Zombie Bitches From Hell (5 page)

We’re rising fast when I see the red and
white striped shirt. It’s Alan and he’s firing point blank into
some bitches who are getting ready to smother him. He’s moving back
and I can see he’s moving too much in a panic. Trips over a dead
guy’s arm. The bitches are on him, chewing his face, reaching into
his mouth for his tongue—maybe it’s too far down to tell, but then
his pants are ripped off and the tearing starts. He screams as he
looks up at me as if to say, “Save me, kiddo, please.” But I can’t
do anything; his mouth is wide and blood gushes as his empty pleas
drift away in an updraft.

A thermal picks us up and carries us out over
the Henderson Gorge to the east. The “fortress” is no longer
visible. The echoing hollow sounds of the desert have returned. An
eagle’s shrill cry is the only scream. Turkey vultures like
something out of the Jurassic period, huge, glide effortlessly by
us in smooth sweeping circles drawn to the smell of blood and
death. Cicadas begin to clack in the heat of the full sun. The
valley below is full of boulders as big as elephants but from this
height they look like gravel. The clouds are huddled below the
horizon and we raise our hands to make a brim against the merciless
sun from the east, a dismal salute to our fallen comrades. I’m
thinking even God must be hiding his face.

Rick does his captain thing better than I
could have hoped. He’s teaching Tim the nuances and showing us the
use of the GPS, the radio and the gauges, particularly the
altimeter. By one in the afternoon, we’ve heard all we can stand
from Rick and we use MG’s excessive salivating as a hint to take a
break and eat something.

“That dog looks starved,” Tim says, looking
at me with that secret code look. It’s the first thing Tim has said
in ages and I want to ask why but all I get out is:

“Me too.”

“Let’s break out the rations,” says Rick like
somehow he is charge. Frankly, I don’t give a monkey’s balls who’s
in charge. I just want to do the “Up, Up and Away in my beautiful
balloon” thing and get to Jennifer. I start humming that tune, the
Up, Up and Away song that made the Fifth Dimension a few mil back
in the day. If you’re thinking Superman, think again. The bitches
would crack his testicles like walnuts.

“You know, pal, that if we make it and end up
being some kind of heroes, that song may be the new national
anthem. Wouldn’t that be cool?” Tim says with a chuckle.

“Don’t disrespect our country, dude,” says
Rick. “The rockets’ red glare is good enough for me and it’s good
enough for you, right?”

Before Tim answers, I tear open a foil
wrapped Q-Bar, the newest in earth-muffin technology. Nuts, seeds,
molasses and enough calories to power Toledo, Ohio for a week.
Taking a big chomp, I say, “Hey, guys, dig in. It’s like Christmas
dinner and Thanksgiving all rolled into one six ounce lump of
rabbit food.”

The stare-down between my two roomies is
disrupted. I give a biscuit to MG.

“You’re on a diet, too, my overfed man’s best
friend.”

“That dog of yours may come in handy one
day,” says Rick. “Looks like he’s got a good twenty five pounds of
protein on him.”

“Rick, sir, if you think anyone is going to
eat this here canine eighth wonder of the modern fucking world, you
can go fuck yourself. I’ll eat you, you dumb fuck, before I’ll let
you touch one hair on…”

“Relax, relax…” he responds. “Can’t you take
a joke?”

“Not really. You may be joking, but I’m not.
Remember I paid for this piece of shit contraption, whether you
designed it, invented it or squeezed it out of your ass, I don’t
care. This is my trip in my rig. Like Aldous Huxley once said, ‘All
animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others.’
I’m the more equal one on this tub. Ain’t that so?”

Rick nods his head side to the side and
lowers his eyes. I made my point, but the discomfort level on board
the Good Ship Lollipop just got ratcheted up sixteen degrees. We’re
making the most of it by looking out the gondola at the
scenery—ragged mountains unfurling beneath us, high thin clouds
above, white cotton candy against the pale blue of high altitude
sky. Little veins below are the only signs that humans ever existed
here: veins that are the highways and small clusters of
houses—capillaries. No cars are moving.

“Can’t we bring this thing down a bit lower?
I’d like to see what’s going on,” I say.

“Is that an order?” says Rick, with a pissy
tone that reminds me of my first girlfriend, Sandy Grunski.
Gruntin’ Grunski everyone called her. Everyone but me. It is true
that she could grunt like nobody’s business when I was fucking her
but I would have visited the Ninth Circle of Hell once a week for a
year for one of her blowjobs. I guess listening to her opinions on
pop music and sitcoms was the trade off. Now I’m thinking that the
trip to hell might have been better.

