Cleaver Page 8
I sat the bottle of whiskey down and rolled the gun around in my hand and began thinking about all the damn zombie movies I’d watched in the past. Specifically the parts where people get bit and everyone gives them that look. You know what I mean, the look of pity, like “Shit, man. I’m sorry.” I always found it funny that every asshole in those flicks were ready shoot you the moment you got bit, but when they got bit it was “Wait, I’m fine! I feel fine!” Yeah, okay. But yeah, there I sat, waiting on the change and holding that gun now, with the thoughts of wasting myself before I let it take me over. I didn’t get the chance. At some point, the exhaustion from the battle on the road hits me full force and I go out like a light. I wake up in a panic, jump to my feet, and start pointing the gun at things that aren’t even there. It’s nighttime. Not even sure what hour, and not that I even cared considering hours don’t mean much anymore. The only thing that matters is night and day, and when the fact that it’s now dark finally comes full circle, my panic returns as I realize all my damn lights are on and the generator is humming in the backyard. The word ‘shit’ machine-guns from my lips over and over as I’m scrambling around to switch off the power, but my ears catch something in the beyond. Dogs barking. And it was at that moment I realized my dogs aren’t there. I’m all alone. With haste, I grab my sword and holster the gun. I grab a spotlight from the garage and began running like a cheetah on meth. It’s funny how fast a person can run when they’re scared shitless. I bypass the truck, I don’t even know why, I just felt like running was somehow gonna get me to those dogs faster than trying to start that thing. I run and run and run AND RUN. I’m to the end of the drive in no time flat and blasting down the road, right towards the sounds of the barks. I quickly realize I’m running right back into the mouth of where I had just come from earlier; In the epicenter of the dead slaying. The sounds of the breeze in the corn field on either side of me whispers, and this dreadful chill overtakes me. It’s only amplified as I began making out the sight of the dogs on the other side of the bridge. I don’t even know what to expect, I seriously think they’re leading me right into another showdown that I ain’t gonna be able to win. As I slow my run to a jog, I cant even get the words “Shut the hell up,” out of my mouth, because I am so out of breath. I start spinning the spotlight around, looking for the dead, but I see nothing. And by nothing, I really mean nothing. There’s no upright ones, AND there’s no slain ones left. All of the ones I laid to waste hours back are all gone just like the ones at Ted and Phillis’s. There’s bloody drag marks across the road that lead right to where the dogs are giving hell to the edge of the cornfield. Right about then, I spin the light up to see a huge swath of mashed down cornstalks on the other side of the streambed, it was the unmistakable path of something substantial making it’s way through the crop. I run to the dogs and start grabbing at them.
“Stop it! Knock that shit off!” I’m all but begging them, and, as their carrying on wanes, I hear it. I don’t know what it was, some kind of bellowing moan or growl that made the corn and I actually tremble in it’s wake. And then all I can hear is the crop being mashed, like a group of people are just running through it as fast as they can. The chills racing across my flesh are nauseating. I start backing away slowly until I’m out on the road and I can see the stalks just falling over in about an eight foot wide swath that’s heading away from me at breakneck speed. I don’t even know what to make of it. Was it the dead? Had they all arose and ran off when the dogs came? I sure as shit wasn’t sticking around to find out. I start admonishing the hell out of the mutts and somehow wrangle them back to the road. The whole way back they’re whining and growling over their shoulders and I’m quickly shushing them every time for fear something is gonna come charging out of that damn corn. I can’t help but keep an eye over my shoulder as well.
My heart rate didn’t even try to return to normal until my feet starting hitting the sidewalk back home, but then it just shot right back up again as I hear a noise round the side of the house amongst the hum of the generator. The dogs go right back on edge and I’m swinging the sword out like I’m expecting twenty infected to come running out. As I walk slow and cautious, I honestly don’t know what I’m expecting to see round the corner. I had left the damn lights and generator on in my haste and it could’ve attracted any number of things, the dead, the thing from the field, normal people, I honestly didn’t know which was the worst from those three. It almost sounds like a scratching and pawing at the storm door. Something then falls hard and clangs down the step and I almost shit myself. All it does is piss me off because it reminds me of a damn jump scare from a horror flick. I don’t even bother sneaking anymore, I just start screaming and run with the sword above my head, right towards the noise. Imagine my surprise when I realize I’m about to bring the thunder down on two, tiny-ass dogs getting into the food bowls.
