Riding The Apocalypse (11 page)
I turned around and left her lifeless body in the office. As I walked past the front counter in the lobby, Buell was sitting on one of the chairs holding my dad’s gun.
“You want me to do it?” he asked, a tear running down his cheek. “I will do it for ya, bro, I will,” Buell offered.
I took the gun and turned back toward the office. “No, I am going to do it.”
Now that you know Emily was infected, I am going to tell you a little about her. I don’t want the last thing you read about Emily to be her dying and turning into a monster. It is hard for me to write this, but I think Emily deserves a better eulogy.
However, first a small digression to share some happy news. The last few days have been uneventful and depressing as I wrote this part of my story still stuck in this stupid room. But I did make a new friend, my buddy is a little white mouse. He or she (?) runs under the boxes near the corner of the desk once in a while. That little sucker is fast as hell, and I have no idea how he squeezes under the boxes or what the hell he does under there, but I do know I welcome his sporadic visits. He often stops, looks up at me, wiggles his nose, then bolts for the boxes. I call him Speedy, after a favorite boyhood cartoon. Speedy has no sombrero like the Speedy in the show, though he appears just as fast. Anyway, I just saw Speedy so I thought I would give him a cameo, or credit or whatever.
Back to Em. I remember Emily used to do this thing when we were together in public. As I mentioned before, she was quite the beauty and drew stares from other men, and occasionally women, on a regular basis. If she caught someone looking, she would kiss me, or grab my butt, or anything she thought of to make the voyeur feel stupid. I always knew when she was doing it, but instead of playing along, I would shrug her off and laugh. Maybe I should have just acknowledged the attention she was giving me? Why didn’t I just pat her ass right back? I would kill to be sitting in a Panda Express right now and all of a sudden have Emily’s hand run up my thigh and feel a peck on my cheek, then turn to catch the perv looking back down at his pepper chicken after she busted him gawking at her. Why didn’t I just go with it? I wonder how different things would have turned out if I had been just a little more attentive?
I guess I could go on second-guessing myself and our relationship until I run out of paper, but what point does that serve? Why torture myself? Honestly, I’m suffering enough at the moment without lamenting the past. I am already listening to footsteps, a fucking maddening drip from somewhere, and monsters pounding at the door at the top of the stairs. Do I honestly need to add more grief? Is daily masturbation to Emily’s image not enough of a tribute to her? Fuck this, it’s time. I am gonna write how it went down. I am thankful for my flask of bourbon.
I leaned on the edge of the office desk watching her dead and curled up in the chair. Except she wasn’t dead anymore. Emily’s eyeballs were darting rapidly under her eyelids as she twitched, breathing rapidly, yet quietly.
I wondered what Emily was dreaming about. Was she dreaming of when we went to Kauai? After three margaritas and superb fish tacos we made love for the first time. Maybe she was dreaming of the rendezvous in San Francisco a month later? By that time the sexual tension and passion had built to a fever pitch, and we made love for the better part of a weekend, only finding time for a Giants game and sourdough bread on Fisherman’s Wharf.
Or maybe she was having a nightmare.
I knew as I watched her whatever was good about Emily was gone, and a monster was incubating inside of her. I knew that when she opened her eyes again she would be one of them. I knew all this but still I felt the need to convince myself there was no other way to help her now. Could I shoot her in the head? With the bequeathed gun from my dad, no less.
Could I possibly do this?
Her face had turned ghostly white, with no trace of her previously olive European skin. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I assumed they were black as night, and had lost the beautiful blue pigment they once boasted.
“Remy, she is a monster,” I whispered to myself by way of pep talk.
Her lithe body had taken on a rigid look, almost skeletal, while still covered in flesh. I fantasized about how she looked naked, mourning the loss of her beautiful body, realizing I would never again hold Emily in the throes of passion.
“Rem, she is not Emily, she is a fucking monster,” I said aloud.
All at once Emily stopped twitching and her eyes went still, her body slouched slightly.
I gripped the revolver my dad had left me in my right hand. It felt slick in my palm, my hands were sweating. The handle was worn smooth; how many times had my dad used this? For what? My first thought was to run out of the office, push something in front of the door to block it and get the guys and—
Shit, I have to do this.
