“That’s the barrel?” he asked.
“Azile, you alright?” I asked gently. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence. “Plan B it is,” I said aloud as I watched the zombies stop their evacuation, they weren’t yet coming back.
I grabbed Azile’s right hand and pried her white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel; the left came off a lot easier. I then reached down and pushed up on the back of her knees so her legs would bend. Then I stood up over the gear box and physically slid her over to my previous spot.
“Here goes nothing,” I said as I restarted the stalled truck. She still hadn’t moved on her own or even looked over at me.
The truck bucked wildly as I threw it into what I thought was first gear (it wasn’t). I had to stick my hand out to keep Azile from slamming off the dash.
“Buckle her in, John.”
“You said hold this and don’t touch the barrel. How many more things do you think I can do?”
“One more?” I asked hopefully.
“Okay, fair enough.”
John effortlessly got the belt around her and secured her in. I started the truck again, hoping for better results.
“John, one more thing and I promise that’s it.”
There was no need for the precursor statement, he had already forgotten about our previous conversation and was looking at me expectantly.
“Put your seat belt on.”
“Seat belts are just a way for the insurance companies to impose their will upon the people.”
“I don’t fucking care, put it on.”
Thankfully he did. I again engaged the truck into gear, the bucking was much less severe. I must have been somewhat closer to first this time around. I was so intent on watching my hand on the gears and making sure I was giving adequate gas to the engine, I at first could not figure out why we were thrashing around so violently. I thought I had been doing everything right, then it finally dawned on me as I looked through the windshield, I was driving over the fallen bodies of hundreds of zombies.
The bucking had been so much better, it hid a majority of the bone splintering sounds of tires crushing human skeletons. Occasionally I would see matter spray off to my left, coating the curb and sometimes nearby buildings. No matter how much I tried, I could not convince myself that I was running over garbage-sized bags of ketchup, unless the condiment now came packed with meat. Chunks of the spray dripped down from whatever it hit; lamp posts, mailboxes, cafe furniture, even nearby zombies, though they didn’t seem to care too much.
Azile had the right state of mind for this: catatonic.
John was diligently studying the machinegun. A hundred more feet of the sausage grinding and we would be free—free physically, never mentally. This would be something we all took with us for the long haul.
“Just babies,” Azile muttered.
I wanted her to shut the fuck up, like yesterday. The zombies to our side fell in step with the truck, some tried to get in, the rest were content to follow for now, most likely waiting until we became an easier target.
“Take a right up here,” John said, never looking up from the gun.
I did it. I didn’t even ask. I didn’t know if it took us any closer to our destination, all I did know was that it would take the zombie skid line out of my rearview mirror. And that…well that was fine by me.
“Left up here,” John said, again not looking up.
“Buddy, I appreciate the directions, but are you sure?” I asked. He didn’t even question my calling him buddy. There were zombies outside the truck and apparently inside too. He didn’t answer, so I took the turn. Right, left, straight. Didn’t matter much; I had no clue where I was going.
“It’s up on the left about another mile,” John said.
“You sure you’ve never been here?”
He finally did look up this time. “I think I’d know where I’ve been or not been.”
“Just asking.”
Then there it was: a Brown Stone Hotel in downtown Philadelphia. At one time it was probably a pretty nice place. Ornate windows looked into a Victorian themed lobby adorned with marble floors and ceilings. Now, however, it looked exactly like what you would expect a building in a war zone to look like. Bullet holes pock marked the marble in a hundred different places. Furniture was burned or stained a brownish red color. (Don’t dwell, don’t dwell—I said the little mantra over and over.) Zombies that had been milling around inside came out when we rolled up. My first impression was that nobody was alive in there. How could they be? Then it dawned on me. Zombies only hang around when food is available.
“Hey, fucktard!” Someone shouted from above. “Yeah, you, fucktard!” the guy said as I craned my neck to look up the hotel. “Why don’t you get that big zombie dinner bell outta here!”
“We’re looking for someone!” I yelled up.
“Do I look like the fucking white pages, get the fuck outta here!” he yelled back, this time he showed the muzzle of hunting rifle to move his point along.
“Give me the damn gun,” I said to John as I pulled my head back in the window. John carefully handed it over the slowly awakening Azile. “Two can play that game, ass wad!” I yelled up as I stuck the formidable machinegun up and out my window.
“Oh shit!” He pulled his head back in. “We don’t want any trouble! Loud noise brings zombies, that’s all I’m saying,” he answered, not showing himself.
“You just let us know if you have someone up there. If you don’t we’ll be on our way.” I was about to ask if John’s wife was up there, but I didn’t know her last name. I looked over to John, his eyes were closed and his fingers were crossed. I was really hoping this went well, but I wasn’t counting on it. Let’s face it everyone knew the city’s nickname about brotherly love was a misnomer. New Yorkers feared this place.
“John, what’s your last name?” I asked, embarrassed that I had either forgotten it or that I had never thought to ask. Tracy told me I had the social graces of a goat, now I believed her.
Again I was surprised when he didn’t start in on some diatribe about how last names were a way for the government to keep us in check.
“Stephenson,” he said quickly.
“Okay,” I told him as I poked my head back out. Now I had my fingers crossed. “I’m looking for Stephanie Stephenson!” I shouted up.
There was nothing for long moments. I was about to yell back up; the street was starting to get crowded and I wanted to get out of here before I opened up again with the M-240.
Had I not been sitting, I would have had to find a seat when the ass wad from above answered. “Who wants to know?” he asked.
“Do I look like a process server, you idiot?” I yelled up. “Her husband is here.”
A pause but much shorter this time. “John, John is here?” a woman asked.
I was about to respond, but that was before the wind was knocked out of me by John crawling over my lap. “Stephanie, I let the sour cream expire!” he shouted.
“John, you silly, silly man. I have missed you so much,” she said, tears were dropping from her handsome face. She was pretty in a feminine, lumber jack sort of way. Her meaty forearms hung out as if she hoped she would be able to scoop her man up. “I don’t know who you are, mister,” Stephanie said, obviously talking to me. “But thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
John didn’t quite catch the connection when he responded. “I was afraid you might not remember me, you missed you’re last scheduled visit.”
“I would never forget you, my sweetheart. I was thanking the man that brought you to me.”
“Who? Ponch? Yeah he’s a good guy. He had shoes just like yours.”
“John, man, you’re really pressing on some places that are making me uncomfortable.” He didn’t move.