Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic by D.S. Black Page B

and his head shined a dingy brown under the car garage’s
florescent lights. “Looking good Drew! Just like new.”
    “ Always
happy to help.” Andrew said as he pulled the mask up and rested
against a 98 blue Dodge Ram. Andrew had on a faded gray Hanes
t-shirt with a front chest pocket. He reached in his front pocket
and removed a pack of Marlboros — the shorts, and grabbed a Bic lighter he’d stuffed in the
plastic covering the card board box that housed the cancer. He lit
it and took a long drag and blew out a hot cloud of smoke, each one
a perfect ring. Above, the florescent lights flickered. He’d taken
up smoking not long after Sally had left. Then not long after that,
he’d found his broken heart felt better dipped in a bottle of Jim
Bean; and of course he still enjoyed Randy's doo doo weed. Which he
had desperately wanted to get to right away. He had hated these
trips to Tommy’s garage. He knew Tommy was a crook. The worst kind
of crook. The kind that sold you a shitty car, knowing full well
that it would leave you high and dry the moment the one-week
warranty ran out.
    He’d recently lost his job at the Swamp Pipe
Company and was forced to draw unemployment. A week before he’d
lost his job he'd seen the head line in the Palmetto Times: HORRY
COUNTY’S OWN SALLY FIGHEART HEADED TO THE OLYMPICS; by the time
she'd won the gold he'd found him a new job at Iron Caster's
Welding, INC. He was happy for her of course. He had to be happy
for her. But why did she have to just up and leave him like
that?
    Tommy the Crook was still standing over him and
his cigarette had burned down to the filter. Tommy was almost
shouting with his eyes focused on the ceiling. His abnormally long
chin moved up and down, up and down. “The mother fucker calls me
screaming. Says he wants his money back. His money back! Can you
fucking believe that? I told him to go straight to fucking hell.
The bastard then threatens me with a law suit. I told him to go
ahead and waste his fucking money. Look at the goddamn warranty
asshole! That’s what I told him. Exactly what I fucking told
him.”
    Andrew had sat and nodded, remembering the image
of Barry Blackwood’s palm on the back of Sally’s head. He’d
followed them over a mile and finally watched as they parked in
front of Barry’s parent’s ten thousand square foot house. He
watched in horror and a strange delight as Sally’s brunette head
went up and down. He agreed with himself that is was more than just
a wee bit creepy to follow them around. And, after masturbating,
sitting right there watching that patch of brown go up and down; he
knew he probably should seek help. The only help he ever found was
in the bottle of his new best friend, Jimmy Bean and games of beer
pong at Randy's home while his mom and dad were gone out of town;
he developed a keen skill for a winning beer pong.
    But he pushed on, day in and day out, always
telling himself, “Its OK. Everything is going to be OK.” It became
his slogan. His only way of holding onto his sanity. While he
showered, “Its OK. Everything is going to be OK.” While he used the
toilet in the morning, “Its OK. Everything is going to be OK.”
    Back then,
sitting on the floor of Tommy’s greasy garage, he said softly in
his mind, its OK. Everything is going to be OK . Then Tommy was gone and so was the garage, the florescent
lights, and the cold concrete floor. Now the cackle of lightening,
mad thunder, and hard rain poured over his body. The old woman was
still silent, accept for the occasional grunt as she jerked him
along down what now felt like a well beaten path. Her dark shadowed
crept along the trees. “Almost there boy. Oh yeah. Almost
there.”
    Andrew suddenly realized everything's not gonna
be alright.
    13
    Andrew forced himself to turn onto his back; then
pushed his chin against his chest and looked at his strapped down
body. The ties were nylon and clicked tightly around him with metal
buckles. The sled itself was