucking skull…but no such luck. He was down, but certainly not out, as his feet slipped from under him. More zombies were trying to fill the void but were kept at bay and repelled as Tommy moved forward.
