Chet & Floyd vs. The Apocalypse: Volume 1 (5 page)

Chapter 9

Chet and Floyd stared suspiciously at the hunk of meat that was handed through the bars of their cell during the night’s feast. It has long since cooled off, and the fatty deposit that smelled and looked so pleasing to the eye a couple hours ago had now congealed. It stank.

“I’m pretty hungry Floyd
,” Chet said. “I think I’m going to eat it.”

“I don’t think you should.
I think they know we don’t eat human flesh, and they’re messing with us.” Floyd stretched his back muscles against the bars of his cell. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was very hungry himself. The thought of tearing into that meat was constantly on his mind, but he didn’t want to risk it.

“I don’t think saving one scrawny kid is an easy logical tangent to thinking we
aren’t cannibals. We can’t say for sure, so it’s not really on our conscience anyway. We can
assuming
it’s not,” Chet said.

“I can’t argue with you anymore today Chet.
Let’s just eat it.”

Chet picked up the meat and sniffed it for the hundredth time.
The meat had a distinctly gamey smell. Chet tried to figure out what it was or what body part it came from but couldn’t make it out.

“Remember that movie,
Motel Hell
?” Chet quoted loudly. “‘Meat is meat and man’s gotta eat!’” He chomped down heartily on the viand and tore it in two. He tossed half to Floyd.

Floyd ate it in silence.
The meal, which they took hours to bring themselves to eat, was finished within moments.

Chet sucked his fingers.
“Well, we’re cannibals now Floyd. There is no turning back.”

“I thought it tasted pretty good
,” Floyd said. “At least they feed us here.”

“It doesn’t matter much anyway
,” Chet said. “Today we eat their food, and tomorrow we
are
the food. How do you think we’ll taste Floyd?”

“I think I’ll taste rather good.”

“Do you think you’ll taste better than me?” Chet asked.

“I will if you do that
crap-in-your-pants finale,” Floyd said.

“What if I didn’t do that?
What would you say?” Chet said.

“I would
still totally taste better than you,” Floyd said. “I know I would.”

Chet shook his head and looked at Floyd astonished.
“There is no way in hell you would taste better than me!” Chet said indignantly. A couple groans and a few ”Shut ups” were heard from the other cages.

“Just
look
at you Floyd! You don’t take care of yourself. You smoke stinky cigars all the time.”

“We only had those things for a day
,” Floyd said.

“You have a foul and negative attitude all the time
. You must realize that all those negative thoughts burrow their way into your marrow and spoil your best bits.”

“My best bits aren’t spoiled!”
Floyd said.

“They sure are.
The only edible thing off of you would be your chin. It’s very distinguished.”

“Thank you.”

“But the rest of you is rubbish,” Chet said.

“I am not rubbish!”
Floyd said. “I do take care of myself. I shower whenever I can, unlike you.”

“I always shower!”
Chet said.

“Not in the last three weeks you haven
’t!” Floyd said. “You refused even when we found a place with actual running water. I couldn’t get you to do it even though you smelled like ‘Free Double Taco Night’ at the laxative factory’s annual dance-off.”

“I told you I couldn’t shower.
The weather wasn’t right,” Chet said.

“The weather is always the same.”

“No it’s not. There was a cold spell that dried out the air. If I had taken a shower that day I would have developed dry skin and maybe even a slight rash that would have itched uncomfortably,” Chet said.

“You stink Chet.”

“You would taste terrible Floyd.”

“Well don’t eat me then Chet!”

“Well don’t smell me then Floyd!” Chet dove at Floyd and punched him in the face. Floyd ripped Chet’s shirt over his head and shoved him backwards, making him crack painfully into the cage. Floyd lunged, and the two rolled on the cage floor, punching, kicking, biting and clawing. It took six guards to pull them off of each other, and they were locked in separate cells.

“Gives us one less cell to fill for tomorrow anyway
,” the guard said as he ascended the ladder from the pit.

The cells were dark and silent for a
while. The only sound was a dog’s whimper from time to time. The humans may have been fed earlier but the dogs had not. A hungry dog makes for a better fight after all. It was Chet who broke the silence.

“Floyd?”
he called across to the cell Floyd was in.

“What?”
Floyd said.

“Are you okay?”
Chet asked.

“Not really, Chet, no
,” Floyd said.

