Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

“Oh, I do believe you would, but I’ve already told you, I have not seen your precious friend since he left us.”

“What’s going on?” Mary asked as she came back, with a tray, an MRE and some utensils.

I walked away, heading up to where Josh had safely retreated.

“Just a misunderstanding,” Mrs. Deneaux said, warmly thanking Mary for the food.

I heard Gary ask Mary how BT had been and her reply that he had slept the whole time, before I made it to the top of the stairs.

“She’s fucking scary,” Josh said, peeking his head out of his bedroom.

“Yes, she is, and I don’t think you’re supposed to be swearing.”

“I’d rather face that Eliza lady than her.”

I thought about it for a second. “No, you wouldn’t. Close, but no, you wouldn’t.”

Chapter Twenty

“Mike, where the hell are you?” Paul asked as he hunched down by some trashcans. He had heard something moments earlier and nearly wet his pants when an angry raccoon came out from a row of hedges to claim its trash barrels.

“Sorry, fella. These yours?” Paul asked as he grunted to get away from the large animal. A rabies bite from the raccoon would be just as fatal and more painful than a zombie bite. Paul backed away carefully, making sure the animal did not crazily charge him. He fell over a long-unclaimed bag of trash. The smell of old diapers and moldy cabbage assailed his nostrils.

“Couldn’t be an old florist shop. No, had to be a damn daycare or something,” Paul said as he began to stand up. His eye caught something moving on his peripheral, but it was not the raccoon. The animal had taken off, sensing a greater predator than Paul in the neighborhood. It sucks not being on top of the food chain anymore, Paul thought as he looked past the trash cans to five rapidly approaching zombies.

He knew if he so much as clenched his asshole, he would wrinkle the trash bag under him and the zombies would come his way. He wasn’t yet sure that they hadn’t already seen him.

The zombies passed by less than twenty feet away. Paul relaxed somewhat as they began to head off. The small release in tension caused his arm to slip, pushing his elbow down onto a soda can. Paul held his breath as the can popped. He could still hear the zombies’ footfalls heading away and felt like he had dodged a bullet until he craned his head to find the best way to get up and saw one lone zombie staring straight at him. Its head tilted like a dog’s does when it’s trying to figure out what it is looking at.

The zombie started to approach. The blending-in-with-garbage trick was not going to work anymore. Paul thought about turning to run, but right now, he wouldn’t be able to out distance a deader. He once again adopted the pose of the fighter as he got on his tender feet. “What are the chances that another bullet saves my ass?” Paul asked the heavens as the zombie ran towards him.

The heavens weren’t listening as the zombie ran straight into Paul’s fist. Paul was sure he had broken at least one knuckle on the zombie’s skull. The shot on the eye of the zombie may not have put a man on his ass, but it should have at least dazed him. It had no effect whatsoever on the zombie. The zombie fell on top of Paul as they both went down onto the stinking pile of refuse. The bag exploded, sending leaking diapers everywhere.

Snapping teeth came within the width of a fingernail from shearing Paul’s fingers off. Paul felt the slime of the film that coated the zombies’ unbrushed teeth. Paul placed both hands on the zombie’s shoulders and pushed away as the zombie attempted to draw closer. When the zombie realized it could not reach Paul’s face, it began to turn from arm to arm, looking for a place to seek purchase. Paul had to keep alternating his hand placement in an effort to stay one step ahead of the zombie’s teeth. Already his arms were beginning to tire, he did not know how long he could play Hide The Flesh From The Zombie before his arms gave out.

No one is going to save me this time, he thought.

Paul shoved his hips upward, gaining some distance from the zombie as he brought his knee up, in what could only be described as a ball-busting maneuver. The zombie did not so much as flinch from the contact. Thick tendrils of drool and liquefied plaque hung from the zombie’s mouth, dangerously close to Paul’s face, Paul kept blowing out great puffs of air in a futile hope to keep the mouth offal from striking him. The smell of the old, wet, moldy diapers competed with the zombie for odor of the decade. Paul was having difficulty getting in enough clean air to work with.

Paul was trying to scramble from under the zombie, but his feet kept sliding in rubbish. Had a newly axed girlfriend once tell me I was going to die in a pile of shit. I can’t imagine she meant this , Paul thought. Or maybe she did.

The zombie was fairly predictable in its approach. After nine or ten times through the cycle, Paul got an idea. As the zombie reached for Paul’s left arm, he pulled it away. The zombie would make a slight attempt for Paul’s face and then move to the right side. Paul moved his right arm quicker than the zombie was expecting, then he thrust up with his left hip. The death-tangled duo rolled to the right, precariously balancing on their right side until momentum brought Paul on top.

“How about I eat you, motherfucker?!” Paul screamed. Paul made a feint to bite on the zombie’s arm. Once again, the zombie could not have cared less as it still tried to bite at Paul’s hands, but it now did not have as much range in motion. Paul still had no clue as to what to do. He did not want to release his grip. He was afraid he might slip in the piles of garbage as he turned to run and then they’d be doing this dance all over again. Paul did the only option that was available to him as the zombie went for Paul’s right hand. With his left, Paul grabbed as much trash as he could, becoming utterly dismayed when his hand went through decomposing diaper.

He began to shove as much refuse into the zombie’s eager mouth as he could. The zombie, at first, greedily took the offering and then began to fight against the force-fed meal. Paul had already let go and was halfway to getting up. The zombie was still struggling with a Pamper lodged in its throat. Paul’s nightmare nearly came to fruition as he slid on a cliché. No way! A banana peel? Are you kidding me? But banana peels were much more slippery in cartoons. Paul was quickly on terra firma and shuffling for all his life to the doorstep closest to him. Locked door, crazy resident, home full of zombies or just pissed off squirrels, Paul was placing all his marbles into this bag; there were no other options. He could not make it to another house and he’d much rather see the zombie coming than get brought down from behind like a gazelle on the Serengeti.

Paul’s ankle groaned as he climbed the first step. If not for forward momentum, he would have brought his foot down and brought up his left. That was no bargain either as his foot wound broke open from the flexion of the move. Blood was seeping through his boot at an alarming rate. Paul had no time to take notice as he reached the top of the third step and got onto the landing. His zombie friend had finally got its feet under it and was now ready to continue its pursuit.

Paul reached out to grab the storm door, his hands slick with an unidentifiable, or at least, unwilling to identify, substance. His hand slid off as effectively as if the handle had been Vaseline-coated.

***

For the briefest of synapses, he remembered that time in college when Mike and he had gotten a particularly difficult Resident Assistant to quit his job. An RA’s job is sort of like den mother. It is his or her responsibility to make sure that no huge parties are held on the floor; or that any huge violations are being broken, (like having an oven in a dorm room). Sometimes they even act as a pseudo counselor when a freshman runs across the familiar homesick blues. Paul and Mike had the unfortunate luck of the draw, with their RA, he took his responsibilities a little too seriously. Most of the RAs were simply in it so that they could break all of the rules in a single; as opposed to the standard, two-to-a-dorm room. Gert (yes, he was a man) was studying to move on to grad school and could absolutely not stand any noise whatsoever on his floor. He had once written a sophomore up because her alarm clock was excessively loud.