“What the hell?” It’s all that could come out as I drop the sword and almost laugh at the situation. It was Gypsy and she’d brought a friend. I couldn’t believe that dog was still alive. When Phillis had first got that pooch, I saw her on the porch with her. I legitimately thought she’d went out and bought a ferret. But since she was yet to start drinking Four Loco and driving a ‘kitted’ 95 Honda Civic, I knew I had to be mistaken. Both these tiny dogs are backing away from me like they’re about to take off in an all out run, though I cant blame them. Gypsy is shivering, and the friend she’d brought with her was growling like it was gonna tear me to shreds. It was a Chihuahua mix. What the hell was it about these six pound dogs that made them think they could take down things twenty times their size? Regardless, I start into damage control. Like I’m overseeing some hostage situation, I try calming the two of them by getting low and patting the ground with a smile. It doesn’t take much to get Gypsy to come to me, but the Chihuahua needs more convincing. Of course June and Jeff aren’t helping. They’re up in its business, trying to sniff it over and the little thing ain’t having it. I shoo them away. I probably took a half a damn hour to get that dog to come to me. Half the time it would wag its tail and whine and give me this look like “Dude, I wanna trust you, but I just have to keep this shit-show going for dramatic effect.” FINALLY, it climbs into my arms. I pet it and reassure it that everything is cool. He’s in good hands, Yes, it was a he.
In the scope of thirty-plus minutes, the Cleaver homestead had grown from three to five. The more the merrier I supposed, although these tiny dogs were just giving me nothing but anxiety right off the rip, because well, they were tiny. I just felt like they were so damn vulnerable. I feared for June and Jeff’s safety, but I felt they could still take care of themselves if need be. In the end, I guess none of it really mattered because when things calmed back down and I turned off all the lights, I suddenly notice the nagging pain on my forearm; a grim reminder that I might very well wake up dead in the morning. There was this weird part of me that was just sort of accepting it at this point. I recall not being able to get back to sleep until I got up and propped the back door open. I also laid dogfood out. I figured if I did die in my sleep, the dogs deserved a fighting chance. June seemed smart, but not smart enough to open doors. I wasn’t gonna risk the chance of me turning and them being stuck in the house with my reanimated corpse running around.
Not sure how I managed it, but I fell asleep with the two tiny dogs, Gypsy and Pete lying on top of me ( I named the chihuahua mix Pete ) Jeff and June laid on the floor beside the couch. The last thing I recalled was running my fingers though Jeff’s fur, saying some silent goodbye to him as I wept and wondered if grandad was gonna be there to meet me when I awoke.
In Dog We Trust
Morning comes and my eyes are popping wide open, like I had never even slept. You ever have one of those nights? When you finally fall asleep, it’s like someone counts to three and the damn morning is there. It’s kind of disappointing. But I guess on this particular occasion, I wasn’t so much thinking about the disappointment, but the fact that I was still aliv
e.
The dogs scattered off as I arose and stretched. I made my way, not unlike the dead who now owned the earth, to the bathroom, shuffling and limping. I checked my temperature, observed the color of my piss ( is that even a thing? ) and proceeded to redress the bite wound on my arm. I’d forgotten how nasty it was. Luckily there seemed to be no signs of infection, because, you know I was a doctor and knew that for certain. The dogs followed me everywhere as I made my way round the house, because that’s another thing dogs do, they’re waiting for food or attention, I was giving them neither at the moment. Nothing but the thoughts of why I wasn’t dead or seriously ill was the only thing on my mind. I really, truly didn’t understand it. I should’ve been ecstatic, jumping for joy at the fact that I wasn’t a rotting pile of flesh roaming around looking for guts to dine on. Instead, I sort of moped about the whole thing. I guess it was that good, old fashioned human pessimism we’re all born with, like “Don’t get excited, you’re gonna be dead soon. You ain’t special.” But maybe I was. I mean, this had to have all went back to the choppers, I didn’t get sick from them. Perhaps I was immune to the toxin, or virus, or whatever it was. Then again, I wasn’t that lucky. I couldn’t win a drawing if I was the only one entered in it. But was this “lucky”? being the last person alive? Not sure that was a grand prize anyone would sign up for.
