Valley of Death, Zombie Trailer Park

by William Bebb

CHAPTER 6

  The Power of Beer & Prayer

  The beer was warm, almost flat, not his favorite brand, and yet it tasted fantastic to Josey.

  The two men were sitting at the kitchen table as Billy and Boris shared animal shaped cookies and listened to Johnny Cash, who Grandpa called the Man in Black. Billy sang softly along with Johnny about something called The Orange Blossom Special that was playing on a small battery operated transistor radio that looked like something purchased from a Radio Shack sometime in the early 1970s.

  Josey was halfway through his second beer when the old man asked, “Do do you think somebody will be coming to look for you? And if so, how long will it take?”

  He considered for a few moments before saying, “That’s kind of hard to say, sir. I've got a few more appointments scheduled for today, but usually no one's around when I drain the tanks. So I doubt any customers will call the office to complain today when I don't show up.

  The boss usually skips out of work early on Mondays, so it could be tomorrow morning before anyone notices I didn't come back today and turn in my checks and reports. Then maybe they'll call Mrs. Remlap to see if I came out here today.”

  “But the phone lines have been out of service since those idiots knocked down the utility pole last Friday,” the old man said and took a sip from his plastic water bottle.

  “And cell phones have never worked in this valley, so mine's worthless,” Josey said, glaring at the silver colored phone on the yellow table top. “If someone could get up to the valley's rim I'm sure it would work fine. Only problem is, I don't think either of us would be able to make the trip.”

  “I could get up there, grandpa. I run really fast. When I got to the top of the valley I could dial 911, just like they taught us to do in school, and then the police would come save us,” Billy said as he fed Boris another animal cracker.

  The old man’s face turned pale as he shuddered and choked on the water he'd been drinking.

  Josey smiled at the kid and said, “Yeah, I bet you could too, but I don't think it would be fair to those zombies. I bet they'd just give up after only a few seconds of chasing you. Nope. I know you could do it, but it just wouldn't be very fair.” He gave the old man a wink that Billy couldn't see before continuing. “Besides, nobody really needs to go get help. I bet by tomorrow, or Wednesday at the latest, the police or maybe the army will be here and we'll all be rescued. Heck kid, you and your grandpa will probably even get your pictures in the newspaper.” He spread his hands out as if reading an invisible newspaper, “It might say something like, local heroes beat zombies.”

  “Hey now, Billy boy, why don't you go show that dog the toys in your room?” The old man asked in a soft shaky sounding voice while gently rubbing the left side of his chest.

  Billy got up with his box of cookies and trotted down the hall with Boris following. The dog went slower and sniffed the floor as if to see if any of the cookies had escaped the box.

  Josey watched as they went back to the bedroom.

  “Thanks for what you said. He's a good boy and I'd die to protect him, but when he suggested wandering out of the valley to make a phone call I felt my heart skip more than a few beats,” the old man said, still lightly rubbing his sunken chest. “You want another beer?”

  “No thanks, but I'm curious why your mailman didn’t notice anything when he dropped off the mail down here? I'll grant you that I've been in post offices where the workers seemed about as intelligent and moved about as fast as zombies, but I just don't get it,” Josey said, staring out the window.

  “Son, we haven't had mail delivery down here since that horny bastard Clinton was president. We have to pick up mail in town at the post office. A buddy of mine, Craig Hotchkiss, comes down to visit maybe twice a month and we go to town and get groceries and pick up the mail.” He looked at the young man and shook his head before continuing. “Before you ask, he was down here just last Wednesday so I don't think he'll be coming by anytime soon.”

  “If you just went to the grocery store why are you almost out of food?” Josey asked, looking at the few cans of food lined up on the counter next to the stove. There were only nine cans left. Five were Ravioli and the rest were heavily salted pork products.

  “Refrigerator was stuffed to the gills, but after four days with no electricity the food in there was all rotten. Even with the refrigerator door shut it still stinks to high heaven. I ate until I thought I'd burst Friday before the food could go bad. Billy and Maria had ice cream for breakfast and lunch, but by Saturday the food started smelling funky. If we ever get out of this mess I'm going to need a new refrigerator and that's for sure.”

