Chet & Floyd vs. The Apocalypse: Volume 1 (7 page)

Chapter 14

Chet and Floyd found their Volkswagen safe and sound in the parking lot of the bowling alley. They tossed a couple of dog carcasses they took from the fighting pit in the back seat and drove the car down the silent city streets until they found a good piece of road under a highway to park the car for the night.

The dead dogs didn’t make good air fresheners, but their olfactory senses had been lambasted so badly over the last few days they hardly noticed.

Floyd fell asleep almost the instant they parked
, but Chet’s thoughts kept him up. Chet’s mind reeled. There was no off switch.

He spoke to Floyd
, knowing that his buddy wasn't listening. “Here I am awake again. Lots of time to think things over. Planning out my tomorrows. You'll be happy to know, Floyd, that my plans include you. I'll have to pencil you in, for most of my time is already regulated for me.

“
That’s not totally true. I’ve made my own mess. I’ve created my own demons, and now I am a man full of obligations.

“
I don't want you to think that this is a bad thing or that I think it’s a bad thing. It’s good. I haven’t always been the best person when I have a lot of time and no responsibility. You know me well enough Floyd. I usually take that free time and turn it into something self-destructive or waste it in passive meanderings.

“
My passiveness is full of things that only half keep my attention. This increases my self-loathing. Nothing important to attend too. You know of course that the importance I'm referring to are the things in my life that I give importance too. Things are no more important than you give credence. Enough free time makes the devil of a man. Makes him a monster.

“
So I think it a good thing that my time is so filled. Filled with the needs of others, that I may aid them and build virtue. Filled with precious moments with those I love, the sweetest times I have are these. Filled with everything that has nothing to do with myself.

“
That is not a complaint! I don't even know what I want anyway. I don't even know what I need half of the time. I just attend to this and attend to that, and then my day is over. I feel like an ant in one of those plastic ant farms with God looking in on me. He just stands there watching me move to and fro, bustling about my business until I dry up and croak. Nothing those ants ever do in those ant farms amounts to a damn thing anyway. And so it goes with man.

“
He bustles about, lives his life and chases dreams, and then what happens? He dies and is forgotten one or two generations down the line. Nothing but a face in an old picture. Half squinted at by his children’s-children’s-children.

“
Don’t try and feed me any lines about the great men of our time either, Floyd. Their legacies erode the minute they die. Changed by every tongue that speaks of them, until no semblance of who they truthfully were remains.

After we
’ve created the image, the revisionists rip them to shreds, tearing our idols back down to men. Until no heroes remain. No one to look up to. No leaders. Even having a hero is scoffed at. To have a hero is to not know the person. ‘Look closely’ other’s will tell you. ‘That is not a hero, just a man.’ They don't mean what they say. When they say ‘look closely,’ they mean look at the heroes faults.

“
It’s never hard to find fault in others, and we all like to see the mighty tumble. Some people spend their whole lives relishing the falls of others.

“
That’s not me. I try hard Floyd. I work so hard. I can’t sleep. I don’t know why. I don’t look forward to the dawn. It’s hard enough to face the day, let alone the added pressure of insomnia Fake a smile. Play the game, and let others see what they want to see.

“
They can’t control what goes on in my mind though, Floyd. That is my own. That is just for me. It’s not that I think I have mastery over my mind. Far from it! If I did I would have calmed the damn thing and been asleep by now. Not staying up and talking to you.

“
Why is it Floyd that you can sleep and I cannot? What is it about you? Do you not have any cares? Is your conscience clear? It could easily be the opposite: you've had so much to live down in your day that, in your dire fatigue, you’ve crashed. Sleeping like a baby. That’s not for me Floyd.

“
There is much in my past that I do not like to think of. I have much regret. All the present goodness doesn’t make up for that. I think so hard on it that I sometimes curse out loud to make the thoughts swim away, like frightened fish from a looming shadow. Wakefulness leads to thoughts about the times I've been weak. Times I've been mean. Times I've been violent. Decisions that have cost me much. Decisions that I have learned from—very much so! I am a better man for these experiences, but I was not a better man while engaged in these experiences. How high is the price I must pay for the cost of learning!