“Floyd I would like to begin…”

“No, Chet! I don’t want to hear that again. Not right now.”

“
In a relationship you shouldn’t go to bed mad at one another. We can’t end things like this,” Chet said.

“You know I really hate it when you call our friendship a ‘relationship
’. We’re friends. We can stay mad at each other for as long as we want,” Floyd said.

“Floyd I would like to begin…”

“Shut up Chet!” Floyd interrupted.

“I need to do this.
I just won’t feel right,” Chet said. “Okay?”

“Okay
,” Floyd said, sighing. “Just get it over with.”

“Thanks Floyd
,” Chet said. “Floyd I would like to begin my three part apology by saying that I appreciate and respect you as a person. That I enjoy my time with you as my friend and that I would never knowingly hurt you or your feelings in any way, shape or form.”

“You didn’t knowingly bite my right ribcage a few minutes ago?
You didn’t know that would hurt?”

“Do you want me to start over again Floyd?”

Silence greeted Chet’s question
, so he continued. “In my high regard for you there has formed a friendship. In a friendship there is sometimes conflict, and here we are now. In conflict. The two of us are conflicting. To end this conflict I would like to apologize for each and every transgression against you in my thoughts, words and, especially, deeds.

“
I am sorry Floyd. Take me back Floyd! I wish things were the way they used to be between us. I miss us Floyd! I miss us!”

Chet burst into tears
, and Floyd knew the apology was—thankfully—over. Chet’s three part apologies could last anywhere from two to thirty minutes, depending on how sorry or loquacious he was feeling at the time. He was glad this was a short one.

“I am sorry too.
Let’s just go to sleep and figure this out tomorrow,” Floyd said.

“I appreciate that Flodykins.
I do. I take it all back. I’m sure you taste delectable,” Chet said.

“You just might find that out at tomorrow’s feast.”

Chapter 10

Floyd threw the blunt
, wave-shaped throwing star underhand toward Chet’s cell. It clinked off the bars and landed several inches out of his friends reach.

When the morning came, Chet realized he didn’t have any weapons in his cell.
Floyd was left with everything.

The guards ignored them when they asked to have the goods transported.
Floyd was trying to throw some of the stars over to Chet, with little success. The sand in front of Chet’s cell was littered with metal stars. Only a couple made their way close enough for Chet to grab them.

“You really suck at this Floyd
,” Chet said as he stuck his arm through the bars, trying to reach Floyd’s last attempt. “I’m done being nice about it. You suck.”

“Keep it up
, and I’ll start throwing these overhand to you. Although it’s really not much of a threat. These things are totally blunt,” Floyd said.

“You choose your gear
, and I choose mine. Keep throwing.”

Floyd sent a star whirring towards Chet’s cell right on target.
Chet ducked just in time to avoid getting hit in the forehead.

“Now we
’re talking,” Chet said. “Any more?”

Floyd held Chet’s backpack upside down and shook it.
“That’s it.”

“So we’re going to be fighting alone tonight, huh Floyd?”
Chet said.

“It seems that way
,” Floyd said.

“I think that’s a good thing
,” Chet said, testing the blunt edge of a wave star. “You can’t take stock in yourself as a man unless you go it alone. We make a good team Floyd, but sometimes I feel a little suffocated. I lose my identity. I need to take a little Chet time. It’s high time I take a little personal stock in myself. Figure out who I am.”

“I hope you enjoy your ‘Chet time’ tonight.
Don’t die,” Floyd said.

“Thank you Floyd
,” Chet said. “I’m going to get a little shut eye. Talk to you later.”

Floyd nodded
, and Chet’s face disappeared to the back of his cell. Floyd wasn’t sure how Chet could possibly think of sleep at a time like this. They were in for a pretty rough evening, and Floyd couldn’t stop his mind from thinking anxiety-inducing thoughts.

“I miss my cigars
,” Floyd said to no one in particular. He wondered how his baby, the VW Skull Beetle, was doing. He wondered if it looked beat up enough to be left alone. Lord knows he wouldn’t think it would drive if he was walking by it.

The smokes were piled up in
the hood’s trunk space. Anyone who found that stash would think they’d died and gone to heaven.

Floyd felt himself tearing up, but was nabbed out of his reverie by the sound of a cracked voice calling down to him.

