Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

Paul went into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was opened, but surprisingly it looked like everything was still there. He pulled down a bottle of aspirin and immediately gulped down three of them, sticking the rest of the bottle in his pocket. Stomach pills, flu medicine, cough syrup, hemorrhoid cream, most of it was standard fare and everything but the cream ended up in his pockets.

“Come on, everyone has unused meds somewhere,” he said. Paul shut the mirror on the cabinet, completely confident that he would suffer the same fate as every horror movie ever produced in the last fifty years. Something would be behind him as the mirror shut. His heart almost stopped when he realized the cliché he was performing. “Not enough scary shit going on, I’ve got to see if I can drum up a few more quarts of adrenaline.” Nothing was there, but his fear wasn’t quite abated, he knew that you could not see the reflections of vampires. He turned as quickly as his injured ankle would allow, it was not fast enough. Whatever had been behind him was now gone, even if it was all only in his imagination.

“No more mirrors,” he said, chiding himself. “Kitchen cabinet or nightstand?” Paul headed for the master bedroom in the small two-bedroom house. The first thing that struck him was how neat the room was, even the bed was made. “Who makes their bed in a zombie invasion?” Paul wished Mike were here to share this moment. They’d definitely get a good laugh over it.

Paul shuffled over to the nightstand. A molded-over mug of coffee stood alongside a lamp as the only inhabitants on the top of the small nightstand. Paul pulled out a book called Indian Hill by Mark Tufo that looked to be about half read, judging by the bookmark. “Doesn’t look like they’ll ever finish that,” he said as he tossed the book onto the bed.

“Bingo!” Paul said excitedly as he grabbed four prescription bottles. The first was full of thumb tacks. “Okay that’s not going to work,” he said, tossing it beside the discarded book. The second was Xanax. He knew it was for anti-anxiety and didn’t know how it was going to help in this present situation, but he stuck it in his pocket. The whole world is one giant anxiety now , he thought. The third contained painkillers. He opened up the bottle and shook them out in his hand. “Eight, that should be enough,” he said as he popped two in his mouth.

“Perfect!” he yelled sarcastically as he shook the lone pill around in the bottle labeled Amoxicillin. It was the right drug but the wrong quantity. “I do not want to do this shit all day,” he complained. He quickly went into the kitchen. Besides a lot of canned goods, there was nothing there that would do him any good in his present situation. He grabbed a small screwdriver he had seen in one of the drawers and sat down at the table to see if he could get the jam in his rifle out. “Might have been a good idea to do this first,” he said. He then moved his chair when he realized he had his back to the front door. Paul had just finished prying out the jammed cartridge when the first effects of the painkillers began to take effect. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said as he stood, testing out his new not-caringness on his injured ankle, for that’s all that painkillers truly do, they numb the mind, not the injury.

Paul debated heading back to Brian with the one antibiotic or setting out again to look for more. Would one pill do anything? Or would it be akin to pissing on a forest fire? He decided to keep looking. It would take him too long to hobble back and then out again, and that’s if he didn’t need to take a nap somewhere in the meantime. Paul was deep into the effects of his prescription meds as he stepped out of the house. His first footfall out of the house landed squarely in Stumpy’s mouth. Paul toppled over as the zombie bit down hard on the toe of his boot. Paul was halfway to meeting the pavement before his lagging mind was able to catch up to the situation. He was thankful that it was not his injured ankle in the zombie’s mouth, but that was about it for the pros as his face raced to meet her injured leg.

His mouth opened in the exclamatory O shape as he got a face full of zombie calf. He knew without a doubt you got the zombie virus from being bitten, but what are the repercussions from the other way around? he thought as he tasted her vileness upon his lips. Paul twisted around and over, as did Stumpy. She had a good hold of his boot top and was not going to yield her prize. “Fucking bitch!” Paul yelled as he brought his right foot down on the top of her head. He immediately regretted his decision, three more pain pills would not have been able to mask the intense pain his ankle brought from the jolting contact with her skull.

Pain was his all-consuming thought as he swayed from side to side on the ground. Stumpy stayed with him, move for move. As the pain level came to a manageable point, he tried to crawl away, but the zombie was having no part of it. Her mouth had not left his boot as she tried to gnash her way through the heavy material, but her arms had come up and she wrapped her hands around the bottom of his leg. Death by crawler , Paul thought, Mike’s going to love this .

The rifle! The idea ripped into his thoughts. But I can’t even swing it, like this. Paul whined in response to himself. Even Paul’s psyche was let down by his inability to reason together a workable escape plan. “Oh yeah, I fixed the jam!” Paul said with elation. Paul’s subconscious did a small, sarcastic jig in celebration. It would be tough to miss from this distance even for Paul, but whether from lack of judgment or impeded painkiller judgment, Paul did not take into account what was on the other side of Stumpy’s head, namely his boot. The relief of having Stumps fall to the side was immediately replaced by the pain in his foot where he had just lodged his bullet.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” he spat. Paul rolled violently from side to side, not caring that half his movement brought him into contact with the newly departed Stumps. “So much for Saturday night dancing!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The endorphins released from the volume helped to diminish the pain, but not nearly enough. Paul finally looked down at his foot. Blood was pumping out from the bullet hole in the top of his boot at an alarming rate. I always thought if I died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, it would be something a little further north , he thought as he crawled back over to the front door so that he could sit on the stoop and access how much damage he really had incurred.

As he pulled himself up, he reached into his pocket and immediately downed another two painkillers. He debated waiting for them to take effect before doing what needed to be done, but thought better of it because he could possibly bleed out before that happened. Paul undid the laces, feeling strangely detached as he did so. The boot came off without a hitch; it was the sock that was proving difficult. Not that it was stuck to anything, but rather he just didn’t want to see what lay hidden beneath it.

“Ours is not to question why, but rather to do or to die. Why the hell am I quoting Tennyson?” Paul asked himself as he looked down on his blood-soaked sock. His next question to himself paralyzed him with fear. I just shot myself with a bullet that went through a zombie. Paul ripped the sock off, the webbing between his second and third toe had a nice round hole blown right through it. No bones, that’s good. Paul couldn’t figure out how he was going to get up and on which leg he could stand. He opted to crawl on his hands and knees to the fridge. The only thing reasonably viable in there were the cans of diet Sprite. “Can’t hurt any more than it does now,” he said, grabbing four of the cans. He moved over to the kitchen chair and opened the cans, dumping the entire contents on his injured foot, hoping that it would somehow disinfect the wound.