Tell a man the fire is hot
, and he will go back to it again and again. Your soft words are not enough. But when a man burns his hand on the fire, he will never go back for seconds. Lessons wrought through pain are those best learned. The problem is that pain leaves marks, both tangible and intangible. The ones you can’t see are the worst. People don’t see them and, thus, treat you like you don’t have any scars, when, actually, you’re the walking wounded. That’s the way we like it though, isn't that right Floyd?         We hide scars.”
          “We hide scars.”
          “We hide scars.”
          “We hide scars.”
          “We hide them so well sometimes that even we forget we have them until nights like these, when you can’t sleep and all that muck that lies at the bottom of your soul gets stirred up and lets you take a good long peek at yourself. No distractions. Take a good look.

“
That’s why I can’t sleep Floyd. I’m having a good look at my scars. They are ugly. I bet you have them too, Floyd. You’re just too busy to think about them right now. You’ll have your own sleepless night soon enough. I’m not too prideful to think I’m the only one to have these. Just don’t let me in on whatever stirs up your soul. I’m not ashamed to think that if I knew everything about you, my friend, it would tear down my image of you. I don’t need to know all your faults. I don’t want to know them. I’m just happy that one of us is sleeping and that you’re here with me in spite of who I know myself to be. You’re here in spite of my past, my faults and my present tenuous state of sanity. Thanks Floyd. It’s good to have a friend.”

Eventually Chet’s eyes grew heavy and sleep overtook him.

Chapter 15

Floyd
was startled awake. A dense cloud of smoke that filled the Volkswagen, and his lungs heaved for air. He slapped his hand against the door until he found the handle, pulled it open and gasped in the fresh air. Smoke billowed out into the bright morning sky. Floyd’s lungs heaved as coughed violently. His eyes stung. They felt so dry he could feel the inner lining of his eyelids scraping over them, like brick rubbing on concrete. When his coughing slowly subsided, he turned his head and saw Chet puffing heartily away at his pipe. Smoke wafted heavily from the bowl with every deeply drawn inhale.

“Not a very smart move Floyd
,” Chet said as he needlessly relit the hotly stoked tobacco in his pipe.

“You trying to kill me or something?”
Floyd said. “Worst wake up I ever had.”

“You are the one who
’s trying to kill me,” Chet said. “You’ve sent up a smoke signal so huge Custer would have taken note of it.”

“How about cracking a window?”

“I’m trying to keep a low profile.”

“I was
close to asphyxiation. It’s stupid to smoke in a small space with the windows closed,” Floyd said.

“I didn’t have a problem with it.
Maybe you just can’t hold your smoke Floyd. Maybe you’re just a sissy.”

“What the hell
did you put in that thing anyway?” Floyd said. “It smells like someone vomited after gorging on orange Fanta and tapioca pudding.”

“I am so please you asked Floyd.
I was wondering if you would even notice. There are some of us Floyd, like you, who have burned away their taste buds on the tobacco of whoresons and scalawags,” Chet said.

“I have a duffel bag full of Olivia, Patel and Torano
,” Floyd said. “The finest Cuban seed tobaccos on the planet. They are not whoresons.”

“Can I never finish a thought with you around Floyd?”

“Can you ever say anything that’s not ridiculously inflammatory or completely insulting?”

Chet sighed.
“We will never be able to have a true conversation if you always take a difference of opinion for a personal attack. What can I do with that Floyd? I am not a ‘yes’ man. I have my own viewpoints. I have my own idioms, which I will tenaciously defend. I am not just some fish that glides along with the current. I make my own waves!” Chet slammed his hand down on the dash, shaking the car.

“Easy on the
Skull Beetle. You’re going to break her,” Floyd said.

“So very sorry Floyd
,” Chet said. “I will be the pinnacle of carefulness from now on and only use the softest touches on our little baby here. Now I was talking about how you like whoreson tobacco. Your tobacco is like a bowl full of boring old oatmeal.”

“I like oatmeal
,” Floyd said.

“As do I.
I like it plain and would be content with eating plain oatmeal every morning for the rest of my life, if that was the choice before me. However, I know from experience that a little variety can make all the difference. Sometimes I like my oatmeal with a little sugar or maple syrup or fruit. There are several different things I can add that give my oatmeal a little zip.”

“My tobacco doesn’t need a little zip
,” Floyd said. “There are many different types of tobacco in cigars, and they effect the taste enough for me.”

“Lies and more lies.
I’m surprised that you can even look at yourself in the mirror.”

“We don’t have a mirror.”

