Riding The Apocalypse (8 page)
I pressed a button on the side of my helmet and switched to Bluetooth from intercom. I spoke into the microphone, “Call Max,” and waited as his phone started to ring.
“S’up, man, where you guys at? Everything okay?” Max answered with a string of questions.
“Yeah, we are about five minutes out, any of those fuckers at the gate?” I asked.
“There are about a half dozen nearby, but not close to the gate. They followed you, then tailed off after a cat that ran under a car. Don’t know if they got the cat, but they are still hanging around the car,” Max answered.
“We will be there in a few,” I said and hung up.
I switched back to the intercom and suggested to Buell we should shut down the bikes a few hundred yards off and then walk them in quietly.
“Okay, but let’s get a good roll on so we can coast as far as possible.”
That was Buell’s way of saying “let’s take the lazy left hand turn leading to the garage at high speed.” His motive was not just for the coasting distance. Buell always wanted to go fast, and looked for a reason to do so, regardless of the situation. Like I mentioned before, a purpose to ride is always better than just riding for the sake of riding. Well, at least that is how I feel about it.
I obliged and ate his dust. I have seen many riders leaned over in a turn dragging their pegs or knees, and I even saw a few scrape an elbow, but this was the first time I ever saw a rider drag a board game.
We coasted in neutral as long as possible with the motors off. One of us was able to carry more speed and coast a bit further than the other. Guess who?
Buell was gracious enough to wait for me as I pushed my bike toward his. He was about three hundred feet from the garage and his smug look was not completely hidden by his helmet visor.
As we pushed the bikes down the middle of the road, we were ready at any moment to jump back on. I looked ahead and saw Max in the yard unlocking the gate. We had plenty of time to reach the gate because the monsters on the road were still a few hundred feet away. We coasted right past them as they tried frantically to get under a utility truck on the right curb. I assume they were still trying to get to the cat. My money was on the cat.
On the way in, a few doors down from my business, I saw my friend Ed sitting on the roof. His feet were dangling over the edge as he looked through his binoculars. Ed owned a general maintenance business in the same cul-de-sac as my garage. Ed had been in business much longer than I had, and was pretty well known in town. He was looking south with binoculars when I first spotted him, but we caught his attention as we went by. He looked down at me, gave a quick wave, and went right back to looking into his binoculars.
As we passed beneath him, he called quietly down, “Hey, gonna stop by later, will give ya a call.”
I gave him a thumbs-up, and we rolled the bikes through the gate a few moments later. We managed to attract a bit of attention, but had plenty of time to safely reach the gate. Max helped us unload the goods from the bikes, and I was finally able to take a deep breath. We stacked the food next to the dozen or so buckets labeled
Remy’s Auto
that Max had filled with water while we were out. We had two weeks of food and even more water if we rationed it out, according to our estimation.
After organizing our supplies, I picked up the remote and headed for the TV. I was ready for some news, good or bad. As I walked past Buell, sitting on the floor, he opened the board game box right in front of me. It stopped me in my tracks.
“What the hell are we gonna do with those?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” said Buell as he stood up tall. “We are gonna use them to defend ourselves.”
“Where did you get this, man? Kmart doesn’t sell handguns anymore,” I said.
“I went to the sporting goods section first and hit up my old pal Duncan behind the hunting counter—remember him? He said they hadn’t sold ’em in stores since ’92 when that guy bought one in Texas and then shot the manager with it. But Duncan lifted two from the mail order department for me. That branch is one of the shipping hubs. Duncan knew by the labeling on the packaging what they were. They come in unmarked, and were supposed to stay on the truck, but…”
“Man, Duncan is a helluva guy, I would have bolted for home when the shit hit,” Max said admiringly.
“Hell yeah, but the manager of the store got ’em all together and fired ’em up. Duncan said he explained what good they would do if they just stayed a little while. I guess he’s a compelling speaker.” Buell laughed.
“I saw that too. I was pleasantly surprised by how well people were working together,” I added.
“C’mon, man, we are boys, and he hooked me up. He said these were the easiest ones to use. Look, we got instructions and shit,” Buell said, beaming proudly as he pulled a stack of papers out of the front zipper of his leathers. “C’mon, all kidding aside, you heard what that sweaty guy in line said, those things are coming.”
Buell was right, and we all knew it. Things were not going to be the same for a long time, if ever. We needed to be prepared. Even if it meant using guns.
