Zombie Fallout 8: An Old Beginning (29 page)

“You watch the door, Mr. T. I’m going to move a little further in.”

I was about to tell him we needed to stick together, but right then, I was realizing why rage wasn’t the greatest emotion on the planet. It used up gallons of adrenaline, and the result of burning adrenaline was extreme fatigue. My legs felt washed out, my arms like wet noodles unable to support even the axe handle. Porkchop’s added weight on my shoulders was threatening to drive me face first into the ground.

“You’re going to have to get off for a minute,” I told him as I got down on my knees so he could hop down. He looked around, and I don’t think he was too thrilled with his new vulnerable position.

I’d been so busy trying to keep from collapsing that I had not at all watched our six for any incoming bad guys, and I’d lost track of my twelve. Tommy’s flashlight looked like a birthday candle from however far away he was.

“Looks clear!” Tommy had shouted.

“Can I take this stuff off?” Porkchop asked.

I wanted to nod, but the energy required to do so seemed insurmountable. Something like “Un,” escaped my lips. He took that as a yes and proceeded to tear off the over-sized pants, boots and helmet. The jacket he kept on.

He picked up his helmet and was directing the beam of light to where the zombie had bit me. “There’s blood, Mr. Talbot, and you don’t look so good. You’ve got kind of that same color I had when I once put a hamburger with cheese and sautéed onions in my ice cream.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked in a measured cadence as I struggled to regain my breath.

I was severely suffering the after-affects. How much longer could I have fought before my heart just exploded? Not long by the look of it. Although I was more concerned why he would take two great foods and, by mixing them together, ruin them both.

“Look
at me,” he said as he lifted my helmet off. Just having access to cooler air made me feel better. Porkchop didn’t think so. “I think you’re becoming a zombie.”

Shit, who knows, maybe I was. I had no idea what it felt like to turn, and right now I was feeling specifically like a piece of discarded fecal matter.

“I’ll make this quick.” Porkchop stood up and grabbed the axe out of my hands.

“You think maybe we could talk about this for a second? I mean
, I did just carry your ass to safety.”

“I guess I owe you at least that much.”

“Appreciated.”

“But no funny stuff.”

“No funny stuff. I promise…if I’m a zombie, I’d appreciate you killing me.”

I sat back so I was resting up against the wall.
I pulled my gloves off and reached down to pull my pant leg up as far as I could, which was almost to my knee, easily far enough to see the ring of teeth marks the zombie had made on my leg. There was some serious bruising from the pressure, but he had not broken skin.

“I think I dodged this one, Porkchop.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I’d hate to do it, Mr. Talbot, but I would.”

“I know you would. Hate to do it, I mean. I’m mostly fine…just out of steam.”

“What’s going on here?” Tommy had come back and Porkchop was still standing over me, the axe at nearly the ready.

“Porkchop here was concerned I might be becoming a zombie, and he was going to help ease my transition into the next world.”

“In his defense you do look pretty bad, Mr. T.”

I wanted to come back with some caustic remark, but I was tapped. “Just need to sit for a minute.”

“Sure.” Tommy stood and gently took the axe from Porkchop. “He’ll be okay. I don’t know how long this thing is, but there are no doorways or intersecting corridors along the way, so I’m pretty sure this is the escape route.”

“Can you be certain?” I asked, raising my gaze up to his with some considerable effort.

“Completely.”

“A hundred percent completely?”

He nodded.

“How?”

“There’s a cigarette butt every fifty yards.”

“Oh.” If Deneaux was here, than we could rest assured it was a way out. “Wait, are you positive she’s still not in here with us, like a vengeful wraith?”

“I think we’re okay. I didn’t smell any new smoke.”

“How about you and me make sure nothing is coming from the building, and we’ll let the old-timer get some rest.”

Porkchop looked from me to Tommy and nodded. That was one resilient kid. I don’t think they moved more than ten feet away; I was out when they had hit half that distance. It really couldn’t have been more than five minutes. They were next to the door just keeping an eye out for anything coming. It was enough to do a little bit of a reset on my system. I’m not going to say I felt a hundred percent, but I also didn’t feel like I had thickening sludge running through me anymore either.

“They’re coming, Mr. T.” Tommy was helping me to my feet.

“The British? What?” My sleeping mind was struggling to find meaning in his words. Then the realization hit like it always does. Zombies. I stood up. I was a little dizzy and tired but not enough to hinder my escape attempt. “How much time?” I was looking over at Porkchop. “Can we barricade the door?”

“Way ahead of you.” Tommy had the chair, which had earlier been holding the door open wedged under a small lip of metal in the middle.

“That’s not going to hold.”

“Way ahead of you. Porkchop, I’m going to carry you.”

“I’d rather run. My bum is still hurting from my last ride.”

“Go, I’ll be right behind you,” I told him.

“What are you doing, Mr. T?”

“Nothing legendary, I’m just going to hold this door shut to give you guys a head start.”

“I’ll stay, too,” Tommy said.

I looked from him to Porkchop and frowned.

“Oh, okay. Well, hurry up then,” he told me and left.

“How long is this thing?” Porkchop asked with trepidation, referring to the length of the corridor.

“About two hot dogs.”

“We should get going then.”

Their lights started bouncing wildly down the shaft. The chair skittered away as a heavy impact hit it from the other side. Luckily, I’d had my shoulder up against the door or I would have joined the chair.

“You okay, Mr. T?” Tommy’s voice trailed up from ahead.

“Fine!” I answered.

