Zombie Fallout 9 (24 page)

“Okay, so we don't need them to leave. We just need them to clear a path. We mount a few of these incendiary devices on the car.”

“They're not incendiary devices!” Mad Jack yelled.

“Shit, when did you come back in?” I'd been busted. “Okay, we mount some of these zombie repellers-slash fire bombs.”

“Talbot, why are you prodding the genius? This is what makes them evil.” BT was getting in on the goading.

“You don't understand the load the circuitry is under for the signal that needs to be produced. The right components for this job haven't even been made yet. I'm working with prototypes here. That any of them work is a testament to my….”

“It's okay, Mad Jack. Don't get your pocket protector all twisted in knots.” I walked over to him. He was not a fan of good-natured ribbing, and I'd be damned if I indeed made him an evil genius and awoke to see that he had teleported me to an alternate realm where maybe aliens ruled or I was haunted by ghosts. Zombies were bad enough; I'd leave it at that. “Listen, these boxes have saved our ass a couple of times, and we appreciate the hell out of them. Okay?”

He nodded quickly and pushed up on frames for glasses that weren't there. “Okay,” he echoed. I looked sternly over to BT, who I'm sure was about to undo my gesture of good will.

“Ron, I'm going to need a truck.”

“Of course you are.” He sighed.

“I'll be gentle.”

“I'm running out of trucks, Mike.”

“We'll get more.”

“It's not the same thing.”

I get that there's a certain satisfaction to going and buying a car that you've worked hard for. You appreciate something more when you've earned it. But there was this little button in my brother that no matter how hard I tried to press it, it would not depress. The world was different. A lot of those old ways of thinking were no longer relevant. Sure, we still needed to hold on to faith and morals, compassion, the things that made us decent human beings, but the other shit, the pursuit of material things, appearances, keeping up with the Joneses … those things made no sense anymore. Everything we did was purely about survival. Being the first child, he'd always been an overachiever, and his hard work was supposed to mean more than just “making it.” I could see his angle. It just wasn't valid anymore, and that pissed him off to no end.

“It's the truck or our families; what's more important?” I don't think I meant to strike that quick and hard at his jugular. Maybe I did. His eyes shot to mine, full of anger and resentment, and then immediately cooled to reason. Now that I had him, I was going to go full bore. “I need the Gatling gun as well.”

BT's air sucking-in sound wasn't helping my cause. I pressed on.

“I need to plow the field so to speak. I need it to mow down all the zombies in the road leading up here. I don't make it out of here, they're all screwed.”

Ron stood, pushing himself away from the table. “Fine, Mike. Take my truck. Take my gun. Why don't you take my Rolex as well? Make a clean sweep of everything I've worked for in my life. That's what you do, isn't it? Just take? You've been doing it your entire life. Why work hard when people are just going to hand you shit? Isn't that your motto? Oh, Mike, he's the baby of the family. We have to look out for him. We have to help him. Look how far that got you in life. Couldn't hold a decent job to save your life, could you? Just a couple of years ago, you had to call Mom and Dad and ask for money so your family could eat. How pathetic is that? Forty and can't provide for his own!”

“Ron, that's enough.” BT stepped closer.

“You don't know shit, BT,” Ron spat. “His entire life, he's skated on the backs of those carrying the rink. And it's never enough. He always wants more, and somehow us idiots keep giving it to him. My father worked his ass off providing for our family. He did an admirable job. We ate and we had a roof over our head. But you don't know how many times those basic necessities were threatened by Mike. His legal expenses siphoned off a good portion of our parents' savings. Or how Mike defaulted on his car loan and my parents, being the good little co-signers that they are, had to foot the bill. Mike has always been about Mike. He places himself above all others, no matter the cost.”

“You're a damn fool,” BT said, pointing a meaty finger in Ron's face. “I've personally seen him put himself in harm's way more times than I can count to save someone.”

“Yeah?” Ron questioned. “Did he do it for him or for them?”

“What the hell are you talking about? He saved them.”

