Everyone on earth knows the pain of stepping on a piece of Lego. Some say it is the single most painful thing to be found under foot. These people haven’t walked cross country bare foot. I remember cursing a god I don’t believe in and thinking this is turning out like a campy romantic comedy and my super awkward soul mate was right around the next bend. As I rounded the corner I stumbled to a stop at the awesome sight before me. She stood there in a flowing weightless white gown, auburn hair dancing in the wind… Nope, just more zombies.
A crowd of about thirty shuffled about between cars blocking the road, some still trapped in the twisted wrecks. Did they turn after they died or were they helpless prey to the deceased super predators blindly bumping about? I started thinking about someone turning as they drove, the sight of the passengers screaming as they are devoured and the car careens out of control… That was right about the time the wind changed. They all turned in unison toward me with outstretched arms. I almost expected the leader to have a red leather jacket, and considering, that would fit right in with my campy escapades.
I looked quickly to the sign adjacent to the road; Spoons 5 kilometers. I hopped the guardrail (this time checking what was on the other side) and ran as fast as my poor feet could take me. Then I turned parallel with the road and continued for a couple of minutes. Stopping I listened for signs I was being followed. Nothing but bird songs. I shadowed the road with a wary eye on my six for the better part of the way into Spoons, keeping to a brisk pace.
Spoons isn’t much of a town where there is a whole lot to do, not much more than a fork in the road, which in my case is a good thing. I have been to Spoons only a handful of times in my life and the only reason I have ever stopped in it is for the awe inspiring ice cream place just off the highway. The first house I came to was pretty much a trailer home with a shack added on to it. The assortment of cars in the tall grass in the yard screamed trailer park chiche.
I looked around wondering if I should check it out. My stomach rumbled and I didn’t think I could stomach another jerky gorge for the time being. I crouched in the tall grass and tried to think. I knew enough about room clearing tactics and proper zombie disposal to know a perimeter check could save me some skin in the long run. I moved as quietly and quickly as I could through the tall grass in a forty foot radius of the trailer. All was clear.
I moved in. The screen door was ripped and hanging half off its hinges. I pushed the door open and no wave of stink hit me so I figured it was safe. I held my twelve gauge tight to my shoulder and swept the room, the barrel following my gaze. The interior looked straight out of 8 mile. Tacky wood paneling adorned the inside on every vertical surface. Taking the few steps across the thresh hold I was hit by a distinct smell. Not the rotting flesh and decay that was the trade mark of the end of the world, but a more like stale and rotting frozen dinners and sweat soaked dirty carpet which actually felt pretty great on my bare feet but it might as well been hot coals for how much I was afraid of infection.
A quick glance of the living room showed no signs anything remotely cannibalistic so I turned towards the closed off bedroom. The closed concertina doors covered in the same shameful wood panelling were just enough ajar let them be pushed aside by the tip of my barrel. Beyond lay a horrific... Bed spread. The floral pattern was stained dark yet surprisingly I wasn’t ecstatic to find out what by. Another quick sniff revealed something weird. I turned back towards the living room and paced a few times sniffing the air periodically. I even went as far as to get down on all fours and smell the carpet which happened to be Febreze fresh.
The layout didn’t make sense. The shack didn’t have any exterior access and that smell was unmistakable to teenagers and hippies alike. I tromped back into the bedroom and stood with the gun resting on my shoulder and scratching my chin. I mentally pictured where the shack should be attached to the main trailer and tapped the butt of the gun against the wall. Sounded normal. Eyeing the closet I remembered the countless stories of the lengths people went to in order to hide this little habit and its ‘supporters’. Pulling the doors aside I stepped into the confined space and tapped the wall again and voila.
The door swung open to a bunch of stairs leading into darkness. I dug my flashlight out of my pocket and shined it down. The stairs went about one full flight down then turned out of sight. My foot dangled on the edge and I gauged my options. I knew there was pot down there. I knew pot meant munchies, but it also meant people willing to protect it at all costs. Not to mention that fighting down there was a terrifying prospect. I reached out and pulled the hidden door closed and retreated out of the trailer. The thought of being there if the owner came home wasn’t worth the risk.
For all I knew, that could have been an underground bunker stalked with not only pot, but food and playboy bunnies. And shoes. Man how I wanted shoes.