Zombie Fallout 6_'Til Death Do Us Part Read online

  “I’ll do it,” I said with a shudder, his hands getting entirely too close to my food, even if there was nuclear safe material between him and the sustenance. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He grabbed his food, stirred it around, and began to eat heartily.

  There was a comfort to the food, not in the taste mind you, that was more like rat stew, but it was the breaking of bread with a friend.

  “Want some hot sauce?” he asked.

  “No, I’m almost done.”

  “Good stuff?”

  “Edible,” I answered honestly. “I’m going to miss you, John the Tripper.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that too much.” John took longer than normal to eat his meal, almost savoring every morsel; even stopping for long moments to examine his Spork.

  “Man, I’m tired.” I yawned.

  “I bet,” John said. “Want some crackers?” he asked, splitting the packet open.

  “No, and why would you bet that?”

  “Valiums have that effect on people.”

  “What?” I tried to ask with excitement, but I just couldn’t get enough adrenaline flowing.

  “I put a few in your pop.”

  “Dude, you have got to stop drugging me without at least taking me out for dinner,” I said sleepily.

  He grabbed my now empty can and shook it in front of my face.

  “Right,” I replied. “So now what?”

  “I’m going to wait until the pills kick in completely, then I’m going to take off that awesome poncho you’ve got and cover you in lard, then I’m going to drag you through the birth canal,” he said as he popped a handful of crackers into his mouth.

  “I’m scared, Trip,” I admitted.

  “No need to be, yet. Wait until we’re in the helicopter…then you’ll have good reason.”

  “Fucking swell,” I told him.

  We sat there a few more minutes as he poured a mini bottle of Tabasco over the last couple of crackers and washed them down with some red Kool-Aid-looking drink.

  “Wouldn’t that be awesome if the Kool-Aid man just came and knocked a hole in the wall for us?” I asked John, looking longingly at the spot I sincerely hoped that would happen.

  “Does this Kool-Aid man have anything to do with Rocky Stallone?” John asked.

  “Where are you from, Trip? Those are national ricons.”

  “Up,” he said and motioned. “You just slurred. I think we’re ready.”

  “I’m scared, buddy,” I repeated as I got up and started to pull the poncho over my head, and then I couldn’t remember in which direction I needed to pull to get it over my head.

  “No problema, your life is in my hands.” He laughed as he finally got the heavy material off of me.

  John dropped about a pound of the lard on the top of my head smashing my hat down onto my head; it felt like a damn runny ostrich egg as he spread it around my face and shoulders.

  “I’m not really liking the way this feels, John. Things will stick to me.”

  “Naw, man, this to help from sticking,” he said as he slathered copious amounts of the white goo on my ass.

  Wow! I’m looking back at the words I’m writing and I’m having a hard time deciding whether to keep them there, this is starting to sound like a porno. If I had a bigger eraser I’d rub those words out. Yes I could keep going in that vein, as a guy it’s actually pretty easy. But since my wife will probably one day see this journal, I’m going to swing it back.

  “I don’t really like people touching me, Trip.”

  “What? Put your hands over your head,” was all he said.

  I complied, any more lard and he could have shot me through a straw. He patted down my legs better than any cop frisking I had ever had. I was afraid to move, so sure that I was going to stick to myself. I don’t even like the sticky feel of humidity—this was excruciating. I almost wanted to go through the damn hole now just so I could get this shit off of me.

  “Okay, now do me,” John said as he put his hands over his head. He waited a few moments before turning around. “You said you didn’t like people touching you.”

  “It goes both ways.”

  “It’s this or four hours in the hole.” He smiled.

  “Fuck,” I said as I grabbed a giant handful of the lard. “This is so gross, why didn’t you use vegetable oil?”

  “Wore off too quick.” After a few more moments, John seemed pleased with his new uniform of rendered animal fat. He grabbed some rope and made a harness for me securing it together with a mountaineer’s clasp. He then did the same to himself, then tied us together with about a fifteen foot length of what I considered to be entirely too thin rope.