“I'm saying, ‘Did he save them for himself or for them?'”

“What you're asking makes no sense.”

“Sure it does. Mike would save his family and friends at all costs because he would not want to put himself through the pain and suffering of watching a loved one die.”

“That's not always the case. I've seen him risk his life for those he barely knows.”

“And by doing so, it fans the flames of his ego, which burns as bright as the sun. He does what he does so that he appears as if legend. Isn't that it, Mike? If you can't actually do in this life, then there's always the smoke and mirrors routine.”

I'd had enough. I can absorb a few punches if it allows someone the opportunity to vent, but Ron looked like he was just getting started. “Let's get a few things clear, brother.” Ron was about to speak. “No, it's time for you to shut the fuck up while I say my piece. You got yours; I get mine. Yeah, was I a dumb kid? Sure was. Did I cost Mom and Dad a shitload in legal fees? Again, a big yes. In fact, close to thirty grand, which, if you had bothered to ask, I had paid back all but five grand before I got laid off the last time. As for the Jeep, after Dennis totaled it, I had two options. Either have him thrown in jail for drunk driving and stealing my car or pay for the damages out of pocket. Yeah, Mom and Dad paid for it up front, then Dennis and I paid it back. You do realize at that time we were both working for Dad's construction company? No? You missed that part? As for asking Mom and Dad for money when I got laid off, yeah I did.

“We were in fucking trouble. I couldn't make the house payment. I was doing odd jobs and spending every waking hour looking for work. Do people sometimes need help? Yeah, man, they do. We're not all born with a silver fucking spoon in our mouth. Oh, don't go giving me that butt-hurt expression on your face. You were always the golden child, the one that could do no wrong. Everything you ever received growing up was brand fucking new. You ever get a fifth-generation hand-me-down bike that's about ten years out from the newest version? It had no fucking pedals, Ron! All I could do was walk the thing up hills and glide down. As for saving my family and friends, why the fuck would
anyone
want to go through the pain of watching someone they cared for die? That makes absolutely no fucking sense. Am I being selfish because of that? I don't know. Maybe that's the definition of it, but sure, I'd rather die trying to save them rather than be safe and sound while they were in danger. As for saving those I didn't know, I don't know what skewed version of me you have, but I don't do it because I want to be written about in textbooks. I do it because it's the right fucking thing to do, you asshole. It's not my fault your expensive college degree isn't worth too much in this new world, not my fucking fault at all. Speaking of which, Ron, how much did that degree cost? I don't seem to remember you having to repay your college loans like I did. Was that a gift from Mom and Dad? You know what? You can shove your truck and your gun up your ass. I'll walk out of here. I'll get your wife and your kid back here, and then I'm leaving. I honestly didn't know you thought so fucking little of me. I've always looked up to you. I should have realized you were looking down at me.” He reached over; this time it was my turn to leave the room.

“Shit.” I was outside Ron's storage area. I truly meant what I'd said about walking out of here. But I still needed a rifle and a ton of ammo, and there really wasn't a way for me to ask for it.

“Hey, Dad.” Travis came up by my side.

“Hey, Kiddo.”

“You all right?”

“I'm good,” I told him, putting my arm around his shoulder. “I'll be better when we have you mom, brother, and sister back, and I guess nephew now. Hey, while you're here, I don't think your uncle will have any problem with you maybe getting that rifle over there along with those magazines and that can of ammo.” I pointed to places all over the room that I didn't dare enter. When we went out to the driveway, BT was behind the wheel of a brand new Dodge Ram.

“Just because he thinks you're an irresponsible, immature, capricious, thoughtless, harebrained individual doesn't mean he feels the same way about me.”

“Feel better now?” I asked him.

He nodded. “I'd beep the horn if I didn't think the zombies would come.”

Mad Jack's head popped up from the other side of the truck. “Magnets!” he said excitedly.

“Okay? Should I be happy about that?”

“Oh very much so. I'm sticking the boxes all around the truck.”

“Could you maybe not put it there?” I asked as he stuck in on the little door that covered the gas cap.

