Zombie Fallout 5: Alive in a Dead World (37 page)

With some difficulty, Paul moved to the side
a bit and opened the cabinet. He was not disappointed by the size.
It could have been bigger, maybe large enough to fit a chaise
lounge, but it was at least big enough that he could get in. He
wouldn’t be in the lap of luxury, but he’d be out of immediate
danger as he regrouped. He grabbed boxes of cereal and threw some
at the cats as they skittered away.

“Whoa,” he told himself just as he was about
to toss an unopened box of Trix. “I’m chucking food.” And then he
saw some stuff that could do some real damage, cans of tuna. The
force of throwing the cans pulled on his broken leg, but it was
worth it when the third can cracked into the skull of one of the
bigger toms that had been waiting, aloof in the background. The cat
wasn’t dead, but the can had inflicted some heavy damage. The cat
had fallen over and its right front and rear paws were twitching
violently. It had enough sense to hiss and spit as the other cats
turned to look at him and decide if he had just come on the meal
plan. The cat tried desperately to pull its damaged skull up off
the floor, but it was not to be. It put up a fight and took at
least one eye out, maybe more, but Paul wasn’t completely watching.
He was busy pulling out shelves so that he would fit in better. He
wished it didn’t hurt so much to throw things or he would have
tossed the heavy press board shelving into the food fight going on
at the other side of the kitchen.

Paul wished he had a can opener. He thought
he could just about make it to the end of days with the amount of
canned food in here. But his hopes of finding anything that would
further his ability to escape this house were nixed. Besides a
healthy dose of cereal, canned food and Top-Ramen noodles, there
were no melee weapons or meds. Paul put his hand into the cabinet
and banged the back of his head on the counter top as he placed his
ass inside. “Damn, that hurt!” he said, desperately wanting to rub
the spot, but afraid of losing his balance and tipping over. He did
not think he could stand another onrush of pain like he had
earlier.

His words this time had an undesired effect.
The cats were finishing their latest meal and his words pulled
their lapsed attention back to him. And they understood escape.
Paul was halfway in when five or six cats made a mad dash for him.
Hunger outweighed the harm he could inflict. Death by the other
cats was merciful in comparison to the hunger that ripped through
their stomachs. Two went for his face. Paul picked up a can of corn
and caught one of the cats in the chest as it launched at him. The
other cat bit down hard on his cheek. Hot needles drilled through
his eyes would have been less painful as the cat latched onto his
neck with all four sets of claws. Paul was writhing in agony, the
thrashing was setting his broken foot flailing about, but even that
could not compare to the vermin adhering to his face and neck. He
slammed it on the side of the face with the corn. The cat’s teeth
tore through his cheek, taking a strip of meat as it was pounded
away.

Blood from his neck pulsed out. It didn’t arc
and he hoped the cat hadn’t gotten deep enough to do arterial
damage. The other cats had gone for Paul’s damaged leg while he was
distracted. He had not even felt the pressure as they dove on it,
ripping at the frayed jeans, trying in desperation to get at the
blood and muscle below. Now that the cat had been taken away from
his face, his body and mind struggled in an effort to catch up with
what was happening. Pain receptors flared to life as cat fangs sank
deeply into his flesh. Paul could not even pull his leg away as
more and more cats began to pounce. The accumulated weight was too
much. Paul struck out with his good leg. As he kicked one away,
seemingly two would take its place. They no longer feared taking
damage; they had blood in their mouths now and they would not be
dissuaded.

Paul’s screams filled the night as the cats
tore through the denim. Ragged bloody strip after ragged bloody
strip of skin, muscle and tendon were torn from his leg. Shock
began to shut down nerve centers in his brain, and cognitive
thought was becoming increasingly difficult. Paul hardly recognized
the lower portion of his leg as two cats tore it from his body and
fought viciously for the rights to eat it. Vast amounts of blood
poured from the wound; cats became covered in it. Their cries of
triumph were the last thing Paul heard as his head slammed back
against the far end of the inside cabinet. It was three am in the
world of man, but that meant little now.

Chapter Twenty-Three - Mike Journal Entry
13

Real life has a way of interceding on some of the things we would
like to do from time to time. Paul and I lived in the same state,
Colorado and we were actually only one town away from each other. I
had not seen my best friend of close to thirty years in nearly six
months. There was just always something to do, one of the kids
would be having a birthday party, athletic event, just plain sick,
or the car would need work, or a bathroom needed retiling. It’s
just the way things work. We would have the best of intentions to
get together and drink a beer or seven, but even when I would
finally have a weekend night free, he would find himself in his own
“real life stigma” and we would once again, promise to try to do
something soon.

I missed my friend. We had literally grown up
together, and shared some of the funniest times with each other,
and not all of them were even drug-induced. Oh, to be sure, quite a
few were, but not all. I’m sure in some of my other journals I have
noted Paul’s fear of commitment; and that extended even to
extracting a day in which we could get together. When I realized
that my favorite group on the planet, Widespread Panic, was playing
a two-day concert down in Telluride, my mind was set. I was going,
and I was going to do everything in my power to nail Paul down to a
promise. Might as well have grasped a Vaseline-soaked eel in my
butter-slicked hand. But every once in a while, you just get lucky.
I shut my eyes and swung. Paul agreed to go. Now he might be
difficult to get that promise from, but once delivered, he would
never pull it back. Maybe that was why he was so fearful about
giving it in the first place.

