Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
“Shit! Shit!” Scratched, exhausted, and dehydrated, Bruce fell to his knees and stared. There was no air yacht. There was nothing but an empty field of lightly waving weeds. “Shit.”
Trotting ahead, Jasper the dog paused to look back at him. Bruce let himself sink to his knees. That whole climb up, he’d been going through ideas about what an air yacht looked like. Between those ideas, he’d rested, questioning if there wasn’t a better way to get up the damn hill, and entertained ideas about the couple and their demise. Seemed weirder as he thought about it. As weird, the dog didn’t seem to care. The dog, in fact, appeared to have the best grasp of events.
Now, up here at almost dusk, knees quaking, back aching, stomach rumbling, Bruce wanted to spew. Stupid of him. Stupid. Jerking weeds out, he tossed them aside in anger. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” So erudite. His teachers and parents would be proud. Maneuvering to sit, he pulled out his water. The dog was still watching him, like he was waiting. “What?” Bruce called. “What?” Now he’d have a dog following him. Getting food and water for himself was enough struggle without adding a canine mouth to feed. Fuck. He should have never gotten involved. Should’ve just kept walking. That would teach him to be humane to another. Never again, no, never again.
Standing, he remembered the fob, peered around, and dug it out of his pocket. Nothing special, just one of those made for keyless entry to cars. Light gold, it had three buttons, none marked. What the hell, he decided, pressing the top button.
A series of short tones sang through the air, then the side of a vehicle appeared. Vehicle? Forty, fifty feet long…yeah, “A yacht,” he scoffed. “What the hell?” Gawking as Jasper trotted toward it, Bruce stumbled forward. The thing was tall, like three stories (levels?). Lights were on. It had a porch running most of its length. Steps led up onto the porch, where there was an open door. Jasper was just going through that.
“What the hell.” Suspicious, Bruce put a hand on the old man’s gun and exercised a slow three sixty of the area. No others were around. It was cooling as the sun turned red and drooped toward the horizon, less like it was done and more like it was giving up. Yeah, what the hell.
Pulling the gun out (may as well, in case he needs it) (and hoping he didn’t shoot himself — he really wasn’t comfortable with guns), he sucked in a few deep breaths and strode for the vehicle’s door.
The sight ahead drew Bruce out of his inner world and back to reality. It could be an ambush.
Damn it. It’d been a good day (part of a good week) till now. Decent weather (upper sixties, and the wind and rain had passed), and no smoke.
Copping a squat, he considered the pile ahead. It resembled a human in clothes. He’d been walking down here to avoid humans. Zombies and survivors…neither were usually good company. He wasn’t much as ambush prey. Did have a gun (two, actually), some rounds, food (mostly energy bars, nuts, and dried fruit), a little water. Not substantial quantities.
Ravine walls thick with grasses, bushes, and brambles rose on two sides. Yeah, perfect place to take the easily beguiled.
The pile wasn’t moving.
Sighing, he put away the trail mix he’d been munching to free his hands, pulled the handgun out, and cursed. He was off the roads and highways because he was non-confrontational, didn’t have many rounds, and wasn’t a great marksman. He also wasn’t a good Samaritan. Heaving heavy sighs, he shifted his backpack and crept forward.
The pile didn’t move. A wind decided to add mischief to the leaves and bushes. He hoped to hell it was the wind, and not someone getting ready to get him.
Yeah, the pile was a human, female in jeans with a torn light blue shirt and jacket, non-zombie, but probably not alive. Blonde. White. Brown eyes were staring, and all that blood. Maybe forty or fifty years old, or somewhere in that zone. Not dead long. No animals had visited. Only touching her could tell him more.
He gazed up. She’d probably fallen from above. Pushed? Why would anyone be up there? What was up there?
With slow awareness, he realized something was not far from him. Pulse shifting to a faster speed, he turned and stood.
Dog.
The animal (a lab? — he didn’t know these things) regarded him, tail down. It looked decently healthy and had a collar and tags. No pack was around, although that didn’t stop his guts from nervously squalling.
“Nice puppy.” His voice caught on a rasp. Been how long since he’d last spoken?
The dog flicked the tail once or twice and turned away, but kept looking back.
Follow? Really?
Bruce tapped his foot in his head, debating choices, uncomfortable with where the dog might lead him. The dog seemed patient, insistent, and intelligent.
