by Mark Tufo
“Funner and funner,” I said, raising my rifle, waiting for the first zombie to attempt the breech.
“It’s actually more fun and more fun,” Trip said, attempting to hand me a lit joint.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked him. I didn’t know which was stranger, that he was correcting my horrible use of English, or trying to get me stoned.
“How did this guy save your life, man?” BT asked, shaking his head. He was sitting in the bench seat closest to us, his rifle pointed upwards for the inevitable assault.
“What are they waiting for?” Tracy asked.
“I don’t know,” I told her.
The zombies in the cab were looking at us like it was Christmas 1996 and we had just taken the last Tickle Me Elmo dolls off the shelf. They hated us; the look they gave us said it all. I love cheeseburgers, may just be one of my favorite foods of all time, and I can honestly say I’ve never hated a cow. In fact, I love them for how tasty they are. But to these new zombies, it was something more. Not only were we their food supply…we were the enemy. We were hated merely for being who we were. A new term had been coined: Humanism; definition - hatred or intolerance of another bi-pedal, merely because of one’s status of being alive as opposed to undead.
“Well, fellas, I’m really not a fan of this détente shit,” I said as I got closer to the window and blew a burst of rounds into the cab, killing two zombies as the third jumped out.
I was looking at the gap, wondering if I could get through it quick enough to shut the door before a zombie caught me in an awkward position and ripped my throat out. I wouldn’t even have the luxury of someone being able to cover me while I did the foolhardy maneuver.
The reward was worth the risk, it gave the zombies one less avenue of entry. I stuck my rifle through first, then my head. When I was a little past my shoulders I turned and fired shots into the chest of a zombie who was standing right next to the driver’s door. As he fell over, I scrambled into the cab. My boot somehow got hung up in between the two partitions, twisting me into an awkward position as I attempted to free myself. Well, wouldn’t you know it, an opportunistic little zombie took that precise moment to come in after me.
She was hideous, her brown hair plastered to her head in a beehive of gristle. Long swaths of strands framed her face. Her eyes burned with intensity as she cautiously entered. She was looking all around her for any signs of a trap. My rifle was effectively pinned under my side, my boot was lodged, and my rifle sling was hung up as well. I was in trouble.
The zombie’s hands grabbed onto the lip of the seat so she could pull herself up. Her head was now level with mine, her blood-coated tongue licked over her stained teeth. She was pulling herself closer. I don’t know how fast in real time the scene was playing out, but in my head it was in super slow motion. I watched in frame-by-frame detail as her tongue outlined her cracked and pustule-filled lips. Even as her dirty, disease-laden hands moved closer to my face. Like a snake, her tongue was rapidly flicking in and out of her mouth. She was three-quarters in when she finally darted at me.
A few things happened at once, I felt powerful hands grab my boot, twist it slightly, and push with enough force to send me crashing into the dashboard. As my body twisted, I brought my rifle up. The zombie woman snapped down on my trigger guard. I felt her tooth scrape against my finger. Then there was a loud explosion as BT drilled her in the head.
“Saving your ass is a full time job, I just wish it paid more and maybe came with medical and dental,” he said, keeping an eye out for any more intruders.
“Shit, BT, thanks.”
“Shut the damn door,” he said. “Crazy cracker.” A deep cough racked his body. If I hadn’t known the man for the last six months I would have assumed he was a three-pack-a-day smoker the way his body shivered from the violent expulsion. Although, now that I think of it, Mrs. Deneaux probably smoked that much and I’d not so much as heard her clear her throat.
I pushed Headless Henrietta out the door, followed immediately by the other three dead zombies; tossing them like a teenager tosses McDonald’s wrappers out from their car. My hands were covered in all manner of matter I do not wish to discuss, and the front of the truck looked like a softball team’s worth of virgins had been deflowered. Think about it for a moment. Yup, you’ve got the picture now, and yes, I did just write that down. I reached over and grabbed the door handle to pull the door shut just as a zombie smacked into my arm. I’d taken too much time cleaning house.
