by Mark Tufo
There was a long pause. “You know, I bet the crazy bastard would probably even have it flying upside down with the canopy skimming the surface of the ocean.” I could hear the mirth in his voice.
“I miss him,” I said.
“Yeah, me too, buddy. There’s a lot of people I miss.”
I stuck a fist back and over my head, which BT dutifully bumped with his own. It was quiet for a good long while, pensive, melancholy, confined, cramped, enclosed, stifling. I was starting to go a little batty as I watched the sun strike the water on the horizon. The ocean lit up in a brilliant display of fiery reds and oranges.
“Going to be night soon,” BT said.
“Channeling Justin now?” I quipped.
“I don’t want to spend it in here.”
I popped the canopy. “I’m going to stretch out on the wing for a second. Care to join me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Umm, sir, what are you doing?” Stenzel asked.
“Enjoying the sunset with my date!” I told her.
“Tracy is going to be pissed!” Gary said.
I doubted that; she’d probably be thrilled I’d stop bothering her. My sister, on the other hand, might give me a little what for. I made sure to head out on the wing opposite of BT’s discarded playmates. The zombies perked up a bit with their food on display, but none of them made a mad dash for the buffet. Who could blame them with the surcharge this place affixed to the bill.
“How’s the shoulder?” BT asked as I did a small pinwheel of my arm to check it out.
“Better. Going to miss my rotation in the pitching schedule, but I’ll be back.”
“Did you ever pitch?”
Such a strange question, given the circumstances. Something usually reserved for some bravado bar time or maybe sitting at one’s home, outside, during a beautiful night, downing a few cold ones. Still, it was nice to harken back to a time that didn’t revolve around getting eaten.
“Just in pick-up games. I played the outfield during school. Wasn’t much I couldn’t track down and catch in those days. You?”
“Baseball is for pussies.” He started laughing.
“They wanted to make you the catcher, didn’t they?”
“I’m fast, Mike. I could have played shortstop.”
“Yeah, but to stay within the rules of the game, they would have had to remove two fielders—only nine allowed out there at any one time.” I was looking to the nose of the plane and down. There was a large box on wheels sitting in front of it. The thing was plugged into a power source, and cables led into the plane. I had no idea what it was; entirely too small to be for fueling. Diagnostics, maybe. “I want to take a look at that.”
“Why?” BT asked when he saw what I was pointing at.
“Why not?”
How could BT answer that? Wasn’t like we had anything more pressing to do.
“What are you doing now?” Stenzel asked like a worried parent as I climbed down off the wing.
“What’s this thing?” I asked as I approached the giant toolbox-shaped apparatus.
It was Walde that answered. “They call it a Dash 60, if I’m not mistaken. External power supply.”
“What’s it for?” I asked.
“Mike, the zombies are looking like they might make a go for you. Why don’t you come back up.”
I took a quick look; they did seem on the verge, like track stars in their blocks, ready. But none had yet made a run for it, or for me, in this case.
“Maintenance, I guess. The plane may have been sitting for a while and they needed it to start it back up,” Walde said. “You shouldn’t mess with it,” she added just as I flipped the power button. I was looking at a Christmas tree’s worth of lights. Most were green, which I figured was good. A handful of yellows and a couple of reds. I was bending down to get a look at what those might be indicating when a shot rang out. A zombie from behind had decided the food was worth the chance. Turned out it wasn’t.
“Mike, come on, man, get back up here.”
My mind was made up when a half dozen shots in quick succession punctuated BT’s point.
“Feel better now?” he grunted as he pulled me up. This time, I was smart enough to offer my right hand. “It’s like you can’t help yourself. You’re just wired that way.”
“What are you talking about?” This wasn’t normal BT-speak; I don’t want to say that there was annoyance in his voice, because, well, I don’t want to. I’m going with concern. My journal, my rules. I realize I should try to be as objective as possible, but to think he was mad at me, truly mad, was something I didn’t care to dwell on.
“You get people to care about you, to love you, and then you put them into situations where they constantly have to help you.”
“What?”
“Like just now. Why would you possibly need to get on the deck? What purpose did that serve? Other than to have Stenzel sniper your way out of it and me lift you back up.”
“First off, I don’t get people to love me. That just occurs naturally because of my charm. And I don’t put myself in situations deliberately so others have to risk themselves to save me. That’s like giving a homeowner shit for being home during a home invasion. Everything we do now puts us at risk. Can’t take a piss without back up, you know that. What’s this really about?”
The way BT was looking at me, this was teetering on the fringes of a fight that would make for a great evening in the confines of a cockpit. I could see him ramping up and then suddenly it changed; I don’t know what the opposite of snapped is, but he immediately softened.
“I’m tired, sorry. This ship, everything, it’s getting to me. I just want to live a peaceful life with my wife, my child.”
“I get it, man, I do.”
“Do you, Mike? Because sometimes—no, most times, I get the feeling you live for this stuff. Like maybe you think we’re living within this huge virtual reality world, and you’re doing your best to rack up experience points.”
“I’d be hoarding gold coins if that were the case.”