“Okay, Lassie.” He walked after the dog. “Lead on.” He’d shoot the dog first if it led him to a trap. Well, that would depend, wouldn’t it?
The dog disappeared past some trees. Bruce took his time following. Rounding the trunks, he hunkered down and peeked around them like a child playing a game.
A man was on the ground. The dog was beside him, looking back at Bruce.
Man, woman, and dog, Bruce thought, putting things together. No ambush. He moved forward.
The man moved. A gun was in his hand but he didn’t raise it. A noise between sigh and grunt, word and pain, oozed free of him.
Bruce approached. “Hello.”
The man opened and closed his eyes, then opened and closed his mouth, adam’s apple jerking. A canteen was at hand. Bruce approached it, saw it open, and picked it up. It sloshed. Bending, he wet the man’s lips. “Hey. Hey.” He didn’t know what else to say.
From the pale, wan face, thin silver hair, and sunken cheeks, Bruce guessed him seventy something. The clothes told of some wealth (as did that watch).
The man responded to the water. Bruce trickled a little into the man’s mouth. “Thank you,” the man said. He closed his eyes. They snapped back open. “My wife. Carrie. She…”
“Blonde white woman, about forty to fifty, wearing jeans?” Like there could be anyone else. “I think I found her.”
The man’s expression shifted through hope to understanding. “Okay. Okay.” Tears threaded out of his eyes and down the sides of his face. “This is the way. I fell. Down the side. She was trying.” Eyes closing, he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Bruce wondered. Where could he take him? What could he do? “Where are you hurt?” Could he get help? “What…” He swallowed. “What can I do?”
“Nothing.” The man smiled. “No use. Back. Legs. Insides. I’m a mass of hurt. Oh, well, it was good until now. Can you…”
“What?”
The man marshalled himself. “Bring her here? That possible?”
Bruce shuddered inside. He should just walk the fuck away. He should have never come over. He breathed out. “Okay. Okay. Sure.”
Hating the decision and himself for what he was doing, he tucked his gun into his pants took off his backpack. Retracing the way, he found the woman again. First, well, check. Yes, dead.
Trembles rolled through him. He hated touching the dead. Yeah, it didn’t make sense, but that’s how he was.
Realizations caught. She was still a little warm and pliant. Jesus, she could not have been dead long. He wondered what’d killed her. There was a lot of blood.
Bile rose. He didn’t want to get blood on himself.
Really? How fucking pathetic was he? He didn’t want to just drag her, either. That seemed just…wrong.
After sucking in three breaths, he squared himself, bent, and picked her up. She was so light, he almost sagged in amazement. Poor person, to die out here like this. That was the world but it didn’t make things any better.
He carried her back with no problem. The dog greeted him.
“That’s Jasper,” the man said. “Thank you for doing this. Now. Put her. Here. Beside me. Please.” As Bruce did, the man smiled. “Thank you. Thank you.”
Tears were storming down his face. “Okay, two other things, but I’ll reward you,” the man said.
Bruce knew what was coming. “Wait. What’s your name? I’m Bruce.”
“Bruce, I am Jerome. Thank you again, for what you’ve done. Now, if you can do more…”
Bruce knew what was coming. “I don’t know.” He glanced at Jasper. “Won’t your dog object?”
“Oh, I talked to Jasper while you were away getting Carrie. He understands it, probably better than us. Just aim at the chest, you know? I don’t know if I can be saved or not, but I figure, a world without Carrie isn’t where I want to be, not the way it’s turned to shit.” His voice was thinning. Jerome coughed, then pursed his lips for several seconds. “You can have my air yacht in return.”
“Your what?”
“Up the top of the hill. It’s yours. Take it. Live, survive.”
“Okay.” What the the hell was an air yacht?
“And if you can, well, find my children. Son and daughter. They don’t speak with me. Didn’t care for Carrie. Were angry, which made me angry. In hindsight, which is all that’s left, it’s stupid of me and them. We all thought there was more time, but here we are.”
Jerome cleared his throat. “I’m asking a lot. The list just keeps growing. Kill me. Take care of Jasper. Find my son and daughter, Gerald and Jeanine. Their locations are in the yacht’s computer. That’ll give you guidance. It’s up to you, but I’d like it if you can find them, tell them what happened to me and Carrie, so they know.” He settled his gaze on Bruce. “I know I put a lot on you. You can promise anything, of course, and then do whatever you want. I understand that. The air yacht’s loaded with food and drink. It’s comfortable and secure.”