The teeth were pressing down on my arm, I pulled away quickly, leaving the zombie with a mouthful of cotton for its trouble. I grabbed the steering wheel and spun quickly, sending my boot smashing into the zombie’s nose, crushing it almost flush with the rest of its facial features. It might not have been an improvement, but it wasn’t detrimental either. Quasimodo would have made fun of the thing that was trying to eat me. I finally pulled the door shut when the zombie fell on its ass. Three new ones were at the window before the echo of the shutting sound died down in the cab. A couple were looking at me through the passenger side, and at least four were climbing up the front bumper and onto the hood.
“This is horrible,” I said, looking at all the angry faces that wanted nothing more in their existence than to end mine. In man-versus-man war, the general mindset, contrary to popular belief, isn’t ‘I hate them and must destroy them!’ it’s more like ‘I need to protect myself and my friends.’ Very rarely will you find a soldier who wants to fight, they are few and far between—
anomalies amidst the regular. It’s always the men in power, those that have not been to war, that are willing to wage them.
“Ma-maybe you should come back here.” BT gazed upon the same thing I was.
“Yup, on this we are in agreement.” I handed him my rifle. “Thank you,” I told him when I was back in the ‘safe-zone’ and the Plexiglas was locked in to place.
“At this point, Talbot, I don’t know how I’d get through my day if I wasn’t somehow pulling you out of your latest scrape.”
“Thanks, man. Now sit down, you look like shit.”
He didn’t protest; that was how I knew his condition was worsening.
“Mike, he’s burning up,” Tracy said, feeling BT’s forehead.
I had figured that out by the cherry-sized beads of sweat on his forehead.
“I’ve got something for that,” Trip said, reaching into his fanny pack.
BT grabbed my arm. “Please don’t let him medicate me,” he begged.
“Dude, you’re being much too judgmental. There’s nothing quite like tripping your trees off during a zombie invasion. Expand your mind, man,” I told him.
“I’ll fold you up like a paper airplane if you let him near me.”
Trip stepped up next to us. Two white pills in his outstretched hands. “Aspirin,” he said, smiling.
BT looked up at him suspiciously, when he seemed satisfied all was okay, he grabbed them. “That I can deal with.”
I handed him a bottle of water. With some difficulty, he swallowed the pills.
Trip was looking at us funny. “Why’d you take those?” he asked.
“What do you mean? You said they were aspirin,” BT said in alarm.
“I figured you needed some, but you just took my last two Quaaludes,” Trip said.
“I’m gonna kill him,” BT threatened as he began to stand. I grabbed him around the waist to halt his progress.
“Steph, the Indian took my last two ‘ludes,” Trip said, turning towards his wife. “Oh, there’s the aspirin.” He pulled his hand out of his pants pocket. “Need some?” he asked a cheek puffing BT.
“Well, at least you’re not going to feel anything for the next couple of hours,” I told BT.
“And if we need to run?” he asked.
“Ludes or not my friend, you’re in no shape to run,” I said to him.
We were running out of time. Even if we made it through the night, I wasn’t convinced he would. And honestly, I co
uldn’t feel any more fucking helpless. Then there was going to be the unenviable task of putting a bullet in his brain before he could harm anyone in the truck, and knowing BT, he’d make me do it while he was still human. Running from this and getting dragged down from the zombies sounded like a much better option.
Then, after I blew my best friend away, then what? I got to watch my oldest son slowly decline into the abyss of zombie-dom. Maybe this was the rapture, maybe the good souls had died those first few days and the rest of us were now dealt with this hell on earth.
Is that it, God? Am I being judged for past sins? That’s fucking fine, really it is. But what the fuck did Tracy or my kids do? Are they guilty by association? If that’s the case, you can shove the whole thing up your—
The ripping of the tarp interrupted my sour thoughts.
“Um, Mike?” Gary said.
“Told you to use sheet metal on the roof,” I told him.