“Can’t take much serious, can you.” He just stared at me; how was I supposed to respond?
“My best friend is angry and disappointed in me. I’m taking that to heart, and that’s why I’m doing my best to deflect. If you haven’t noticed, BT, I don’t have the greatest coping skills. The best things I have going for me are a fucked-up short-term memory and humor. Not quite the poster child for mental health. So excuse me if I’d rather not believe you think less of me because I need you.”
“I don’t think less of you.” He sighed. “I’ve…I don’t know, I’ve gone as far as I feel I can go.”
“You just need a bed and a good night’s rest,” I told him. As false a set of words as I’d ever spoken, but we were guys, so even though he knew them for the falsehood they represented, we did not delve deeper.
“Probably right.” The correct words came out of his mouth, but it’s the eyes that never lie, and his spoke of dismay. We’d crossed some unseen threshold—I didn’t like it one bit, but I was certain there wasn’t a way to cross back over. It was sort of like those tire spikes they have at airport car rental lots. One way only or you were going to have four tires ripped to shreds.
“You okay?” I asked, he nodded. I took that at face value to mean that he was. The lies we tell ourselves. Funny how the person I was best able to deceive was myself. To survive, that’s the only person you need to lie to.
We got back into the cockpit. We switched places, as it seemed the pilot’s seat might have had three or four more square inches of space. I was in a foul mood. BT hadn’t said a word in over a half an hour. It had taken me that long to realize that the instrument panel was lit up, but it had more to do with the sun going down than my awareness. I grabbed the joystick in front of me, more so I could adjust my body into some semblance of comfort. I was not expecting to hear a whir beneath us.
“Talbot?” BT asked.
“I
didn’t do anything,” I told him, but what I did was beginning to dawn on me as a small screen flickered to life. The camera was focused on the vastness of the ocean. I moved the joystick. As it swung around, I saw the con tower and the zombies huddled protectively underneath it. “Do you think this works?”
“Do I think what works?”
“I think I’m operating the gun controls.”
“What kind of gun controls?”
“Haven’t you ever seen one of these? Fucker has a 30mm Gatling gun. All you hear is brrrrt right before a tank is disintegrated.”
“Leave it alone.”
“You’re just mad you didn’t see it first.”
He grumbled; I was closer to the truth than he cared to admit. I toggled the safety switch onto the just-for-fun button.
“Don’t do it.”
“You know I’m going to,” I told him. I depressed the red button. I don’t know exactly what I’d been expecting, but it was not what did happen or, better yet, what didn’t. Nothing except a flashing warning sign on my small display letting me know the gun wouldn’t fire while it was on the ground. “Bullshit.”
“Doesn’t work, does it?” There was mirth in BT’s voice.
“Not cool, man.”
“You not having a 30mm cannon at your disposal is definitely cool, and whatever else this thing punches with.” I followed BT’s gaze out and to the right to the row of pretty missiles hanging from the wings. Amazing the details you fail to see when you’re running for your life.
I stood up. “Walde, can I make these guns fire?” I yelled up to the tower.
“Good God! Why would you want to?” was her response.
“You don’t know my brother all that well,” Gary said.
I flipped the tower off. I could only hope Gary got the message.
“I think there’s a way to hack it through the Dash 60…I’d have to get a manual,” Walde said.
“Why would you tell him that?”
“Rose!” I yelled, “Why are you trying to ruin this for me? No one gives you shit when you take your little bombs out for fun!”
“Little?” she replied.
“You know what I mean,” I told her.
“No one gives me crap, sir, because I know what I’m doing,” Rose said.
“Ouch. Does it feel like the seat warmers are on after that burn?”
“Bite me, BT.”
I kept turning the joystick and pressing the trigger, making my own machinegun sounds, much to BT’s chagrin.
“Got it!” Walde said excitedly. “Getting into the system now.” She was walking me through her process, although, I only cared for the end result. She rattled off a ton of technical things she was in the middle of doing. Meanwhile, I was still doing my thing and zooming in and out on the zombies. “Sir, I’d appreciate if, while I’m doing this, you could take your hands off the controls.”
“How does she know?” I asked BT as I pulled my hands back.
“Can probably see your lips vibrating from your shitty impersonation. Most anemic machinegun I’ve ever heard—sounds like something they would have cooked up during the revolutionary war. That’s it! You sound like a musket ball machinegun!”
“That’s not funny,” I told him, but he was already too far down the laughing lane.
BT had lightened up a bit; we were talking, mostly about what we’d eat if we were camping. By camping, I meant sleeping in a tent in the backyard with the TV hooked up, able to go to the house whenever we wanted. BT was talking about somewhere high up in the Rocky Mountains. I was done with outdoor living. Gonna go out on a limb and say it wasn’t done with me quite yet.
“Can you imagine eating a cheeseburger right now?” I asked. “And some French fries.” I involuntarily drooled, thankful I didn’t have an audience.
BT’s stomach grumbled in agreement. “I’d eat two and a half buckets of Burger King fries.”
“That’s funny.”
“Why’s that funny?” He managed to turn around so he was looking at me.
“You pulling a Joe Pesci on me?”
