by Mark Tufo
“What?”
“Dynamite and Kirby’s…”
“Forget it.” I would have put my hands up to motion for her to stop but there wasn’t enough room. “If I say he’s dreamy, can we move on?”
She smiled. “I’m a little concerned,” she said after a moment.
“About how much of a momma’s boy he might be? I get it, hell, I would be too if my mom looked like that. Is that weird? It sounded better in my head. Looked better too.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
I could have gone with the standard, we’ll be fine, but no one is that good of an actor, and given where we were, that would be like saying you felt a cold front was about to sweep through hell.
“We’ll find a way,” was what I finally came up with. This more like the equivalent of a cool breeze in the aforementioned place. Not likely, but still a possibility.
“I’ve heard politicians be more definitive.”
“Let’s find a way to get comfortable.”
“Avoidance? Apparently, you do have some political aspirations.”
“I’d rather be a sanitation worker assigned to a sludge facility.”
After some creative stacking, we could sit, our backs pressed tightly against walls, and we were knee to knee. Fine for now, but the coolness from the floor seeping up was going to cause some derriere discomfort soon, and from one that has experienced that, it is a very unique pain and one I altogether do not recommend. My sensor was down to two blinking yellow bars.
Stenzel looked at the bag and the O2 canisters. “We only have a few hours of air.” That was a statement I was abundantly aware of. Zombies were still filing past the door. They didn’t seem to be in any rush to get somewhere, they were just on the move. How long that would take and would they all eventually leave were questions we needed to know if we were going to have any chance of getting out.
“Do you know the layout of the ship?” I asked.
“Not really. I looked over it a bit, but it’s huge, and I didn’t study it. Why?”
“I don’t think going the way the zombies are is going to be an option. Just wondering if there’s a way through the machinery room.”
“You want to go into where they were hibernating?”
“Want? That’s a pretty strong word. I want to be with my wife. I want a double cheeseburger and a beer. I want to walk along the beach with my family.”
It was quiet for a while; all we could hear were the moans of the damned and the steps of the dead when Stenzel broke the silence. “As far as officers go, you’re a pretty good one.”
I appreciated the sentiment, didn’t like the timing, though, sounded like one of those things you say when you know the end is near. “Like, how good?” I asked, doing my best to deflect anything that led to being too serious.
“Top five, easily.”
“And just how many have you had?”
“Four.”
I snorted then doubled over, doing my best to be quiet. “Don’t make me laugh, that fucking hurts.” I had my hand across my stomach. “I’d like to say something smart back to you, then I remember that you can neuter a bat from a thousand yards, so I’ve decided on silence, but just know I have a witty comeback lodged deep within my head.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m more concerned about how I am as a person.”
“You’re an alright one of those, too.” She smiled.
“I’m going to do everything I can to get us out of here.”
“I know. Do you think someday we’ll look back at this and laugh?”
“I’m not sure what you do in your time off, Stenzel, that at some point in your life, you’ll be able to look back at this fondly. Personally, I’m going to need years of drink therapy and dog cuddles.”
“More of a cat person.”
“Huh, guess I’m going to have to reevaluate everything I ever thought about you.”
“I was a cheerleader once.”
“Get the fuck out.” That seemed so contradictory from the cool, calm, sniper I knew.
“No, seriously. I was pretty good. I’d do the splits but, umm.” She held her arms out to show that she didn’t have the room.
“Don’t think it would be a good idea in that suit, anyway. Splitting the seam would be a bad idea.”
“Our football team sucked, but my squad placed second in States.”
“I’m having a hard time seeing you rah-rah, Stenzel.”
“It wasn’t so much the cheering on, it was the athleticism. I played soccer, field hockey, and lacrosse. I would have played football, but my parents drew the line. I would have been better than half of them out there.”
“Don’t doubt that one bit.”
“First time I picked up a rifle, though, I knew. My dad took me to the range—I was ten. He felt bad because his .22 was getting repaired, and he only had his .308 hunting rifle.”
I whistled through my teeth. “Your first shot was through a 308 and you wanted to pick up a gun again?”
“I loved it—the power kicking into my shoulder. I missed my first five shots, and then it was like something clicked, and I couldn’t miss. He kept moving the target farther and farther away, and I kept nailing them. After that, we went nearly every weekend. I get a kind of zen from shooting. A…quietness in my soul. I wish I wasn’t shooting at what I am now.”
“I wanted this, once upon a time.”
“This?”
“Well, not exactly this.” We shared a smile. “But zombies, yeah. Sounded and looked like a lot of fun when I read books or watched movies. Figured we’d be barricaded in a fully stocked Walmart, plenty of guns, ammo, and food. We’d spend the days up on the roof, picking off monsters for points. Macabre, I know. Tough to keep in mind that these were normal people once, caught on the wrong side of the world’s greatest fuck up. But when it’s just a twisted fantasy, you’re not thinking that deeply about it. It’s kind of like if I hooked up with Diane Lane.”
“Who?”
