Amazombia

  Chapter 6.

  Reminiscing about the beginning of the end will have to wait for another time. George is brushing away the flies that land on his face, and bite at his skin. He waves his hand like a tired magician, bored as he pulls the rabbit of awaking from his top hat of dreams. It is not a bushy tailed rabbit; it is a gray haired mangy cloth. It has button eyes of slumbering dreariness. He shakes in fits, and coughs his way through the magician's smoke of rest. Then he lies still, and begins again his slow methodical brushing away of the flies.

  My head feels like it is about to explode from all this hanging upside down. I grab at the palm tree next to me, its trunk the gray hard texture of an elephant's leg. I pull my legs free of the rope ladder that had secured me in dreamy land last night, and wrap them around the palm trunk. I shimmy my way down the tree head first like a giant crab bug, and flip myself around when I reach the bottom. I stand in waist deep green and yellowed brush.

  The brush is saturated with morning dew. You may want to look away until the next paragraph, as I am about to get naked. Middle aged old guy naked. You've been warned. I've been going on and on about my head gear, and hats. My shirt is tattered, threadbare, an old dress shirt I stole off a corpse (that's what we call the terminally ill zombies, corpses...shot in the head or decapitated, guaranteed to never rise again). It is more patches than shirt these days. I tear that off and begin swinging it at the flies and straggling morning mosquitoes. The mosquitoes that ignore the last call bell of the rising sun. They gather around my ankles, the ankle biters. I slip off my rubber tire sandals (made from an old Bridgestone radial I bought off a traveling caravan for a half sack of peanuts...it was a steal. I made enough sandals to sell around to the stone house peasants. Made three bags of peanuts for my efforts. I was one smart cookie that day). I dance around in one spot, to get the blood flowing and shake off the insects. I pull at my langoti, a long swath of cotton cloth I wrap around my groin like a giant diaper. I learned it from an old Indian. Not Native American. From India. Wrestler. Didn't learn any wrestling, just how to wear an adult diaper made from a discarded bed sheet. I tie one end to the palm tree, then dance, left leg over, and then the right, then turn this way, then that way, and then swing my legs over and over again. I do this until I unravel about thirty feet of cloth from around my loins.

  I gather up my clothes and push in towards the puddle in the middle of the oasis. The rising sun is obscured in rich, broad leaved foliage. Last night it was hard to make out much inside behind the brush. That's how the zombie was able to just stand there no more than six feet in front of me. I could smell him from a hundred yards away. I breathe in deep. All I smell now is the charred carcass by the dying fire. A bit overdone.

  Large thorns and sharp branches scrape away at my naked hide. I break off a small green bamboo shoot, and carefully split it down the middle. I use the sharp stick to pry off various leeches that are hitchhiking on me. My skin is covered with welts. I know better to scratch at any of them...easy to get an infection out here. I make for the shallow puddle, and rub silt over my body. A real good mud bath. I scrape my way back out towards the fire. I look up. George is still in the twilight of fitfully coughing awake and dreaming. I grab my hubcap hat/wash basin, and reach in my coffee bean cushion for a small bag of powered lye.

  I scurry back into the puddle area, and begin my ritual of bathing and drinking and finding some grub for breakfast. I find a real good sized grub under a rotting log. Also an earthworm. I look up towards George...nah. He wouldn't want any. I eat real good. I can't wear my Indian wrestler's diaper (the langoti) out here anymore. It's too precarious every time I need to go to the bathroom. Back at the stone house grounds, it was a scheduled ritual we all had to follow (well, those of us who were blessed to use the royal chamber pot.) Out here, George is more lax about when we go. Gotta go? Me too. He walks one way, me the other. We do our thing. It's refreshing to go whenever you like, but I could tell George was getting a bit perturbed with me doing my underwear ballet. And if a zombie ever happened to meander by while I was mid dance, I'd just be a half wrapped lunch.

  I wring out my loin cloth. It doesn't occur to me that George may have needed to use some of my laundry water for cooking. I fill my hubcap with the sudsy pond water and take a sip. The soap enhances the muddy flavor. Very bitter. Maybe with all his smoking his taste buds are not acute. I don't know. I know I'm not smoking anymore. That zombie finger last night tasted off to me, a bit lemony. I make a mental note: Zombie Finger Sandwiches. Yummo!

  I pull the loin cloth taut, and then measure out enough to make a kilt. It tears easily. Too easily. I have to settle for a mini-skirt. I use the rest to wrap around my head like a turban. I sit in the high grass near the embers, and warm myself. Waiting for the sun and George to get the day moving. While I'm waiting, I make a poor man's boubou...a nomadic cape. Like everything post-apocalyptic (or pre-apocalyptic, your choice), each item you carry has to have many uses. My underwear served as underwear yesterday. For the rest of this trip, it will be outer wear. During the day? Netting for any fruits we come across. Tonight? Mosquito net. It might rain, doubtful. But if it does, it will make a good tent.

  Just like my hubcap hat. Wash basin, gong (bang it with a stick as an alarm if zombies start popping up). I use it as a mirror. At least I did. I'm mostly bald now. When I had a razor, I'd use it to shave. I feel at the stubble on my face. I will miss the barber at the stone house. Maybe George knows of one.

  "Hey George?" I call up to the trees. I start stoking the embers of the fire, and throw bits of grass to get it crackling. In case you can't tell, this is a slow going morning. I’m hoping we'd be moving on by now. "George!" I shout.

  Nothing.

