I had resigned my fate. As my skyward arc began to peter out, a hand shot out from above. John clutched my forearm. My mind was reeling, between, “Is this possible?” to “Get me the fuck up there!”
I looked up at him. His face was a grimace of grit and determination. Zombies had clutched my dangling feet and where even now trying to sink their teeth into me; more than one got a piece of boot sole to round out their nutrients. I think rubber is on their food pyramid. It goes something like, brain, meat, fat, bone, plastic, leather, rubber. I was just doing my part to help with their general well-being.
I didn’t know if I wanted to tell John not to let go, or to let go so I wouldn’t drag him down with me. He must roll some heavy damn marijuana cigarettes, because the bastard hoisted me up to the first attached rung. He let go of me when I pulled up to the third or fourth. I was right below him and I had gotten my leg up onto the bottom most one.
“Holy fuck, John, thank you,” I told him, tears of relief in my eyes. Maybe it was sweat, because that was pouring off both of us.
He looked at me, a twinkle in his eyes. “Dead shows wouldn’t be the same without you, Ponch,” he told me as he headed up the long climb.
I looked down once at the upturned faces of the zombies. If it was possible, they looked more pissed than normal. I was thankful for the shell housing that surrounded the ladder. It allowed a view out and a place to lean against as I tired during my ascent. I was halfway up the two hundred and fifty feet-plus before the shakes subsided. I kept drawing death as my dance partner, and eventually he was going to be able to dip me before the music stopped.
“Another close call, Talbot,” I said aloud.
“Swear to me now, you will never tell Tracy about this,” I admonished myself.
“I swear it,” I answered back.
The adrenaline flow had finally come under control, and my muscles were beginning to feel like wet noodles, deprived as they were of the go-go juice that had been careening around my veins. Now I had another problem to deal with. I was deathly afraid of heights. It stems from an older brother who had dangled me by my feet from an old ranger’s station. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world while I begged him not to drop me.
“You tell mom about this,” he had said while I stayed motionless, “and I’ll bring you back up here.”
The threat was implied and understood, even if I was only seven, I knew better than to test his sanity. He hauled me back in, making a big show about almost dropping me. I’ll never forget that view of the world as I hung precariously from the perch some fifty feet in the air upside down. One gains a certain perspective when you’re looking straight at the ground. I had never truly gotten over that fear. Even as I jumped out of planes during my Marine Corps days, the panic always threatened to overwhelm me. I had learned certain breathing techniques that could bring it under some semblance of control, but it was always there, rippling in the undercurrents of my thoughts like a sea serpent ready to strike at the most inopportune time. It seemed this was one of those times, I didn’t have the energy to fight back the heavy flood of hysteria that wanted to render me incapable of moving.
“How bad could sleeping on a ladder be?” I asked myself, trying to rationalize my present predicament. John had already completed the climb. “Shit…how long have I been stuck here?”
He was looking down the open chute at me. I couldn’t make out features, but I’ve got to imagine he was wondering what in the hell I was doing. “You alright?” he shouted down with some concern.
“I hate heights,” I told him, gripping the rung with my right arm draped over it like I was going for a choke hold.
“It’s not high, not much more than two, maybe three hundred feet,” he shouted back down as if that was going to help.
I could count the number of times in my adult life I had been on a ladder higher than ten feet—seven. I won’t go into what I was doing, but that I catalogued each endeavor should be proof enough of my sincerity.
“Want me to come down there with you?” he asked.
“I’ll get there…just going to take a minute.”
That minute was somewhere closer to a half an hour, and John never moved, every once in a while alternating between offering a word of encouragement or terrifying the hell out of me. With phrases like “I think the air is thinner up here” or my personal favorite “Can God hear us better because we’re closer to Heaven?”
By the time I pulled myself up onto the top, I was coated in a sheen of sweat. I was better, but only marginally. John had pushed back on the three foot wide parapet. He had his back against the tower and his legs extended out into space. He was alternating between smoking a joint and shoving Phrito’s in his mouth.
When I got up there, I stepped over his legs and slid down the cool metal to sit next to him. I didn’t even hesitate when he passed the joint. I took a long hit, reveling in the feel of the tickle it left in my throat and chest as I exhaled. I was alive, still alive. We finished off the smoke, I got my emotions in check, and luxuriated in the high. It was long moments before I spoke. My eyes were closed and my head was against the tower.
“I don’t have words, John,” I started.
“Where’d they go?” he asked, looking at me. I opened my eyes when I heard him shift.
“I think somewhere underneath that haze; you know what I’m talking about.”
“Want some Phrito’s?”
“Of course.”
Jack Walker — Living the Life
The day wears on, well into what I determine to be late afternoon. I’ve walked by a few severely mauled bodies along the way. Those have become more numerous the farther I proceed along the highway. I passed a military blockade that was surrounded by decaying bodies and spent cartridges. A search of the vehicles revealed nothing. The only worth noting was an empty box with Phrito wrappers nearby.
Nothing has stuck out with regards to a good place to hole up, but it’s also a little too early to stop. I want to put as much distance from the multitude of zombies behind me as I can before nightfall. My worry is that I haven’t seen much of anything that could withstand a determined assault from night runners. The best that I’ve seen so far is pretty much what the other one or others ahead of me found — an enclosed semi-trailer. That may end up being my best bet. The darkening sky, as it unyieldingly heads toward evening, tells me that I had better find something soon.
I begin to pick out a now familiar stench — that of those long dead. A motor home lies on its side across the lanes, blocking any view I have ahead. It’s obvious what it is that’s causing the atrocious smell, but I can’t see where they are or if they are the shambling or runner type. My preference is for neither, but I’ll take the slow-movers as a second choice. I’m tired of being chased by anything that can move as fast as, or faster, than me. As a matter of fact, I’m quite tired of this whole thing.
The odor of decaying flesh is accompanied by a low groaning sound. The blocking motor home is still some distance ahead, but my increased sense of smell and hearing picks up these indications far in advance, even with the wind blowing in the other direction. The way back is a no go, and I do not really want to try the trees, although they may be the only option. I want to see what is ahead before making a decision. If there are only a few, I can hopefully shoot my way through. I need to find some place soon, though. On the open road or in the woods at night with night runners about is not my idea of a good time.
Edging over to the far side of the road, over and around the myriad of vehicles, I glimpse the creatures ambling aimlessly amongst the cars near the motor home. They appear to be the shambling type, but perhaps runners behave that way before their prey is sighted. There are only about ten of them, so it should be a fairly simple process of picking them off as long as they don’t turn into track stars. I creep along the edges of the stalled cars to get closer and therefore have better shots. They don’t seem to notice me, even though my scent has to be carrying in their direction. Perhaps they don’t hunt by scent, or the hint of smoke still in the air is masking me.