I raised the gun up to eye level and deliberately sighted the gun on Emily’s forehead. I used the technique Buell taught me to line up the sight; I was no more than six feet away. I pulled the hammer back until it clicked and took one long, deep breath.
Emily’s eyes opened.
They were jet black, and the whites of her eyes were bright red, her lips curled in what looked like a faint smile. Emily cocked her head quickly to the side and she looked at me. Her mouth opened, she exhaled—
I missed.
The combination of the shaky, sweaty hand and kick of the gun caused my first shot to go high and to the left of the target. How the fuck did I miss her from six feet away?
I watched the thing that was no longer Emily rise from the chair awkwardly. She did not use her outstretched arms to lift herself, and fell flat on her face as the chair’s wheels served their purpose.
Ease of mobility,
it had said it right on the box, I remembered. Those fuckin’ wheels were smooth as silk and even on carpet, glided effortlessly. As a result, not-Emily laid flat on her face, not more than three feet in front of me. She moaned loudly as she slowly lifted her head; then, using her arms more efficiently, she began to rise.
I didn’t miss.
The shot struck Emily in the back of her head just above her neck. Blood and brain matter sprayed a pizza platter sized opaque circle on the carpet as the bullet traveled through her skull, and exited her face. She did not scream, twitch, or react in any way other than to drop straight down, face buried in the carpet. With the blood and brain-filled halo surrounding her head on the rug, she appeared an angel of death. Subsequently, I emptied my stomach of its contents. I quickly wiped the bile from my lips and gasped for air. The smell of gunpowder overwhelmed me, and my ears were ringing from the gunfire echo in the small office.
Thankfully, I do not have an image of Emily’s face blown apart, or her expression as she took a bullet to her brain. Looking back, I am glad I missed the first time. It kept the image of a bullet to her face from my consciousness forever. I didn’t look at what was facing down on the carpet.
“Buell, Max, I’m okay!” I cried, but they were already in the office and had seen the second shot.
“I was gonna do it, man, shit, I am so sorry,” Buell said, Glock in one hand, and hugging me around my neck with the other. “I don’t know if I could have done that had I been in your shoes,” he added.
“We are going to take care of this…um... her…Emily,” Max spoke nervously, reaching to his right. He picked up the bottle of bourbon on the sofa table next to the crushed candy dish, and handed it to me while carefully taking the revolver from my shaking hand. “Here, man, it’s not a solution, but go keep busy. Buell and I got this.”
I watched Buell grab the jacket from the desk and cover Emily’s head with it. “Max, go rip that fucking car cover off the window—”
“On my way, Buell!” Max shouted as he sprinted out of the office.
“Get the fuck out of here, Rem, I am serious,” Buell said as he pushed the bottle of Buffalo Trace into my chest and wrapped my other arm around it. “Have a drink, get some air. Go up on the roof, we will meet you up there in a few minutes, brother.”
Ed was standing in the garage when I entered, with a somber look on his face that was both comforting and supportive.
“You need anything, Rem?” he said.
“Naw, man, go back to sleep, you gotta be gone early tomorrow.”
“Okay, if you need anything, I am in the Escalade,” Ed added.
I turned to my left and headed out the door as Max came jogging in and made an exaggerated move to avoid me with the car cover in tow. I walked slowly out of the office and did not look back. I walked through the lobby and into the garage. I looked out the window to my left, and looked at Emily’s Vette, the monsters were still milling about the car.
“I’ll be on the roof.”
I had a feww belts after writing that chapter. I miss her hell, I miss Buell, Max, and Rich asswell. I don’t knoow if I will ever see them again. I don’t know if I will ever see anybody ever again. ’Cept Speedy. I just don’t think I have the capaciity to bum rush hundreds of monsters waiting for me at the top of the stairs. So I am stuuuck here. I don’t want to be eaten alive. God Damn Footsterpa!!!! I drank too much, I feel buzzsa, and tried, I have about a onee mnore day of food, shtty brown water….”Why fucked j did I not t gowith you, Emily? Fuck this, I a going to….