  The sun has risen now. The amber waves of grain are taking on their greenish hue in the morning sun. The sky, from a purple bruise to rich dark blue. The last of the crickets chirps their serenade to the setting moon. I perk up my ears, and strain to listen for its swan song. I grab at the ground and find that last cricket. It's his last song, and his thorny legs jab at my throat as he goes down. I wash him down with some sudsy pond water, and look up at George.

  "George? You gotta a good barber around these parts?"

  Nothing. No coughing. No magic hand waving. Dead silence. The palm trees barely wave their fronds in the gentle morning breeze. There is no breeze. Humidity is waking from the grasses for the day ahead.

  I curse under my breath, and start climbing the rope ladder. I won't hold any punches. I like George. I've only known him a day, but so far he's been a straight shooter. Is he a straight shooter? Well, he could have dispatched that zombie last night with one of his guns. Maybe he has no bullets? Ammo is like gold, so I don't blame him. Nah, he has bullets in those bandoliers he straps his kit with. Maybe he sees me as expendable? I’m a human cell phone, after all. Who does he think he is, anyway? The bum.

  I get to the top of the ladder, and the foot of the hammock. Jumpy the Amazing Turd is snoring away on George's giant belly. I peer real close at her, and make a whistling noise between my teeth. She keeps snoring. I start making kissing noises. She stretches, looks at me, and growls.

  I look hard at her. I expect her to slowly rise up and down with George's breathing. Only she ain't rising up and down. I wait about a minute. Nothing.

  I take a breath. Big guy like him. Heavy smoker. Heart attack in the early morning. Could be dead. Although. Could be a real sound sleeper. Maybe he ain't a morning person?

  I lift at his mud caked jeans, and Jumpy growls at me. The dog can rot up here with him. If he's dead, I want his shoes!

  I pry off one boot, the supple leather slides easily off his socks. I quickly hold it up against my foot.

  "Son of a gun!" I whisper. "He does have small feet." The boots will be a perfect fit. I wait another minute. The rope ladder presses against the soles of my feet. Jumpy is sleeping again, but George is definitely not breathing.

  I've seen this happen before. A loved one passes aw
ay (although I like George, I'd hardly consider him a loved one). At this point, he is really only a passing acquaintance and ex coworker. Now he'd be just a former boss, and soon to be walking cadaver. Anyhow, a loved one dies. The bereaved moan and groan, directly proportional to the amount of love they had for the person. A lot of crying means no more walks along the beach, no more anniversaries, and no more birthday parties. No socks to pick up, one less egg to fry. A lot of whimpering means you gotta figure out how your taxes will work out come next spring. Light whimpering? What kind of hors d'oeuvers will be served up at the wake?

  Freshly dead is another story. Whether it's a flash of fond memories, or a quick take on inventory, there is a grieving process for all. The heavy grievers are the worst. Sometimes they come to their senses and back away as they grieve. Other times, they cling on for dear life, begging for the dead not to leave them. Then, the dead hear their wishes, spring back to life, and take an ole chomp out of the neck, or the trapezius dorsi, to use the weightlifter lingo.

  Once in a while, the dead will allow for a proper and decent amount of grieving for the living. The polite dead wait a day or two. Some even allow to be buried. But no amount of zombie etiquette (another book I'm working on, I may even allow for a chapter to appear in this book) will allow for the dead to stay dead. They gotta get up, walk around all stiff like, make a nuisance of themselves. Usually they are made to rest permanently by someone who marginally liked them. Those that truly loved hardly ever pull the trigger. I'd have no problem blowing out George's brains.

  "What's that, Senor?"

  "Oh, I said I'd have no problem blowing out your brains, George. You see, I was just think...ing."

  Talk about your awkward moments. George is laying there, body still as death, his foot wiggling toes at my face. I don't know if I should start massaging his feet or spit shine his shoes. I go for the spit shine.

  "His no problem, you shine them later Amigo."

  I'm off the hook!

  "Very soft leather. Almost suede? So what time you thinking we'd head out, Kimosabe?" I pull off his other boot.

  Jumpy yawns, white jagged teeth against black and pink gums. George pets her head absently rubbing at her floppy ears.

  "You make coffee; shine my zapatos, por favor. We hunt for squirrel.”

  "Sounds good," I say, as I make my way down the ladder, holding his boots in my teeth makes it sound like 'younds yuud.'

  "Oh, Senor, no do that, the bite marks!"

  He's right. I pull the boots from my mouth and drop them down to the ground, making a show of letting each one fall separately. Had I made teeth marks in his boots, on the off chance he is ever fighting off a zombie with Kung-Fu, and a zombie grabs his shoe and bites him, he'd need to know if the bite made it through the shoe. He's a particular guy, and I can appreciate that.

  "Senor...you doing it again," he says, burying his fists against his eyes. He coughs fitfully, sits up in the hammock, and spits out black mucous.

  "Doing what?" I ask.

  "You say what you’re thinking," he says.

  "I do?"

  "Si. I don't mind it so much when you hanging upside down, his interesting. Your story."

  I'm embarrassed and dumbfounded. "Wait. What?"

  "From being alone in your shack, Senor. Too long alone. You talk to yourself. His habit. You need to break it. Maybe sing, like I do."

  The tree line looks very close, but I know it's going to be another day in the muck before we reach it. The trees look to be no more than seven miles away. A thick, rich line, a wall of green jutting high out of the ground. A foreboding wall. Makes this oasis seem like a barren, desolate moonscape.

  “It’s pretty, in its own way, huh George?”

  "I agree, Amigo. Now, go make the coffee."