“No you didn’t.”
“I should have then.” I looked up to the corner where the sound was coming from. As one, we all spun to the front when we heard a window shatter.
“Natives are getting restless,” BT said with a slight slur.
At least one of us was going out with a smile. And that actually made me slightly happier. All of us dying at the same time was alright as well; at least it would save me from the nightmare of shooting BT. The truck was rocking as dozens of zombies piled on, either on the roof or up by the cab.
“Mike, I’m scared,” Tracy said, grabbing my arm, her eyes wide.
“Well that makes all of us.”
“Ponch, you have a real bad squirrel problem here.” Trip was sitting on the bench seat behind BT and would from time to time lean over and look at the big man. “Anything yet?” he asked.
“I’m going to pop your head off like a Barbie doll,” BT would tell him every time he asked. I did notice that the response got a little mellower with each retelling.
I think the last time I heard it before the zombies started smashing the plywood in, it was ‘Barbie’s hair is soft’ I could be wrong, there was a lot going on.
As I heard fists smacking against the Plexiglas, and three-quarter inch plywood cracking, I was wishing that we had just about any other mythical creature attacking us rather than zombies. Werewolves were only a monster during a full moon, vampires couldn’t be out in the day, and clowns were only at circuses. Sure, I’d find out eventually that all of those misconceived notions from my youth and Hollywood were wrong, but they still seemed better than the relentless tenacity of the zombies who would never stop. They were the undead version of the Terminator. Night, day, cloudy, clear, full moon, new moon, snow, sleet, rain, earthquake, tornado, yup…they’d still come.
“Travis, you stay on the Plexi. Don’t fire until they get through. Gary, Tommy, you ready?” I asked as I trained my rifle up towards where the loudest cracking sound was coming.
Our shots, coupled with the zombies on top, were going to cave the structure in quicker. There were no other options that I could see. And then I did. It wasn’t great. (More like decent, or maybe just adequate, but it would buy us more time.) And time was the most precious commodity ever allotted.
“Tommy, help me,” I said as I got over to the right side of the truck and placed my hands flat against the wood.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Gonna flip some pancakes.”
“What? Did Trip get to you too?” he asked.
“I want to push the roof off.”
“Mike, there’s probably fifteen hundred pounds of zombies on that thing,” Gary said. “Not to mention the two-inch roofing nails I used to secure that thing.”
“Well then you’d better get your ass over here,” I told him.
“I’ll help too.” Trip put one hand on the roof. In the other he was holding a joint to his lips. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said around a plume of smoke. “I’ve got a concert to get to.”
“Whoosh playing?” BT slurred.
I bent my knees and pressed against the wood. I slowly flexed my knees, attempting to keep my elbows from buckling as the wood groaned. Tommy was standing like Atlas as he tried to push the wood off. The wood started to bow and groan as we put more pressure on it. My initial concern was that Tommy was going to end up putting his hands through before the nails gave.
I swallowed hard as I heard a loud pop; at first I thought it was my left nut rupturing. Then, thankfully, I realized it was the nail closest to us finally yielding its prize. When we had that one up a good inch, I stayed where I was, bracing to keep the accumulated weight of the zombies from pushing it back down. Tommy went to the next support and began the same routine. It was the first time I’d ever seen him not lift something effortlessly. Beads of sweat to match BT’s broke out across his head. His shirt was soaked as if we were involved in a water fight and not a fight for our lives.
I had locked my knees in place and was doing my best not to have my spine blow disks out through the back of me. I was wholly unprepared to see zombie fingers trying to poke through the stretched tarp. How had they known there was an opening? The board above me began to dip down as zombies rushed over.
“Hold it!” Tommy shouted, maybe in encouragement.
Trip still had one hand wrapped around the bone in his mouth, the other was still above his head on the wood, although I think he had completely forgotten what that hand was doing.
“I’m moving to the last support…going to need everyone to hold this up,” Tommy said through clenched teeth.