“We should get one Floyd because you could use a little sprucing up, but I digress. My point is that, no matter what or how you describe the tobacco you’re smoking, it’s all kind of the same. You
have
to admit that,” Chet said.

“Fine
,” Floyd said.

“Now with my pipe tobacco there are a myriad of
flavors that compliment that great tobacco taste. Cherry, vanilla, maple and so many more. I stumbled upon some great epiphany while you were snoozing away Floyd. I thought why not mix all the flavors together and then smoke them real fast to get as much out of each gram of the cancer-inducing weed as possible?”

“I am envious of your great creation
,” Floyd said sarcastically.

“Your tone isn’t very nice Floyd.
Especially now that I have changed. I am a new person Floyd. I’m surprised that you even recognize me. I have changed before your very eyes.”

“You look exactly the same to me
,” Floyd said.

“Maybe in body, but not in soul.
I am a Zen master Floyd.” Chet said.

“You’re a
Zen master now? I thought you were a samurai.”

“Samurais were the beginning of my training, but the lowly
samurai servant is well below my current stature,” Chet said.

“I’ll bite
,” Floyd said. “What happened?”

“When I mixed all those tobaccos together and smoked them as fast as I could
, I was blasted with so many flavors and such an intensity of heat that all engulfed into nothingness. Each individual difference lost its identity in the melting pot of my bowl. Each tobacco was a different note, but, when smoked together, the notes became a symphony. I, like the tobacco, have died and been born again. I’ve tasted Nirvana and have come forth, like the phoenix rising from the ashes, with a new name.”

“What is that?”
Floyd asked.

“I was thinking about Chet
Zero.”

“I don’t like it.”

“How about Chet version 2.0?” Chet asked.

“How about I just keep calling you Chet
, but your new found status of Zen master is intrinsically implied?”

“That will work
,” Chet said.

“Okay…”
Floyd waited for Chet to keep talking but was greeted with silence. “What are we going to do now?” he asked.

“We have to get out of here before someone sees the smoke you let fly all over the place, you stupid Floyderson.
There is a destination I want us to reach that I want to talk to you about. I think it will do us both a whole lot of good,” Chet said.

He started up the VW and they got back on the highway
, heading north.

Chapter 16

Chet artfully spun the Super Beetle around piles of road debris. With each passing day the roads and highways became more overtaken by nature. They marveled at how quickly this happened. Within a couple weeks small rents on a bridge became impassible gorges. Erosion ran unabated rutting the roads. The world that Chet and Floyd knew was dying, but amidst the change there was a nagging sense of renewal.

“So where are we going Chet?
You’ve been awfully silent as of late. Is this part of your new found Zen master status?” Floyd said.

“Don’t make fun of me.
There is no need, as your words will have no effect.” Chet said.

“Why are you twitching like that?
You only do that when you’re irked.”

“I AM NOT TWITCHING!”
Chet screamed, almost losing control of the VW. “I am vibrating in tune with nature. Just because I am not prone to your verbal barbs anymore doesn’t mean you have to do them. Leave me alone Floyd.”

“Sorry.
Where are we going?”

“We’re going home.
We’re going to the place of my youth. We’re going to my preschool in South Milwaukee. It was called ‘Little Children are Nice’ or something like that,” Chet said.

“Little Children are Nice?”
Floyd said.

“I’m not really sure if I have that right.
Since I’ve become a Zen master, I’ve felt a dire need to get back in touch with my
roots
.”

“There’s going to be nothing but an old broken down building covered in dust and filth
,” Floyd said.

“Being with you can be so
damaging
, Floyd, stop with all your naysaying.” Chet tried to shift the car into fifth but it didn’t work since there was no fifth gear. He swore. The car crested a hill. At the bottom of the hill several cars were spread out over the pavement, blocking the road. On either side of the road the shoulder dropped off, making circumvention impossible.

“Looks like a trap
,” Chet said.

“Thank goodness you’re here Chet
,” Floyd said. “How could I navigate the treacherous apocalyptic landscape without you?” Floyd chuckled until Chet reached over, popped the passenger door open and shoved. Floyd grabbed hold of the doorframe just in time to keep from falling out.

“What the hell are you doing Chet
!” Floyd yelled.

“I’ve had enough of your negativity. Our teaming up is null and void.” Chet repeatedly punched Floyd in the face, until he let go of the frame and tumbled out onto the highway.

