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Authors: Jake Bible
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unconsciousness.
I try to move and realize I’m down on my knees and bound to a metal post, my arms tied behind my back and around the post. My shoulder hurts, but isn’t dislocated anymore. There’s a plus. I look about and can see we’re in a wide basement. There are no windows, or if there are, they’re blacked out, and only a small fire in the corner lights the room. I can see a camp rig set up over the fire and the man is standing there, slowly turning a spit.
The other thing I notice is the thick and cloying smell of copper. Like pennies in the rain. Which doesn’t make sense. When have I ever smelled pennies in the rain? I mean what is that all ab-
“Hey!” the young woman says, slapping me again. “Stop drifting. Stay awake while Pa talks.”
“Where you from?” the man asks as he motions for the woman to go to him. She takes over the rotating of the spit and he walks over to me. He looks me up and down with his one eye. “You’re looking pretty healthy. Where you holed up? You got food? Where’s your water coming from? There others with ya? How many? Kids? Ladies ?”
Yeah, not liking how he sa ys ladies .
The questions all muddle together in my muddled brain and I stumble for muddled answers.
“I have a penthouse,” I say. “Right downtown. In those new condos off Biltmore. Great views. I can see the apocalypse for miles from my bedroom.”
The man stares at me for a second and then grins that half-face grin. I have to wonder how he lost half his face on one side, but then the eye is clouded on the other side. The bizarre questions of the apocalypse…
“You’re playing with me,” he states and chuckles. Bits of spit fly from his open cheek as he laughs. “You’re a funny guy, are ya?”
Uh-oh. Never good when the guy with half a face calls you the “funny guy.” I learned that from bullies in middle school. Once they call you “funny guy”, then there’s usually some type of violence and the inevitable question, “You find this funny, funny guy?” I never did.
He squats down in front of me, a very sharp bo ning knife in his right hand. He slowly moves the blade closer and closer until the tip is right by my left eye.
“Let’s s ee how funny you are with only one eye,” he says and laughs. More cheek spit. “Get it? See how funny?”
“That’s a good one,” I smile. “We’re two funny guys. Just a couple of jokesters hanging out and telling jokes.”
“You know any?”
“What?” I ask, the need to shit myself with fear probably keeps me from understanding the question. “Know any what?”
“Jokes, stupid,” the woman says from the fire. “Pa likes jokes. We always like to get new jokes when we meet new folk.”
“We do, Elsbeth,” Pa says as he stands, slipping the boning knife into a sheath on his belt. “What was that one we heard last week? You know? Those two kids kept telling it over and over while I cut their mama up.”
Oh, sweet, God…
“Oh, oh, I remember,” Elsbeth says. “It was…it was… Oh, wait… I forget.”
She starts to smack the side of her head over and over and over before Pa can stop her. He grabs her wrist and yanks it away hard enough for her to cry out.
“Too pretty to be hitting yourself, Elsbeth,” Pa says as he pushes a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. “Don’t hurt that beautiful face.”
“I’m very pretty,” Elsbeth says.
“Where was I?” Pa asks himself as he turns to me. “Oh, right, jokes. You heard this one?” He clears his throat. “Knock, knock.”
I wait and then realize that he wants me to answer. I was thinking he was talking to pretty and stinky Elsbeth.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
“Interrupting zombie.”
“Uh, interrupting zombie-”
“Rarrrr!” Elsbeth shouts, interrupting me.
“Good one,” I smile.
Pa whirls around and punches Elsbeth in the chest, knocking the breath from her. She falls to her knees, but gets up quickly and keeps turning the spit.
“Sorry,
I try to move and realize I’m down on my knees and bound to a metal post, my arms tied behind my back and around the post. My shoulder hurts, but isn’t dislocated anymore. There’s a plus. I look about and can see we’re in a wide basement. There are no windows, or if there are, they’re blacked out, and only a small fire in the corner lights the room. I can see a camp rig set up over the fire and the man is standing there, slowly turning a spit.
The other thing I notice is the thick and cloying smell of copper. Like pennies in the rain. Which doesn’t make sense. When have I ever smelled pennies in the rain? I mean what is that all ab-
“Hey!” the young woman says, slapping me again. “Stop drifting. Stay awake while Pa talks.”
“Where you from?” the man asks as he motions for the woman to go to him. She takes over the rotating of the spit and he walks over to me. He looks me up and down with his one eye. “You’re looking pretty healthy. Where you holed up? You got food? Where’s your water coming from? There others with ya? How many? Kids? Ladies ?”
Yeah, not liking how he sa ys ladies .
The questions all muddle together in my muddled brain and I stumble for muddled answers.
“I have a penthouse,” I say. “Right downtown. In those new condos off Biltmore. Great views. I can see the apocalypse for miles from my bedroom.”
The man stares at me for a second and then grins that half-face grin. I have to wonder how he lost half his face on one side, but then the eye is clouded on the other side. The bizarre questions of the apocalypse…
“You’re playing with me,” he states and chuckles. Bits of spit fly from his open cheek as he laughs. “You’re a funny guy, are ya?”
Uh-oh. Never good when the guy with half a face calls you the “funny guy.” I learned that from bullies in middle school. Once they call you “funny guy”, then there’s usually some type of violence and the inevitable question, “You find this funny, funny guy?” I never did.
He squats down in front of me, a very sharp bo ning knife in his right hand. He slowly moves the blade closer and closer until the tip is right by my left eye.
“Let’s s ee how funny you are with only one eye,” he says and laughs. More cheek spit. “Get it? See how funny?”
“That’s a good one,” I smile. “We’re two funny guys. Just a couple of jokesters hanging out and telling jokes.”
“You know any?”
“What?” I ask, the need to shit myself with fear probably keeps me from understanding the question. “Know any what?”
“Jokes, stupid,” the woman says from the fire. “Pa likes jokes. We always like to get new jokes when we meet new folk.”
“We do, Elsbeth,” Pa says as he stands, slipping the boning knife into a sheath on his belt. “What was that one we heard last week? You know? Those two kids kept telling it over and over while I cut their mama up.”
Oh, sweet, God…
“Oh, oh, I remember,” Elsbeth says. “It was…it was… Oh, wait… I forget.”
She starts to smack the side of her head over and over and over before Pa can stop her. He grabs her wrist and yanks it away hard enough for her to cry out.
“Too pretty to be hitting yourself, Elsbeth,” Pa says as he pushes a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. “Don’t hurt that beautiful face.”
“I’m very pretty,” Elsbeth says.
“Where was I?” Pa asks himself as he turns to me. “Oh, right, jokes. You heard this one?” He clears his throat. “Knock, knock.”
I wait and then realize that he wants me to answer. I was thinking he was talking to pretty and stinky Elsbeth.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
“Interrupting zombie.”
“Uh, interrupting zombie-”
“Rarrrr!” Elsbeth shouts, interrupting me.
“Good one,” I smile.
Pa whirls around and punches Elsbeth in the chest, knocking the breath from her. She falls to her knees, but gets up quickly and keeps turning the spit.
“Sorry,
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