Dead Journal

The key to survival is cats. Nobody listened to me back in the good old days when all I had to worry about was paying the Internet bill and still have enough left over to eat. Fucking Time Warner Cable. Let’s see you collect that $237.48 I still owe you now.

I may be a Texan, but even at what appears to be the end of the world, I still think it’s a bad idea for everyone to run around with a gun. Before (and I assume anyone reading this will understand that when I say “Before” I mean before the Zombie Apocalypse) I used to tell everyone my weapon of choice would be a cat. And that I could reload five times. When they’d give me a blank look, I’d explain that no way would anyone breaking into my home be able to get to me with a pissed off, terrified cat attached to his face. It was always a joke most Texans didn’t get and for the record, I only have two cats.

In the Before, the big debate was gun control. Before Twitter went dead, I saw a tweet that the head of the NRA and shill for the arms manufacturers was overrun by a swarm of zombies and had his face eaten off. No idea whether that’s true or not, but there’s a certain amount of poetic justice in him going down firing an automatic weapon to no avail. Should have had a cat, asshole. I’m still here and you’re not…at least according to Twitter, that highly reliable news source. My schadenfreude is out of control these days.

I do carry a gun though. Not for the zombies. It’s for the remaining human filth. Jesus Placebo Christ! You’d think with a worldwide pandemic that created the undead, most of the dickheads would have finally got theirs. I knew that phrase what goes around comes around was utter bullshit. I knew it!

My cats Wally Wanker and Mow (pronounced as if it rhymes with Wow) have stuck by me. Probably because I remembered to bring a can opener not powered by electricity when we left the shitty apartment where we lived. Turns out I’m an excellent scrounger for canned cat food and they like being outdoors.

Not that I prepared for the end of the world despite the fact that I was a bookstore manager. Survivalist books flew off the shelves long before the appearance of the first zombie. I’ve never been interested in surviving a force 5 tornado, a tsunami, a nuclear war, an alien invasion, or the UNseparation of church and state. Regular life was hard enough working retail. I’d come home from work and usually collapse, too exhausted to blog. Oh, yeah. I’m a writer. For all I know I’m the last writer on the planet. So if there happened to be 10 readers left and they all read this journal, would I finally be successful? Even wildly successful? Pointless speculation.

I think stupid shit like that all the time. Things like why wouldn’t the characters in The Walking Dead call the undead zombies. Sure, the title is brilliant and calling them walkers made sense in that context. But why did different groups call them biters, lurkers, roamers, empties and other words that aren’t zombies? They all had to have seen zombie movies. It made no sense to me. Yeah, I know. Not exactly Aristotle level thoughts, but what else is there to do? Except forage for food and avoid getting killed by zombies and murderous rapists?

For the record, the Zombie Apocalypse has turned out to be the ultimate diet – the one that actually works. I’ve finally lost those few extra pounds…57 to be exact. At least I assume I’ve lost them. It’s not like I’m going to cart around a bathroom scale. Being thin again is great, but I miss ice cream. It sucks that while there are thousands of houses to break into and probably 75% of the former inhabitants had ice cream in their freezers, there’s no power. It’s all just glop.

Thank goodness there are still plenty of cigarettes and coffee. And lighters. Fuck starting a fire by rubbing two sticks together or some other Survivor shit like that. I wonder if any of the winners of that show made it this long. Kinda doubt it. Unless they all got together with Jeff Probst on some steaming hot island for the Ultimate Survivor Season – Favorites vs. the Undead. Yeah, I’d watch that…especially when the food challenges came along. I wouldn’t put it past some of those jerks like Boston Rob or Coach to eat Jeff – even if they hadn’t been turned. Those guys take that game way too seriously. Took. Took that game way too seriously.

Sometimes I forget there will probably be no more reality tv…ever. On the plus side, no more Kardashians. No more Honey Boo Boo, or whatever her idiot mother named her. Not that I ever saw a single episode of that girls-in-need-of-lifelong-therapy pageant shit. I can’t stand little kids, but I also can’t stand child abuse and that’s what those pageants are…were.