“I never heard of an air yacht. How will I fly it?”
“Oh, it flies itself. It’s at the top of this bluff. I think you can get up there. Fob is in my pocket. Opens all the doors, and turns everything on. It’s yours, Bruce. Just finish the job here, and take care of Jasper, please. He’s a good dog.”
Shadows were claiming the ravine by the time Bruce complied with Jerome’s request. Afterward, the dog went to the man, sniffing him and licking his face for a bit before turning away and joining Bruce. The dog’s humanity impressed Bruce.
He took the fob, along with Jerome’s watch and gun, all with regret. Then, speaking to himself as much as the dog, he squared himself and looked up. “How the hell are we supposed to get up there?”
Jasper responded like he knew. Heading for a path, he paused, looking back and waiting for Bruce to follow. Bruce tucked Jerome’s gun into his pack and swung it up onto his shoulders. Another long look was granted to the dead man and his spouse. He considered burying them.
He’d already buried so many, he was weary of it. Did that change anything? No, but he had nothing to dig with. “I’m sorry, Jerome. I really am.”
Life sucked enormously, yet it seemed like his was looking up. “Lead on, Jasper,” he said, then began following the dog up the side.
The civic powers have decided there’s gonna a be a youth baseball tournament in our area this weekend. Thirty-two teams are coming from all over California and Oregon.
Gosh, I think this is a great idea. Snark, in case it’s not recognized.
Yes, social distancing rules will be in play. Only a hunnert people on a field at a time. But let’s see, thirty-two teams, say fifteen people to a team including coaches, support, and chaperones, and suddenly an four to five hundred people are running around town. Going to social distance? Hmmm…
Then there are fans…
Hmmm…
So, we went shopping today. Had to be done, Costco and Trader Joe’s, our go-tos. TJ was a blessed sanctuary. Everyone masked, not many people, all observing the SD guidelines and playing nice.
We zipped out to Costco. It wasn’t opening for thirty more minutes. “Should we get in line?” the spouse asked.
What line? I saw people milling. Half weren’t masked. Three fourths weren’t distancing.
“No. We’re not getting in that congregation. Let’s go to Target and get the pet supplies instead.”
Off we went.
Target…jebbus. Most weren’t masked. Social distancing? I don’t think they’d heard the term. My mind recoiled with bitterness. We’re probably looking at walking headlines, I thought. Oh, they went to a ballgame. WEnt shopping. One had symptoms but (fill it in yourself). Gosh, thirty people then tested pos. Gosh, they’re all in isolation, and gosh, some of them are really sick and in the hospital.
Yeah, gosh.
Into all of this came the 1985 Hooters song, “All You Zombies”. I don’t know if these people are unthinking, uncaring, ignorant zombies, a piece of all that, or just rebelling cause ‘Merica, Trump. Don’t know. But they strike me as zombies.
That makes “All You Zombies” today’s theme choice. Zombies come in all shapes, ya know?
I always find this song, “Dancing with Myself” by Billy Idol (1980) an exuberant, uplifting song. Sure, it’s a (mildly) cynical statement about being alone in a crowd and preferring your own company over your friends.
My version, of course, is “Writing for Myself”. You know, you write these novels and they go nowhere but storage media or a stack of paper. I was thinking it more in amusement than in dejection; well, there’s nothing to lose and nothing to prove when I’m writing for myself, oh, oh, a-oh.
