by Mark Tufo
Henry, stiff-legged and ancient, as far as bulldogs go, was standing at the shoreline. How he’d found me or, more impossibly, how he had made the journey on those old sticks was a mystery. As much as I wanted to end the pain, I knew I couldn’t. I knew Henry would follow in a vain attempt to save me, and he deserved better than that. I took one more look at the expanse in front of me before turning back. I got down onto my knees and hugged his massive head. His stub of a tail wagged.
“What are you doing out here, you crazy old fool? You ready to go home?” He barked once and sat on his haunches.
A three-mile jaunt for Henry in his prime would have been an achievement; there was no way he was going to make it back, not without some human horse-power.
“You lug.” I picked him up. He wrapped his paws around my neck and placed his head on my shoulder. “Hope you’re comfortable.” Like all of us, Henry had lost weight, but he was no lap dog, hadn’t been since he was three months old. Don’t know what Tracy thought when she saw me covered in sand, a bit of clingy gore, and carrying Henry. If she had suspicions, she didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to clean up,” I told her after I put Henry down and was sufficiently able to stretch my back and arms.
“Don’t take long; we’re going to have a final…” She paused. “It’s dinner.”
“If it’s lentils again, I’ll pass.”
“Mike, I love you, and I know this is difficult for you, but even if your sister had cooked cherry glazed ham with a side of cream of tartar Pop-Tarts, you are going to sit your ass at that table. You hear me?”
I’d already had suicidal thoughts for the day, this nearly added to that. I almost said something I would have regretted. Instead, I bent to kiss her head lightly and went up to the house to properly clean off. Sacrilegious or not, I’ll call what we did there that night The Last Supper. Someone had secured a clutch of wild turkeys. The meat was on the tougher side with a serious dose of gaminess, and it was wonderful. All in all, it was great. We laughed, talked and told stories while drinking and eating, and, for the briefest of moments, I could almost forget that this would be the very last time we would all be together.
Didn’t sleep at all that night. With the rising of the sun, I went and sat on my front porch, BT and the rest were packed up and ready to go.
“Going to leave without saying goodbye?” I asked sourly.
“We said our goodbyes last night. I thought it would be easier this way.”
“And is it?”
“Please don’t do this, Mike. I’m barely holding it together as it is. This was the most difficult decision of my life.”
Shame and selfishness fought a bitter battle with decency. I wanted to flip him off and go back inside the house, but, with a restraint I wasn’t sure I could muster, I bid him farewell and that I hoped he lived the best life he could.
“I hope that too, Mike. You’re the very best brother a man could ask for.” We looked at each other, eyes wet with words that didn’t need to be spoken to realize the depth of the relationship we had.
“Goodbye, Lawrence.” And with that, he smiled, wiped his eyes, and flipped me off before they headed away.
EPILOGUE 2
It’s been two years since that awful day. I haven’t seen BT since then and most likely never will. If not for Tommy visiting their new home, I might never have known whether they’d made it or not. We ended up staying in a place not too far from Ron’s, actually, the other side of his land. A few years before the zombies came, a developer had purchased a large tract of land and made a golf course, of all things. A golf course in Maine made about as much sense as a ski resort in Alabama. What it did have going for it was the land had been cleared of trees and rocks. The off-shoot trees had staged a comeback, and, with some help, we’d dispatched of that problem. We farmed like our lives depended on it. Because yeah, our lives depended on it. Managed to scrounge up a couple of cows that I lovingly called Betsy Burger and Juicy Steak, neither of which I could ever bring myself to eat. The milk was nice. Deer were cautiously making their way back, turkeys had become the pigeon of the new world. Thought I might get sick of them; I was wrong. They went well with the potatoes we grew.
