Zombie Fallout 9 (18 page)

I
awoke
the next morning with a start. Nearly took off the top of my head when I sat up quickly. I was trying to figure out where the hell I was, and more importantly, why I was naked. Figured BT was trying to take advantage of me. That gave me a smile. I missed the man. Then everything crashed back into me: the kids, the roof, the zombies, my leg. I was pretty sure I hadn't slept for two days because my clothes were still slightly damp, though I sort of wished I had. The idea of putting them on while my skin was salted over from the ocean was not all that appealing. The choices were limited. Pretty sure the kids wouldn't want to be rescued from me in that condition. I could see my son, saying “pass” when I showed up in the truck. I grabbed my damp clothes and opened the door.

“Zombie.” I said softly. It was the smell. It wasn't overpowering, not at all, almost a ghost of the scent. Like I'd been visited by an ethereal living dead one. I placed my clothes down and grabbed my rifle, hesitant to use it even if I needed it. If I was feeling sticky from my time in the water, how was my rifle faring? I wasn't going to do anyone any favors if the damn thing blew up in my face. I listened intently for a sign of anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. That didn't necessarily mean too much though. Zombies were generally stationary when they were trapped, at least until something caught their interest. I pushed the rifle through the railing, but there was no target.

I climbed down the ladder, clearly aware of just how naked I was. Something about nudity displayed just what frail and fragile beings we were. On the plus side, my left leg was completely behaving itself, sore but otherwise moving like it should. I made it all the way down the ladder without any problems. It was when my right foot touched down that all the festivities began. I don't know where the fucker was hiding. She scared the shit out of me when she turned the corner and ran straight at me. Barely had enough time to turn around and get my rifle in front of me. As for the shit thing, I want to be clear that this was more an expression than a reality, although at least I was appropriately undressed if this were to have happened. The barrel of the rifle struck her belly as she forced herself forward. The barrel twisted up, and just as I lost my grip, a round went up and under her breastplate then the rifle fell to the ground.

She didn't care, even as the round exited somewhere around her collarbone and slammed into the ceiling. I had her at arm's length. She was slimy, sort of like month-old deli meat. With one hand, I tried to fend her off while also trying my best to punch her into oblivion. I'd hit her enough times in the temple to make that happen. I was sure she had to be feeling some effects. She drove my back into the ladder, and for one disgustingly gross encounter, my best friend for most of my teenaged years collided with her midriff. Let me make this clearer: My penis smashed up against her greasy, oily, dirty, diseased and sore encrusted, gray, brown, dead, pus-covered skin. I damn near froze up. Felt like I was trying to hump a beached tuna or something. I mean not that I'd ever done something like that. Was just letting my imagination run wild with that one. At this fucking point, I'd do the fish a couple of times if it meant I didn't have to touch this thing. I attempted to push off, with extreme prejudice, but my hands sunk into her sallow and rotten flesh.

“Oh, come on.” I looked at the gelatinous mess hanging from my right hand. It looked very much like an overabundance of dog snot. This I was all too familiar with. Henry could manufacture it like no one's business. She came back for more. I made sure to turn my hips to the side to avoid a repeat of our earlier encounter. She turned her head when I punched. She couldn't have been any closer to biting down on my knuckles if I'd purposefully inserted them in her mouth. She snapped at air, her teeth making an awful clacking sound. I just kept jack hammering the side of her head. There was a loud
crunch
, and either my knuckles had given or her skull had. There was enough pain in my hand that it could have been the latter. Her eyes were beginning to lose focus as I somehow went faster. My arm was a blur as I cocked it back and just kept pummeling. I had my left hand wrapped around her throat. I was clutching so hard that if she had any humanity in her, she would have been fighting for air.

My chest was heaving with exertion while I forced her to the ground, my umm, my junk dangerously close to circumcision by zombie. Luckily, it hadn't dawned on me at the time. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her skull was caving, as I forced shards of it into her brain. My knuckles were bruised and bleeding by the time I finished. My shoulder and bicep were sore, and I'd dislocated two fingers.

“Fuck!” I yelled. When I let go of her neck, she collapsed to the floor, shaking violently. I kicked her once in the midsection for the pain she'd inflicted on me. That's when I remembered I was barefoot and that hurt as well. So being the brainchild that I am, I hauled off and kicked her with my other foot. I cried out in pain again. “You're an asshole!” I told her. She didn't care as she passed over to wherever they go. I stumbled to the bathroom, my limbs now dangerously heavy as the adrenaline dose dissipated within me. Pastel blue coated the walls along with a plethora of seashells. It looked like a third grade art experiment in there, with shells glued to the mirror and the toilet. All I could think was they looked like damn barnacles. I tossed the lid off the tank reservoir and plunged my hand in, a swirl of sludge drifted off. I cried out again when my disjointed joints bumped up into the toilet innards. When I pulled my hand out, it was reasonably clean, but I looked like I had a severe case of crippling arthritis. My pinkie and “fuck you” finger were bent at unnatural angles.

“This is going to suck; this is going to suck” was my mantra for the moment. Must have repeated that phrase twenty times, psyching myself up to do what needed to be done. I dipped my toe into the pool (figuratively) with my pinkie. It was smaller, so I figured it would hurt less. Side note: It didn't. Sounded like two pieces of wet, heavy-grit sandpaper rubbing against each other when I grasped the tip of my finger and pulled straight outward. For five brutal seconds, the knuckle did not pop back into place but rather sat atop the hand as if to get a better view of the world. A flood of relief passed through me when it slid back into place. Sweat flowed from every pore within my body. So much so, it was pooling at my feet. If I hadn't known any better, I would have thought the toilet had a leak. I danced around until the pain abated. The thought of going through that again did not sit well with me. Usually, you can do something once because you just don't have any idea how bad it's going to be, but once you have the experience, do you really want to give it another go?