“Oh that would probably be a good idea.”

“How can you be so smart and so oblivious?”

He didn't seem too happy with my observation.

Tommy had two large duffel bags, one of which was suspiciously moving. At first, I thought it might be Henry, then I saw smoke leaking through the heavy material.

Tommy shrugged. “He said he couldn't be seen entering the truck.”

“So you carried him in a duffel bag? Now you're just being an enabler.” I told him.

Tommy shrugged again. He did, however, toss both bags up into the bed of the truck like he was a disgruntled airline employee.

“Hey, man. I dropped my jay!” came muffled through the bag, then there was a harsh coughing scream. “I'm burning, man! I'm burning, man!” Then a pause. “Wait … am I at Burning Man or am I a man burning? That's deep!”

“I can't take this.” I strode over and unzipped the bag. I backed away, quickly fanning clean air to my nose. “Nope, you're definitely burning. So that's what old patchouli smells like when it cooks. Damn.”

“This is my best shirt!” Trip sat up and was quickly patting down the front of his Hawaiian print shirt that looked like it had been made before the small island chain became the fiftieth state.

“Why is he here!?” BT roared, stepping out of the truck.

“He's why I couldn't be seen,” Trip said in hushed tones.

Now I got it.

“He's just going to screw everything up!”

“It'll be all right. He knows what he's doing. You ride up in the front, Trav, with BT. Me, Tommy, and Trip will hang out in the back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, we're fine. We got the boxes. Oh hey, MJ, what's the battery life on these things?”

“If they don't burn, about an hour. Considerably less if they do.”

“Great. Where's the on off switch.”

“Switch?”

“Fuck. BT we have to roll while we can.”

“I'm not happy about this, Mike.” The truck dipped down as he got back in.

“When's the last time you were happy?”

“The minute before I met you and every minute before that.”

“He's funny,” Trip said.

“Trip, what the hell isn't funny to you?”

Travis opened up the small window. “Uncle Ron is on the deck.” Travis waved. I didn't turn around. My wave would have included a couple of universally offensive gestures and maybe a few newly invented ones. We were rolling along at a blistering five miles an hour. We were all locked and loaded, even Trip. Tough to take a man serious with a joint hanging out of his mouth, but he looked all business, right now. Zombies started flooding out of the woods and directly onto our path as we rolled closer.

MJ's boxes might work just fine, but I've always been a bigger fan of eradication rather than deterrent. “Kiss my ass,” I said, lighting a sparkler fuse. I jumped when I felt something brush up against my hindquarters. “What the fuck, Trip. I didn't mean literally! And definitely not you, man!”

“Oh, he knows what he's doing. It'll be all right.” BT was mimicking me.

I've been proven wrong plenty of times, but usually not so quickly. Didn't have too much time to worry about it, though, as the bomb exploded off to our front. Luckily for us, BT was going slow, because the truck veered to the side, almost putting us in a ditch.

“What the hell!” he shouted. “Who throws bombs and doesn't tell people!”

“Maybe if you were paying more attention to what was going on in front of you rather than watching a grown man have his ass kissed, you would have known about it.”

He grumbled a bit but didn't say anything else.

“Yo Daisy, I'm throwing more bombs.”

“If you are referring to
Driving Miss Daisy
, she was his passenger. The chauffeur was Hoke Colburn.”

“Never saw it. Just figured you looked like a Daisy.”

With the truck still rolling, BT got out. I mean all the way out.

“What are you doing, man?” I got over to the far side of the bed. Trav reached over to grab the wheel.

“I'm doing something that should have been done a long time ago. I'm gonna beat your ass.”

“Wait, man, this is crazy, we're in the middle of zombies and….”

He wasn't listening. He was still coming closer. I jumped out and ran to the front of the truck, making sure to keep as much of the truck between us as possible.

After a few attempts at trying to catch me and a slow rolling approach to the zombies who seemed mighty interested, BT finally got back in the truck. “You're lucky you're fast for a white guy.”