Hey, Speedy, come back, put this hat on! he must be great at that limbo game, he gets pretty low under those boxes.. Little fuckker. I amndrinking too much now, therte aree wet stains of ink everythwer, cause of course the ribbon earliower just went dry. Like ouur relat- The a andf I cant write fer shit,I wil sleep it off anf pick it up tomorrw.
Goodkn
Post Script-
The alcohol hit me pretty hard last night. I haven’t eaten much the past few days. I was going to just throw away that chapter, but I decided to keep it in. The point I typed about regretting I did not go with Emily—or keep her with me—is true. I have actually read this chapter back more than any other I have written so far.
True story.
“They are more trouble than they are worth, but not really.”
“I am sorry, Rem, I know that must have been terrible,” Max said as he passed the bottle of Buffalo Trace to me.
“It’s alright, man, I mean, it’s not alright but I am really glad she didn’t come back as one of those things and wander around helplessly attacking everybody. I can’t imagine what that must be like,” I said. “I appreciate you guys taking care of that. I am grateful I didn’t have to see her that way for one second longer.”
“I gotta admit, I tried my hardest not to look either,” Max added as he grabbed the bottle I passed back him.
“I didn’t see much,” Buell said, looking down at the small makeshift campfire we had constructed on top of the roof. “Sorry, man.”
Earlier, Max had brought a large oil pan up the catwalk to the roof. He filled it with assorted wooden planks he picked from the garage. We sat on the roof, in the middle of the night, passing a bottle of bourbon, watching a makeshift campfire in a metal pan. At that point, we didn’t give a shit if the zombies saw us or not.
“Was she the one, man?” Buell asked. “I know you guys were on and off, but she always seemed to come back. Do you think you would have wound up with her? I mean, if life had continued normally…”
“I dunno,” I said. “She didn’t seem like the permanent relationship type, but of all the women—” My voice broke and I faltered but Buell saved me.
“Max, remember Anna?” Buell laughed as he reached for the bottle across the flames. “Remember when we came over to Rem’s and she was passed out in the hedge in front of the pool?”
“Yeah, and Remy was asleep on the patio chair. Wait, how did that go down, Rem?” Max asked, laughing in unison with Buell.
“She told me she fell into the hedge and was stuck, so I tossed her the pruning shears and passed out.” I smiled at the memory.
Then we all laughed out loud, but Buell to the point of almost choking.
“I felt horrible about that for a long time. I was just so hammered it made sense at the time,” I added a bit defensively.
Buell picked up a bag of peanuts, cracked one open, and threw the shell into the fire. We all watched it burn and heard the quiet crack when the shell scorched.
“I love nuts with bourbon,” Buell said, cracking another.
“Legumes,” Max said.
“Huh?” Buell said.
I knew what Max meant, peanuts are not nuts, technically, they are legumes.
“Peanuts don’t grow on trees, they grow in the ground, so they are legumes,” Max added, looking into the fire.
“Well, I love me some legume-butter and jelly sandwiches, regardless,” joked Buell.
We all laughed. Another home run. Damn it, Buell was clutch under pressure.
Thank God.
“Jesus, Max, where do you fit all this information?” Buell asked. “I am still reeling from that time you told me black boxes aren’t black. I still can’t get ’round that.”
I perked up at this tidbit. “Oh yeah? What—”
“Orange,” Max answered.
Made sense, it would be easier to find.
I reached for the bottle, and looked at Buell. “So what about you? I haven’t seen you with a woman since that Cindy girl from our ride to the Grand Canyon.”
“I don’t have time—”
“What, waxing your pipes takes too much time?” Max laughed, taking the bottle back from me.
“Naw, man, I just have stuff I wanna do. Cindy had this crazy notion that I was supposed to call her back after she called me,” Buell said, shaking his head.
“Wasn’t she the one who wanted the impossible oral?” Max asked.
“Wait, what?” I jumped in. “I haven’t heard about this, Buell!”
“Seriously? I never told you this story?” Buell smiled.
“Nope, I think I would remember this one.”
