ZOMBIE'S DOOM? "Chronicles of Jack Doom" (38 page)

As the door opened wide, the stench was like a freight train smashing into my nose, even though it was a smell that I'd endured many times before, I was just starting to get used to the musty locker room odor in the high school gym.

Outside the gym, we could see hundreds of snapping heads hanging in small net bags on what looked like rows of make shift clotheslines made of heavy gauge wire.

Along with a slight breeze that was also sweeping their reeking stink into the building, the constant opening and closing of their chopping mouths propelled their motion as they bit at the flies that hovered all around them.

Under each bag were varying sizes of maggot filled saliva pools giving off an eerie illusion of life, as the small larvae squirmed in the juices of the still propagating spit glands constantly secreting as the severed heads pumped their jaws.

"Every Saturday and Sunday nights, we have what my followers refer to as fight nights; some of the heads that are hanging in front of you are from the fighters that lost their battle on fight nights.

However, most of the heads you see swinging in front of you are the weaklings of this world that thought they would... how did I put it before? Oh yes, they thought that they would buy me a Coke!

Well, except for the Coke part, they got their wish; they are hanging together in peace and euphony forever after."

Cupping his humungous right ear in his large right hand, the Caucasian leaned in the direction of the dangling decapitated heads and listened to the chomping, snapping, and crunching sounds made as the ravenous heads clapped their jaws together repeatedly, chipping their teeth and slapping their top and bottom lips against one another.

"Do you hear that Mr. Doom? That is the sound of euphony forever after that they were seeking."

Thinking that this psychopathic demigod was trying to scare the living shit out of me, my unemotional comment was meant to convince the maniacal freak show that his ploy to unnerve me was unsuccessful, even though it was working like a charm.

"Lovely smell you've discovered, you should bottle it, you'd make millions," I said, plastering a greasy smile on my face to help persuade the man that his appalling ploy hadn't worked.

My off the cuff semi-sarcastic remark brought a look of confusion to the man's face that seemed to bring out some feminine features that I had not previously noticed due to his misproportioned and malformed facial structure. His naturally bleached skin contrasted with his deep-set dark circled eyes and accentuated his high protruding cheekbones, which made him resemble some type of female kabuki dancer in drag.

I had to repress my thoughts as I noticed freakish subtleties in the man's bodily gestures and facial expressions for fear of laughing in his face.

It reminded me of the good old days back at the buffoonery where I worked before the apocalypse struck.

Once I had determined that my boss Batshit Bobby was as crazy as his name implied, on numerous occasions I began to imagine him in a straight jacket with lipstick smeared all around his mouth, rocking from side to side in his chair when I was discussing business matters with him.

I stopped practicing that visualization exercise that was quickly becoming an enjoyable daily habit, when one day we were having a conversation about something that Batshit deemed very serious.

On that particular day, I was busy picturing him with his arms crossed and strapped into his usual very long-sleeved tan jacket that buckled in the back, instead of listening to the gibberish spewing from his pie hole. In my mind, I saw him yapping through the bright red lipstick that he had caked around his mouth as if a monkey had applied it for him, and tilting back and forth in his leather bound bosses seat.

That day I came very close to bursting out and laughing in
his
face.

After that episode, I decided that it would be a little more prudent of me, and a lot safer for my career, to abandon that simple pleasure and not take the chance of having to explain my odd reaction to my insane boss's serious demeanor.

With that memory instilled deep in my psyche, I decided that the current situation might become a lot worse if I were to bust out with a huge guffaw in the face of the feared and supposedly all-powerful Caucasian.

In any case, his thousand-yard stare at the conclusion of my comment about the stench that was searing our nose hairs to their roots, made me think that he was wrestling with the concept of my subtle humor.

Although he had the means at his disposal to terminate what I was sure he felt was our impudent and pathetic existence, he made no moves in that direction.

If he had tried to secure our demise at that time, I can assure you, both Derek and I had a completely different concept of how our relationship was going to proceed, and
his
demise would have been first on the agenda instead of ours.

Instead, he chose to continue to play his brand of chess with us.

"I like you Jack! May I call you Jack?" he asked, again not waiting for an answer. "That is why I have decided to kill you last."

I'm sorry, but I just couldn't help myself, the pasty anemic had left me with an opening that I couldn't pass up.

"Well that's mighty
white
of you Mr. Caucasian," I said to the freakish albino, trying my best not to crack a smile.

Derek however was not as successful at repressing his response to my colorful and timely, yet politically incorrect witticism that seemed to fly high over the Caucasian's head as he responded without as much as a blink of his red eyes.

"Please Jack, call me Caucasian."

Then as he noticed Derek smiling, he inquired.

"Why are you smiling Mr. Derek?"

Derek was caught completely off guard by the albino's question; he was still amused by my comment and answered the best way he could think of on the spur of the moment.

"Because I like you Mr. Caucasian," he said.

"Please, you may call me Caucasian too!"

"Caucasian it is then," Derek replied, hoping that the giant would settle for his pathetic off the top of his head explanation.

There was something very odd about this guy, his height, his color, his demeanor, his accent and speech pattern, everything about him was odd, something was not right.

But he had not shown any real aggression toward me or Derek, other than his constant willingness to try to scare the hell out of us, and sometimes doing just that.

He had promised to kill me last, I didn't know if that statement was just another one of his seemingly endless sick attempts to make me lose control of my bodily functions and piss down my leg, or if he really thought that he would kill everyone else before me. Whoever everyone else was?

