Mark Tufo - Zombie Fallout

“What…what was that?” Brendon said holding his hand to his forehead, trying to find the entry hole the ice pick had made.

As the last shadows of the electrical storm in my brain petered out, I shifted my gaze to Tommy. He wore a grim expression on his face, but it wasn’t from pain, at least not the same pain that had afflicted the rest of us. A few ideas about what could have caused this were bantered around, including the change in temperature, but I knew the answer. Well not exactly, I knew who had caused it, I just didn’t know why.

A few hours later our small band of survivors were huddled in the center of the attic, trying in vain to conserve our body heat. It was quiet except for the constant chattering of teeth and floorboards creaking below us. This was to be our final resting place, enshrouded in pink r-16 fiberglass. It seemed fitting given the circumstances. The only thing I hated more than fiberglass was sticking forks in my eyes, you get the point. I was slipping in and out of sleep. The soft light of dawn began to trickle in through the eaves. The tinny sound of Jingle Bells heralded in the new day. I must be slipping into a coma, I mused, well what better place than the North Pole.

“Wha...what is that?” Travis gabbled.

I had been under the impression the noise was only in my head I was too fogged out from the cold to realize that it was external. I lured myself back from the abyss, my hands shaking as I reached into my pocket. It was my Blackberry, I had set the alarm after Thanksgiving to alert me to get up and make Christmas breakfast.

“Everyone get up,” I said shaking those who didn’t stir. If I had been that close to perpetual sleep than so were the rest. I kept shaking them. “Get up, it’s Christmas.”

I don’t know why I felt so jubilant, the last Christmas miracle I had heard of happened two thousand and ten years ago. Everyone had finally stirred and was looking at me with mixed results. Some irked that I had awoken them, others thankful, but all were wondering why I wore that idiotic grin. Tommy was still mourning Bear but apparently my grin was infectious because he began to don one himself.

“What’s going on here Talbot?” Paul asked.

“Yeah,” Erin piped in. “Do you know something we don’t?” she asked as she breathed warm air into her cold hands. Her movements were restricted from the bear hug she was enclosed in from Paul.

“Nothing’s going on,” I intoned, much to the chagrin of the crowd. “It’s just that it’s Christmas, we’re alive.”

“For how long?” Tracy threw in. I ignored the comment.

“I could go for some bacon,” Travis said.

“Oh yeah, and some of those cream cheese stuffed rolls Mom makes,” Nicole added.

“I could go for a beer,” Justin said, pulling his head off the floor. I looked at him sternly but secretly that sounded good. Lord knows that we were living in a refrigerator. We should get the benefit of its contents.

We passed a good portion of the day relating some of our fondest Christmas stories, even some of the worst, which elicited a lot of laughs. Tommy heard the noise first and pointed over to the eaves. I was about to ask him what he was pointing at and then the rest of us started picking it up, faint at first.

“Does that sound like bells to anyone?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah it’s Santa,” Tracy said sarcastically. She was having the toughest time throwing off her cloak of pessimism.

“That’s not bells,” Brendon said, “I lived long enough up in the mountains to tell that sound. It’s chains, tire chains,” he clarified excitedly.

The tire chain sound was immediately followed by the incessantly strong thrum of a large diesel engine and then a blaring horn. Whoever it was, wasn’t trying to hide their presence.

“Everyone, cover your ears,” I said as I grabbed the Benelli. It took three ear-blasting shots, from which I would lose a fair measure of hearing, before sunlight streamed in from above.

The hole was big enough for me to fit my head through, even with my inflated ego. I could see the giant semi heading up here from the direction of the clubhouse. It was slow going as it pushed zombies away with its giant plow. The truck body herked and jerked, whether from the contact with the zombies or an inexperienced driver I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care how Santa got here, just as long as he was on the way.

“What is it?” came the consensus questions from the attic.

“It’s Alex’ beautiful modified truck,” I shouted down triumphantly.

“Is it coming here?” Tracy asked hopefully.

I had just assumed it was, but there was no real reason to believe that. It was time to give it one.

“All right everyone, cover your ears again.” Two more blasts later and I had managed to get half my body through the hole. I felt like a cork in a wine bottle.

Paul had come up behind me. “Ever hear of Atkins, fat boy?” he asked sarcastically.

“Wonderful, everyone needs a smart ass, now push me through,” I said sourly.

Paul and Brendon each grabbed one of my legs and pushed. I popped out like a Mentos in Diet Coke. For one fateful second I thought I was going to tumble off the roof and into the gaggle of zombies below. Paul poked his head through just in time to see me come to a stop a mere foot away from the edge of the roof. The six inches of snow more than likely saved my life. If I had hit a clean roof, I would have bounced once and gone over the edge.

“Whoo, that was close,” Paul said, color coming back to his features.

I gingerly crawled back up to the hole. “You’re telling me.”

The horn blared again and the lights flashed on. No need to worry about being seen. The truck ambled up on to the lawn and stopped directly in front of our house. The window rolled down a few inches. Because of the way the light reflected off the glass, I still couldn’t make out who it was.

“Hey Gringo!” Alex shouted. “I knew your white ass was too tough for the zombies to eat.”

“Good to see you, my friend,” I said in vast relief. I felt like I had been holding it together fairly well, but the safety of my kids had my stress meter pegged. I finally felt like I could let the meter drop a notch or two. Although we were still far from safety at least now we had an option. “What are you doing here, I heard you pulling out when this thing started.”

“Damnedest thing!” Alex shouted. “I got this piercing pain in my head and then a message. I figured it was an angel telling me to save your Gringo ass. I just want you to know when you get down here and into the truck don’t expect a welcome wagon from my wife. She hasn’t spoken to me since I turned this thing around.”

Tommy had stuck his head through the makeshift exit hole, smiling, strawberry Pop-Tart smeared across his face.

“How, Tommy?” I said too softly for even my own ears to pick up. He was still smiling. I don’t know if I was asking how he summoned help or how he found a Pop-Tart.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. T,” Tommy waved. He was chagrined as a piece of his prized possession flung off his hand and into the snow. Again I had enough questions to flood Wikipedia for a month, but Alex’s next words brought my attention back around.

“How many of you are there?” Alex asked as tactfully as he could.

“Nine, my friend. Nine,” I said jubilantly. “And you?” I asked hopefully.

I received the universal thumbs up sign. “And thirteen more. I have handholds on the top, can you jump down?” Alex asked.

The truck trailer came up to just about the level of the second floor. Hanging down from the gutters, provided they held, would make the drop about two feet from shoe to roof. I couldn’t get the image of bouncing off the truck like rice on a drum out of my head. Vertigo had set in. I plopped on my butt. It seemed a safer bet than pitching over headfirst. The ladders would have been perfect right about now; unfortunately they were safely stowed away in the master bedroom.