“Okay, well she liked getting oral, right,” Buell said as he took a long slug of bourbon. “But she was really sensitive in the beginning, so I had to do it really lightly to start with.”
Already Max was laughing so hard he lost his balance and fell back over the rear axle taken from ’69 VW Bug. I had dragged that axle up a few weeks ago to keep some sheet metal from flying off the roof-mounted air conditioner. Now Max’s ass was re-purposing it.
“I love this story. Tell him, Buell, tell ’em! Rem, wait till you hear this!” Max struggled back to his seat and took the bottle from Buell. He took a drink and the bourbon leaked from his lips as he tried to regain his composure.
“C’mon, tell me, Buell, let’s hear it,” I said.
“Okay, so she liked it soft in the beginning, I mean, she was super sensitive to start. It was ridiculous, just how she was. So, I kept missing.”
“Missing?” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah, I was trying so hard to be gentle that I would literally miss the whole thing,” Buell said, burying his face in his hands. “You know, I hovered too high and missed the target area.”
“Like a second baseman’s phantom tag on a double play!” Max said, again laughing hysterically.
“So your tongue was shooting air balls?” I asked, laughing as well.
“Then she would ask why I stopped,” Buell said, looking to the sky. “But I wasn’t stopping, I was just, you know, missing. It was impossible.”
We were all laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes. I am sure the reason this seemed so hysterical was because we were desperately in need of a good laugh. Honestly, I am not sure it was quite that funny, but I was sure we needed the comic relief.
On second thought, maybe it was?
I am sure the bourbon helped too.
Buell was sitting by the fire, obviously embarrassed. I would bet a case of Buffalo Trace Buell was glad to jump on a grenade for the team though. We needed the laugh, and self-deprecation was definitely in the Buell playbook.
“Women are so demanding,” added Buell, “but I have to admit it would be nice to have someone to share my…rent with.”
“Asshole,” Max said, punching Buell in the shoulder.
Buell wouldn’t admit it, but I bet that punch hurt. Even messing around, Max was a brute. Buell didn’t rub his arm, but I know he wanted to.
“I miss Kristen,” Max said. He was staring into the fire in a surprise moment of candor. “I really could have settled down with her.”
“Whatever happened to her anyway? I just remember that being over so—”
“He found out she had a penis,” Buell added.
It was on.
Max leapt to his right and dropped Buell on his back, laughing and slapping at the same time.
“Uncle!” Buell laughed, trying to cover his face. “Remy, help!”
“On my way, Buell!” I yelled, jumping to my feet and almost in one motion circumventing the fire and rescuing the bourbon from Buell’s hand. “Don’t worry, nothing spilled!” I exclaimed as I sat back down, ignoring the melee.
Eventually Max had enough, and let Buell get up. He laughed to himself and puffed out his chest.
“That was funny, Buell,” Max said. “What’s even funnier is Kristen told me it was too small for you though.”
Laughs all around.
“She moved to New York for a job, turd,” Max clarified as he reached for the bourbon.
“I remember that, the ill-fated long-distance relationship ensued,” Buell said.
“Ayup.” Max nodded. “It actually shook me up a bit. I remember dropping her off for the red-eye and driving straight to the nearest bar,” Max said, pausing to stare into the fire.
“So cliché.” Buell rolled his eyes.
“You would think so,” Max said. “But you know that is bullshit. The whole go-to-the-bar-and-be-sad thing.”
“Huh,” I said.
“Yeah, so I go to the bar, but nobody’s there, hell it’s almost one in the mornin’, I think. This little hole in the wall, can’t remember the name of the place. Anyway, I sit down on a stool and the bartender sees me, comes over from the other end of the bar, and asks me what I want. I tell him bourbon, his choice, and he goes and gets a bottle of Four Roses—”
“Good stuff,” Buell interrupted.
“Agreed. Anyway, after he pours the drink, he says six bucks, or whatever. I put a ten on the bar, he takes it, and walks away. He didn’t ask me how I was doing, or what was on my mind or any of that bullshit. He didn’t even buy me a drink. The fucker just walked back to his business at the other end of the bar.”
I laughed out loud.