“Hush your mouth. Actress, whatever, but, in the fantasy, we hook up and it’s great. In reality, if that were to even somehow remotely happen, it would destroy my marriage and tear my family apart. My point is, you don’t think through all of the ramifications with daydreams because there are none. It was just the thought of not doing the same bullshit nine to five, trying to pay the bills, trying to raise kids right and keep them safe.… It all felt so much like a hamster wheel, spinning faster and faster but never going anywhere. That’s how I felt about my life. And now, what I wouldn’t give to hop back on that wheel. Floating checks to make it through another month, running out to the store at ten o’clock on a Sunday to get supplies for one of my kids’ art projects due the next day. Picking up dog shit on their walks—the dogs, not the kids.”
“I got that.” She smiled.
“Oil changes, weekends taken up by sporting events, hell, I’d even go to a youth soccer tournament and not complain too much about it.” Stenzel looked at me funny. “Those things drag on for hours, you have no idea and they frown upon bringing flasks. I mean, how the fuck else are you going to deal with little kids running up and down a field and having zero clue what they’re supposed to do? Most of the times, the ref is there just to keep them from picking their noses continually. Probably why the game is played the way it is. No one wanted the little germ factories touching the ball, figured feet were a more sanitary option. Those tournaments were the first times in my life I looked forward to the weekend being over.”
“Top says a lot of stuff about you. We mostly laugh because it’s so far out there, but I’m thinking what he says may be a little closer to the truth.”
“Don’t listen to him. He’s had it out for me since the day we met. I think the only reason he’s hung around is he wants to make sure he gets the job done.” There was a lull in the conversation, as we both felt again the weight of our predicament. I couldn’t keep my gaze away from
the damned gauge. The last bar was flashing red. I was going to wait until I started feeling lightheaded from the carbon monoxide before switching out.
“Ready?” she asked and, without waiting for my response, poured the entire contents of the Simple Green over my head and body. Different time, place, and with my wife, this could almost be a fantasy of mine, to be bleached clean! If only this could be done to my soul.
I moved to wipe my faceplate, which had streaked. She knocked my arm away. “What are you doing?” I asked her. “I can’t see.”
“Don’t touch it,” she admonished me. I was concerned that maybe she saw a hole in my gloves; I wisely placed my hands behind my back.
“I think we should disinfectant the tops of the oxygen bottles and the nozzle ports.” Stenzel was struggling to find a handhold to pull herself up. We used a whole bottle of the Simple Green; figured if you’re dealing with Ebola, it’s best to err on the side of caution. “Got to keep it wet.”
“What?” I asked as she poured more liquid out. “Kill time is generally four to ten minutes.”
“That’s one hardy virus. I figured it would be dead on contact.”
She stopped what she was doing. “This is for all viruses and bacteria. Surfaces you are disinfecting have to stay wet; you can’t just spray and wipe.”
“But, but that’s what I always did. You mean all that time I cleaned the countertop after prepping chicken, I left stuff behind?” I could feel my skin crawling at the notion.
“Not a very effective way to disinfect. It takes time to break the cell walls down.”
Pretty sure I gasped, hurt the hell out of my bruised diaphragm. “My whole life has been a lie.”
“You’re still here, right? You’re fine.” She got back to her task.
“Easy for you to say. Just because you tell a germaphobe it’s all good because he didn’t get sick doesn’t make him forget what he potentially put into his system by ignorance. Who knows what super-germs I have inside of me just waiting for the opportune moment to strike.”
She finally used a rag to wipe my faceplate clean; I was thankful for that, as the enclosure we were in was small enough. Didn’t need it to shrink any further.
It was going to take a wee bit longer for me to get over the lifetime failure of my cleaning techniques. It was tough for me to wrap my head around the fact that I’d been doing something wrong for so many years, with potentially catastrophic consequences. Although, I’m sure Tracy had a detailed list of all the stuff I’d been fucking up for decades.
“You’re about due for some air,” she said, looking at the physical meter that was pinned in the red.
“I still have some,” I told her.
“You sure that’s not the lack of oxygen talking?”
“Think I could use that for half the stuff I’ve ever said.”
“How would that fly with your wife?”
“It would give her an excuse for all the awkward social engagements we’ve ever had; might even be able to patch up some relationships with her relatives. ‘Oh, don’t listen to him! He’s just oxygen deprived.’”
“And you got a commission how?”
“No one else left.”
“Leadership by attrition.”
“Basically. Are you ready for a canister?”
“I’m still hovering at three bars.”
“Why am I going through it so fast? And don’t say it’s because I’m a blowhard.”
“Those words were never going to leave my mouth. Sure, I was going to think them, but I’m not Catholic, so thinking doesn’t equate to doing. Probably something to do with the valve; not going to be able to do anything about that now. You sure about not needing air?” She tapped my meter.
“Shit, I’m starting to get a bit of a headache. Stenzel, I don’t want to use up all of our supply.” We only had a few hours of it remaining, and I’d never be all right if I was the one that kept blowing through it and putting her in danger, more danger, if that needed to be qualified.