Case in point, my sister had a dog, Talon, beautiful German Shepherd, but he fancied himself a hunter. His quarry was a porcupine. He ended up with a mouthful of one hundred and twelve quills. An emergency visit to the vet and three hundred and thirty-six bucks later, he was cured. At three bucks a quill, I would have done it. You got to believe any sane dog would have said, “Yup, lesson learned; that slow thing with the funny spiny looking fur is a definite no-go.” I guess this was a poor example. The very next week, he came home with ninety-eight. I think my sister got a volume discount at the vet the next time, though. Much like Talon, I was compelled to go back for more. I grabbed the tip of my middle finger and danced around that small bathroom like I was being stung by a nest of hornets. I was yelling all sorts of obscenities, a fair number of them made up on the spot. Instead of wet sandpaper, this one sounded like an old rusty door that hadn't had its hinges oiled since the New Deal era. Before I popped that finger in, I wouldn't have thought the human body capable of making that sound.

Maybe I had enough endorphins flowing through my body this time, or it just wasn't as bad, but the pain was almost manageable. I dropped to my knees, gripped the edges of the toilet bowl, and wretched. There wasn't much to it besides some long strings of bile-laced drool. I stayed that way for a few minutes, my head hanging low. I was again wiped. When I felt certain I could stand without swaying, I did so. I went back out to the hallway. The zombie was still twitching like she had a small electrical current being pushed through her body. I stopped and stared at her. She couldn't have been much older than twenty, maybe even late teens. Almost done in by a female teenager. She tried to finish what my daughter had started. I think a grim smile forced my lips upwards. I wasn't sure, and I definitely didn't want to see that expression in the mirror. I looked up and scanned the rest of the cottage, a little late in the game. If there had been another zombie, I would have been screwed. It wasn't like they were wallflowers and would wait until someone came up and talked to them, even then avoiding eye contact. Nope, they were all teeth and fingernails.

I was as gross as I can ever recall being. A fair part of me including my nether regions and thighs were coated in a thick viscous solution I decided to call body gel. I'll deal my way, you deal yours. I had blood all over both arms, some gray matter and bone bits as well. Add to that the general overall stickiness of my forced swim the previous day, and I could barely stand my own skin. There was no way I could put my clothes back on. I didn't have the intestinal fortitude for that. I went back to the bathroom. I'd completely spoiled the water in the toilet tank and had sort of puked into the bowl, so yeah, the toilet was definitely out. I flushed and heard a strangled cry of air-logged water pipes attempting to do something they hadn't been called on to do in some time. There was some gurgling: my belly and the toilet. I jumped back when bright, blood red water flowed into the toilet. It looked like I'd severed the thing's artery or something. I'd seen rusty water before, but this looked like paint and was nearly as thick.

“Take pity on me!” I wailed to the gods. I could see the fuckers now, and they were laughing at me. I started mimicking them, “Yeah, let's get the automysophobiac as disgustingly dirty as possible without any chance of cleaning himself, and we'll see if he breaks down or not.” I think Zeus was giving ten-to-one odds I wouldn't make it through the morning. Oh, and just in case you ended up in your shelter without a dictionary, automysophobia is the fear of being dirty. I had that one in spades in addition to the rest of my issues. I turned the shower on as well as the sink. Whatever sludge was working its way through the system, it had completely fouled up the showerhead because only drops of blood, as if the thing had sliced itself with a razorblade, were making it through the small openings. The sink spigot, though, was gushing the vile fluid that I noticed had a very distinct and disgusting odor, like rotting fish.

The bathroom was looking like a serial killer's headquarters. I backed out and closed the door behind me, not even bothering to shut the water off. Well, fluid, I didn't shut the fluid off. I thought I might have more luck in the kitchen. I didn't. This I did shut off, though, when the foul smell began to assail my senses. I got down on my haunches to check the cabinet under the sink. There were your typical cleaning supplies. I wondered if Drano would hurt too much if I lathered it on my skin.

“Ah dish soap!” I hadn't even begun to think this through as I squirted copious amounts on my body. Dish soap in small amounts in a perfect world takes a few gallons of water to wash off, I didn't have so much as an ounce. I was wondering how much saliva I could produce in the next few minutes. I now had a rapidly thickening congealing mess of soap holding all the other things I had on me, onto me. My arms were outstretched. I didn't dare move for fear that something would get stuck.

“What have I done?” I lamented. I pulled everything out from under the sink; anything in liquid form went into the “maybe” pile. Lysol, carpet cleaner, lighter fluid, you name it. I'm crazy, not quite insane though. I looked out the window and to the ocean. That was my play now. Sticky was leagues better than whatever I was now. Hell, I wouldn't care if a school of haddock pissed on me right now. Anything was better than this. I was heading for the back door when a small door to my left caught my attention. I opened it up just to make sure there were no zombies. It led downstairs. No smell; that was encouraging, and it gave me pause to reconsider my ocean swim. I was heading outdoors without clothes but, more importantly, without my rifle. I had to check the basement. Maybe I would luck out and there would be a hot tub.

The basement was more of a crawlspace, just tall enough that I could stand, but it wasn't much bigger than the bathroom upstairs. Shelves containing large jars dominated the whole wall to my left. At first, I mistakenly believed that this was indeed the home of a deranged killer and the jars were full of various body parts he used as trophies for his sick fantasies. Then it dawned on me that these were pickling jars full of mostly cucumbers. Some had beets and other things I wouldn't have eaten when other fare was available. My repulsive self was forgotten for the moment as I opened a jar of pickles and took a sniff. Why I was compelled to place my nose a quarter inch from the top of the jar is beyond me. A strong scent of vinegar burned through my olfactory nerves before I could pull away.