I don’t like guns, never have. Guns have made a hero of too many cowards. When I was a child, my dad accidentally shot a hole in the wall while we were watching
Hogan’s Heroes
on television. I was about seven or eight, I think. It was really loud and it scared the shit out of me and, from then until now, I have wanted no part of firearms. The ironic part of this story is my dad was a fucking neurosurgeon, you would think he would be less clumsy, no?
At any rate, from the incident in the family den right up until the moment the undead began amassing outside my garage I had been content to lead a peaceful existence, free of all weaponry. But now as I contemplated arming myself, another concern arose. Unless I suffered from some mysterious and heretofore undiscovered proclivity, I doubted I could shoot worth a damn—even slow-moving zombies.
We filled Max in on what we heard outside Kmart, and he corroborated it from what he had seen on the TV: the monster situation was becoming more severe by the hour. Max informed us the landline was out, and there was only one network station still broadcasting, and even then sporadically. The rest were looping old movies or stills of an American flag flapping in the breeze. I found it somewhat comforting that the stations were trying to help with morale, even if their news sources were down. At least I thought that was why they were doing it. Max added the internet was down, and more power outages were being reported via the TV crawler. For a guy who usually makes everyone comfortable, Max sure was full of depressing news.
Thankfully, we had electric generators to keep the power on for now. It was, however, a finite amount of power in a worst case scenario. To address this dilemma, I hooked my stock of replacement car batteries to the gas generators to fully charge them for when the gas eventually ran out, or went bad. Fortunately, I have a vast supply of gas on hand, between the garage supply and the cars on the lot, so this wouldn’t be a problem for the foreseeable future. I also had more than enough generators and power inverters on hand. These were some of the reasons I came here.
But back to the gun problem. “Look, you’re right, Buell, I agree we need to use guns. But I have no idea how to shoot one of those things other than the obvious point and squeeze. How good is your aim, Max?” I asked.
Buell broke in. “I have done quite a bit of shooting at the range with Duncan, you guys know that. I can show which end of the gun is supposed to point toward the monsters and those fuckers are easy targets.” Buell winked. “All you need to remember is never point it at anyone whose eyes aren’t coal black and keep the safety on unless you intend to shoot. The rest is pretty easy once you get used to the weight. Duncan gave me four hundred rounds, that should do it.”
“Yeah, I have used handguns a few times at the range,” added Max. “I am sure I will be okay if we’re just defending our perimeter. What the hell are they anyway?”
“They are Glocks, 9 millimeter handguns, pretty standard stuff. Duncan said it would be pretty easy to get more ammo if we needed it as they’re popular models. This thing has a ten round magazine size, I got four of ’em. I will load ’em up and show you guys how to put the magazine in, set the safety, and shoot the fucker too,” Buell said as he picked up the gun and the magazine.
Though I am not a gun guy, Buell’s capacity for this set my mind at ease. Buell was a comedian, and a bit of a flake, but one thing he was not, was half-assed. If he says he knows something, he knows it. I am the one who tends to lose my focus or rush through things.
Buell spent the better part of the next hour showing us how to hold the gun properly, sight it, and correctly use all the functions. He seemed to have a clear idea how to use these guns, and we were a quick study. Within thirty minutes, I was ready to go shoot something. I looked past Buell out the window as he spoke and saw movement on the street. It was Ed, and he looked like Rambo as he walked up to my gate.
“We got company.”
“I thought you were gonna call me,” I said to Ed as I trotted out the garage door to the front gate.
“Sorry, man, was gonna call ya but the phones are dead. Don’t worry, we still got a day or two till all hell breaks loose,” Ed said, laughing at his own turn of phrase as I secured the gate behind us.
We joined the others and I turned to lock the door. I looked back outside and noticed a couple of guys loading a truck with gas cans and boxes. One dude was from a neighboring business, I had spoken to him a few times, but his name escaped me. I didn’t recognize the other guy, but it was clear he was a badass. As we watched, I witnessed him singlehandedly dispose of the dozen or so monsters milling around outside. I watched for another second, locked the door, and then headed back to the powwow.
Of course I stopped to grab a Diet Coke on the way. My addiction never sleeps. I had the vending machine set up so there was no change necessary. I would just pay Charles the vendor guy for whatever we drank or ate when I saw him once a week. Trying to find change is a pain in the ass when you work in a garage, so is stocking the fridge.
