by Briana Rain
Neither of us mentioned my jumping off of a van and almost dying, or Clyde coming to my rescue and saving my life. We had stuff to do.
I climbed back on top of the roof and handed him the cans, one by one. The rest of the stuff up there was personal things— pictures, clothes, that sort of thing. I didn't have the time to go through it or the hands to carry it back.
Clyde insisted on carrying the cans that were full. We compromised by him carrying the five gallon, and the half-empty 2.5 gallon. Clyde was so smart when it came to “jerrycan” sizes because apparently they gave classes on the size of gas cans in the south and everybody down there knew the sizes of those things. Yep. Reading, writing, jerrycan sizes, and arithmetic.
On the way back I thought about luck, and how I’d believed I was so lucky to have spotted those signature red cans with the little nozzles. But now I think the definition of luck had changed. It's like magic.
It always comes with a price.
Chapter 13: Nightmare
Crack
Goes the head on the counter
Squish
Goes the knife in the face
Bang
Goes the gun as man hits the floor
Thunk
Goes the bat on the jaw
Rip
Goes the flesh of the man’s throat
Whoosh
Goes the bat to the face
Jamie
Toothless
Kevin
Crazy
Creeper
Crazy
JamieToothlessKevinCrazyCreeperCrazy
Crack
Squish
Bang
Thunk
Rip
Whoosh
Crack
Squish
Bang
Thunk
Rip
Whoosh
Crack Squish Bang Thunk Rip Whoosh
CrackSquishBangThunkRipWhoosh
CrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhooshCrackSquishBangThunkRipWhoosh
My body jerked awake, but instead of sitting upright in bed, my seatbelt restrained me, and I spazzed out for like, one second. Okay, maybe it was closer to two, but who's counting?
I looked around, out of breath. Why was I breathing so hard? And why did I have so much adrenaline right now? Why was I sweating?
CrackSquishBangThunkRipWhoosh
Oh. That's why. Yeah, I knew I was right to fear sleep.
I wiped the sweat off of my forehead. Wow. I was really sweaty. I hate sweating. It's gross.
I grabbed my water, and took a swig of it because my mouth was, like, Sahara Desert dry. That’s when I noticed Clyde looking at me using the side mirror. He looked away quicker than I did.
I took some deep breaths, and tried to push the whole CrackSquishBangThunkRipWhoosh thing out of my mind. That’s really hard to do when the hellish nightmare of a curveball your unconsciousness throws at you is the same pitch your consciousness is in on, too. And I didn’t think my trusty bat was gonna help with that one.
The twins were asleep again, leaning against each other for support. At some point, Lucky must’ve grabbed Viola’s bunny, because it was now clutched tightly to his chest. I wished that I had a camera. I mean, I had my phone somewhere in my pack, but I didn't want to turn it on unnecessarily when I had no way of replacing the battery.
“So, what are their names, again?”
Clyde's voice was quiet, but I jumped anyways. Oh, yeah. They weren't really introduced, were they? The kids had just accepted that a strange man they'd never seen before was traveling with them and sleeping right next to them. What troopers.
“That's Viola. We mostly call her Vi.”
Her face was so darn peaceful when she was sleeping. Like, she didn't have to be scared when she was asleep.
Clyde was twisted around in his seat, so he could see what I saw, and look at me while I spoke.
“And that's Puck, but he hates the name, so we call him Lucky. Puck, Luck, Lucky. He'll take anything other than a fairy’s name, you know?”
I wondered if Clyde had ever read Shakespeare and what he thought of him. Did he think he was the best writer ever and that Romeo and Juliet is relationship goals? Or that some of his work was a bit or two messed up and that Romeo and Juliet contained two stupid kids and too many phallic jokes? Or was he just a tad salty that several of his works resemble others a bit too closely, like Comedy of Errors and The Menaechmi? Because I know I was.
Mom didn't comment or defended her choice for Luck’s name like she always used too and Clyde didn't ask anymore questions.
I glanced ahead at the needle which was more towards “E” than I would’ve liked.
No sooner than I thought it, Mom pulled over. We were on the opposite side of the road, like how the English drove, because it'd been mostly clear the whole time. But because we were nearing Chicago and most people aimed to get out of the overpopulated city we’d soon have to switch to the right side.
Clyde hopped out smoothly. I, however, was not as fortunate as my seatbelt restricted me once again and I spazzed out again, undoubtedly losing smooth points with everyone in the group.
What is with me and getting out of cars lately?
Clyde was already closing the trunk by the time I’d gotten my act together. I picked up the empty five-gallon can before he could.
“It's alright, I can do it.” He had his backpack, rifle, shovel, the two other cans, and the hoses.
No, no you can't, Clyde.
“It's okay.”
I wondered where I could put my bat because I couldn’t leave it behind, but I needed to carry these things. I almost wished I could’ve somehow rigged up some sort of sheath, but I scratched out that thought because I could just see myself being a complete klutz and taking out my kneecaps when I had to start running. Awkwardly, I slid the bat between my back and backpack and tightened the straps to keep it in place. It felt weird, but it kept it in place. I hoped. After that, he let me grab the two lengths of hose and one of the cans.