“All you men,” she said,
“All you women,” he said,
“All you Republicans,” she said,
“All you Libertarians,” he said,
“All you Democrats,” she said,
“All you Greens,” he said,
“All you people who don’t vote,” she said,
“All you people voting illegally,” he said,
“All you reactionaries,” she said,
“All you slaves,” he said,
“All you gays,” she said,
“All you lesbians,” he said,
“All you blacks,” she said,
“All you whites,” he said,
“All you elites,” she said,
“All you apathetic people,” he said
“All you cops,” she said,
“All you military,” he said,
“All you illegal aliens,” she said,
“All you people on welfare,” he said,
“All you rich people,” she said,
“All you poor people,” he said,
“All you thieves,” she said,
“All you drug-dealers,” he said,
“All you addicts,” she said,
“All you criminals,” he said,
“All you killers,” she said,
“All you corrupted government workers,” he said,
“All you CEOs,” she said,
“All you teachers,” he said,
“All you parents,” she said,
“All you working women,” he said,
“All you Mexicans,” she said,
“All you communists,” he said,
“All you ignorant, uneducated people,” she said,
“All you snobs,” he said,
“All you people clinging to old ideas,” she said,
“All you fascists,” he said,
“All you NAZIs,” she said,
“All you Japs,” he said,
“All you Southerners,” she said,
“All you Northerners,” he said,
“All you people in rural areas,” she said,
“All you people in the cities,” he said,
“All you idiots,” she said,
“All you foreigners,” he said,
“All you Chinese,” she said,
“All you refugees,” he said,
“All you old people,” she said,
“All you young people,” he said,
“All you conservatives,” she said,
“All you libruls,” he said,
“All you white Supremacists,” she said,
“All you feminazis,” he said,
“All you atheists,” she said,
“All you Evangelicals,” he said,
“All you hateful assholes,” she said,
“All you whiners,” he said,
“You’re the reason we’re in this mess,” they said.
I run through the checklist.
Check the Air Quality Index. We’re at unhealthy, bordering on very unhealthy. Remember, that’s an average, and it’s early. The AQI usually goes up (the air becomes unhealthy) as the temperature rises.
Checking the weather, I confirm that it’ll be in the nineties in our area, with no precipitation. (Ironically, I check Ash Station, ironic because of the fine ash that covers things after a few days.)
It’s a mask day.
I apply my SPF 50 UV A/B lotion.
Then a hat to cover my head, and sunglasses for my eyes.
I’m ready to meet the great outdoors.
Masking up is becoming the new norm, along with skin and eye protection. It’s not truly the new norm yet. We haven’t monetized the masks.
There’s potential there.
America is a consuming, personality driven nation. I can see masks being spun to political preferences – MAGA masks, blue masks, Code Pink masks – but also to styles, personalities, and trends. Advertising can be put on masks. Budweiser and Coke can issue masks in their colors, with their logos, and give them away for free, or a discount. But two litters of Coke and get a free mask!
Pick up your mask with your Domino’s Pizza.
Or, take zombies. If you’re going to wear a mask, find a way to make it look like a zombie. Prefer Star Trek or Star Wars? Show it on your mask.
Bling can be added to the straps. The masks can be manufactured and offered in different colors. Come on, support the Pittsburgh Steelers in your Black & Gold mask. State your preference for the Oregon State Beavers in orange and black, or wear a green and yellow Duck mask to support Oregon University.
Call me a cynic (or call me Ishmael), I’m so surprised that some company hasn’t jumped all over this. I’m sure it’ll happen soon. When it does, when you finally start seeing blinged masks or masks supporting your cause or your team, then you’ll know that the new norm has arrived.
Speaking of which, I better stock up before the prices jump.
This is it, my last meal. I’m grilling my last steak, a lovely marbled porterhouse. A bottle of pinot noir has been secured to go with it, along with a baked potato with the works, and asparagus that I’ll grill. Dessert would be key lime pie. It has to be pie, and I’ll eat the whole damn thing.
Yes, it’s still early days. The virus or whatever the fuck is spreading is not understood. Zombies are running amuck. There’s panic and terror in the streets, and speeches to stay inside, avoid zombies, and remain calm are airing around the clock on the net, television, and radio. It’s all zombies, all the time.
But I ask you, why should I try to stay alive? My retirement account has plummeted. A zombie apocalypse will do that. Inflation is sky high. I had five grand set aside in my house, but it’s down the forty-five hundred. That meal I described? Guess how much it cost? Two hundred dollars for that stuff. Two hundred. Keurig coffee pods are going for five dollars each.
Sure, I have a supply of essentials (like coffee pods), but then what happens? You really think the world is going to get its sierra together in time to solve this crises? I laugh at you if you do. Hell, only a dozen senators and sixty representatives survived the first zombie wave. They also got the POTUS and most of the cabinet. The politicians that are left are, well, politicians. They can read from teleprompters and look good, but they don’t have principles and they’re not leaders. I’m not depending on them for anything.