“I was pretty pissed at the time. I mean, what the fuck? When is the part when he asks me what is on my mind? ’Cause after that I get to tell him my problems, right? Where the fuck was my sage advice? He didn’t even polish a glass nearby to make a token effort. Douchebag.”
“You’re killing me,” Buell said, laughing and playing an air violin. “So it’s all bullshit? The empathetic bartender in the lonely dive?”
“Only happens in the movies or a country song,” I said just before I added my own bourbon laced spittle to the fire.
After my spit hissed in the fire, Max reached for the nearly empty bottle of bourbon and continued, “Getting too close is a drag when it doesn’t work out.”
“History doesn’t always repeat, Max,” I said in a serious tone.
“But it sure does rhyme a lot,” Buell jabbed.
“That was pretty good, Buell. Not bad, dude, you write that?” I asked chortling.
“Mark Twain.”
I nodded.
“Kristen was beautiful, I will give you that, Max,” I said. “You truly outkicked your coverage there. She was movie star qual—”
“Pssshhh!” snorted Buell in protest. “Let’s not get too crazy, she was no Morgan Fairchild.”
“Morgan Fairchild? Where did you pull that name from? Your high school jerk-a-dex?”
“Don’t tell me your little man didn’t move in your Underoos when you saw her on
Love Boat.
She was my first crush, the standard by which all others will forevermore be measured.”
“I actually dug Jaclyn Smith when I was little, had a
Charlie’s Angels
poster with her on it,” Max added, with a smile and a glance at the stars. “I had a huge crush on her—fuck Farrah Fawcett, man. Jaclyn had great—”
“Jane Fonda for me when I was a lad. Let me explain it to you two Neanderthals in a way you can understand…
None more like her.
”
“I suggest you head east for about 7300 miles if you wanna find her now,” Buell joked.
“Wait, I think I got that joke?” I said, looking at Max.
Max shrugged his shoulders quizzically.
“Look, I am not sure if she was the one, but she sure moved the needle more than any other—Emily, I mean, not Jane.”
“I know what you mean, Rem,” Max said, rescuing me from my sappy proclamation. “I liked you with her around, and that is saying something.”
“To Emily,” Buell said, grabbing the bottle from Max and raising it skyward.
Buell took a swig and passed it to me with a wink. I saw him rub his shoulder after he passed the bottle to me. Sneaky fucker. Max did hit really hard. I toasted, took a drink, and passed the last of the bourbon to Max. He finished the bottle, got up, and flung it over the edge of the building toward the undead assholes below. He threw it fucking hard. The frustration was hard to hide, even for Max.
The buzz from the bourbon and male camaraderie significantly curtailed my grief. I was thankful for these two guys. Less than an hour ago I had been questioning my own will to go on, and now I was optimistic and energized. Besides, I had something I needed to do. The more the minutes passed, the more crystallized my feelings and intentions became.
I gave a parting shot to my buzzed droogs as I headed to the roof hatch. “They are more trouble than they are worth, but not really.”
“I certainly hope so, for all our sakes.”
“You lookin’ at what I am looking at, Max?” I said, pointing to the south while simultaneously handing him the binoculars.
“Jesus, man, those fuckers are getting pretty close, huh?” Max answered. “How much time do you think we have till they get to our neck of the woods?”
“A day or two, not more.”
From the roof of the garage, we peered across the highway toward the San Jose airport and the surrounding fields. It was dusk, and as the sun set, more menacing shadows appeared across the horizon. It appeared at first glance like thousands of roaches moving in slow motion. However, as the sun set, the roaches grew, the shadows lengthened; it was clear the roaches stood upright and were a different kind of monster.
There were isolated cars, helicopters, tanks, and military planes moving about, but not as many as I had hoped. It looked odd to see the cars moving so erratically. It just looked wrong, for lack of a better world. Sometimes I forgot what good little campers we were on a daily basis. Day after day we followed our little self-imposed traffic laws. But take away those laws and rules and toss out that flimsy paper book you got at the DMV, and all of sudden it looked like Armageddon down there. You think the Bible is a powerful book? I am gonna go with the
California Driver’s Handbook
.
