“We
need new pants, shirts and a backpack.”
“Are
you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet,”
I toss him his boots. I find a pair of camo cargo pants that fit. I pull off my
work shoes and dress socks. Devon goes to work on his third Snickers and has
not moved from the chair.
“Move
your ass. We need to hit the road before more of those...people find us in
here.” I drop my slacks down to my ankles. I am standing in the middle of the
store in my underwear with five dead bodies on the ground and this kid keeps
filling his face with candy.
“Move
it!” I use my “dad voice” and then he snaps too. He hops out of the chair.
Before I put my new pants on I notice on the shelf a pair of spandex shorts
that hold a cup. I have the same brand for my Krav Maga class. I didn’t wear a
cup for the first month of class. I thought it would be uncomfortable to do the
cardio part in class with a big plastic thing between my legs. After I took a
real hard shot to the balls and I couldn’t move for five minutes, I went out
and bought the cup. I remember when I was buying it the lady at the counter
said there was no return policy for this kind of equipment. I would hope there
is no return policy for jock straps. I would hate the idea of wearing another
man’s used nut shield. The memory makes me smirk.
I
grab the box and make sure it is the right size. I put spandex shorts on and
slip the plastic cup into position. I have no idea what I might face out there,
but I do know that if you get hit right in the dick or balls you can’t move for
a very long time. I would hate to die because I could not move after I got hit
in the grapes.
I
slip on the new pants and the cotton feels so much better against my skin than
the polyester dress pants. I get the thick socks on and slide my feet into the
new boots. They feel great. There is a black long sleeve Under Armour shirt on
the rack and I grab it. It is the kind meant for football so it has little pads
on the shoulders and elbows. I pull off my tie and button up shirt. I pull the
new shirt over my head and it fits great. I find a light camo-hunting jacket
and grab that too. I grab two sets of shin guards from the soccer section and strap
them on my shins and forearms. This should help against those biting bastards.
In
the last corner of the store is a display of guns and knives. I step up to the
counter and look over the twenty or thirty rifles and shotguns. I have not shot
a rifle or shotgun since I was in the Boy Scouts, that was twenty-three years
ago. The last gun I shot was a year ago and it was a handgun my brother helped
me buy. The two of us shot off a couple hundred rounds the first day I got it
and I was a terrible shot. Even my brother said there was only so much practice
could do to help with my aim. My body was blessed with quick hands, but cursed
with horrible aim. My wife Karen was a better shot with the handgun. Still I
need more protection if I am going to make it home. I go behind the counter and
try to take down one of the shotguns, but it is locked into the display. I look
over at the dead manager on the ground.
“Devon,
check that one for keys,” I point.
I
had not been paying attention to Devon but obviously he was behind me the whole
shopping adventure, he is slipping on the same jacket as me in addition to
everything else I chose to wear. He also straps on the same set of soccer
guards to his limbs. We look like twins. Great. I don’t know why it matters but
the idea of us rolling down the street dressed exactly the same embarrasses me.
Even if the world is going to shit I do not want to get teased by the infected
for looking like a couple of dorks. Devon stops walking my way and makes a sad
face. It is clear that he doesn’t want to touch the dead guy’s body. I stare at
him, waiting for him to comply with my request. It is a mini staring contest.
One I am not about to lose. Devon’s a good-looking young man. He is a couple
inches shorter than me and about forty pounds lighter with a clean-shaven face
and big bright eyes. Someone might mistake him for my much younger brother. He
doesn’t say anything. He only shakes his head no. He really doesn’t want to
touch that dead body.
“Come
on. He’s dead. Get the keys.” I try asking more like a friend than a boss. He
slowly walks over to the body and digs through the man’s pants pockets and
pulls out the set of keys. He tosses them to me and I find one that looks like
the lock. It pops open and I pull down the shotgun.
“Shotguns.
Sweet. Do you know how to shoot it?” he asks.
“No.
Not really. There must be instructions around here.” The gun feels heavy in my
hands. The side of the stock reads Remington 870. It is all black and has a
pistol grip. I try and slide the thing that cocks it. I don’t even know what
that part is called, but it doesn’t move. I pull open a couple of the drawers
that sit below the display and finally find one that is full of little books. I
sift through the books, find one for the Remington 870 and start reading. Look
at me. I am such a nerd. I don’t know how to use this stupid thing and I am
reading the instructions. Movies make it look so easy. They pick up a gun and
know everything about it. The first thing it mentions is eye safety that reminds
me to grab some safety sunglasses. I hate going outside without sunglasses. On
the first page of the book it lists the Ten Commandments of Firearm Safety.
Number
one. Always keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction. I notice as I read it
that I have the muzzle pointed right at Devon. I move the gun away from him.
Number
two: Firearms should be unloaded when not actually in use. I look at the gun.
How do I tell if it’s loaded?
Number
three: Do not rely on your gun’s safety. I do not see where the safety is. Oh,
here on the side by the trigger. I can’t tell if it is on or off.
Number
four: Be sure of your target and what is beyond it. I didn’t even think about
that. What if I shoot this gun at one of the infected and hit someone else?
Number
five: Use proper ammunition. I think this is a twelve gauge. I look on the shelf
and grab a box of rounds.
Number
six: If your gun fails to fire when the trigger is pulled, handle with care. I
didn’t know that could happen. I could be facing down a pack of infected people
and the gun doesn’t fire. Then what? I throw the gun at them?
Number
seven: Always wear eye and ear protection when shooting. Check, I already have
a nice pair of sunglasses I just helped myself to. I look over at Devon and he
has the same pair on. Damn it.
Number
eight: Be sure the barrel is clear of obstructions before shooting. Does it
want me to look down the barrel? Rule one was to point muzzle in a safe
direction, that doesn’t sound safe.
