Volume 1: All You Fucking Zombos

All You Fucking Zombos

by Scott Thurlow

At least they don’t shit. The thought I told myself [comforted? Though the situation wasn’t exactly comfortable. Still, two things: I wasn’t dead, and I wasn’t one of them.] about ten times a day, give or take. I wouldn’t want to imagine what it would be like if these fuckers could. Human excrement coming out of the tattered remains of human waste. Goddamn Zombos. And goddamn them for being such a rapidly ingrained part of what the rest of us call life now that a few of us around here have given in to using that as an actual nickname for them. Like they were some kind of fucking pet. There were certainly some kind of fucking something.

I scanned the horizon, what I could make out of it anyway. Off in distance at the edge, the watch towers rose above, those stationed there vigilant against the major roaming horde. I envied their isolated jobs. Smoke still drifted lazily across the far west side of the city. Huge gray clouds were sweeping the ground, they reminded me of the ones that came off the free-burning fires that went unchecked for weeks just after the real shit went down. Numerous other parts were more intact however. The businesses two blocks east I could see clearly through the fog of smoke were less ravaged. Most of the high pristine frosted glass windows remained unbroken. The bottom floors were of course, like probably every other establishment building, shattered beyond recognition, or had already been salvaged for scrap. Ah well, no more working in a cube, another vaguely comforting yet irrelevant insight for the day.

No zombos anywhere that I could see at first glance around the immediate area. Might as well go with the name for now I thought. Maybe I’d suggest a vote to start calling this place Zombotown. Zomboton. Welcome to it, assholes. Population: You’re Fucked. Nobody bothered to think up a new name in the meantime though and didn’t seem to care to remember the original. The ‘official city council’ had more pressing business to attend to, like keeping this shelled out shit hole running. Hell, maybe I’ll run for mayor. Always wanted to see what it was like to be a fucking politician. No sounds either, which usually meant things were going alright for the moment. And why I was drifting into some serious bullshit line of thinking. At least it was keeping me occupied. Fucking mayor, yeah right. Even after this, bureaucracy still clings to life in society. I supposed it was better than hearing a low rumbling trampling of pavement somewhere in the distance. Or that goddamn horking noise they seemed to enjoy making when they’ve found “food.” It pissed me off even more so, that it exactly resembled the noise a former moron co-worker of mine made while he cheerfully hacked up what sounded like part of his lung each and every morning. For a second I took legitimate comfort in the fact that in all likelihood that asshole was long dead now. I couldn’t even imagine him being competent enough to have survived far enough into the shit storm to become a zombo himself.

Flipping out the communal radio, I called up Jimbo [his name inevitably reminded me of the dreaded Zombo. Tough fucking luck for him henceforth] inside and reported that I had seen no sign of any stragglers that had managed to sneak past the normal defenses.. “Okay, you staying out there?” I had previously decided that I was definitely going to be by myself on this damn roof at least until just after sunset. Then maybe I’d be up to facing the rest of the lot inside. “Yeah, see ya in a while when I get in,” was all I replied instead and closed my phone up. It’d be an hour or so become it became dark enough to not see usefully, but I still had a half pack left and some matches I’d been hoarding.

I lit up a cig and watched the twirling wisps as they seemed to superimpose themselves over the larger ones sweeping through the city. Picture-fucking-perfect. This should be a postcard. Shit, I could use it to advertise for the city when I became mayor. I spit in disgust at such thoughts coming to me again and took another drag. At least they don’t shit, I thought, for what I counted to be the seventh time of the day. I glanced over at the rifle leaning nearby on the roof balcony. Seemed hard to remember that I didn’t really know how to use a gun until fairly recently. I mean I’d sure as shit always wanted to, but being a corporate drone doesn’t exactly afford a lot of fucking opportunity. Now though I could get off some decent shots with that fucker here and again. Climbing up the fucking corporate ladder indeed. I mean, I wasn’t kidding myself here, I’m not Corporal Badass A. Hardcore from Secret Whatever Corps. But I did learn how to reasonably use that thing since it all went so gloriously down the shitter. Give this motherfucker a promotion.

I had to admit it was some seriously fucked up and damn amusing shit, that we found ourselves in this current state of affairs. I mean whatever else you want to call it, we were pretty fucking lucky, compared to what in all likelihood the rest of the surrounding areas were suffering. Not long after the initial wave of the shit hitting the fan and splattering over all us remaining unwashed masses, the rest of us here had figured out the goddamn quarantines had actually done a decently adequate job of preventing total fucking devastation of everything. One more small fucking comfort in the wondrous list in my daily recounting. Plus at least they don’t shit. Eight. I was nearly finished my smoke and tossed it off the side of the balcony. One more seat at the fucking table.