With a lot of trial and error, we set up a solar array, great during the day to power things, but battery banks were a thing of the past. Then someone stumbled across of all things, some solar generators. They didn’t push out a ton of power, but being able to run a refrigerator was a game-changer. Still, it was that light in the night; it became a beacon of hope, hope that perhaps we could rebound, that we could push the long black night back indefinitely.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Whoa. Ten years, sixteen full-length books, two novellas, and a crate of t-shirts. It is going to be extremely strange to pave and traverse a new road without the Zombie Fallout universe. Some of this you may know but, since, well, it’s the end, I figure I’ll recap. I wrote the first ZF when I was laid off, suffering from insomnia and maybe a dose of depression. That first book was intended to be a comedy called Zombie Follies, and Mike was supposed to die, thus ending the franchise. Sounds pretty funny, huh? For a few weeks, not being gainfully employed was like a vacation, then, as time dragged on and unemployment benefits were beginning to peter out, I was terrified. I had a family to provide for and I couldn’t get it done. Can’t even count how many interviews I went on, more desperate with each encounter. I wrote to keep my sanity (the jury is out on whether it happened). Strange thing though, I’d no sooner finished that first book than I got a job. Weird how things work out.
With the barest minimum of editing and a hand-painted cover, Tracy and I put the book out. It did about how you would expect. Not well, in case you didn’t know. But it had never been about sales; it had been about an outlet for myself. With book one done and me not killing off the main character, I decided to make the one-and-done into a trilogy. I was halfway through writing the second book (I think by this time, I’d made enough to buy the ink and paper—I needed to print off copies). With exposure comes reviews and, in this case, not good ones. Without proper editing, I was getting hammered. Not one part of these next sentences did I take author liberties with. Yes, I’d been writing the books for myself, but when it was done, I figured why not let the fledgling out into the wild? Then to have random people just absolutely verbally crap over your work hardly seemed worth it. It was costing more to produce the books than I was earning. By this time, book two was nearly complete. I’d gone down to Tracy’s office and I told her “I’m done. Not writing, publishing.” I couldn’t take it. I’m not saying I have super thick skin now, but back then, it might as well have been flimsy tissue. I headed up the stairs to my office to pull the book down from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and the other vendors it was listed with.
If I’d made this next part up, you would say that was too unbelievable, too far of a plot stretch, too coincidental.
Just as I sat down, I received a notification of an incoming message. It was from someone named Rich Baker. I didn’t know him, but it was like he knew exactly what was going through my head. I wished I had saved that message. The gist of it was, “Screw the haters, I love your stories, man. It’s raw and gritty, and you might not be a polished author, but you’re a hell of a storyteller. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
That one person, with that two-sentence message, changed the entire course of my life. It’s amazing even now to think upon it. That small act of encouragement was powerful. I’d seen the not-so-good side of this business, and to have his flashlight in the darkness, his unsolicited kindness, push the shadows away is something I’ll never forget. I told him there and then that if the series ever made it onto the screen, I would drive a brand new Jeep to his home. I sincerely hope I can keep this promise!
So, I forged on. By book four, I could afford editing and cover art. Can’t say the one-star reviews abruptly stopped, but they were beginning to get drowned out by fives. I was having a blast writing Mike’s saga. With
in two years, I’d gone from part-time writer to full-time author; it was surreal. I was and am talking to people every day from around the world who have connected with my stories, some in the most profound ways. I am honored and humbled that you, dear reader, have shared this journey with me, that you have supported me along the way. I cannot thank you enough for all you have given me. I’ve got a feeling we’ll see Mike again…who knows what trouble he will conjure up this time? Until then, stay safe, and if you come across an experimental vaccine, perhaps you should keep on walking.
CODA
It wasn’t that the zombies were gone but rather that we had removed ourselves from the problem. We couldn’t beat them, and we weren’t going to join them, not willingly. The only other option was to quit playing, so that’s what did, at least for now.
About the Author
Visit Mark at www.marktufo.com
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Also by Mark Tufo
Click here for other books by Mark Tufo
Lycan Fallout Book 1
The Book Of Riley A Zombie Tale Book 1
Indian Hill 1: Encounters Book 1
Distance Winter’s Rising Book 1
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Also From DevilDog Press
Zombie Fallout By Mark Tufo
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