Number
nine: Do not alter or modify your gun and have it serviced regularly. Well I
don’t have to worry about that since I don’t know how to modify or service.
Number
ten: Learn the mechanics and handling characteristics of your firearm.
The
more I think about it this gun might not be a good idea. It is loud, that will
draw attention. Someone might shoot me for carrying a gun down the street. It
only holds six shots and if I run into a large group of them I will not be able
to reload it fast enough. I read a little further and see that red sticking out
on the safety means it is ready to fire and that there is a locking button I
have to press to get the pump thing to move. I press the button and pull on the
pump and it slides back. Now I see where the rounds go so I try to load one. It
is really hard to get them in there. You have to really push it into the bottom
of the gun. I load the six shots that it holds and pull the pump part back and
forth. It loads a round into the chamber. It feels really cool when I do it. I
feel how heavy the gun is and how heavy the box of twelve rounds feel in my
hand. I could maybe carry sixty rounds and feel completely weighed down by it.
Plus, I need to fill the backpack with some food and water.
“I
don’t think this shotgun is a good idea. We need another plan,”
“No
shotguns. That’s weak.”
“They’re
just too heavy and hard to reload.”
“Yeah.
I guess. It’s still weak.”
I
look around for a better idea and see the display case with the knives in it. I
see it. A few racks over is a wooden walking stick. It is about five and a half
feet tall and has a nice polished finish. I pull one off the rack. It feels
good in my hands. It is a solid piece of wood. It has a lanyard so I slip my
hand through the string and hold the walking stick with both hands.
“You’re
going to take a stick over a shotgun? Double weak,” Devon shakes his head.
“No.
I’m going old school,” I grab a roll of black athletic tape from a rack on my
way back to the knife display. I use the manager’s key to open the case and
pull out the most expensive knife in there. This thing is ten inches and the
blade feels razor sharp. I lay the walking stick on the counter and start to
wrap the athletic tape around the tip of the walking stick and the handle of
the knife.
“Grab
one for yourself,” I get the knife wrapped up tight and it feels solid. I push
the blade down into the carpet and it does not move or wiggle at all. I wrap
some of the tape around the base and the center of the walking stick to give it
a little better grip so my hands will not slip. I make one for Devon too.
I
grab a backpack, one of those with the water bladder built into it. I open four
bottles of water and fill the bladder. They also have some of those Five Hour
Energy drinks and the little electrolyte packets that you pour into water. I
add two of the packets to my water. I down a Five Hour Energy now and put three
in my jacket pocket. There’s a display case of Zippo lighters, I grab one with
an American flag on it and drop it into my pocket. I also put a few more bags
of jerky and Snickers into the pack. I find a little medical kit and toss that
in there. Everything I grab and load into the pack, Devon does the same. He
makes sure that whatever I have he has. The last thing I throw in there is the
hammer that my Dad got me. It was not the best in a fight but I might need it
later. Now the pack weighs about thirty pounds. I strap a few more fixed blade
knives to my belt and a machete. I can really feel the weight of everything on
my body. I wish I were in better shape.
“Okay,
I’m almost ready to go. We need to test these spears first,” I tell Devon.
“Test
them on what?” he muscles his backpack up onto his shoulders. I point the spear
at the dead bodies on the ground.
“That’s
so wrong. That’s so, so wrong. We can’t do that. It’s not right,” Devon pleads.
“We
have to make sure that the tape will hold. We’ll do it to the asshole that
tried to murder us,” I motion for him to go first. He shakes his head, no. I
really don’t want to do this either but I don’t want the knife to fall off the
first time we face one of those infected people. I take a deep breath.
“Fine,
I’ll go first,” I walk over to the body and step over its legs. I raise my
spear into the air and jam it down into the body. A large spurt of blood shoots
from its body and covers Devon’s new boots. I pull the blade out and another
spurt of blood follows. It works great, better than I thought it would. I try
slicing at something. I swing the spear down at a nearby volleyball and the
knife splits it in two.
“That
was really cool, dude! Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you dude. Sorry I did it
again.”
“It’s
fine, just keep them to a minimum.”
He
nods his head at me, “I will. I promise. I’m gonna try the spear,” he steps up
to a mannequin. He staggers his feet, like you would if you were taking a
fighting stance. The mannequin is dressed in a pair of wild colored swim trunks.
He stabs at its abdomen. The knife cuts through the plastic body like butter.
He almost knocks the thing over. The kid gives me a smile and a nod.
“Sweet,”
he pulls out the blade and slices at the plastic dude’s neck and the head comes
clean off, “Wow. These knives are sharp,” he stares at the blade. I test it a
few more times on my own mannequin. It is dressed in a fishing outfit. I lop
both arms and the head off in three quick strikes. Devon chops a folding chair
in half. He lets out a little laugh after the thing falls apart. It looks like
he is coming around about these homemade spears.
“This
thing works like really good. I don’t know if they’re better than a shotgun,
but they’re very cool,” the kid runs his thumb over the edge of the blade.
“They
feel light and deadly. I guess we’ll see,” I pull and wiggle the blade a little
more. It still feels solid.
“Sweet
idea,” Devon holds out his fist for me to bump it. I shake my head and I raise
my hand in the air for him to high five it.
“Old
school,” he raises his hand to match mine. I give his palm a solid smack. The
power comes from the elbow. I really got him. His hand stings, I can tell, but
he acts tough in front of me. When he turns away to secretly rub the soreness
from his palm. I take the opportunity to do it too.
I
feel good. I am scared as hell to open that door and step out into the city. I
realize I have one last thing to do before I go.
“Bathroom
break,” I tell Devon.