I hopped back over the edge of the balcony and picked up my rifle. Just as I was no black ops military fucking operative, neither was this a high-powered semi-automatic sniper rifle. I’d picked it up at the market the instant I saw it for sale there, snatching it up before all the other assholes got to it before me. Buy. Sell. Now, now. Cost me most of the rest of my electronic shit, but by then I realized I’d had enough of my fucking ipod. I wasn’t really missing much in the new state of fucking affairs. Anyone in the real military would indeed deem this a certified piece of shit. I know this because one of the watch guys who actually was a former soldier told me so verbatim when I had asked him for some training. Nevertheless it fucking worked, with a little care and feeding, and I felt fucking better for having it since the day I acquired it. I was quite thankful that our previous capitalist and terrifically over-saturated convenience- driven consumer society had the balls (in all senses) to carry firearms at most random sporting goods stores. That was where this piece had been rescued (said the guy in the market at least, giving me some kind of fucking history lesson on its origins for reasons knows only to himself) in all its cheap faux oak wood glory and eventually found its way into my hands. Whatever it’s true origin was meant dick now, since from that day forth, it was fucking mine. If there was anything to be learned from history at this point I felt it was this: get yourself a fucking gun when you can. Besides the “city council” recommended/ “passed a proclamation” that everyone acquire whatever firearms they could in the immediate vicinity and round up what was left when resources fucking dictated. Yes, more topnotch post-civilization government on their part.

I was back to eyeing the cityscape again, this time looking out a little more south, and through the scope so as to ascertain a better view, and because I had to admit, doing so did make me feel a bit more kickass. I steered my sight towards where the latest mob of zombos had almost broken in through a weak spot along the main perimeter a few weeks ago. No stopping it now then, zombos as a term was here to fucking stay. I fired up another smoke while assessing the recent repairs to the shit pile that was being used as a serviceable stop-gap in the blockade just near the closest wall. No signs of any disturbance and I could also still pick out the “FUCK YOU” sign I had hastily made and set on top of the junk barricade after repairs had been made, my own personal touch. I decided that was fucking good enough indeed. Suck it all you zombos, I thought, wherever the hell you are right now, willing the message on my sign to flash right in front of their horking faces, even if the dumbshits could no longer comprehend what it meant.

I leaned back against the balcony, and was truly content at this particular moment, however fleeting it may be. Pulling out what I was resigned to admitting was going to be the day’s last cig, I was determined to fucking enjoy it thoroughly. To savor it on my accommodating rooftop, I began to assess the list I had been going over daily ever since this shit started. Taking stock of it like I once would have my fucking portfolios. So: Alive. Not a zombo. That dude from work is [probably, I of course was still just best-guessing at the dickhead’s ultimate fate, but it still seemed the most likely fucking scenario] dead. Got my fucking rifle.Had some stoags for tomorrow, that was a bonus for today, + 1 on the fucking list. And they don’t shit. Tenth and final time for today.

Deciding it was time that I might as well head back in, I scooped up my rifle and jumped back off the balcony onto the roof. No need to call anyone inside, I’d fucking be back there soon enough. And then I had to put up with whatever bullshit topics they had come up. Forced into participating, listening to them drone on about organizing whatever fucking neighborhood watch program was the du jour of the day/week/month/etc as handed down by the council. Maybe that’s what inspired all those fucking mayor delusions earlier. As much as I appreciated that we had a nice little Gilligan’s-fucking-Island of survival going on here, in the City of Zombos, it was so goddamn boring to have to put up with the logistics of keeping it running. I was better at home being on the roof for the most part, eye in the fucking sky and so on. I never much liked staff meetings, and that’s all these were, fucking progress reports. You’d think this shit would bring us all together, and I suppose in one sense it had. Fucking hooray for humanity so far. Then again we were the ones who got ourselves in this gigantic turd of a situation in the first place, so what does that tell you. But none of that changed the fact that nobody was ever going to agree on something completely. Thus, the aforementioned daily migraine inducing squawking session.

The light was going down as I stepped into the roof stairway and began tromping down to the floor that was our local area base. I knew that soon whatever makeshift spotlights and batman signals had been cobbled together throughout this section would be flipped on in the towers and whoever else was in charge and/or possession of them. I experienced another moment jealousy for the tower guards. Lucky bastards. Maybe they’d move me there someday, when somebody couldn’t do their job anymore or got tired of it. Though I didn’t see why anyone would, you’d have to be fucking retarded to want to leave a post like that. That was why they got all the better supplies for the most part. Corporate hierarchy rearing its fucking head again, but I quickly pressed on. Least I gave myself a nice a fucking raise in the form of my rifle.

Inside in they were already babbling away, I overheard someone saying something about the recent scavenger party sent out to the downtown section. Apparently they had found a fucking cache of intact booze along with whatever more directly useable supplies were in the couple of blocks they made it out to. That was fucking interesting. Perhaps I’d been mistaken about the usefulness of these little meetings. But then the talk turned to how to start diving up the duties of reporting and restocking supplies at the council headquarters, and I was reminded how much I fucking hated them all. However the booze thing was of definite fucking note, no doubt a decent amount of that shit would find its way to the market fast and if all went well, I’d have some of it to call my own next chance I got. It would go fast at that place no matter what, but this fucker Strizzy [I no longer cared if people gave me their real “before” names or the ones they’d made up for themselves after the zombos took up nearby residency] knew I’d want to hit that and would undoubtedly save some for me. Plus, he fucking owed me, so he’d better.
I did enjoy our little revamped/modified pseudo-feudal barter system. Paper money meant shit now that there was nothing to do with it, except wipe your ass I suppose. So much for all those benjamins. Trading for goods was more direct, another common sense action retroactively approved/mandated by the council. Fucking geniuses. At least they weren’t trying to cling to the old economy. What a fucking nightmare that would’ve been. Zombos and money managing. Guess they figured no one would put up with that shit, and for once they were fucking right.