“Should have worn a seat belt
,” Chet said as he glided the car down to the roadblock. He looked behind him to see Floyd’s prone body fifty yards back in the middle of the road.

Chet let the car idle as he looked at the line of cars.
It would take a little work to move them out of the way but it was doable. For a moment he wished he was still friends with Floyd, for no other reason than it would make the passage easier, but he shut it from his mind. They were no more.

A harsh voice called to Chet from behind the block,
“Put your hands up! I have dead to aim.”

Chet put his hands up but let the car idle with his f
oot on the pedal.

A tall and gaunt man stepped
out from behind the roadblock. He had a full head of black hair and a beard. In his hands he held a hunting rifle trained on Chet.

“How many of you are there?”
Chet called from the car.

“More than you can handle
,” the man said.“Are you sure you’re not the last one? I don’t see anyone else. I think you may have already eaten them.”

“Shut up
,” the man said.

“I know how things can happen between friends and compatriots
,” Chet said. “Just like me, you are. I used to have a friend named Floyd. He and I did everything together. We were close like brothers, Floyd and I,” Chet said.

The man poked the rifle through the window of the car, digging the barrel into Chet’s
cheek.

“Shut up!
I told you to keep quiet!” the man said.

“Ouch!”
Chet said, trying to pull his head away from the gun. “That hurts. But there is no end to a pain like ours. We share it! We share the deep emotional scars that only severing close ties can rend! Oh, how I miss my friend Floyd! I did him wrong, just as you did yours wrong.”

“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
the man said. “I will teach you. Stop the car and get out.”

“I don’t want to stop the car
,” Chet said. “I need to let it idle. This is a fine tuned machine.”

“
If you won’t listen, I’ll make you turn the damn thing off.” The black haired man stepped in front of the car and fired a bullet through the hood. He looked puzzled when the car continued to idle. The man shot into the hood again. Still the vehicle kept running.

“The engine is in the back
,” Chet said.

The black haired man walked around
to the back of the car a little sheepishly and fired through the rear hatch. The car died.

Chet got out, hands straight in the air.
“Was that what you wanted to do? Kill my car? Well that doesn’t matter to me. I am already dead inside. What does a man need with things when he is estranged from his best friend? I am dealing with loss.”

The black haired man
trained his rifle on Chet and pulled back the hammer.

“Do you have any food?” The man asked.

“I have food for the body but no food for my soul. Man needs companionship. I kicked my companion out of the car at thirty miles an hour. What kind of friend does that?”

“Where is the food
!” the man screamed, the rifle shaking with his frustration.

“There’s about one and a half dead dogs in the back
,” Chet said, nodding in the direction of the skull bug. “You can have that them.”

The man motioned
for Chet to move away from the car. Keeping one hand on the rifle, he pulled the dog carcasses out of the back seat.

“You have food so I’ll let you live
,” the man said. “You’re lucky. Otherwise I would be eating you right about now.”

“It’s better to be lucky than good
,” Chet said. The guy gave him a weird look. “That’s what I always say at least.”

“You’re kind of an odd guy.
Maybe I’ll kill you anyway. You’re creeping me out.” The man raised his rifle to Chet’s forehead. Chet closed his eyes. “Any last words?”

“Yes I do have a few words
,” Chet said. “I’m holding a grenade.”

The man
nearly dropped his gun at Chet’s words but didn’t fire the rifle. He kept the gun barrel pressed to Chet’s forehead as he let his eyes drift to Chet’s right hand. Chet was in fact holding a very scuffed grenade.

“As you can see
, the pin is out. I am able to keep the striker lever pressed even though I am under considerable duress with that rifle in my face.”

The man looked shocked and lowered his rifle.
“What are you going to do with that?”

“I don’t know
,” Chet said, looking down at the grenade thoughtfully. “I don’t have much choice as to it going off now that I’ve released the pin. I could throw it away.”

“Throw it away
,” the man stammered.

“That’s the
problem
,” Chet said. “I’ve never been much of an
athlete
. I am all bumbling butterfingers. I could just as well throw the thing backwards in the attempt.” Chet laughed. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Blow us both to kingdom come.”

The man wasn’t laughing.