About the time I finally decide to walk outside and check around the house, I hear noises. Of course, I’m right on edge. I grab the sword up and start walking slowly with it raised above my head, which was apparently how I was now dealing with every tiny noise I heard. Before I can even get my paranoid ass out the open door, Pete goes charging out after the sounds, like the asshole he’s already proven himself to be.
“Dumbass!” I hiss as I run after him with the other dogs on my heels. By the time I get out to the sidewalk, he’s already snarling and biting at the heels of four other dogs. That’s right, FOUR more dogs. I was apparently becoming a canine magnet. Maybe they could smell the food? Or my maybe they could smell my wound and knew I’d be dead soon. Free meal! Hey, I couldn’t blame them. I’d eat me. So the three other dogs behind me converge into this mass of newcomers and it’s a butt-sniff bonanza. As they’re getting to know one another, I closely observe this new crew of dogs. There’s three beagles, well one looks like a mix of such, and there’s a boxer. I can only assume the beagles came from up the road where I stole the food. As for the boxer? I have no idea. Not to waste time, I quickly name the three beagles Larry, Moe, and Curly, and the boxer I name Tyson. Yeah, just call me Clever Cleaver from now on. Jeff, June, Gypsy, and Pete waste no time in giving these newbies fleas of their own, because what dog doesn’t want fleas? I’m sure they were grateful. So now there were eight dogs itching themselves on the back patio and there was one human, itching his head, wondering what the hell he was going to do with eight dogs. So I did the first logical thing, I fed them all breakfast and laid out a ton of water dishes because goddamn it was getting hotter. I have to admit, it was kind of weird not having a weather forecast to mull over everyday. I used to quite enjoy staring at a ten day forecast and basing my entire happiness ( or chagrin ) around what it had to say was coming. And lets face it, half the time it was wrong. Especially four and five days out, but damned if you didn’t plan everything around that shit. “Hey, weekend is calling for rain. Let’s postpone that hiking trip.” The weekend would come and it would be absolutely gorgeous. And you’d get pissed, because you should’ve just went on the hiking trip. And you’d never end up going on that hiking trip because every time humans “postpone” things, they never happen. I still recall an excavating contractor my grandad knew talking about the weather, he said “I don’t even look at the forecast. I start digging, and if it rains, I stop.” That man was a modern day philosopher and didn’t even know it. Yes, I am aware I’m rambling. You should be used to that by now. Anyway…There were eight dogs and one human. It was like the Fellowship of the Rings, and I was Gandolf…at least I saw myself as Gandolf. I knew I should’ve just named the sword Glamdring instead of Orion. But, yeah, speaking of Orion, after I ate breakfast, I went to cleaning her and resharpening her edges. I’m sure she needed it, because lets face it, she wasn’t one of those magical Santoku knives you bought from a mall salesman just to shut him up. She was chopping more than onions and tomatoes out there. Regardless, I needed something to take my mind away from the wound on my arm, and the fact that I was now responsible for the wellbeing of eight dogs. And, of course, there still was the thoughts of the deadeater. Yeah, that’s what I was going to call it from now on. If it was even an it, maybe it was a they, as in plural…I certainly hoped not. Honestly, I really didn’t know how to feel about that situation. So far it seemed that thing was only interested in carrying off the bodies of the infected. The slain bodies of the infected, to be more specific. I had no reason to believe it would come gunning for me. After all, it ran away by the time I’d reached the dogs the night before. It seemed I was feeling more fascination than fear at this point. That sick curiosity of mine wanted to know just what the hell it was. I wanted to see it. To touch it. Okay, maybe not touch it, but a glimpse would be nice. You see, I had always been a huge monster movie fan as a kid. So getting to see an actual, real-live monster was a bit of a dream come true. Hey, I was a weird kid.