As I pondered how much and of what kind alcohol I was going to end up acquiring, someone asked for my report from the roof. I always tried to give them the necessary information in as little words as fucking possible. Thus my reply, “barricade’s still there. No signs of the zombos fucking with it. Everything else seems fine too.” That seemed satisfactory to them. No one even gave some smartass comment about the zombo label, guess it was getting so ubiquitous nobody gave a fuck anymore. For the better I guess, soon it’d probably spread across the city. Goddamn, I should still take credit for it, but what good would that do. They promptly resumed planning their shit. Before I could be sucked into it though, I retreated back to my room to touch up my rifle and settle in to sleep. My room blocked out the sounds of the group and the night promised to be quiet, which was exactly what I fucking needed. Whatever choice of action they decided, I was fucking sure I’d be told about it soon enough. Tomorrow I’d go out and see if I could find some time to check the market and with that bastard Strizzy about the booze. That was priority number fucking one for now. I went to bed, my rifle reassuringly resting nearby.

I woke up the next day with the booze still on my mind. First though I had to make sure I wasn’t “volunteered” for whatever fucking scheme arose out of the last night’s session. I knew wasn’t scheduled to be on the roof and nobody had previously assigned me any random fucking tasks for the day. Downstairs in the meeting room the usual mill of people were standing around, preparing for whatever they had to do themselves for the day. I stopped keeping track of who did what for the most part if it didn’t concern me, but I eyed Jimbo and he nodded back, knowing that I would want the necessary information without all the bullshit, and he would provide it. Jimbo was one of the few people in our base I could actually tolerate, mostly cause he didn’t dick around either. He sidled over to me by the corner and grinned secretively, a dubious fucking sign at best. Thankfully, without the unnecessary pleasantries, he spit out the deal. “We’re supposed to assemble a scouting party to hit the farthest eastern part of the city. Council says supposedly there’s more usable salvage there than anywhere else. Most of the others who already went to the other parts over the last couple days are being told to stay put while the council and the engineers figure out what they want to build and how to do it. That’s the big news from last night. They’ve “asked” us to be part of the group that goes out. Last long distance scout for a while until they finish whatever they’re gonna be building. Anything extra that isn’t on their list of top priority materials is yours to keep.” I nodded back and was about to reply when he continued with, “I know you actually want this one, I saw the look on your face last night when you overheard about the liquor stash. If we get this done fast enough, you might have enough shit to trade for bottle or two. Assuming that weird guy that you claim owes you saves any.” It was my turn to grin lopsidedly. The fucker had me on that. As much as I resented being told what to do by our ad-hoc government, for once it afforded me to opportunity to further my own agenda as well. “When do we go?” I asked. Jimbo grinned back again and responded “Two hours. Give you a copy of the list of things the council wants most on the way over. I’ll come find you before we head out.” I nodded agreement again and that was fucking that. It was so much easier without all the whining middle-men.

Since I had the hours to kill, and no interest in gossiping with the rest, I decided I’d head back to my room and take stock of my current supplies to trade. The cigs were definitely a valuable commodity, packs were traded regularly down there, and as much as I was reluctant to part with them, I figured it was worth it if the goods received in return were of a high enough fucking quality. If I went down there and saw a case of fucking Beast in Strizzy’s stall, someone was going to get dickpunched for sure. While we may be living in the shitty remains of civilization, I don’t see why that meant I have to lower my standards when it came to drinking. Hopefully the team who had found it had decent taste as well. But if I could scrounge something worth trading on this little trip, I could perhaps enjoy both some quality drinks and my cigs, and live the high fucking life indeed.

Two hours later Jimbo and I and the rest of the team were eastward bound. The roads that led out to the east wall were more or less cleared away and stripped of anything immediately valuable. I kept my fucking eyes open though, never knew what you could find and who at the market would want it more than was reasonably expected. The council’s list itself included car interiors as some of the material they were looking for. I couldn’t figure out what the fuck they would be using it for, but at this point I didn’t care much. Whenever it was done we’d all know soon enough. I was more focused on finding other shit that was useful to trade. I carried my rife at the ready and followed the chosen path out to our destination.

We walked for a while in silence, thankfully, nobody tried to liven up our little journey with more meaningless drivel and I was intently checking each car we cut the interiors out of for anything else I could pocket. As we came up nearing the wall, I was again reminding myself that at least they don’t… “Shit,” Jimbo said. And before I could ask how the fuck he knew what I was thinking, I looked up and saw that he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking out over the wall, where the unmistakable sight of a large horde of advancing zombos accompanied by their eerie as fuck sing-songing to each other was displayed before us. It was a second later that the sirens started up, and the spotlights set up in this part of the city started coming on. Well goddamn, so much for that fucking booze, I thought, as I brought up my rifle.