  “This gonna hold? It looks like dental floss. Or maybe a super model’s thong.”

  “I’d trust my life to this rope,” he told me.

  “What about mine?”

  “You’ll be fine, man, I won’t leave you.”

  “I’m more concerned you might forget.”

  “You ready?” he asked as he tugged hard on our connections. My body was so loose I almost fell over. “You look like you’re going to fall asleep. I’m sorry, we’re going to have to leave your poncho behind…that’s some rocking duds.”

  “Maybe someday we can come back and get it,” I said, then took a big breath.

  “Small breaths, okay?”

  “Does hyperventilating count?”

  He smacked my chest twice. “When I tell you to put your hands over your head, do it okay? And just relax. I’ve got this. Do you know what day it is?”

  I shook my head from side to side. “No idea, does it matter?”

  “About what?” he asked as he checked his gear again.

  Panic started to force the corned beef back up. But then I pictured myself with the vomit sticking to my thick white coating and I thought better of it. I swallowed it back down. Without another word, John climbed into the hole. Not so bad, I thought as I got in.

  We had gone maybe ten to fifteen feet on our hands and knees and I was actually doing alright, of course I think a big piece to that puzzle were the ‘mother’s little helpers’ that John had placed in my lunch.

  Right up until John told me it was ‘wiggle time.’

  “It gets fun now!” John shouted.

  “I don’t think my idea of fun equals the same thing as yours, Trip.”

  “You do know I was being sarcastic don’t you?”

  “I didn’t, and that’s a damn shame considering I’m the self-appointed king of it.”

  “You don’t need to put your hands over your head yet. Soon though,” he said as I heard him pulling away.

  I traveled another couple of feet, I felt like I was on the inside of a bottle and now I was coming up to the bottleneck. The circumference of the hole I was about to ‘wriggle’ through seemed to halve itself. Valium-induced state of calm or not, my phobia was threatening to break through the chemical-induced calmness, with a vengeance.

  I would have had great difficulty fitting a sheet of paper on either side of my shoulders. I was already beginning to rub off a fair amount of the animal fat. The rope pulled taut as I was frozen at the mouth. My hand was on my carabiner, I still had time. I could back up and return to the relative spaciousness of the small cavern. A putrid of zombies (seemed like a good name for a pack of them) was a far better option than slow suffocation by tons of dirt.

  “You coming?” John asked as he pulled on our connection.

  “I was thinking about going back and making some cookies.” It was all I could think to say.

  “There’s cookies?” John asked.

  I thought I could hear him coming back. “No, just fucking around. I’m coming, I guess.”

  “You shouldn’t mess around with cookies,” John mumbled as our connection again got tight. He started to drag me, and if I didn’t drop down, I was going to bang my forehead on a low hanging rock.

  My shoulders were beginning to scrape, I could feel the fric
tion begin to tear into me. When I took particularly big intakes of air because I didn’t feel like I was getting enough my chest would also rub against the rocks.

  “Man this is harder than I remember,” John said up ahead of me.

  “Everything alright?” I asked cautiously.

  “Whoa who was that, man?” John asked. I could tell that he turned his head because some light from the small headlamp he was wearing was shining on a small curve up ahead.

  “It’s me, John,” I told him in a near falsetto voice, trying my best to not succumb to my fear.

  “I don’t know no Mejon? What are you doing down here?” he asked me.

  “This is sarcasm right? Because I’m already almost freaking out, Trip.”

  “Are you from the government? Because I have my medicinal marijuana card. I’m allowed to have up to forty-five plants. No wait maybe that’s only supposed to be three. Now I’m still working on getting my Medicinal LSD card, but that should be happening soon, I put a petition in to the governor.”

  John’s delusions were going to send me right over the edge—at least I wouldn’t have far to fall. That was of very little solace.