Why not become a zombie? Zombies don’t worry about anything. They just wander the fuck around, eating whatever is alive that gets in their way. They have no concerns about climate change, gun control, taxes, healthcare, trade wars, tariffs, the environment, new cars, clothing, hygiene, or what constitutes a catch in the NFL. Droughts, war, and natural disasters don’t bother them.
So I’ve decided, I’ll eat this final meal tonight, and then join the undead masses in the morning. In a way, I think it’s funny, because the revolution is finally here.
It’s just not the one we expected.
I, Juancho, was concerned.
Science may explain many things, but not everything, not everything. Even the scientists will tell you so.
I am concerned when science and technology tells me the person addressing me is dead. My sanity may be abridged, or they may be a zombie. I lack the wherewithal to address my sanity. If I am insane, then I am insane. I inhabit a bubble of impressions and thoughts, do I not? Someone must help me from the outside.
I don’t know how to even think about how I can be insane. If this man is here, from the Beagle, but —
But, you see, but, I, Juancho, know that we on the Coronado know that those on the Beagle passed away. All were gone, killed for reasons we don’t know.
So I believe, if, I, Juancho, am sane. Perhaps I’m insane, and the Beagle never exploded and killed all onboard. Conversely, perhaps, I, Juancho, am as sane as I thought I was before this man appeared, and he is a zombie.
I, Juancho, am just a bureaucrat. I have shot weapons with sufficient accuracy to be awarded points and a carry permit, but that’s no matter, as I’m not armed.
The man across from me doesn’t appeared armed, either. He is wearing a standard Beagle utility uniform, the sort worn by engineering corps on the ship. The consistency of my possible insanity impressed me. “We have arrived at a frightening crossroads,” I said.
He watched me with narrowed eyes. “What crossroads?”
“My systems tell me that you’re deceased. If you were onboard the Beagle, then you must be dead.”
He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing more, a suspicious and irritated expression. “I was onboard the Beagle. I don’t see how that would make me dead.” He sounded petulant and childish.
Tread carefully, I, Juancho, told myself. “Do you know what happened to the Beagle?”
He became as still as a person can. I’ve seen such stillness in other aspects of my position when sharing news that surprises other people. He did not know what had happened to the Beagle. But, of course, if he was onboard it, it may have exploded and killed him without warning.
“What happened to the Beagle?” he asked.
“I, Juancho, can show you. We have records. I’ll show you.” I watched him carefully, and vowed that I would keep wary eyes on him. Whether he died onboard the Beagle or not, that was four years ago, if the Coronado’s records were correct. Where has he been in the interim?
Although he didn’t appear the least decayed, he could still be a zombie, which made him a threat to me. I, Juancho, could still be insane. It’s a conundrum. I feel haggard, and wish for a drink. I still have alcohol. The systems can compile it from collected materials, and has been doing so. If he’d arrived later in the day, I would have already been enjoying my afternoon alcoholic buzz.
“Let us go look,” I said. “This way.” I indicated for him to walk.
He eyed me. “You first.”
“No, I insist. You go first.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Nor can I.”
“Then I guess we can’t go.”
“Then we will remain at a troubling, frightening crossroads.”
His obstinance irritated me. “First you won’t tell me your name. Now, you refuse to go see the records which will show to you what happened to the Beagle.”
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“I do not believe you would believe me.”
He shrugged. “Why should I?”
“Why should lie to you?”
“Because you’re alone on the Coronado.”
“Clarify what you mean.”
“I mean what I said. You’re alone on an exploration vessel that should have a crew of thirty. You’re being evasive and obstinate.”
“I am not being obstinate. You’re being obstinate.”
He smiled. “I don’t see it that way.” Standing, he stretched, flexing impressive muscles. “I’ve had enough of this. I think you’re a troubled individual. I wish I could stay and help you, but I need to get back to the Beagle. I’m going to go find someone who can help me, because you, obviously, can’t – or won’t.” He shrugged. “The difference is immaterial, because the outcome is the same.”
He walked off, a smug, muscular, broad-shouldered blond man in a tight Beagles engineering corps utility uniform.
I did not like him. I decided that despite the hour, I would get a drink. I decided that I would also get a weapon, because he, the prig, would be back, and I, Juancho, wanted to be ready.
The prig could still be a zombie.
Michael Seidel, writer 