The sun was high in the sky and baking everything it touched. I couldn't imagine anything inside the metal cars surviving or being much use to anybody.
The first car didn't have much at all. Like, a cup. Maybe.
When Clyde knelt down at the second car, I had an idea. Well, not a full blown, jumping off of the roof of a van, idea. It was more of a question.
“Hey, Clyde, can I try?”
He was adjusting the tube, making sure it was in the right place and all, and looked up at me the way you would look at a toddler if they asked to drive a car.
“Sure...” He answered, almost mockingly.
I could tell he was amused. I just knew it. His face was blank and that's how I could tell. No smile. It must’ve taken a lot of self control for him not to smile.
He let me take his place. I assumed that it was in the right place, so I put the hose in my mouth, like he’d done. I didn't know whether to suck or to blow, and there was no way I was asking Clyde, because that was an extremely dirty sounding question. So I went with sucking. (Shut up).
“And make sure you-” And there was gasoline in my mouth. Gasoline all in my mouth. Gross. Gross gross gross gross gross gross gross gross gross gross gross.
I shoved the tube into the five-gallon, got up, and spit the fuel out over the hot pavement. I coughed and spit out some more. Then I brought the inside of my dirty shirt up and wiped my tongue frantically, which wasn't as much help as one would think.
And that idiot was laughing.
“Clyde!” Can I die from this? No, Clyde did the same thing earlier today
. Did I swallow any? I don't think I did. Did I? No, I didn't.
“Shut up.”
I turned away from him and his ugly face, and focused on trying to get the taste out of my mouth. It was so gross.
“At least you learned how to siphon fuel now?” He tried, but failed, to calm himself down from his laughing state.
I turned around glared at him, peeved.
Laughing at my misfortune... What nerve...
“Okay, okay. I'm sorry. You did good, kid.”
Kid? Oh, right. To him, I am a kid. Barely old enough to drive by myself.
“Thanks.” I mumbled.
But, in the end he was right. I mean, now I knew I could do it, like, if anything happened to him, or he wasn't able to...
When the five-gallon can was full, he slid a smaller one to take its place, a splash of gasoline spilling when he did. All the while, I stood as far away from him as I could without it being unsafe, and tried to get that stomach churning taste out of my mouth.
Suddenly, I had the strange urge to hold a lighter to the puddle even though I knew it would ignite the rest of the can and kill us all. Isn't that weird? Like, just for a second, getting the urge to do something, even though I knew it was bad, and the results would be disastrous. Like, knocking down a food pyramid at the store, or throwing a book across the room at school. Like, just to see what would happen.
We took the three full cans back to the Jeep and emptied them into the tank. I wondered how Clyde would know when it would be full, because I only knew when the pump at the gas station clicked. I wished I could’ve accessed Google. I could’ve learned those types of things there. Like how to hotwire a car, for instance.
Siphoning gas wasn't really that hard, unless you counted the taste left in your mouth and the carrying. I took a piece of gum out of my precious supply, broke it in half, and offered the smaller piece to Clyde once we were done with the tank and the full cans were stuffed in the trunk.
“What do you know about cars, Clyde?”
We were walking back into the abandoned pile up to get some water that we spotted in a locked mini van. Mom was on standby with the wheels ready for when the alarm went off. It was smart to wait until the end of our siphoning expedition to get it.
“I know as much as most guys, I reckon. The names, different models, years... Why?”
Now where did that soccer mom's dream car go?
“Do you know how to hotwire them?”
Clyde, with his height, spotted the van before I could.
He shrugged, “No. But I'm a quick learner. I could probably try to figure it out after we get this stuff, if you want me to.”
Now why would you put that on me?
“No, no that's okay.”
Wow. That was polite.
These cars weren't like the ones before, which were in a mostly straight-ish line marked by the familiar dashed lines in the road. These cars were crushed, crumbled, tossed this way, and that. A fender-bender here, a deadly accident there, and trapped in between was everyone swerving to avoid the commotion. Very apocalyptic if you ask me.
Clyde hoisted himself up and over a particular wreck where you couldn't tell where one car started and the other ended (yikes) and offered his hand to me. I was about to take it, when the driver of the car whose hood we were stepping over— who we’d assumed was dead— started failing and jerking its limbs and screaming, which was muffled by the crumpled metal walls. The seatbelt was restraining it from going anywhere, and upon two seconds of further inspection, this restraint was a good thing. The driver, who had at one point had been human, was now a Crazy.
The suddenness of it all really scared the sugar sticks out of me. I jumped back, and lashed my hand up to cover my mouth as a small, shrill, instinctive shriek came from it. I'm glad I had the reflex to muffle it.
When I recovered, I looked at Clyde to see that he, too, had jumped back, putting distance between him and it.
“You okay?” I whisper-called out, with my hand over my heart, which was doing the opposite of its job and trying to kill me at the moment. It was hammering, trying to break out of my rib cage, and giving me a sharp pain.
“I could use a sandwich right about now, but otherwise I'm pretty good. You?”