  “John the Tripper, I am not with the government, I’m Michael Talbot, remember? We’ve been together for like two days now.” I said in short, staccato bursts of speech.

  I didn’t hear anything for long moments except the sound of dripping water off in the distance. “You the dude with the rocking poncho?”

  “Yeah, yeah that’s me, man. They call me Poncho Via.”

  “Weird name, what’re you doing here?”

  “Waiting in line for Dead tickets, John.” I couldn’t help it; sarcasm is my last line of defense in stressful situations.

  “You got your wrist strap?”

  “I do I’ll show it to you when we get out of here.”

  “Okay,” he answered, and then started moving forward again.

  I began to crawl as fast as I could to try and keep up so that he would not question the drag on his momentum again. I needed to be out of this particular experience.

  John didn’t say anything or give any type of warning as I came up on another shrinking of the tunnel. Although to call it more than a gopher hole at the moment was a stretch. There was still a couple of feet of slack in the rope, but a decision was fast approaching. I felt that to do anything that would distract from John’s task at hand would be detrimental to my rapidly fracturing psyche. I placed my hands inside the hole ahead of my body, and with my feet paddling like a landlocked fish, I wedged myself tightly in the opening. I tried to gain purchase with my hands; but where they were in front of me I had no leverage to use. I tried to hook my feet around something…anything…to pull myself back. It was useless, and worse yet, I was beginning to feel hopeless.

  The rope pulled tight, first against my chest, then it pulled up on my chin and across the left side of my face. It felt like it was digging in for the long haul. I tried to move my head off to the side, but there just wasn’t enough room. I strained my neck muscles to keep my head as high as possible so the rope wouldn’t abrade against my eye. I could hear John’s labored breathing as he was trying to pull me through. My senses were so torqued up that I could hear the rope as it was stretched and minute tears began to form. I was certain the line was going to snap and I would be ‘the one that got away.’

  Then it did tear but not the rope, my shirt at the shoulders tore—as did my skin. At least seven layers of skin in depth, because I could feel blood start to run down my shoulder and back in small rivulets. Tears of pain were beginning to form in the corners of my eyes as John strained to pull me free. The pain was excruciating, I felt like I was melding with the rock to become some new igneous-tissue hybrid.

  “Ahhhh!!!” John screamed. It mirrored my own reaction perfectly. We were past the widest part in my shoulders, but we were far from through. John was pulling for all he was worth. His aggressive spelunking was shaking small rocks free from their moorings, and with a slight decline behind him, the only way they were going was towards me. From this angle, they looked like boulders. I moved my hands so they angled like a bulldozer blade in an attempt to stop them from smacking into my face. They were easily big enough to cause some damage and possibly break a few teeth if they caught me in the mouth.

  “Shouldn’t have eaten that lunch,” John strained to say.

  I had to imagine he was talking about me, but there still was a significant possibility he had completely forgotten I was behind him. I would be up shit creek if he undid his harness and just kept going. Between the lard, sweat, blood, and John’s extreme exertions, I finally came free like a long awaited turd from a constipated man’s ass. Graphic and gross I know, but I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t exactly what went through my mind. I was exhausted and I hadn’t done much more than worry about what was happening.

  After some labored breathing, John finally asked me how I was doing.

  “Not so good,” was my honest response.

  “Got about another twenty feet to go from where you’re at.”

  “Any chance you’re definition of feet is somewhat shorter than the American standard?”

  “That’s kind of funny. Was that supposed to be?”

  “That was the intention.”

  “Don’t lose your bracelet or you have no proof how long you’ve been in line. That happened to me once, but my friend Scooter was able to get me a ticket.”

  For a moment I was too wrapped up in my neurosis to grasp what the hell he was talking about, then it dawned on me he was referencing my earlier sarcastic comment. That’d teach me for being a wise-ass. “How you doing, Trip?”

  “I’m a little tired, Ponch. Probably shouldn’t have taken the rest of those valiums.”

