Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic (10 page)

He heard a rustle in the darkness. Crunching
sticks. “All sorts of life still out there. Plenty of folks left in
this world. Plenty of good people. Plenty of bad people. Just
another day on this old blue globe.”

He'd never been known for his smarts; he wasn't
dumb, but he'd never been much for reading books. He liked working
with his hands. If he tried to read a book his attention just
wouldn't hold.

His line caught and he reeled in a fish. He
grabbed the line and hoisted the slippery creature into the boat
and slapped it hard against the floor, then placed it in a red and
white cooler. “That’s one. I need a lot more than one. God knows
how long we have to last out in this place. What if a hurricane
comes? How will I know? I guess I will just have to wait and see.”
The water rippled from a sudden sharp wind. He closed his eyes for
a moment. “Just fine. Everything is just fine. Everything is going
to be OK.” Another fish tugged on the line and Andrew jerked it in,
slapped it hard on the boat’s metal, and put it in the red and
white cooler.

The breeze was warm and the humidity thick. The
sounds of breaking twigs came from somewhere in the woods. He laid
on his back and stretched his legs out and allowed the sun to cook
his face while he listened to the rustle. His eyes stared blankly
at the darkening sky. A storm was coming. Might be a nasty one.

His mind drifted.

Andrew played Left for Dead on PS4. He was never
good at video games, thought he did enjoy playing them. Mostly with
Randy Jackson, his sometimes best friend.

“Im motha fuckin Randy GODDAM JACKSON! BITCH!”
Randy held his arms up in victory. He'd just blasted the head off a
zombie. This one, however, was on the PS4; and the Fever was years
away. For all these boys new, the world would remain one of video
games, no sex, and a lot of weed smoke forever and always—Randy's
room was a high school loser's sanctuary.

Andrew sat at a wide double screen, playing side
by side. The smell of weed in the air, a small fan blowing to his
left. No troubles, none at all; the world was just fine that
day.

“FUCK!” Andrew said as his character's head
splattered.

“You suckin donkey dick SON!” Randy like saying
donkey dick. It was his favorite thing to say.

Taking on
Randy Jackson's online team never worked out. Andrew played on a
team of complete strangers; Randy's team played the last two years
together, nearly every day
—
Novy,
RandyJackson, DECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE, and Foulslut. Andrew had a hard
time understanding how Randy could spend so much time playing with
people he'd never met in real life; but Randy always referred to
them as friends, not making a distinction between the virtual world
and the real world.

“
Break time,
Drew! Soda up!” Randy said, then spoke to his teammates through a
head set. “He had some of that doo doo weed. Not smelled great.
That doo doo weed. Sometimes Myrtle goes dry. As far as OK mids.”
Said Randy Jackson in his ever so confused white boy mimicry of
Ebonics. “That nigga brought the goods though. Real shit!” Randy
said. He drew a long pull and sucked weed smoke
(
that doo
doo, yo!
) and held
it...then exhaled. “Damn! That's shits rockin! Like action mutha
fuckin Jackson!”

Andrew sat in Randy's bedroom. Randy's bedroom
was part of a brick Georgetown colonial. The room was a large
square box dedicated to the corporate rap industry. Four Kicker
speakers, positioned in the four corners connecting the roof and
walls, vibrated Eminem. Downstairs Randy's father (Doctor Harris,
MD) and his mother (Miss Homemaker) watched Anderson 360 while
drinking scotch (his mother drank a thirty-dollar bottle of red
wine). Randy had been home schooled most of his life. His was a
smart guy, though he would never let you know it; some people had
even suggested he might be retarded. Andrew liked Randy; the
confused identity didn't bother Andrew at all. Randy's seemingly
endless stash of weed (yeah, even that doo doo weed) proved a
valuable asset, given Andrew's lack of luck with ladies; not too
mention his lack of social standing within the community of
Socastee High.

Randy's bright red carrot top and landscape of
freckles on his face, back, and arms, only complimented a sweet
uniqueness. Blues eyes glimmered around black pupils. Randy's well
brushed teeth smiled. Yes, Randy was OK, just fine with Andrew.