There was a pop and a hiss as she took the used one off then a comforting click as she attached the new one. We had two left; she’d need one soon enough. It would be me that needed the last one. There was no way she’d watch me suffocate. But if I took that bottle, it would be me watching her, and that was unacceptable. Could still hear movement beyond the door. Impossible to tell if they were evacuating the area in search of the bastards that had disturbed their sleep or they were simply milling about. Movement was the preferred option.
We reverted back to quietness. It was safer, and when you’re waiting for death, it’s difficult to make idle chit-chat. I was halfway through another bottle when Stenzel needed a replacement. Without a doubt, I was going to be the one that needed the final bottle; that would put us at roughly the same time running out of air. We had two hours to make a move, to get to a part of the ship free from zombies, Ebola, and, more importantly, zombies infected with Ebola, and still, the zombies ambled on by.
“How many of the fuckers are there?” I asked. We had an hour max to make our move. The next time I switched out bottles was when I figured we had to go, then I changed my mind. I was doing my best to take small sips of air—that doesn’t work. All it really did was make me start to hyperventilate, causing me to breathe more air. I let Stenzel know what I was thinking. A half-hour had passed. The scrapes against the door and the tacky footsteps had slowed, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. They could have just stopped. If this ship had been compromised of shufflers like intel said it was supposed to be, odds were good we could have just slowly worked our way up to the deck. The zombies didn’t primarily hunt by scent, but it was a big part of it, and the suits would have aided in our escape. It was doubtful the much smarter speeders would be so easy to fool.
Supposedly, time only flies when you’re having fun, unfortunately, it also moves pretty quickly when you have a limited amount of breathable air. I stood as I watched a bar begin to blink, and as carefully and quietly as I could, I began to move our door braces. With one still in place, I looked out the peephole, enormously happy to not see a tongue. In reality, I couldn’t see much of anything. Didn’t matter; we had to go. When I died, it wasn’t going to be quietly into the night, suffocating in a closet.
“How much do you trust me?”
“What specifically are you asking, sir?”
“This is not exactly how I want to go about this, but I am going to assume that there is another exit in the machinery room.”
“Are you saying you want to go back that way?”
“Will that influence the answer you’re going to give me?” I asked.
She seemed to be thinking about how to respond. “There’s has to be a door on the other side.” I could tell the words were forced through closed lips.
“Feel good about that?”
“As good as I can.”
“That’s the way we need to go, otherwise we’ll be following the horde and Baggelli.”
“I’m going to need you to order me.”
“What?”
“I’m not willingly going back into that room. You’re going to have to order me.”
I thought about telling her to stay and I’d go find help and come back, but as much as I would be trying to tell the truth, it would be a bald-faced lie. There was no help to get, and I would not be able to come back.
“Sergeant Stenzel, we are going to exit this door and go to the right, into the main machinery room, through it, and to the other side. Then we will be going up and onto the deck.”
“That an order?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Thank you, sir. One more thing before we go.”
“I’m listening.”
“Definitely the third or fourth best squad commander.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Sergeant. When I get to halfway, we’re going.” That was a sentence without a whole bunch of descriptive words and yet it carried so much intense and implied meaning. I don’t know w
hat I was expecting as the bars slowly diminished from my readout. Some sort of fourth-quarter Hail Mary, Gabriel coming down, blowing his horn, the charge of the light brigade, my fairy godmother, a S.W.A.T. team filled with ninjas, some-fucking-thing would have been nice. But nope. Just the slow, steady expelling of air inside our steel coffin, filled to the brim with cleaning supplies so that our after-life would be germ-free.
“It’s time, you ready?” I asked as I braced my back against the door and stood. I must have said the words softly, or not at all. Stenzel didn’t stir. I was worried for a moment that she’d run out of air and, well, you know. I looked at her for a few moments to make sure she was breathing, something I’m not ashamed to admit I did with my kids when they were babies, multiple times. When I was just a kid myself, SIDS, or sudden infant death syndrome, seemed to be a huge deal; I didn’t think of it much then, but as a parent, oh yeah, you can bet that nightmare haunted me. As with most things the media touches, it was blown completely askew, but the damage had been done. I was thinking about leaving her there with the two canisters, my hope being that I could get help and come back before her airflow became a problem. I was on the fence whether that was selfish or heroic on my part. I had my back to Stenzel and my hand on the door, debating. I put my finger in the broken-out lock and was getting ready to slowly open the door, maybe.
“Not planning on dipping without me, are you?” Stenzel asked.
“Planning? No. Thinking about it, yes.” I could hear her getting up.
“How far do you think you could make it without air?” she asked, picking a canister.
“Was just hoping to give you a better chance of survival, but I don’t know which way that would be, stuck in here or running the gauntlet.”
“Where you go, sir, I do as well.”
“Sounds like something I should be able to get an ointment cream for, you know, to get rid of a persistent rash.”
“If you were half as funny as you think you are, you could have made a go at stand-up.”
“Hey! I’m funny, dammit! How do you think I scored my wife? Certainly not my charm.”
“Certainly not that, sir.” She extended her hand, which I grabbed and pulled her up.
