Jason Jones: Trailer Park Zombies

When I finally had the car running I slowly eased up on the clutch while giving the car a little bit of gas. The car shuddered almost to a stop and then shot forward like a bat out of hell. I could hear the engine whining as it wanted me to shift into second. Everything was happening too fast and both Fannie Mae and Barrett were screaming at me to stop. I slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop and gravel flew everywhere. I could hear a few rocks hitting the other car in the lot. Apparently I’d gotten closer to it than I thought. Oops.

Of course the car died because I’d forgotten to put the damn clutch in again. Silence filled the night air. We were enough off the main road that we couldn’t hear any traffic and for a few minutes all I could hear was the harsh breathing of the others in the car. I could feel the shit-eating grin on my face as I looked around at Barrett.

“That was awesome! Show me how to go in reverse so that I can do that again!”

He shook his head vehemently. “No, I don’t think so, Duke. Lesson over.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Nothing happened. I just gave it more gas than I intended. I know better now.”

He held his hand out. “Give me the keys, Duke. I think I just pissed my pants and my dad would kill me if I got that on the seats.”

I took them out of the ignition and held them tightly in my hand. “No way, Barrett. You promised. It’s my birthday, remember?”

He sighed and who knows what he would have said but that was when Fannie Mae cut in, “Isn’t that Mason Smith’s car?”

Both our heads swiveled forward to look at the car that was now bathed in our headlights. Yep, it was Mason Smith’s car.

“Shit,” we both said clearly, at the same time.

Barrett looked at me and said, “Maybe we should go home now.”

“Yeah, that sounds like an excellent idea,” I said. “I’ll drive.”

No protest from Barrett as I tried to put the keys back in the ignition. Mason Smith was a senior at our school. He was the quarterback of the football team. Out-weighed the both of us by at least 100 pounds and was the meanest son of a bitch our high school had ever produced. The only thing that kept him out of jail was the fact that he was leading our team on to the first state championship we’d ever had and that helped grease a lot of wheels. Not to mention that half of the teachers were scared of him. And his dad was the sheriff. Peachy, huh?

Of course, his girlfriend lately happened to be Tamara Rogers. Mason and I had had a few words over what he considered my inappropriate staring at his girlfriend. He did most of the talking. And by “words” and “talking” I, of course, meant that his fists pounding into my face tried to convince me not to look at Tamara anymore. Bruises and black eyes aside, I still remained unconvinced.

Barrett called me a fool for not listening to Mason’s convincing arguments. While at the same time trying to goad me into talking to her. He was incorrigible.

I still had the keys in my hand, trying to find the ignition, when a piercing scream cut through the air like a knife. It was followed by a guttural yell that was too low for us to make out. Fannie Mae whimpered in the back seat and Barrett grabbed my arm. He whispered, “Can we go now?”

The scream cut through the air again. It cut off abruptly. “Ah, shit,” I said, cupping the keys back in my palm.

“What?” Barrett spoke through clenched teeth, “Whatever’s going on is none of our business. Let’s go, Duke, before they realize we’re here.”

I pointed at the car in front of us. “That’s Mason’s car, Barrett.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So who do you think that is screaming in there? Huh?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he said. “Has nothing to do with us.”

I looked at him. “You can be a coward if you want, Barrett, but I’m going in there. That has to be Tamara. I can’t just let that go.” I held the keys out to him. “You can go if you want.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, shoving my hand away. “Let’s go.”

He and I got out of the car and gently closed our doors. The small click they made as they latched was almost too loud for the night. I winced and turned toward Fannie Mae, “You stay here. If there’s any trouble -.”

“Shit all over that, Duke Johnson. You should know me better than that,” she said as she climbed silently out of the car. Her tennis shoes hitting the gravel made even less noise than the doors had.

I looked hard at her for a second, wanting to will her to stay there but I could tell by the set of her hands on her hips that she would have none of it. “Shit,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Barrett as he finished coming round the car to stand next to me. “What’s the big plan, cahuna?”

I shrugged. “Uh, go in and see what’s going on?”

“Great plan,” he said, slapping me on the back. “You first.”

Turns out there’s a rhythm to sneaking into a graveyard in the dead of night under a dark sky with a moon that’s edging toward full. You sneak. Try to avoid any rocks on the gravel and then squeeze through the barely opened gate. The well-worn path was a blessing at least, since we didn’t need to worry as much about tramping through the grass. There were twigs here and there but we managed to sidestep them all. If there were any bugs or bats or animals afoot in the cemetery that night they’d all gone to ground, sensing the evil that lay afoot.

I felt like hiding in the grass myself but the thought of Tamara’s screams egged me on.

Grunts and groans were coming from the center of the cemetery ahead of us. We inched slowly farther in, waiting for the clouds to part to reveal what was waiting for us. Neither of the other two would take a step in front of me, electing me leader by default. I’m pretty sure neither one would have entered the graveyard by themselves, scream or no. Whatever happened here would be all on me. Yay for initiative.

I briefly flashed on the cell phone that I wished I had. Yet another one of those presents I’d never gotten. I didn’t think Fannie Mae had one, but Barrett should. I turned to him and whispered, “Do you have your phone with you? Maybe you should call 911.”

He put his lips to my ear and breathed, “Already thought of that, cahuna. We left it back in the car. Can’t get much signal out here anyway.”

Great.

I shrugged and turned back to the area where we could hear the sounds coming from. The moon was hidden by clouds and as if God heard my thought the clouds parted and we could suddenly see what was before us. Tamara Rogers lay on the ground, spread-eagled. Her cheerleading uniform lay on her in tatters, ripped open to reveal her breasts. Her skirt was pulled up to her waist. Her panties were probably somewhere in the grass on top of one of the graves.

She was crying silently and staring at the sky, doubtless not seeing anything.

Mason Smith, star quarterback, sat a few feet away from her. He was leaning against a stone monument, a small smile on his face. His pants were around his ankles and his penis flopped uselessly against his thigh. It glistened wetly.

I looked at Tamara again, noticing for the first time the trail of blood oozing down her thighs.

I saw red. Before I knew it I was rushing toward Mason, not feeling the arms of my friends as they tried to haul me back. He saw me coming but didn’t have time to react before I kicked him square in the balls as hard as I could. He howled silently, not able to catch a breath. The cords in his neck stood out in stark contrast against the night.

“Motherfucker!” I screamed at him. I honestly couldn’t tell you what else I screamed at him, but there were definitely quite a few choice obscenities in there. I turned toward Tamara, who hadn’t reacted to my presence. She was still staring at the night sky above her, her hands flung out above her head. The only sign that she was still alive was the tears slowly leaving a trail down her cheeks.