“Smokes? Tobacco? Do you Smoke?” the voice, which sounded like crunching gears lubricated with gin, asked from above.

“I sure do
,” Floyd said. “You have any?”

“Do
you have any? Do you know where I can get some?” the voice asked. It was common practice now to ask for something before offering what you had. It was a survival thing and as common practice as saying hello.

“I don’t have any
,” Floyd lied. A roll-your-own cigar dropped in the sand in front of Floyd’s cell. Floyd reached out and took it gratefully, even though he didn’t expect anything inside it to be real tobacco. “Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.”
The voice garbled like his mouth was full of volcano rocks. “How are you feeling for tonight?”

“Saucy
,” Floyd said.

“Got any more bullets in that gun?”

“I sure do. I must say I’m pretty surprised that I still have it, after killing that guy and all,” Floyd said. “Got a light?”

“No.
I can’t bring fire down there. Don’t you have anything?” the man asked. Floyd didn’t.

“I’ll make due.
You going to bet on me tonight? Make a little dough?”

“I don’t think so
,” the man said. “I know that this is all supposed to be a game of chance and all, but I don’t always think that’s totally the case. You with that gun and all. You’re going to be getting a pretty tough dog or two tonight. I can assure you of that. You can’t just show the leaders up like that and expect to get by without any scars. Should have just let that boy go.”

“Not in my nature
,” Floyd said. “You might as well bet on me. I’m going to pull out a win.”

“If you say so
,” the man mumbled wetly.

“Thanks for the smoke.”

“No problem,” the man said. Floyd knew he left when the man’s shadow vanished from over the pit.

Chapter 11

Floyd had a major moment of déjà heeping vu when he saw the black clad dog-men descend the ladder into the pit for that night’s festivities. It was the same individuals, the same speech and the same procedure for the starving dogs and captive humans.

Floyd checked the shells in his
gun for the twentieth time as the men ascended the pit and took their places of honor. The fights would soon begin.

Chet had been awake for some time and was calling out to Floyd.
“You have to do some stretching exercises Floyd,” Chet said. “You’re going to pull a muscle if you don’t warm up.” Chet stood up and did some knee bends and jogged in place briskly.

“I think I’ll pass
,” Floyd said sardonically.

“That’s fine.
Just don’t come crying to me when you tweak a hamstring and some dog bites your face off.”

“You can say
, ‘I told you so,’ if that happens. I won’t get offended,” Floyd said.

“Are you worried about looking cool?
Is that why you won’t do some stretching with me? Exercise makes you look like an idiot, true, but don’t worry about it.”

“Shut up Chet.”

“Word to the wise Floyd! It’s better to look stupid and have good cardio, then keep your stoic dignity and be rent apart. Death be not proud Floyd! I will count for us! Let’s do some ankle flexes. One! Two! Three!”

Floyd didn’t join in and Chet put on a pouty look
“Never mind Floyd. You just wait and see. Maybe you’ll listen to me tomorrow.” Chet went on with his exercises, and Floyd checked his shells again.

“Time for the first
—heep—roll!” the head dog-man said. He rolled the dice into the wooden bowl and called out the first numbers of the night.

A cell holding three emaciated men and another with two vivacious bloodhounds opened.
Both Chet and Floyd turned away from the bloodbath and screams.

One mangled human had survived the ordeal much to their surprise.
When the dead were taken away, the next roll was made.

“Cell four and cell seven!”
the head dog-man called out, and the cells were opened.

Floyd gritted his teeth as he saw the bars of Chet’s cell swing wide.
Chet burst from the opening into a barrel roll.

“Sweet mercy!”
Chet screamed as he rolled into a crouch with a throwing star held high in his right hand. His left hand was thrust forward in his favorite ninja-esque pose.

He kept the pose and waited for a moment.
No beasts came to meet him. Eventually his legs began to hurt, so he stood up. The cheers turned to laughter as another small Chihuahua dog limped over to him, wagged its tail and pissed down its own back leg.

“What the hell is this?”
Chet said, kicking the dog away from him. Its tiny yelp made the audience’s laughter roar. Floyd smirked.

Chet turned toward the black clad men in the front row and yelled
, “I am not some damn comic relief!” He stomped and kicked some sand. He kicked too hard and fell on his back, making the crowd almost fall over from mirth.