At times I’ve hooked up with other survivors, but it never seemed to work out. Except the one time it did.

Mow, Wally Wanker and I ran into him in the small Texas town of Edna; population 6,321 according to its official green and white sign. When we entered any town or city, I always kept the Glock handy and by that I mean in my hand. I’m a decent shot, but I’m slow when it comes to fumbling for a gun.

As we walked down the small town’s main street I could hear Mojo Nixon and Jello Biafra’s cover of Lou and Peter Berryman’s Are You Drinking with Me Jesus? softly playing. (If you’re wondering how I know details like that, I once lived with a guy who had over 3,000 albums and I had to listen to a lecture about every single one of them.) I squinted and made out a man sitting in a rocking chair in front of an old-timey general store.

I cautiously approached him as I tried to assess his threat level. Man, he was a big guy with one of those football lineman necks. He was working on a ZZ Top beard the same auburn color as his hair. Scattered freckles across his face almost disarmed me...almost.

He grinned at me and said, “Gonna shoot me with that Glock, Annie Oakley?”

I grinned back and said, “Perhaps, but just in the knee. I’m a slow runner in case you want to get up to some shenanigans.”

“Hanky-panky is more my thing. Name’s Jacko Landrum. What’s yours?”

For the first time since leaving home I giggled. “Your parents didn’t like kids?”

“Pranksters, the both of them. Before they named me I was destined to be 5’4” with a weigh-in of 135. But with a name like this, you need a bully-proof body.”

“Conjuring up the body you want is a nifty trick. I used to try it while eating a gallon of ice cream. Never worked for me. I’m Kat Nove.”

And that’s how I met my best friend for life.

Jacko was intelligent, kind and funny. A winning combination. He agreed to join me on my trip to the coast. We could talk about anything and he came in handy when we ran across the occasional zombie. At least until we got surprised by a swarm. We were both fairly capable of dispatching them with our machetes, but while backing up from two of them, he tripped over one we’d already killed He went down hard and the two were on him before I could finish off the one attempting to force me to join the club. I got to him and killed both of them, but he’d already been bitten several times and was bleeding out.

I knelt down beside him and took his hand. He looked into my eyes and said, “Kat, reach into my left pocket.

I dealt with the onrush of grief I felt in my usual way. “Jacko, now is not the time for a hand job.”

He laughed out loud and I’ll never forget that. “You should have figured out by now you’re not my type, lady. Just do it, please.”

I stuck my hand in his pocket and pulled out a sterling silver filigree locket on a chain. In the center was some sort of flower.

“That locket belonged to my sister, Millie. The flower is a lotus which is a symbol of enlightenment, purity and rebirth.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Hush. I don’t have much time. She died before all this shit went down. Cancer. She was my best friend. Before I met you.”

I had tried to be strong for him, but that broke me. I started crying.

He pressed a blood-stained finger to my lips. “Don’t. You need to be my friend now. The moment I die, you take that Glock and shoot me in the head. Just like you always wanted to.”

“You’re a sick man, Jacko Landrum, but I promise.”

He coughed. “And getting sicker by the minute.”

Who dies like that? Laughing all the way to the grave.

“Open the locket, Kat.”

I did and saw a photo of Jacko and of a young woman with the same auburn hair as my friend.

“It’s yours now. Keep it with you to remember me.” He smiled at me one last time and closed his eyes.

I kept my promise.

I wear the locket and touch it often to remember the best man I ever knew.

Now I’ve gone and depressed myself. As if I weren’t depressed enough. I don’t know why I thought this journal would be cathartic. Writing used to matter to me. Whenever I made someone laugh, I was happy. This journal is stream-of-consciousness crap that nobody will ever read and happiness has transformed from an emotion to a meaningless word.

Tomorrow we’ll finally reach the Gulf of Mexico. I always wanted to be a beach bum. I bet Mow and Wally Wanker will freak out, but that can’t be helped. I’m hoping they can figure out how to catch fish…just in case.