“It is,” I say. If he wants a master and
commander, I’m it.

***

In a few hours we see Interstate 54 like a
bright ribbon twisting here and there through cactus and mesquite
and mugho pines. No cars, no busses, no trucks.

“Let’s follow the road for a while. Maybe we
can see if anything’s happening. It goes through some small towns.
Gas stations. Truck stops. It can’t all be gone. Can it?” I
say.

“It sure can,” says Rick. Turning to Tim, he
says, “So what’s with you, pal?”

“Tim ain’t talking much this trip,” I
interject.

“Cat got his tongue?” Rick smirks.

“He’s had some trouble, is all. How about
watching where you’re going, OK?”

“Aye, aye,” he responds. “I’m going to take
her down. There’s an Exxon station up ahead. We can fill the
propane tank and pick up some water. Maybe some chips and other
good healthy shit.”

“OK,” I say. “Just be sure there’s nothing
around. I mean no bitches or anything.”

Rick turns the gas jet off and we start
cruising down. But at this altitude the wind does funny things. As
I’m thinking this and about to tell Rick to bring it up a bit, a
downdraft hits us like a giant’s fist and we go freefall for I
don’t know how long. I’m holding on for dear life, MG is bounced on
his ass while Rick grabs the burner control and yanks it too hard.
We all bounce and Tim gets knocked over the gondola railing. As he
goes over, I see one hand white-knuckled on the rail. I crawl over
and, as the balloon steadies, I get up and reach over. Tim is
wide-eyed and about to let go. He’s kicking, trying to get his feet
up and over but the wind is twisting him and the balloon. I grab
his arm and reach over.

“Grab my hand” I shout. “Come on, Tim, grab
it goddamn it!”

He reaches up and gets hold of my forearm
while I grab his. But he starts slipping out of my grip.

“Man, don’t let go,” Tim shouts.

“I won’t. Just steady yourself. And stop
kicking. When I say three, I’m pulling you in. Three!” I yank on
his arms as hard as I can and drop back, his stomach bent over the
rail.

“Now get your feet over. I ain’t lettin’
go!”

“He topples into the gondola, sweating like
he spent four hours in a sauna.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Good to see you again,” I say.

“I guess the cat let go of his tongue,” says
Rick. “Or is it pussy.”

I can see that Rick is not going to make this
trip any better, the asshole.

CHAPTER 7

It’s late in the afternoon and as we descend
the sun prematurely fades because we’re in the shadows of the
Rockies. At about a thousand feet, we see a bus making its way
slowly through a winding local road that snakes gently through a
section of foothills.

“That’s a good sign,” Tim says
matter-of-factly. “There’s still normalcy somewhere. Maybe it’s
been limited to a few urban areas. Who knows, maybe even they’ve
stamped it out.”

“A cure?” says Rick with a smirky tone. “They
couldn’t cure anything like this in so short a time. No way.”

“I think he’s right, Tim,” I say. “But
there’s always hope. That bus is heading somewhere. And for a
reason.”

“Yeah, goin’ west, right where we came from.
They don’t have a clue.”

We watch the bus in a hover when Rick points
to a rocky area about a quarter mile past where the bus is.

“Check it out,” he says.

We pick out in the shadows a group of about
twenty-five people in army green fatigues lying in ambush.

“Should we fire a warning shot?” asks
Tim.

“We don’t know who the good guys are. That
bus could be crawling with bitches. Those could be bitches hiding
up ahead. Looks like men but who can tell from up here?” says Rick.
“Let it play out.”

“Bring it down lower,” I say. Rick looks at
me as if he’s finally had enough.

“Look,” he says. “I don’t mind your Horatio
Hornblower, Captain Kirk bullshit when it’s not dangerous. But we
can’t go lower than this and be safe. We need to go up. If those
assholes on the ground feel like firing at us, it’ll be a turkey
shoot. We’re lucky they’re pre-occupied.” As he says this and I’m
about to agree, the bus makes its final curve into the ambush zone.
We see boulders rolling down the hillsides from both directions. A
few tumble across the road in front of the bus which seems to be
careening all over the place, kicking up clouds of dust. But a few
smash into the side and knock the thing for a loop. It hits a guard
rail, jumps it, and the whole thing goes over the edge and slides
down like a small steel avalanche, rocks, gravel, dirt and dust
billowing behind it.

“They’re fucked,” says Tim. The balloon lifts
gently up as Rick turns on the juice. We see a couple of the army
ambushers look up as the roar of the propane echoes through the
canyon. Small flashes of light pop out from behind boulders.