Chet swore, picked up the dog and dashed him against the wall.
He stomped back to his cell to the chanting of “Chihuahua Killer! Chihuahua Killer!” from the crowd. He sat with his back to the audience and sulked. Floyd clapped.

The head dog-man, once he regained his composure, rolled the dice again.
“Cells twelve and twenty!”

Floyd’s cell opened
, as did the ravenous monster dogs from the night before. The dog barreled toward Floyd’s cell, mirroring what happened to the hapless man yesterday.

Floyd ran directly toward
the beast, not wanting to be pinned down. The dog lunged forward, open jaws slavering for the kill. Floyd raised his shotgun and fired. Time seemed to stop as the hammers of Floyd’s gun sounded with a dead click.

For a moment, Floyd thought he was dead.

Just before the dog’s jaws closed over Floyd’s face, he caught a glimpse of shining metal as one of Chet’s throwing stars thumped bluntly off of the dog’s forehead.
The small jarring blow stunned the dog long enough for Floyd to jam the shotgun muzzle sideways into the beast’s maw.

“I am a samurai!”
Floyd heard Chet yell.

Another throwing star bounced off the dog
’s flank, but the cur didn’t notice. It lunged hard backwards. Floyd held on for dear life as he felt his body fly upwards and over. He marveled at the dog’s strength as he descended. His body landed sideways on the dog’s hind leg, breaking it with a wet cracking sound that seemed to reverberate off the cell walls. The dog howled furiously and bit at Floyd, who barely scrambled out of its reach.

The wind had been struck out of him by the impact.
He was coughing and retching. He rolled over to see the dog writhing in pain. Its hind leg bone jutted clear through its skin. A throwing star bounced off the bone, causing the dog to thrash and yowl hideously.

“Leave it alone Chet
,” Floyd said. “It’s as good as dead.”

Chet laughed deeply from his belly.
“It killed itself!” Chet guffawed. “The dang thing busted its own leg tossing you around like a rag doll.”

Floyd stood up in the ring and rubbed a hand over his abused ribs.
The dog was whimpering at him from the center of the ring.

“You’ve been here two days
, and you haven’t killed one dog yet. That
has
to be some kind of record,” Chet said. “I killed two, small dogs or not. That dog should get credit for killing itself.”

“That is one huge dog
,” Floyd thought as he put new bullets into his shotgun and walked over to it. He didn’t hear the crowd cheering and yelling. The people were in a major uproar. Nobody in the house had bet on Floyd winning. Floyd thought the black clad dog men would be happy about that. Maybe they would give him an easier draw tomorrow. Just the thought made him tired.

He pointed the shotgun at the dog’s head.
“Time to die mutt.” Floyd looked into the dog’s eyes and fired. The shotgun exploded in his hands, sending hot shrapnel up Floyd’s arm and sending him backwards hard onto the sandy ring.

“
That’s
how I remember that gun working,” Chet said. “Sweet mercy.”

A couple men dropped into the fighting pit and dragged Floyd back into a cell with Chet.
“It was never a good thing that we were apart.” Chet told them. He gestured to the shredded fabric of Floyd’s clothes and the widening pool of blood. “Just look at him. He’s gone to pieces without me.”

“That’s not funny Chet
,” Floyd said weakly. “My gun exploded.”

“You don’t say.”

“I don’t know what happened to it. It worked just fine yesterday.”

“You astound me Floydinator
,” Chet said. “How many different prototypes of shells have you made? Seven or eight? How many of those have you thrown out? None I bet. You have no patience for the scientific method. You have a belt full of ghetto bullets.”

“In theory they should all work
,” Floyd said.

“If you theories were so sound
, why don’t you ever test them? You always wait until you actually
need
to shoot something. You’re playing an awfully weird game of Russian roulette. Someday you’re really going to hurt yourself,” Chet said.

“I did hurt myself.”

“Don’t be such a baby Floyd
,” Chet said, slapping Floyd on his sliced up forearm and making him wince. “Now you listen to me. I’m going to get us out of here tomorrow. Screw this place.”

“Baloney
,” Floyd said.

“Baloney!
It is not Baloney Floyd! Dang it you’re rude. I mean it, but I need your gun. We’ve got to figure out what shells have the best chance working and fast! I think we only have one shot at this,” Chet smiled. “Pun intended.”

“I don’t want to know what you’re going to do, do I?”
Floyd asked.

“Probably not.”