  Josey looked back at him. “I'm still confused about that girl you mentioned, Maria. Where did she and her brother go?”

  “Miguel left after dark on Friday. He planned to sneak up and out the valley along the road. Then flag down a car and get some help out here, but...”

  Josey picked up the story. “Something must have happened to him.”

  The old man nodded and a tear trickled down his face. “He was one the zombies I shot as you were making your way over here. At least, it sure looked like him.” He wiped his wrinkled face with his handkerchief and blew his nose. Staring out the window, once more, he lit a cigarette and slid the pack over to Josey.

  Josey held one and was about to light it when he asked, “And the girl?”

  The old man looked out the window as if in a trance then shook his head and yawned hugely before speaking. “Maria begged Miguel not to go. He promised it would be okay and left as she sat, cried, and prayed for him. I think I heard a brief yell about five minutes after he left, and I hoped it was just a coyote or maybe one of The Screamers.

  Billy and Maria played games Saturday and most of Sunday, but gradually she became more and more quiet. She and I never talked about her brother and why no help had come.” He shook his head and looked at his cigarette for a moment before continuing. “She woke me up early last night, maybe an hour or so after it got dark outside, and said she was going to try and sneak up to Remlap’s house on the other side of the trailer park and get help. I argued with her for a few minutes until she finally said Thank you and may God Bless you and Billy, but I'm going, and just up and left.

  She's a brave girl, but I think she was nuts to try it. Miguel at least had the right direction in mind, up the road out of this damned valley of death... or undeath and go find help. Hell, even if she made it up there I don't know what Phyliss Remlap could do to help. She's even older than me... at least I think she is.” He ground out the cigarette's remains in the glass ashtray that had a picture of the Frontier Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas painted on it. Leaning back in the chair, he yawned and appeared thoroughly exhausted as his eyelids slid down.

  “So there’s you, Billy, Mrs. Remlap, Maria, and me? Everyone else down here is dead, violently insane, or some kind of undead zombie?”

  The colonel opened his eyes and appeared lost in thought. “I hadn’t even considered him until you just asked, but there could be one other person still alive down here. The only problem is he’s been crazy as a shit house rat since he moved in, sometime back in the late 80's.

  His name is Charlie Farro, but I doubt he’d be much help. He’s sort of a cross between a hermit and a survivalist nut. I've spoken to him a few times, and I think he's fried every brain cell he ever had. He even tried to sell me marijuana a few times.” He chuckled and shook his head before continuing. “His memory must be shot to Hell. Every time I see him he always asks if I need any pot. I always say no but he keeps asking.”

  “Where does he live?” Josey asked, leaning forward.

  “I haven’t seen him since last Christmas. He has a trailer hidden down a dirt road that runs near Remlap’s house. I've seen him riding one of those scooter things. I don't know what it is exactly, but he usually trades marijuana with the Mexicans for rides into town or for favors.

  Of course, even if he’s not a zombie, I wouldn�
��t trust him or put much hope in him as a source of help. He’s been growing and smoking marijuana since he came back from the war, and I suspect most of his brain cells are working about as well as our screamer 'friends' wandering around outside. Plus, he seems extremely paranoid. So, he might be fairly dangerous to approach anyway,” the old man said, yawned hugely and leaned his head back against the wall.

  “Go catch a nap. I'll keep an eye on Billy,” Josey said, staring out the window with the binoculars.

  “I might just do that, thanks, son,” the old man said, holding the table with one hand and his cane in the other. Grunting softly he leaned on his cane and hobbled toward the hallway.

  “No problem, sir,” Josey said, staring at his abandoned truck sitting in the distance.

  After spending a good bit of the afternoon reading the notebook of observations on the habits of the undead and crazy men Josey developed a great respect for the old man. Josey sipped some water, stared at the truck for a long time, and tried to think of a way out of their mess.

  The kitty cat shaped clock on the wall, with its swinging pendulum tail, made a soothing ticking sound as he kept watch. Time seemed to slow down as he stared at nothing in particular then stopped altogether.