I enticed another friend that I had also
grown up with on the east coast and who now lived an hour away in
Colorado Springs to join us for the event. Dennis was a good friend
of mine, even if he was a Yankees fan. Not everyone can be perfect.
I want everyone to realize I am in no way condoning the events that
unfolded that weekend. I’m just trying to relate a story, so I’m
covering my ass under the protection of the author umbrella. I had
my Jeep Wrangler, (oh how I miss that car. I’ve actually thought a
few times about going back and getting her as she sits in Vona,
alone…sigh) stuffed with enough beer and booze you would have
thought three times the number of people were going to this
show.

Dennis sat in the shotgun seat and was in
charge of the radio, Paul sat in the backseat and was responsible
for the drinks. (Go back to the part where I said, I’m not
condoning anything!) The show was at seven pm that night and the
ride into Telluride took seven and a half hours from Denver. (Side
note: I did not tell Paul or Dennis this small fact because I
thought they might opt out.) We left at ten that Friday morning so
that we could get down into Telluride, check in at our rental
house, maybe get some food, and go to the show.

So it was before noon and we started off
slow. That first Red Stripe was delicious. Now listen, I know it’s
completely wrong, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that a “driving
beer” wasn’t fucking awesome. I don’t know what it is: the loud
tunes on the radio, the air blowing past your face, the illegality
of it, maybe everything combined. So we started with a beer, and
then a second, and then Mix Master Paul set up shop in the back
seat. He literally started creating mixed drinks. Some grape,
cranberry, vodka concoction was damn near perfect. By the time we
hit the halfway mark, I was fairly lit. We stopped for a much
needed bladder release and some grub and then hit the road
again.

For the entire drive, we drank, and I don’t
know if anyone reading this has ever had the true fortune of
visiting Telluride, but it is a lot like the Alps right here in the
States (so they tell me) with the winding mountainous roads and
all. It was coming up on five thirty by the time we sloshed our way
into town. We were so hammered we drew straws to see who would have
to go check us in. Dennis pulled the short straw. Paul and I sat in
the Jeep and smoked one of those funny left-handed cigarettes, like
we needed it.

I was thrilled to learn that the concert
venue, a huge open field, was within walking distance of our
temporary abode. I’d pushed Slush, the patron saint of dipshit
drunk drivers, as far as I dared. For those of you that have gone
to a concert, I’m sure you’ve come across your share of the
paraphernalia Nazis that will search every nook and cranny of your
being for a roach. Most won’t even take you out for dinner
beforehand. Well this was nothing like that. At the opening to the
field, which was about ten feet wide, there was one staff member.
This I could tell because he had on a bright yellow shirt that said
“Staff” on the back. He was busy talking to a group of girls that
were heading in.

I had a liter of vodka shoved down the front
of my pants. I guess I was drunk enough to think that nobody would
guess that I was anything but well endowed in the nether regions.
Between my bowlegged walk, and the extreme bulge in my pants, I
shouldn’t have made it. I pulled the bottle out the moment I
crossed the threshold into the park, and if anyone saw, they didn’t
comment. I think we could have carried a keg in and nobody would
have given a shit. I would remember that for tomorrow’s show.

Widespread came on maybe an hour later, I
couldn’t tell, anything resembling timekeeping in my head had been
eradicated for the evening. So there we are in this field that is
more like a bowl surrounded by jagged peaks, pretty special place
to see a show, when black, ominous clouds began to roll in. They
were the kind that screamed “storm.” I’d occasionally steal a
glance at them as they rolled over the tops of the mountains
because they were that cool looking, right up until the rain
started. Widespread was on the third song of the night when the
heavens split open. This is no exaggeration. Are you a kid? Whether
grown up or not? Or do you have a kid? Have you ever gotten a super
soaker for any of the aforementioned people? Yes? Then you will
know what I’m about to say. The rain was coming down in such a
deluge, it was like being repeatedly nailed with a full spray from
a super soaker.

Now for those of you who don’t know what a
super soaker is, it is in NO way comparable to a squirt gun from
the days of my youth or possibly yours. Unless you lined up about
four hundred of them and just started spraying the hell out of one
individual. That is the power of a super soaker. I think you could
drain a pool with one in half an hour in a particularly intense
water fight. So I’m roughly four to maybe five sheets to the wind,
I wouldn’t have cared if it was hailing, but apparently the band
had issues when the lightning began to crack overhead. They
finished their third song and headed to safer parts. The crowd, my
friends and I waited another hour or so. It was actually pretty
cool. Some of the concert goers had the foresight to bring tarps
and I found myself traveling from makeshift party tent to makeshift
party tent. If you know anything about Widespread, it is, for the
most part, a very laid back, Havin’-a-Good-Time type of crowd.
There was not one tent where I was not offered some sort of smoke
or drink for my travels, and more times than not, I partook.

The rain did not relent, and they finally
called the show for the night. The mass exodus of wet, cold,
hungry, wasted people began. At some point, I had taken my sneakers
off and lost my socks, but the mud squishing through my toes was
magical. (Hey, I’m easily entertained when I’m drunk). We more or
less followed the crowd as they headed out, a fair portion
over-taxing the local pizza joint, us included. Two hours later, we
left with our two pizzas back to our rental. We ate like drunk
people do, noisily and then divvied up the sleeping arrangements
and headed off to bed. All in all, it was a pretty nice day. But
the real fun was to begin on the morrow.

I awoke. One eye would not focus, no matter
how much I tried, my mouth was shoved full of cotton, my head had
become a blacksmith’s anvil and he was busy making horseshoes. My
stomach was a churning whirlwind of undercooked pizza and a
cocktail of differing brews. I had broken my own cardinal sin of
mixing alcohols and was now paying the price. The one good eye
squinted against the harsh sunlight that poured through the window.
I rolled out of my bed and onto a wet pair of socks, I would have
stopped in amazement to try and figure out how those had gotten
there, but I smelled the cure-all of many a hangover. Bacon! Bacon!
Bacon!