Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

Paul started to get up. “I’ve got it, bud,” I told him.

“You sure, man?” he asked even as his head was traveling back down to its resting spot.

“Can’t sleep anyway. No sense in both of us being up,” I said. He grunted something about thanks, in return, or he belched, sounding just about the same.

“Anything?” I asked BT, who was eyeing my bed longingly.

“I think I heard a couple of cars off in the distance and maybe some gunfire, but it was so far away, I can’t be sure.”

“Thanks, man,” I told him. “Enjoy your beauty rest.”

“You have any phobias about other men sharing your bed?” he asked.

I didn’t answer, I wanted to hold onto some secrets.

“Okay, so I know it’s not because I’m black. Is it because I’m a man?” he asked solemnly.

“BT, I don’t like my kids in my bed,” I told him truthfully.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Why would I? Like you need some new and improved reason to think I’m nuts?”

BT just shook his head and grabbed the scant bedding remnants not presently being used.

“No retort?” I asked him.

“Talbot, I am so damn tired and I really think I’m beginning to realize the depth of your illness.”

Oh, I doubt it , I thought. “BT, seriously, I’ll be lucky if sleep comes at all tonight, sleep in that bed (I couldn’t, as hard as I tried, say it was “my bed”.)

“You’re cool with that?” he asked. “You’re not going to try and slip in there with me later tonight, are you? I mean, Tracy did leave today.”

Was that just today? Seemed like a sanity ago.

“I think I’ll be able to restrain myself,” I told him.

“Even with this pretty face?” he asked, smiling as he got down onto the sleeping bag. “You’re alright with this?” he asked as he placed his head on my pillow. “Because you look like you’re regretting your decision.”

“I’ll be fine,” I told him as I tried to shut the door more quietly than he had opened it, with far less success.

The night had a distinct chill to it. I could register that fact, but I felt slightly removed from it. I was comfortable and I had the feeling, I could be running around naked or wearing seven different layers and I would feel the same. And for some damn reason, Pop-Tarts kept leaking into my thoughts, which was disturbing, but still better than splattered, baby zombie brain. (Unless, of course, we were talking about cherry-flavored Pop-Tarts because that might be the singular, most disgusting thing left on the planet.)

I walked the entire perimeter of the storage facility. But after thinking about it, I don’t think I ever looked out beyond the chain link fence. My head had been down and I was deep in thought or shallow in disregard. Either one works just fine, but I was paying absolutely no heed to the outside world. I could have walked into the waiting arms of a zombie and not realized it until he or she had bitten me.

My next lap I vowed to pay more attention, but I didn’t make it halfway around before I began to daze out again. It really does suck having the attention span of a coconut-laden swallow (whoever picks this journal up may or may not get that reference; it will be a slightly better world if you do). I started to think about life, a normal life, mortgage, taxes, death, pretty much everything that I would never experience again. How the hell is it possible that I’m now missing any one of those things? And then I kept circling back to arriving at Ron’s and seeing Tracy and the kids again. Was Nicole showing yet? And what the hell is in Ron’s false floorboards in his closet? After kissing my wife and hugging my kids, that would be my utmost priority. I was going to have to be careful though, I wouldn’t doubt it if he had a security system in place.

I would have completely missed the zombie pressed up against the fence if he hadn’t spoken.

“ Eat,” it repeated over and over in my head.

“Why don’t you kiss my ass,” I told it back. It actually stopped for a beat or two, processing where that info had come from. I would bet the thing in front of me hadn’t had a real thought in its head since it became infected.

I had established that we could talk, but would it listen? “Dance, fucker,” I said aloud. It licked its lips. Okay zero for one, Talbot. What the hell are you trying to prove? I asked myself. Okay, so if I’m asking myself the question, what are the odds I’m going to know the answer? Not aloud, gotta get into its head. Dance, fucker! I screamed in my thoughts. I wouldn’t bet any substantial amount of money on this, but I would swear it picked up its right leg and dropped it back down. Maybe he couldn’t dance. It used to be a white guy, after all. “Where the hell is a black zombie when you need one? I really shouldn’t be left unsupervised for too long,” I said aloud and started to laugh.

I had effectively blocked the zombie’s repeating message, otherwise I would have just shot him in the forehead and ended this whole experiment. I was already a little antsy that I was this close to one of them and hadn’t dispatched it. I was pacing a few yards up and back trying to decide what, if anything, my being able to hear zombies could do to help us. Re-Pete (I named him that because of how he was following my every move; it seemed fitting) kept following, albeit a second or two behind, as whatever was left of his mind caught up and sent the appropriate message.

I walked to the left, Re-Pete followed. I turned and came back to the right, so did Re-Pete, his eyes never leaving mine. Re-Pete was starting to freak me out a little bit, STAY! I said in my most authoritative “in head” voice. As I turned to go back to the left, the only part of Re-Pete that followed were his eyes. I was looking over my shoulder the entire time, wondering when he was going to follow, but he never did. I did my complete small circuit and he never moved.

“Well, that’s interesting.” I said, scratching my head. On your knees! I screamed in my thoughts, convinced I was going to give myself an aneurysm. Re-Pete dropped to his knees like a choir boy promised a new bike. (You can go anywhere you want with that, I’m not getting any more descriptive.) His knees slammed hard into the pavement. I heard what sounded like his patella on his left leg cracking in two. Normally, I’d cringe, but the sense of power welling up in me was invigorating and I was thrilled I had hindered him in some way.

Was the next thing I wanted to try possible? DIE! I shouted over and over. I was concentrating so hard, my body began to sway back and forth. Sweat was cascading down my forehead. Re-Pete was looking at me like I had lost my mind.

“Talbot?”

My thoughts were snapped; how did Re-Pete know my name? I bent lower to look into its eyes.

“Mike!” An alarmed voice came from behind me. “What are you doing?” I heard heavy footfalls coming up fast. I was physically moved from my spot like a child might move his GI Joe, quickly and without regard for personal comfort.

“You alright, man?” BT asked me as he kept running. We were a good thirty yards away from the fence before he finally put me down. “Are you bit or scratched?” BT asked, trying his best to look me over.

I peered around him at Re-Pete who had gotten back up on his feet. “Well, he didn’t die?”

“What?” BT asked in alarm. “Who didn’t die?”

“Re-Pete,” I told him like he should know exactly what I was talking about.

“Mike, what’s going on? Is Eliza here? Is she in your head? Are you bit?” He kept rapidly firing questions at me.

I was still suffering from mild after-effects from the disconnection with Re-Pete. I guess that’s what you could call it. Wonderful! I wonder if they have any medications for postpartum depression resulting from the lost contact between man and zombie. It could open up a whole new market for the pharmaceutical companies.