I was bumped a couple of inches away from my perch as the zombies regrouped. One unlucky bastard was going to be called Lefty from this point forward as he mistakenly thought putting his fingers in the ensuing opening was a good idea. I slammed the door shut so tightly that the stinking little finger sausages were severed from the zombie. I conveniently ignored the fact that they were slender enough to belong to a woman. I don’t know why that should bother me more, but it did. Monsters are male-based, at least in my head. The Boogie
Man
,
Swamp-Thing, Dracula, Frankenstein, even the phonetically confusing monster named Mummy was male. Zombies just needed to be male—it made it somewhat justifiable to kill them. I’d always been brought up to never strike a woman, much less put a bullet in her head. This was a constant war within my psyche.

I was just going to have to accept the fact that the
man’s
fingers I had just chopped from
his
body were super skinny, and had long nails and he liked to paint them with red nail polish. Who am I to judge what a person does with their body in the privacy of their home?

I placed my back against the door and braced my feet out in front of me. The walls to either side were close enough that, with my arms outstretched, I could use them to help hold myself in place as well. Tommy and Porkchop were making decent time, I’d decided that once I could barely make their light out I was going to make a run for it. That was the plan anyway. If you’ve read any of my previous journals you’ll realize that it never really works out.

I think maybe a bulker had found his way downstairs to this lowest level, because no way could one of them fit down that fire chute. I wish one of them had tried early on, it would have clogged up the works for the rest of them. It would have been like Santa minus his magic dust going down a chimney. Nothing would have come out that incinerator for a week and maybe longer without a little assistance.

The bulker hit the door so hard, I was airborne, flying through the air like a superhero, at least for a second, before I scraped my palms up using them as improvised landing gear. My days as a living door lock were over. My feet were already propelling me into the upright position. I didn’t bother turning around, I was going to run flat out until I hit the far door. Good thing too, because the thing that hit that door the second time ripped it clear from its large steel hinges. I knew I wasn’t dealing with an ordinary zombie when I heard the heavy metal door slam to the ground not more than five feet from my retreating form. As it was, it kissed my heels as its forward momentum made it slide another twenty or thirty feet. I was catching up to Porkchop and Tommy.

“RUN!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I maybe should have used the psychic connection Tommy and I shared. But it was still like a second language to me and I wasn’t comfortable enough with it, especially in a crisis situation whe
re I reverted to my
native
language. I was close enough that I saw the look of horror on Porkchop’s face when he turned to see what was wrong. That was all the incentive I needed. Whatever it was, it was huge, fast and fucking scary. Adrenaline pumps, I was positive, had shot themselves dry were pumping out pure crystalline power, and I was like a junky demanding more and more. I scooped up Porkchop like he was a bag of leaves rolling around the yard on a blustery New England fall day.

“Don’t let me go, Mr. Talbot.” I had him clutched to my chest and he was looking over my shoulder.

“How we doing?” I managed to ask him.

“Don’t slow down.”

I swear, like an image in a mirror, I could see what was coming being reflected in Porkchop’s eyes. It was huge, black and silver. Our zombie ape had found us. Tommy kept stealing glances back.

“Whatever happens
, Mr. T, do not stop.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”
That was when the alarms should have been going off in my head. Not sure I can be held too accountable, kind of had my own thing going on.

Then he was gone, not literally—he didn’t dematerialize. He just reached up, shut off his light and dove to the side. He was as invisible as if he were the tip of a feather being dipped into an inkwell. Even after his words, I almost stopped…damn near couldn’t help myself. He had his reasons, I could only hope he knew exactly what he was doing. We hadn’t gone another ten feet when I heard a sound I hope to never have the misfortune in life to hear again. Accurately describing it would be like trying to explain what love was to a cat. I mean, to love something
besides itself. I’ll give it a shot, though.  Picture a Yeti using a nail gun to build himself some shelves to go inside his cave. Now think of the sound it might make if its hand got in the way of one of those nails. It was a wail like no other. It was so loud that Porkchop dared to release his death grip on me to cover his ears. I did not have that same luxury.

I swear I could feel my eardrums being driven inward; a few more decibels, and they’d tear in half from the force, I was sure of it. The sound was primal and full of not just rage but hatred. Only from hatred could a sound so malevolent be born.

“Run, Mr. T!” Tommy was on my heels. Any closer and he’d be giving me a flat tire if that were possible in boots.

I’d like to think I had another gear or two to offer up to gain some speed, especially since
mine and Porkchop’s lives were at stake. Tommy’s as well, considering he was stuck behind us. I didn’t feel an answer was necessary; first, because I couldn’t spare the breath; and second, I was already doing it.

“Hand me Porkchop!”

“Don’t let me go, Mister Talbot.” Porkchop clutched tight like a toddler prone to nightmares will a favorite teddy bear.

“I can run faster than you, Mr. T,” Tommy beseeched.

Where was he getting all this extra air to exhale on words? I was laboring; the thought of speaking was difficult.

“He’ll throw me to it, Mister Talbot.” Porkchop was crying.

I was surer than Ivory Soap’s claim of purity that Tommy would not do this, yet, that the boy believed it was enough for me to keep running with him like I was a momma kangaroo and he was my offspring. If the transition from myself to Tommy wasn’t perfect, there was a good chance we would all go down into a rolling heap of food-like substance for the zombie ape.

“Can’t,” was all I could get out to Tommy.

I’d no sooner got the word out of my mouth than I was thrust to the side. The over-sized monkey may have started the process, but the unbelievably heavy concussion completed it. I was pretty sure I could feel sticky blood running out of my ears and down my neck. I’d later learn it was actually Porkchop’s sweat, but right then, I thought I’d broken something internally in my head. Although my wife would have you believe that something has been broken in there for quite some time. My struggling lungs were now filling with dust as the entire structure was being shaken on its foundation. I knew the sound for what it was—ordinance, but that didn’t stop my fantasy prone imagination from thinking that it could possibly be a vengeful god taking out his wrath on this desecrated ground.