Can Zombies Swim?
I turned to look at the people who were gathered behind me. Beyond this group was a town teeming with zombies. Beyond that, a world that had no idea what had happened here. I was what you would call an unlikely hero, but I was the only one they had and they were depending on me. I turned and stared at the choppy ocean ahead. Not too distant was an island. At one time there were several families that had called it home, but the houses were now empty. It would not be the best of accommodations, but it would provide shelter until whatever was happening in the town ceased to happen. I’d made my decision and turned to the people.
Maybe, I’m getting a little bit ahead of myself. Why don’t I tell the story from the beginning? My name is Freddy and I am a teenage paranormal investigator. It isn’t a job I took by choice. This was something thrust upon me, but something I would never want to give up. It wasn’t always my dream. As a matter of fact I had never even considered the idea that someone could make a career out of investigating strange happenings in this world. I can’t say that I will make a career out of it, but it sure has turned my life around.
So where was I? Oh, yes, starting my story from the beginning. As I said my name is Freddy. My full name is Frederick Alexander Torrance. I’m from a small town on the coast of Maine named King’s Cove. Local residents simply call it ‘The Cove’. I was walking home from school on a crisp, fall day. It was yet another day that I was eager to get home and let my mother know how happy I was that she and my father had decided to name me after both of my grandfathers. There is nothing in this world that does more for a teenage boy’s self-esteem than to have initials that spell out the word ‘fat’ especially if you happen to be on the chunky side. I have lived in the ‘The Cove’ my entire life which up until this point had totaled thirteen years. As a young, recently married couple my parents had been drawn to The Cove by its low crime rate, its small town atmosphere, and its proximity to the ocean. What they hadn’t known then was that this was all just a façade which hid a sinister secret. Throughout its history The Cove has seen its share of mysterious happenings. They ranged from minor strangeness to down right terrifyingly supernatural. These events are never recorded in historical record; they are simply passed down from generation to generation as ghost stories around a campfire. They were told from fathers to sons, grandfathers to grandchildren, and friend to friend, but again I am moving too far ahead.
So we got the crisp, fall day part and the fact that I was walking home from school. I had my bookbag slung over a shoulder that some might refer to as meaty, but to me it was just my shoulder. I was walking down the one main road that we had in the town. I was kicking a pebble along ahead of me and wiping the occasional tear from my chubby cheeks. They were the kind of cheeks that grandmothers always like to pinch when you visit them no matter how annoying or embarrassing you feel it is. I had just lost the pebble into the street when the yellow school bus roared by. It had offloaded the last of its passengers. I used to take the bus, but had decided that walking was better for my physical and mental health. I needed to get away from the taunting children and who knows maybe walking would help me to lose some of the extra poundage that I was carrying. I often dreamed, in some of the more boring classes, of some tragedy befalling the town. A tragedy that only I, Fat Freddy Torrance, could rescue them from. They would no longer mock me to my face or behind my back. Gym class would no longer be a nightmare of wedgies and swirlies. If only such a tragedy would occur, one that I could actually solve of course. What kind of tragedy would that need to be? An extra large pepperoni pizza invasion? Killer pasta trying to assassinate the entire school board? Let’s face it; there was nothing that I had to offer this town that they couldn’t get elsewhere. I was lost in these thoughts when I heard the blaring of a horn. I looked up in time to see a Chevy Cavalier bearing down on me and to jump out of the road before I became one with its grill.
“Get outta the way, fatty,” someone yelled as the car drove by.
Disheartened but determined as ever to finish the walk to my house I hiked the bookbag higher up on my shoulder and began to sprint. At least what I refer to as sprinting. Others might refer to it is a fast walk potentially even a jog, but I was cruising at my top speed. I managed to make it to the house without further incident which I considered a victory. I opened the door and called out to my mother as I always do.
“Mom, I’m home!” I yelled, but there was no reply.
I dropped my backpack by the door and rushed into the kitchen. I didn’t find my mother there, but did find a note informing me that she and my dad had gone to Manchester, New Hampshire for the weekend to care for my aunt who was sick and had just gotten home from the hospital. I felt bad for my aunt I really did, but I was so glad that my parents hadn’t waited for me to get home to leave. My family is great, but hospitals depress me and whenever I’m around my extended family they always ask me how school’s going and if I have a girlfriend. My two least favorite subjects to discuss.
I crumpled the note and tossed it into the trashcan. I then opened the fridge and scanned its contents before grabbing a fat-free yogurt from the bottom shelf. I didn’t usually go for that sort of thing, but I’d try anything if it meant less fat jokes. I grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer and headed to the living room to turn on the television. I scanned through the channels, taking a bite of yogurt after every few. There was nothing on but soap operas, daytime talk shows, and other programming that housewives would enjoy. Frustrated I shut off the television and gazed out the picture window as the world hurried by.
Unbeknownst to me at that very moment a catastrophe was developing. A tanker truck carrying a chemical load was chugging its way up a steep hill. The tanker truck was being used by the military to transport its secret cargo to a military base in northern Maine. The compound it contained had not met the military’s expectations of it and they were determined to unload it into storage tanks that were buried deep beneath the ground in Aroostook County. Residents and visitors to the area would see only the peace and tranquility of the wilderness above never becoming aware that beneath their feet was a disappointing attempt at winning the chemical warfare race. Once the cargo was buried the story behind the development of it would be likewise buried never to be disseminated to the general public. Those in charge of the project knew that if word ever got out about the chemical’s existence the military would be vilified in the media and the people would have their worst fears confirmed. That could not be allowed to happen.
I shook my head to clear away the daydreams. I needed something to cure my boredom. I could do the homework that had been assigned to me by the cruelest of teachers, but realized that I had an entire weekend to do it. As the old saying goes why do today what you can put off until tomorrow? With that crossed off the list of possibilities I decided to go to my room and play a video game. It wasn’t exercise, but it would help with hand-eye coordination or at least that is what I always told my mother when she questioned why I spent so much time on them.
With that decided I opened the basement door and began to descend the stairs. The basement was finished and had been used by my parents as a place to entertain guests until during my early teenage years when I asked to have my room moved down there. My father had agreed, but on the condition that it be separated into two rooms. I would have my bedroom, but the bar and large screen, hi-def television would still be available for their use. I was not excited by the prospect, but realized that without agreeing I would remain stuck in the small bedroom down the hall from my parents and that idea was less appealing than giving into my father’s demand. I’d agreed and they had brought in a contractor to do the work. I had imagined one day sneaking a girl in through the basement window, but I have not as of yet had a chance to do that. Maybe someday. I plopped myself onto the couch, picked up the remote control, and flipped the television on. I turned my game system on and began a mindless assault on zombies in a post apocalyptic world. I used a variety of weapons in my quest to destroy as many of this flesh-eating plague as I could. Despite my best efforts and use of some very imaginative weapons I was quickly overrun and the screen turned blood red, followed by the words Game Over.
“Crap! I can’t believe I died again. This game cheats. Zombies are not that hard to kill. One shot to the head is all it takes,” I said aloud, but to no one in particular.
Frustrated I dropped the controller to the floor and rose from the couch. I slammed my finger into the power button on the console causing the television screen to go black. I then shut the TV off as well. Boredom began to once again rear its ugly head and for the first time, but not the last, I began to wish that my parents had waited and brought me to Manchester with them.
To be continued
No comments:
Post a Comment