I didn't know what to think, except that at this point he was standing in the way of me finding the Sarge, and as far as I knew, every second I spent dealing with the Caucasian, was a second that I wasn't looking for my old
friend
.

"Ok, Caucasian it is," I also agreed, walking back into the gym. "This isn't a social call you know, I looked you up for the sole purposes of getting some information from you and maybe joining your ranks."

"Jack Doom, I hope you have not come here to barter, many of those bags outside are filled with the heads of people that wanted to barter with me," Caucasian stated sternly. "I live by one simple rule, and that rule is.
What is mine is mine, and what is yours is mine
."

"Let me tell you about people that think they can barter their way through life in... how did you put it, this here zombie apocalypse," I said, looking the freakish mutant directly in his red eyes.

"Most of the barterer's that have approached me, have done so heavily ladened with their wares, whether those wares were equipment, guns, food, or whatever.

Once I surmise that they are weighted down with their goods, I usually weigh them down a little more with lead. Then I take what I want, and leave the rest for the eaters to devour."

Projecting yourself as some kind of weakling sissy was the fastest way I knew to be fed a knuckle sandwich at the end of a bully's fist back when I was a kid. It was also a good way to get yourself mugged if you found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time as an adult.

However, in the middle of a biblical proportioned cataclysmic event such as a
Zombie Armageddon
, projecting yourself as anything but being a stone cold badass, was like waving your own signed death warrant in the face of your assailant.

With that said, I continued to lie to the Caucasian (somewhat), boosting my reputation as a major league badass as I went.

The tall aberration smiled.

"Most impressive Jack Doom!"

"Yeah, I like to pump a couple of extra slugs into the pantywaists for good measure, just because I feel that they deserve it. You know how it is."

"Yes I do know how it is, and I understand why you would want to take precautions in these times of trouble," the white behemoth answered, as he lumbered back to his undersized chair. "Weakness, cowardice, and stupidity can sometimes be contagious. It is always better to be safe than sorry."

I found the albino's last comment about being safe mildly amusing.

Even though we had been thoroughly searched by his guards and stripped of our weapons prior to our introduction, he had allowed himself to be left with two total strangers that were fresh out of the Indiana Badlands, as his guards did not join us during our tour of the hanging heads. Instead, they stayed behind to guard his empty
throne room
.

Maybe he was so confident of his hand-to-hand fighting skills that our presents was of no concern to him, or he felt that his reputation was enough to cripple any assassination attempt that
we
might make.

Perhaps, he was armed to the teeth under the gray monk's robe that he wore, and was concealing his weapons from us, ready at any moment to reveal the hidden arsenal and slay us in turn.

Whatever the reason for seemingly going unguarded with us to view the swinging heads, now after our tour, we were back with his want-to-be military guys that were clinging to their boss like a pair of thirsty leaches, and I'm sure that the Caucasian felt even more secure in their soon to be inept presents.

Many
unknown
factors played into my decision to waylay the Caucasian and put him out of our misery and everyone else's for that matter, most of all was the
known
fact that he had threatened to kill me. Kill me first, or kill me last, the threat was still a threat, and it was all the same to me.

I hadn't found the Sarge as of yet, but experiences in the zombie wasteland had taught me that almost everything and everybody is either going to try to kill you, eat you, scratch you, bite you, or in some way, shape, or form, going to try to put an end to your existence the best way they know how. Therefore, when some joker decides he
or she
is going to telegraph the blow, and warn you that they're coming for you, you had better take it seriously, or it just might be the last thing that you don't take seriously. So I decided to take the Caucasian's threat seriously and deal with him in a timely manner.

Sometime later, after both Derek and I had spun about as much bullshit yarn as we could make up under the emotional duress that we were suffering during our visit, the seven-foot lummox, seemingly enjoying our tall tales (no pun intended), smiled, and asked me.

"What is this information that you think I can provide for you Jack?"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine, he is traveling with a blonde haired girl, I heard that they might have joined your group," I answered, pretending that I was ignorant of the circumstances. "His name is Ron, but I always call him Sarge."

"My sentries told me that you were searching for Ron, and that you claimed to be his friend," the Caucasian admitted. "Ron and his blonde haired female did appear outside our front door some time ago, and they begged to be part of my family.

However, neither Ron nor his concubine are with us now.

It seems that his female decided to go on sabbatical, and she took another female with her.

Ron, or as you say you call him, Sarge, was so upset at her departure, that I allowed a few of my elite palace guards to accompany him outside the compound and help round them up."

Seeing a chance to not only leave the Caucasian's fortress unscathed, but to also have the opportunity of finding the Sarge with only a few of his
new
friends surrounding him, I said to our gargantuan host.

"If you or one of your guards could point us in the right direction, we'll not only help search for the blonde haired girl, but we'll return with the Sarge and join your group," I said, lying through my teeth. "Right Derek?"

"Oh, absolutely," Derek agreed, convincingly nodding his head.

"Fuck you Jack Doom," the Caucasian jeered, shaking his head and laughing. "If I let you go out into the Badlands looking for Ron you might get yourself killed or decide not to come back."

"Hey, I like that, do you mind if I use that, I'll have that printed on my business cards," I jeered back, also laughing. "Yeah, my cards will read,
Jack Doom,
FUCK YOU
!
"