Steph, Gary, Tracy, and Justin rushed in to take his spot. I don’t think they realized how much weight he was actually pushing. They visibly sagged as he moved.
“Trav, help them,” I croaked.
He didn’t look too thrilled about leaving his station. Three zombies were peering through the glass trying to figure a way in. BT, who I figured had by this time passed out, got up off the couch. I was going to tell him to get his ass back on the seat, but whatever he could muster might be enough to turn the tide. BT with a fever and stoned was probably stronger than any two men.
BT propped his shoulder against the wood and pushed up. His legs were shaking, and he was grunting, but I’ll be damned if he wasn’t raising the roof.
“I’m glad we’re friends,” I told him.
“I’m not,” he said.
Tommy had pushed the third and final support up and free. We still had the tarp, which was secured outside with bungee cords.
“Justin, get my knife cut the tarp…and hurry,” I said.
Within thirty or so seconds, daylight was pouring into the truck, followed by dozens of fingers.
“Ready?” Tommy asked.
None of us could wait until the count of three. We just started walking from left to right in the truck bed, pushing up on the roof as we went. The first foot was sheer agony, and I did not think gravity was going to give it up, but we finally hit the point of equilibrium. It started to get marginally easier the further we went. Zombies began to spill off the slanted roof as we went. Justin ran back and forth to keep pace with the cutting of the tarp.
Travis literally saved my ass. I was closest to the front of the truck, and a zombie had climbed onto the roof of the cab. It was getting ready to pounce when he had enough room. The bullet from Travis’ rifle wasn’t more than six inches from the back of my head. I was always thankful I’d never spanked him much, because who knows when he might have felt the need for a little payback.
More zombies were clamoring up the roof as we pushed the wood over, sending any remaining hangers-on tumbling to the ground, although we’d given them a decent ramp to come back up on. I flipped my rifle off my back to help Travis as BT and Tommy pried the wood free from its moorings, sending the sheet to the ground. We were a small oasis of humanity adrift in a sea of zombies. And like Z-day, they were making a beachhead. The roof was easy enough to defend for now, we had ammo; once that factor was taken out of th
e equation, then it would become exceedingly difficult.
The zombies for the most part seemed much more intent on coming from the front than the sides. Oh, to be sure there were a few mavericks, but most were busy knocking each other out of the way on the hood in an attempt to get to us. Travis and I were on the balls of our feet, spinning and twisting to keep up with the onslaught. The zombies seemed to be redoubling their efforts once we were spotted.
“I’m out!” I shouted. Tommy immediately stepped in and started firing. Justin stepped in for Travis a few moments later. We were furiously reloading, and Gary would shoot from time to time as a zombie would step on the rear tires and throw his or her hands over the lip of the truck.
“I’ll load,” Tracy said, dragging the ammo cans to one of the seats.
“I can help,” an exhausted BT said.
Trip still had one hand in the air. Now it just looked like he was trying to get a bored, distracted teacher’s attention. I looked up in time to watch him as his gaze followed his arm in the air to his hand. A confused look came across him as he tried to figure out what he was doing.
Good luck with that, I thought.
I stood up and got ready to get behind Tommy when he ran out, although it ended up being Justin who did so first. He tossed his mother his magazine, pinging her on the side of the head. I thought she was going to blow a gasket. For once I was grateful I was on the front lines.
“How long can we do this?” Gary asked.
“As long as we have to,” was what I told him. The only other way to have answered this would have been ‘Until we die’. In the end, though, they very well could be the same.
Even Henry got in on the action. Whenever he saw a hand come over the lip, he would run under it and bark his strange seal-like sound until someone came over and got rid of it. At first I may have assumed he thought it was a game with the way he was enjoying himself, but the sheer amount of time he ‘played’ let me know that Henry knew the stakes were much higher than getting a cookie or not. Henry’s ideal play revolved around lying around and having people bring him things, whether food or tummy rubs—both of which he would accept with equal gusto.