He shrugged off the jumpscare, which helped me get over it as well. We walked back to our sides of the crash, and he held his hand out. I took it.
“Yeah. I guess I'm okay.”
And, you know, things could’ve been worse for me right now. I'm not gonna say that everything was horrible, or what else could go wrong, because I had no interest in jinxing myself.
He helped me over the twisted pile of metal, and we were off again. The minivan was about a thirty second walk from the raving Crazy, and we were able to get a better look at the treasures buried within.
“Gold Fish.” We said at the same time.
As well as a case of water, there was an almost empty box of Gold Fish, the kind in individual packs you would get at Costco, if there was still a Costco to get it from. There were also a bunch of apples and oranges, but they were gross and no good due to the heat and time passed.
But Gold Fish. The ultimate childhood snack. Or high school snack. Or college.
Just the perfect snack in general.
I raised my bat after Clyde checked the handle. With a nod from him, I looked away and smashed the car window, for the third time this apocalypse.
We had to move fast. The alarm was blaring, it's melody echoing in the worst way. I dumped the contents of the Gold Fish box into my bag while Clyde heaved the water onto his shoulder.
The dinner bell continued to ring.
I zipped my bag and threw it over my shoulders simultaneously, which is not as easy as it sounds. I took point with my bat, both hands gripping the handle, ready.
The first Crazy I met was when we were approaching the wreck that had to be climbed over in order to get past. It was the one we left in the car, who had clawed through the seat belt, like no human was capable of, removing all of its fingernails, and had gotten out through the window by banging its head against it.
It dripped blood and faint, orange-ish slime from its wounds, and oozed the stuff from the boils and holes surrounding its face. Glass was embedded in its forehead and left cheek, which sagged unnaturally, like meat falling off the bone of something cooked just right.
It screamed and outstretched it's bloody arms, but a mouthful of purple metal cut it off from obtaining its full volume.
And the crowd goes wiiiiiiild!
We scrambled up and over the wreck, no assistance needed this time, and sprinted back to the awaiting Jeep.
We could've made it, if Clyde didn't have to hold his body that way to support that water. If I hadn't taken so much time climbing over that wreck. If that Crazy hadn't started screaming. If.
If.
If.
If none of those things were done, then maybe we wouldn't have had the three Crazies breathing down our necks. Whenever there was a car in front of them, they would just ram into it and find a way around it. And they just kept coming. The Jeep was in sight, but you didn't need to be a math wiz to know that the Crazies were going faster than we were and would catch up with us by the time, or before, we got there.
How are they so fast? And why? Why does the world need super fast zombies that scream their heads off?
I could take one, and Clyde could take one, but that third one would be where we'd get into trouble. Who would it go after first? Me or Clyde? What if my Crazy didn't go down after the first hit? What if his didn't either?
Clyde must’ve been having the same thoughts I was because he dropped the case of bottles, and his shovel, and turned, actually it was more of a precise pivot, swinging his rifle up with him.
Boomboomboom!
The three of them hit the ground within two seconds. Clyde stood still for the next second. I'll never forget his pose. Straight and tall, with his body towards me but his face, screwed up with concent
ration and anger, towards the bodies of the infected, the rifle pressed against his shoulder. I think I saw barely a wisp of smoke emerge from the barrel before being carried off by a breeze I couldn't feel, but that could've been my imagination.
After that second was over, that second of stillness and quiet, created after the shots of the gun silenced everything else in the world, Clyde started moving and the nearby roaring started up. All was right again in the ending of the world.
“Those shots are gonna attract every Stick for miles.” He said, “We gotta get moving.”
He lifted the case of water and removed the two that’d burst upon impact with the asphalt. I picked up the wooden handle of his shovel for him. We raced each other to the car, and jumped in, Clyde put the water on his lap. Mom sped away before our doors were closed.
She should really stop doing that.
The twins were awake, watching the southerner and I try to catch our breath. Clyde did so quickly, probably because he’d been healthy and active before this all started. I, on the other hand, hadn’t been on a sports team since freshman year. Lucky patted my back reassuringly as I rested my forehead on the headrest in front of me, which was where Clyde was sitting. Viola handed both of us candy bars, which we’d be eating before the rest of our supply. That made sense, since they were going to be the first to go bad, with the heat and all.
I got a 3 Musketeers, while that nincompoop received a Snickers. I loved Snickers.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I tapped him on the shoulder with the chocolate bar just as he was about to unwrap his. “Wanna trade?”
I sounded like a kindergartener wanting to trade fruit for animal crackers.
He looked from me, to the chocolate, to me again. I was fighting a losing battle. I mean, who would trade a Snickers for a 3 Musketeers?
A fool, that’s who.
“Let's do half and half. Deal?”
Heck yeah!
“Deal.”
I was pretty excited as I carefully peeled open the 3 Musketeers, tore it in half, and traded it in for half of the Snickers.
It was amazing.
This... this is the highpoint of my week.
Clyde finished his portion a bit, or maybe two bits, quicker than I did, then slumped his head against the window. For some reason, the twins found that whole exchange highly amusing, and were giggling quietly to one another.