Randy prepared the Illadelph four-foot
bong—while Andrew sat, nestled in an oversized bean bag, waiting
for the weed to spark. Randy crunched up a purple and golden haired
green nugget with a circular metal grinder. The smell was powerful
and mouthwatering when Randy opened the top, letting out the sweet
aroma of crushed weed. “You up, Drew! Blast that shit! To tha
fuckin moon!” Randy stuffed the weed into the bong's bowl stem,
then handed it over to Andrew. The bong was quite large, and had
purple and green psychedelic designs up and down the glass. Andrew
placed his mouth over the opening, put the Bic lighter to the stem
bowl, lit the lighter, and pulled hard. The bong gurgled as the
weed smoke went through the cooling water—

“Rip that shit, yo! YEAH!” Randy loved watching
his friends take a serious bong rip.

Andrew sucked an insane amount of smoke into his
lungs, held it as long as he could; his faced turning red as a
beat; then he blew it out in a spasmodic rumble of loud coughs.

After Randy had his hit, they two boys continued
to play Left for Dead; and Andrew continued to suck serious donkey
dick.

8

A soft shower was now raining down as Andrew
continued to doze in and out of sleep. He didn't even notice when
his line caught again; nor did he notice the crunching of leaves
and sticks and the dark shadow moving in the woods.

In his mind's eye he stood at a car lot. Rows of
shiny new Hummers, reds, whites, blues, and blacks all sat shining
under the early afternoon sun. “I sure appreciate this Papa. I
really do.”

“Dont mentioned it boy. Just don’t fuck up my
credit by defaulting.”

Andrew pushed the wheelchair over the black
asphalt until he came up to a solid black Hummer. He'd been asking
his grandfather for over three months to cosign for him a new
Hummer. His grandfather had never said no, but never said yes
either. Finally, the old man had smiled, slapped Andrew on the
shoulder, and told him to wheel him to his transport van; they were
gonna go get him a new Hummer.

“This the one?” Papa asked.

“Sure is. Black beauty. I been waitin so
long!”

The Hummer shined from a fresh coat of wax. The
wheels hadn’t been jacked up yet, but they were still large with
silver chrome caps. The interior was gray leather. “All she needs
is a lift kit and she’ll be perfect.”

“We can add that in for ya son.” A man said from
behind. He was wiping mustard from his chin with a cloth. He wore a
solid white button up shirt with black buttons. His tie was blood
red and his double chin hung over the crease of his collar. His
stomach bulged out and over a brown belt and his pants were
wrinkled black slacks. “Yes sir, you fellas picked a dandy
alright.”

When the man walked his large behind jiggled in
his black slacks like cold gelatin on hot summer’s day. But it was
sweet Southern spring, just over seventy degrees with next to no
humidity in the air. Even so, sweat perspired through the car
dealer's shirt, leaving sweat stains around the collar and under
his arms. He was bald with only a few strands remaining, that he
clearly took time to comb just right multiple times every day.

Andrew sat down inside the cool air conditioned
office and the man removed a small mirror. Andrew watched as the
man brushed thin strands back into place. Papers were spread out
and pens handed over. Signatures were written and Andrew drove off
the lot with his new Humvee, not to mention a smile that touched
ear to hear.

9

While lying there, the sun hot on his face,
surrounded by the darkening world, Andrew continued to dream. He
was back at Christian camp. He was only fourteen and only now
realizing what breasts were and that he enjoyed watching them
bounce as the young girls ran by. He watched them jumping on the
large circle trampolines while the much older and muscled
councilors showed them how to cut back flips.

His mouth always watered. But he didn’t dare
talk. They’d never take him. Andrew had one good friend back in
those days (two years before he met Randy Jackson and the doo doo
weed).

Sally Fighart was his best friend back then. She
was a tall brunette that ran on the junior varsity track team. But
at the Christian camp, she just sat with Andrew and watched the
girls that had better breasts and firmer bottoms jump up and down.
The large hands of the councilors assisted their back flips by
pressing softly on their firm tummies and the small of their backs.
Sometimes may touching a little lower than they were supposed to;
what happens in Christian Camps stays in Christian Camp, so the
campers loved to say; the eighteen and nineteen-year-old councilors
had no problem with this philosophy, just make sure to pray for
forgiveness.

“Look at em Drew. Just look at em.” Sally
said.

“I am. I sure am.”

“Jesus. It’s all boys can look at. I mean fuck.
Just look at em.”