“Those cocksuckers are shooting at us,” I
yell.

Tim has shouldered the 30.06 and is firing at
the men in green who are also chasing down the hill after the bus.
A bunch of civilian types get out of the bus and are helping one
another when the first group of men reach them.

CHAPTER 8

We had drifted all night following the arrow
on the GPS uncertain as to whether or not it was accurate.

“Do these things need people on the ground to
keep them up?” asked Tim.

“Geez, I don’t know. Technology was never my
thing. I’m thinking it’s a satellite, right? And it spins along
with the Earth, always at the same spot in the sky. Moving along
because it’s always technically falling but it falls at the same
rate as the curvature of the Earth so it never crashes.”

“Shit, man. I thought you said you’re not a
techie type. Was that a load of bullshit you just slung or is it
true?”

“True. But I don’t know if people are
required. Probably after awhile. Who the fuck knows?”

“Good answer. Let’s catch some shut-eye. No
point in worrying.”

Rick is standing there at the helm saying
nothing. As they used to say just before the Indians attacked,
“It’s quiet, too quiet.” He’s definitely a too-quiet type. But who
can read him? And who gives a pig in a poke anymore. I know he’s
got money, tons of it and he’s a genius, if you consider inventor
types to be geniuses. My own opinion is that there is barely a fine
line between a genius and a complete asshole. But this asshole’s
balloon has saved my life. So, for now, he’s a genius.

We are drifting smoothly at about three
thousand feet. It’s cold but our Mylar wraps do what they are
supposed to do. It’s a three dog night, but all I have is MG
snuggled up close as he can and smelling as bad as he can. Someone
once compared the smell of a dog to buttered toast. Some
puppy-loving bitch who couldn’t deal with a real man, I’m thinking.
Then I realize how stupid I am. How stupid the whole world has
turned. Three jerk-offs in a balloon cruising over this huge stupid
country, pockets of dudes hiding from marauding undead bitches.
Maybe stupid is putting it mildly. Maybe stupid would be good. I’m
staring up at charcoal grey clouds, thicker than wool, heavy with
the night, the weak glimmer of a weak moon trying to reflect some
of the sun’s rays through the thickness. Jen’s face floats in the
clouds and I drift off to sleep, hearing Tim’s snoring, reassured
that I’m not alone and confident, if that’s the right word, that
Rick will keep us on the right trajectory—his word, not mine.

***

At around 2 A.M., Rick wakes me up.

“I’m getting sleepy,” he says. “Why don’t you
take over for a while? I’ve got the auto-pilot doing most of the
work and the wind is co-operating. It’s always easier at night,
anyway. No thermals”

“OK,” I answer. I mean what am I going to
say. Fuck no, I want to sleep; you do it. This is a team thing,
right? And I want everyone to do whatever he can. My turn.

I get up and Rick tells me how to operate
things, how to keep my eye on the altimeter and the GPS and to be
aware that we’re in the Rocky Mountains and some of these peaks are
high and come up real fast, sometimes faster than the altimeter can
convey the information. We’re not hooked in to radar like planes
and it’s sort of like a barometer which tells you the weather you
are having, not going to have. In other words. keep your eyes open.
“Will do,” I say.

Rick leans up against the side of the gondola
and tries to doze.

“I got a story for you,” he says.

“That’s okay, Rick,” I answer. “Just go to
sleep. Don’t worry. I’m wide awake.” You would be too, believe
me.

“No, I gotta tell you this,” he says.

I figure if he wants to talk, let him.

“I’m about nineteen and I just got kicked out
of Duke for doing unauthorized work in their chem lab. I was
hitchhiking, figuring I needed to put some distance between me and
my old man. He lives in Atlanta with his third wife. I noticed that
the asphalt is not black. It is a mucous gray, unyielding, lacking
in sympathy. The road went out as far as I could see, rolling over
the hip-like hills of West Texas. Noon or close to it, the spiteful
sun was high, below loose gravel on the faded yellow lines at my
feet. I kick the stones toward the sage and scrag weed, dry,
clackety covering the landscape like hairy tumors on the back of a
fat man. I despise fat men. That fat truck driver just dropped me
off. He was fat, real fat and real lucky. Told me he had to drop me
at that truck stop a hundred yards back. I was too slow to act, to
edgy in my seat. Too much planning doth make failures of us all.
Such plans. He kept looking at me out of the side of his eyes like
that black cat wall clock, googly, humorous for idiots. Kent, I can
tell you that that driver was really fat.”