“So what time you heading out in the morning?” Max asked Ed.
“Heading where?” I interrupted as I entered the Norman Rockwell painting unfolding before me; three scruffy-looking guys standing around a dirty old garage looking under the hood of a 1969 Impala with beers in hands, none of them doing anything to the car.
“I am out of here bright and early, I got family up north. It’s too late to leave before dark, so I decided to head out tomorrow,” Ed said as he scratched his overgrown Vandyke.
Judging by his usual grooming habits, I bet he bought his second boat with the money he saved on razors. Ed is your stereotypical handyman as seen in the commercials. He was about six feet tall, had to be at least two hundred and fifty pounds, but not too soft. Ed always had a toothpick in his mouth, though judging by our shared oxygen, he seldom brushed his teeth. He sported the traditional wavy red hair and fair skin of the Irish. What he lacked in debonair looks and sophistication Ed more than made up for in mechanical know-how and his warm smile. I liked him the day I met him. Some people you can just tell are upstanding. He was also
Johnny on the Spot
. If I ever needed a 24 millimeter bolt with a slotted hex nut head, I knew Ed would have one, probably already in his pocket.
“It’s all over the radio, guys, haven’t you been listening? Huge hordes of those damn things are everywhere. I heard a guy say they are heading to the ’burbs looking for food. They are just following the people who are getting the hell out of downtown. It seems like they started mainly in the big cities, don’t know why. But I know so far they can’t stop ’em. Not cops or military, can’t nobody stop ’em without doing something drastic, I tell ya. They might just start nu—”
“Ed, they aren’t gonna nuke us,” I cut in. “They are gonna have to think of something else. Conventional warfare is the best way to do this, I think. I know they were firing at ’em ’cause I heard the gunshots. I don’t think those things can shoot back or even dodge bullets.”
“Hey, Ed, I didn’t know Cheetos made a toothpaste?” joked Buell, trying to lighten the mood.
“Not now, man,” Max said.
“Yeah, Buell, you didn’t know that? They sell it in the hygiene aisle next to those feminine napkins you always have stuffed in your purse,” Ed retorted, proud of his comeback.
It actually was a pretty good comeback so I chortled along with Ed.
“There are thousands swarming about, looking for food, saw it on the tube,” Max said nervously as he looked out the window.
“How do you call a flat screen television the tube? Isn’t that like calling a cell phone a walkie-talkie?” Buell asked.
That particular joke did not go over well, and we remained silent. They can’t all be gems. I glanced down at my cell phone to see if anyone had tried to get ahold of me.
Fuck, nothing.
I was hoping for an update from Emily. It had been hours since she last called and it would soon be dark. I opened my messenger and sent her a short note.
“Text me, Em, let me know how you are doing.”
“
Message Failure
”
“Oh shit, guys,” I said calmly as I looked closer at my phone.
“Son of a bitch,” I added for emphasis.
“S’up, Rem, she didn’t text you?” Buell said. “Aww.”
“No, guys, check your phones, no bars. I don’t have service on my cell phone anymore,” I said in a grim voice.
We all looked at each other with expressions that confirmed the distressing discovery. I stood there, looking down at my phone as if it were my heart, dead in my hands.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I had been fighting for my life these past few hours, the world was going to hell, Emily was God knows where, my business done, and I was traumatized by my phone? For some reason, this moment crystallized the pending Apocalypse to me more than many other things.
My mind started to race. I thought about all the people who were dead, wounded, or worse, undead. It was starting to really become clear to me. This was not a video game, people were dying. What exactly was the government doing to stop this? How had it happened so fast?
Suddenly I was really, really worried about Emily. I contemplated going after her. But how could I be sure where she was? With no cell service, I would be going in blind. I hated how helpless I felt.
“Maybe it will come back up,” Buell added, trying to sell his optimism with a small smile.
“I’m telling ya, this is it,” Ed added pessimistically. “Look, fellas, I came by to say goodbye, and ask you for a gas can or two. I am jumping in the truck and heading north first light.”
As if on cue, the lights went out.
“Aw, damn it, there goes the electricity,” Max said. “On my way to the generator,” he added as he grabbed a flashlight off the shelf.
We could still see our silhouettes from the window light, but the sun was setting soon and we had to act fast or we would be plunged into darkness.
Max flipped the circuit board and the lights came on simultaneously with the roar of the generators.
“Let there be light!”