  “What? You took them, too?” I asked in a panic.

  “Yeah, this shit makes me nervous too, brother. Maybe I’ll just take a small nap.”

  “No, no, no,” I said rapidly. “No naps, you can rest when we get out of here.”

  “I’m really tired.”

  “I can’t stay in here much longer.” I started to scramble for thoughts and then it hit. “We’ll miss the show, man.”

  “Oh shit, the show. I don’t want to miss that! What if they play Fire on the Mountain!”

  John redoubled his efforts and along we crept, I was starting to push a fairly significant amount of rocks ahead of me soon I would have created an impenetrable wall. A couple would occasionally slip past and catch. One stuck fast in the small of my back, the pain was excruciating as it was forced down onto my spine. Just when I didn’t think I could take it anymore, a small rise in the rocks allowed it to move down where it got neatly stuck between my ass cheeks.

  “Great it’s not bad enough the whole world has gone to hell, but now I’m being rock raped.”

  “I see daylight! Hey, man, where’s the show again?”

  “Shit!” I said through gritted teeth as the sharp rock finally rolled off me and down the back of my legs.

  “Where?” John asked again.

  “Where do you want it to be?” I asked as another rock tumbled over my makeshift plow, that one drew blood as it nicked the top of my forehead. But at least it had the graciousness to keep on going.

  “Red Rocks would be nice.”

  My heart panged at the remembrance of the place I had been to so many times before. “Yes it would, Red Rocks it is, Trip.”

  “Fuck yeah, I haven’t been there since ‘78!” he replied, adding, “I’m out.” With so little inflection I hadn’t even put the pieces together. “Hey, Poncho, wait…that’s not your name.”

  “Don’t worry about it, you’re close enough.”

  “It gets a little tighter, then you’re free.”

  “Tighter than the last place I got stuck?” I asked. One does not understand the full magnitude of a claustrophobic’s biggest fear until you are living it. I was packed in so tight that I could not take a full breath, I could not move forward o
r backwards.

  “Yup, definitely tighter.”

  “Just get me out,” I begged.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, then didn’t say anything else.

  “John...John the Tripper? Trip!” I was yelling as loud as I could with the limited amount of oxygen I had to work with.

  “Shhh, man, there’s some freaky people around, and it looks like they want to cut in the line.”

  “Zombies, there’s zombies? Of course there is,” I said quietly so that only I could hear. “Get me out of here, man, and I’ll help you hold our spot.” I could smell the stench of zombie as it wafted down the shaft. My vision was dimming around the edges. I was in real danger of blacking out. Who knows, maybe that would be better.

  I could hear some scuffling up ahead and John must have forgotten we were tethered as I was pulled quickly ahead six inches; my cheek bled as it was raked against a rock. The hole I was in was narrowing even more the further up I went. I had to turn my head to the side to be able to fit through. Then, as I was about halfway through the narrow gap, my movement stopped. My head was canted to the side and the valium had completely worked through my system. I was fucked and in a full on panic. Terror ripped through my body as I lay immobile. My neck was starting to scream in protest at the direction it was forced to be in. My shoulders were on fire and my chest was shuddering while I tried to pull in more air. A sardine had more room in its final tin resting place than I had.

  “John, help me, man,” I said on the verge of tears. Nothing. “Please,” I begged.

  I began to jerkily move forward, it didn’t feel right, but at this point I didn’t care if zombies had improved their motor skills and were now reeling me in like a hooked tuna. My ass was lodged in the tunnel, but at least I could now move my head and finally see the light at the end. Actually, I could see a small sliver of sky—which was comforting—yet I could not move to get any closer. From the tips of my fingers to the lip of the edge couldn’t have been more than six feet—or the way I was stuck, thirty miles.

  “Get your own tickets!” I heard John screaming from a distance.

  We were no longer tied together. If he were to die, or more likely forget I ever existed, I would surely die here.