“What?”
“That movie where what’s his name, Ray Liotta, tells Joe he’s funny and Joe goes off his rocker and asks, ‘What do you mean, I’m funny? How am I funny?’ He gets all serious and Ray looks like he wants to crawl under a rock before Joe shoots him or something.”
“Goodfellas. That’s a great movie. But why are BK fries funny?”
“Because they’re gross. The greasy container they come in is better than those wet wood sticks they try to pass off as food.”
“Mike, I know you’re unbalanced, and a butterfly landing on your shoulder away from falling over, but Burger King has the best fries, bar none.”
“You’re serious right now? I don’t even know how to respond. I suppose, if I was starving to death and the only thing that could keep me alive was some of their fries, I’d ask my wife to have me cremated.”
“We should have had this conversation when we met. I would have known to hitch my cart elsewhere.”
We went like this for a little while longer. The only thing we agreed on was that Good Times burger joint had the most incredible wild dipping sauce. Then it all unraveled when he said he used to pour it over his shakes. I don’t know exactly what was in the dipping sauce, but it was something mayonnaise-based with maybe ketchup and sriracha. Great on French fries, burgers, hell, slather your hand with it and lick it off, all great choices. On a fucking shake? I immediately lost my appetite; it was like BT was channeling Trip right then.
Night had dropped on us hard. The deck was brightly lit up, which made me feel somewhat better, but beyond this small oasis of shine was an all-encompassing darkness. Fog was lazily swirling on the deck, nothing thick, could still see the zombies just fine. Then things took a turn for the worse, like they always seem to. A panel of floodlights on the tower went out. There was still plenty of light, but it had diminished enough to make everything look dim. Like when one lightbulb of four was out in your bathroom vanity; you just can’t see yourself quite well enough. Like I said, plenty of light, but still a noticeable difference from what it should be, and let’s be real…that one light being out starts to feel like those damn fingernails on the chalkboard: it was a grating on the nerves sensation. I didn’t say anything; figured it was a maintenance issue which, if we were ever given the chance, we would fix. All was good until another set of lights went out. This was entirely too coincidental.
“Anyone want to tell me why we’re going lights out?” I called.
I could see Gary shrug.
“Well, that’s helpful,” BT said, seeing the same thing I had.
“Walde?” I figured I’d go for someone with some aircraft carrier knowledge.
“The power has been interrupted, but not from up here,” she replied.
“Just sitting for too long in the saltwater air?” BT asked hopefully.
“It’s a ship; shouldn’t this stuff be protected against that?” I asked.
I heard material move; he must have shrugged. Him and Gary should get together; they could form a new dance troupe. Now there were large patches of deep shade. Could still see, but this was beginning to look like a city street in a bad part of town where the city never changed out broken street lights and you were on your own if you dared to walk them at night. You could see who was coming to relieve you of your wallet, but getting an accurate description in the murky light was going to be difficult. We’d gone about another hour, and nothing untoward happened. My heightened awareness had long ago been shrugged off. We still had light and superstitiously, if I didn’t think about it, the odds were good it would stay that way. Funny thing about superstition, it doesn’t give a shit. Like me turning my baseball hat around on my head twelve times while I was watching the Red Sox play; it wasn’t going to magically make them score runs, no matter how much I wanted to believe that.
A strip of landing lights flickered twice then went dark. We were rapidly approach
ing haunted forest darkness. BT and I were both standing; I don’t want to say it was choreographed, but the judges gave us a nine point five for synchronicity.
“It’s the zombies, isn’t it?” BT asked.
“Yup,” I said, barely opening my mouth to do so.
“Now? This is the time I don’t get a patented Talbot smart-ass response? You can’t set a precedent and then not live up to it, man. There are rules that need to be adhered to. I need the relief, Mike, because, you know, you absolutely know, the second all those lights go out, they’re going to come running for this plane.”
“Kirby probably just forgot to pay the bill.”
“Better. Got anything else?”
“You can’t force it.”
“What if I threaten you with violence?”
“That’d be great, then I’d be unconscious for what happens next.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
He might have thought I was kidding. I wasn’t.
“I did it!” Walde said triumphantly.
“Did what?” And like my voice was an electrical switch, another set of lights went out. That was when we heard the clip-clopping of a very heavy zombie. “Greaver.” I knew it in my bones—shit, I could feel it vibrating in my bones.
“Did what?” I had to yell when I realized that there was no way she could have heard me.
“The plane thinks you’re in the air,” Walde said.
“Great. And I believe I can fly,” BT stated.
“R. Kelly? Wouldn’t have thought it? You seem more like a Celine Dion type of guy,” I answered.
“Like you never cried at My Heart Will Go On,” BT said. “If she was from the states, she would be a national treasure.”
“Can you guys see anything up there?”
“Limited, sir.” Stenzel had her rifle at the ready.
“Pick up the greaver yet?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“How does something like that hide?” BT asked as we both looked around.
“It’s waiting for the lights to go out. Then we’ll know exactly where it is.”
“Because it will be ramming the shit out of this plane,” BT finished. “Jumping off the side of the deck is sounding better and better.”