“You don’t seem to think that’s very funny.
I suppose you had a good upbringing with a dad that would take you out every day and throw the ball around. You’re a regular Brett Favre. Well it’s not my fault I didn’t have that sort of athletic support in my life. I don’t appreciate you bringing that up and then looking at me with those
accusing
eyes.”

“I didn’t bring it up.
I don’t….”

“DON’T INTERRUPT ME!”
Chet screamed.

The man dropped the rifle and raised his hands to his face.
Chet didn’t say anything until he dropped them. “It’s not polite. We have another issue here entirely. Even if I somehow throw this thing away, we’re going to have to deal with shrapnel. Usually you have a certain amount of time with these things, but I’ve found this situation to be so damn
unpredictable
. Do you know Steve Jorgenson?”

“No
,” the man said.

“Well!”
Chet said, gesticulating wildly with the grenade. “Steve Jorgenson tried throwing these things like they were some sort of impact explosives.” Chet snorted. “These are obviously, not that. These are
timed.
The grenade hurler usually has about six seconds before the grenade explodes. That is an awful lot of time to duck and cover.

“
The problem was Steve would throw these things and the person he was throwing them at would toss them back. Steve would have just enough time to toss the live grenade back yet again before it exploded. The whole ordeal was so very stressful—did you say something?” Chet asked.

He tapped the man on the side of his face with the grenade
, which made the man wince and piss himself. “I guess not. Feel free to interrupt at any time with a question. I want to make that clear. You can interrupt me with a question to clarify elements of the story that you don’t understand. The last time you jumped all over my words it was to argue. That was just plain rude. No questions? Good.

“
Anyway, where was I? Jorgenson! Steve Jorgenson thought he could get around the whole tossing back and forth of deadly explosives by pulling the pin, releasing the striker and counting for a few seconds before throwing the grenade. His strategy was to avoid playing the world’s worst game of hot potato. You wouldn’t want to loser in that game, I assure you. His logic was that, if he waited for a few seconds, the grenade would explode on impact and prevent his foes from counterattacking.” Chet heaved as his words ran out with his air.

The man gave a small yelp as he warily watched the grenade in Chet’s hand.

“Now
, the logic of Steve Jorgenson’s plan was perfect. I could appreciate that about him, but he is a very
dead
logical person because he chose to leave out one very solid fact about life in general.
It is very unpredictable
. Is that not so? There are times, my hairy friend, that life throws such a curveball that even the most factual of facts is debunked.

“
That being the case, a normal person would not have even bothered playing around with explosives. It was dangerous enough betting on whether the train would run on time. I wish old Steve Jorgenson had thought of that. It’s one thing to make bets on a train schedule and be a few minutes late. Jorgenson made a bet on a simple grenade timer and blew his stomach through his backbone.

“
It was an awful sight. I was right there to see it happen. I am very lucky to be alive right now because of my good friend Steve Jorgenson’s habit of cradling the grenade like a newborn babe as he counted down the seconds.

Anyway, long story short
, when you pull the pin on a grenade, don’t fart around with it. Throw the bastard. Here catch.”

Chet lobbed the grenade underhand to the man, who shrieked, caught it and quickly tossed it back to Chet.
Chet caught it underhand and threw it back. As he did, he launched himself backward, rolling painfully over the hood of the Super Beetle hood and landing on the far side of the car.

The man dropped the second toss at his feet and leaped away in hysterics.
He scrambled backwards for a moment then stopped. The small green orb lay on the ground. Not exploding. Not doing much of anything.

“This is exactly my point.”
The man heard Chet’s voice from behind the car. “It was a dud all along! If Steve held that grenade, he could have counted till the cows came home.” The man walked over to his rifle and picked it up. “Instead, Jorgenson bought the farm. The difference between a grenade with a two second fuse and one that will never pop, is like most things in life, all up to chance.” Chet stood up.

The man fumbled with the rifle.
His hands were shaking badly from his scare with the grenade.

Chet smiled.
“The good thing in life is that in most cases, unlike poor old Steve Jorgenson, a person gets a second chance.”

The man pulled the hammer back and raised the rifle.

“Here’s to second chances.”
Chet pulled another grenade out of his pocket and flipped it artfully over to the man, the pin spinning on Chet’s pointer finger. The man fired the rifle. The bullet caught Chet in the left hand, blowing off his pinkie and ring finger. Chet fell back behind the car, clutching his bleeding appendage. The grenade exploded, and the man died instantly as shrapnel ripped through him.