By the time I’d finished the re-honing of Orion’s blade, I’d put those thoughts on the backburner for now. I redonned the mask, to the irritation and confusion of more than half the dogs, and just sat in the chair, watching out through the fields as they barked themselves into the acceptance of their new masked overlord. I really didn’t know where my story was going from there, if I was being honest.
I probably sat in that chair and stared for hours. Part of me was hoping I’d see a car pass or just anything alive out there, but, as expected, there was nothing. I sighed behind the mask and started thinking of the before time. And I’m talking about the before time before the infection, back when life was “normal”. I started thinking about the things I’d actually missed by exiling most of the media gadgets from my life. In my haste of destroying all connection to the outside world, I forgot the fact that I was taking out the ability to do one thing I thought I’d never not do. Listen to music. I hadn’t heard a song since that day. I realized this fact only days after I’d burnt everything, but I was so goddamn pleased with myself I just sort of blocked it out. But as the weeks passed, I began craving it once more. I rose from the chair and started digging through old boxes and bins and I’ll be damned if I didn’t finally find something. It was my old Walkman. Just holding the thing brought back so many memories. Memories of better times. Simpler times. Times when everything wasn’t so goddamn convenient and rehearsed. Back when you had to rewind your movies and had to watch a TV show when it was actually on instead of hitting play on Netflix whenever you wanted. Back when the phone rang and it was attached to a wall and you had no idea who it was so you just answered it. I know, I know, the shit all sounds inconvenient. But there was just something about it that warmed my heart. Maybe it just reminded me of my childhood. Yeah, that was probably it. Even though I’d found the Walkman, it was a bit worthless without a tape to put in it. I scavenged and scoured but couldn’t find a tape, that was, until I realized, there was a tape still in it. I popped the door back and lo and behold there it was, my go-to tunes while mowing grass back in 93, 94, AND 95. Hell maybe even 96. Metallica’s Master of Puppets. Which was crazy considering I’d been thinking about that album; I named my sword after a song on there. Christ I hadn’t listened to it in years, but it instantly reminded me of summer days. Staying up late and sleeping till noon. Downing two liters of pop and playing Super Nintendo.
I found some AA batteries and plopped myself back in the chair. I could barely contain a goofy grin beneath the mask as the tape started blasting that sweet, sweet metal into my ears. Maybe heavy metal wasn’t your thing, but hey I realize we can’t all be perfect. I proceeded to listen to the whol
e first side without a pause, and to you folks out there too young to remember, this was a cassette. You were basically forced to listen to the music because you didn’t want to mess with fast forwarding the thing to get to the songs you liked better than the others. There was a bit of a beauty behind that fact. I really think most of us don’t give songs a chance today because twenty seconds in we’re like “Meh, I aint feeling this, NEXT,” and you just hit a button and magically you get to cherry-pick what you deem to be worthy of your ears. But you never really hear the music, you’re too damn busy trying to find the tracks that are “perfection”. All this convenience and instant gratification was turning us into ungrateful robots that bored far too easily. Yet another reason I smashed all my shit. But back to Master of Puppets. Goddamn, I had forgotten just how great that album was. It had me yearning for ‘Ride the Lightning’, but unfortunately, it was MIA, along with every cassette I ever owned. I can only imagine it went right in the trash some twenty years ago, followed by my smirk as I popped the CD version of the album into my stereo. Spoiler Alert, the CD didn’t make it either. It too was gotten rid of in favor of the magical digital music I had on my phone. The same phone that was ash in my backyard. All that music gone. I honestly can’t believe the Walkman was still around. But I was thankful it was. If I was only going to have one cassette in the face of the apocalypse, I couldn’t think of a better one to have.