“I will keep on lookin Sally. I promise.”

Andrew looked over at Sally and for a moment he
saw years of rejection on her face. She as nearly as mentally
ruined as he was and that was saying something. “You’re just as
pretty.” He said and blushed red.

“Don’t even try. I know the pecking order. My
mom says all that will change one day. When I grow up. She says
that those girls will develop into whores and that know body will
respect em after that.”

The sun burned like hell’s inferno. It was over
one hundred degrees. Sally's complexion suffered miserly form the
sweaty oil that stagnated on her face; she had a nest of pimples
growing on each cheek; none of the councilors would be fondling her
barely existent breasts this year.

Andrew rose up and moved over to the shade of
some tall oak trees and settled against the bark with one leg out
stretched out and the other pulled into his chest. He stared out
over a large green field of manicured grass. The smell of honey
suckle was not far off and the girls kept doing their flips on the
large trampolines.

Sally lingered over and plopped down beside him.
“When I grow up, my mom says I’ll develop large breasts and a lean
firm ass.”

“If you do, let me know.” Andrew said with a
smirk.

“One day I’ll be a star runner. I will have
Olympic gold.”

“I believe it.” And he did; and she did win.

Years later, he watched Sally walking across the
Olympic stage and accepting her gold medal; he’d just got off work
after a twelve-hour shift of watching machines cut metal with red
fire tips. He was still in his work clothes and stank of grease and
sweat. He was now a twenty-year-old welder with a large Little
Caesar’s pepperoni pizza sitting in front of him. Half the slices
were gone. He lit a Marlboro and drew in the cancer. Seeing Sally
smile had caused a tear to dribble out of his eye. “I always
believed in you Sally.” He said to himself. He took a sip out of a
can of Bud Lite and swallowed his regrets down with it.

10

He woke up. He saw a light rain falling toward his
face. Heaven’s tears crying for the dying world around him.

He forced himself up and started the motor. How
long had he been out? Hours? He looked down and saw that his line
had snapped; the rod now lay in the boat's floor. He let out a
small sigh of regret. He'd meant to catch a lot of fish. He wanted
to bring back a huge dinner. He just wanted to make what was left
of his family smile. At least make them forget the pain for a short
while. If that was even possible now. Now it might just be endless
pain, endless suffering, endless regret; never-ending strife iced
over with the fact that they would all probably die in just as
horrible fashion as the rest had. How did it happen any damn way?
What happened to Papa and the girls while they were gone? How in
Christ's name did Papa die and end up eating them. Plateyes never
even crossed Andrew's imagination; nor did any other supernatural
possibility.

He guided the boat back to the embankment. The
rain began to fall hard, much harder than before. Lightening
flashed followed by earth shaking thunder. He beached the boat,
grabbed the cooler, and stepped out. “Better make sure these fish
are good and clea—”

A sharp sting shut him up. He stumbled. He
stumbled again. His vision blurred. Another rock flew out of the
dark woods like a bullet and cracked him hard in the temple. He
fell hard into the mud, knocking over the cooler.

A small crooked figure emerged from the thick
brush. She looked as ancient as the tree’s themselves. She walked
with a slight limp and pulled a sled behind her. She grunted as she
pushed Andrew onto the sled. She bound him tightly with dark,
bloodstained leather bands.

She pulled his limp, thin, unconscious body
around thick trees. Thick rain blew against her sunken face and a
hot misty fog engulfed them. “We be there soon young man. Very
soon. Just a few miles in now. Then you get to know. You get to
know what real pain is.” She held the rope over her hunched,
pointed shoulders and grasp the twisted nylon with both hands, and
dug her black rain boots hard into the earth’s soft flesh. “You
always had it all. Everybody always had more. Never me. Nothing for
poor ole me. Just a beggar. That’s what I was. Nothing but a
disgusting beggar. Now you gonna beg me. I ain’t beggin no more.” A
harsh wind blew her mud ridden hair and her black eyes beamed
through the mist, her steps pushed into the mud, and she grunted as
she lurked ahead. “No sir. No way. No more. Not me. Throwing rocks
at me. That’s all people like you ever did. Laughed at me. Now whos
laughin?” She cackled, her black gums exposed to the damp air, only
a few rotting, yellow teeth showed.