Dear Diary (in mocking fashion of course),
It was stifling hot this past week, which only added to the aggravation of our boredom. The humidity was so bad the ass-rot smell was reaching our area*. We had been used to such smells pretty much by now. So it wasn’t that that was bothering us. It was just the plain boredom. One can only play ‘set back’, ‘poker’ and ‘kings’ so much before it gets old quick. Some days Dan and the women would go roof- top and snipe putos with the M1-A. But the still air and heat made it unbearable. Plus ammo for that thing was getting low. Also the plethora of DVDs we had been starting to thin out. I, for one, was not much for stupid ass movies anymore. We had watched them all anyway 3-4 times over. Our weapons have been cleaned so many times it seemed that moving parts were so loose that they would fall apart from being oiled so much. We did not, however, forget our focus. We were now the hunters. Panic, confusion, fright, incompetence, un-organization…were no more of the issue for us. And, our means of the hunt were perfected.
This particular day was like any other when we headed into ‘town’. It was sunny, a very humid with no wind. To our favor the view was clear…no haze was blocking our vision. But the day turned out different when ‘da boys’ (me included) decided to do a ‘hunt run’ late morning. We got dressed in or combat wear: Dan with his traditional urban fatigues, Keith and his wide brim cowboy hat, Jim sportin’ a tux vest and I wearing the bright-as-hell orange hunting pants. Hey, we wanted to make this interesting. Then we gathered our gear and day weapons:
Me- bayoneted AK-47, .45 1911, brass knuckle pike
Keith- Franchi SPAS-12 (yep, we found one), Colt .45 Commander, crowbar
Dan- Springfield M-1A, .50 Desert Eagle, machete
Jim- M4 (with ACOG), SOCOM .45, brass knuckle pike
We had loaded one of the Hummers (which was complete with an acquired mini-gun…please note: this beautiful toy was only used for hunting deep ‘in-country’ zombie hoards…oh what fun it is!) Anyway, as we mounted the Hummer we all started talkin’ and bustin’ ass about the old days. We knew the rest of us at the ‘homestead’ would be safe.** So Dan reaches back into the Hummer storage area and pulls out the most important thing we have in our arsenal: The Cooler.
It was 11:07am and we started pounding the lukewarm beers. There had to be about 2 cases in The Cooler that we had forgotten about. There we were, in the last hour of that morning, sitting in a secured area of a UCONN parking lot, drinking beers and doing another thing we have not done in a long time- getting drunk and laughing our asses off at stupid shit.
Jim ignored the ‘hell’ he would catch if Dee knew what he was doing at that moment. She figured we were going to lessen the undead population and did not worry about that. Jim, by all means, was a perfect undead killing machine. But to be drinking beers right now? HA!!
Anyway, someone (I believe Keith) fired up the Hummer and ‘twisted our arms’ to jump in and do some shootin’. As we headed down route 4 (it was cleared away by this time of wreckage and bodies) we were still laughing, pounding the ‘road cokes’ and chucking them away.
Now, to give you a visual, route 4 is a straight shot to downtown Hartford. During past hunts in this area, we only went as far as downtown West Hartford. The area was still hairy and we got sight of some human bandit types fighting the undead…and themselves. Of course we would always break contact with the other living since our ‘Worcester incident’. Except for the other dwellers of UCONN (another group of friendlies occupying the east part of the roof section) we had no contact with other bands of hunters or survivalists.
Well, we managed to make it past the gutted ‘Stop & Shop’ and crested the intersection of Farmington Avenue and Mountain Road(?)…then we just sat there drinking. Dan manning the ‘baby’ (mounted mini-gun) as the rest of us sat in the Hummer locked and loaded…and…a little buzzed!
There was not much to look at. Hartford was still smoldering (but I think most fires had gone out by now) and West Hartford Center seemed like a ghost town. No pun intended. Each direction of the intersection was empty. An occasional ‘douche bag’ would be spotted but a clear shot was not in our favor.
Jim pounded his 7th beer (as he claims) and directed the ‘ever-willing’ Keith to drive toward the Center. With a loud trademark belch, Keith obliged.
What I noticed at this point (and Dan too) was 2-3 of those fuckers coming from the house to our right. I guess the echoing burp attracted some ‘wanted’ bullet catchers. We were in no worry because they were about 100 yards away and moving so…….fucking slowwww…wwww. By this time the runners were a rare encounter but still popped up once in a while.
Dan lit up a butt and passed me one. Keith stopped the Hummer and Jim hopped out. I did not have a view of the creeps creeping up on us. But Jim did and he ‘Cogged’ their asses.
At this point we were (or I was anyway) getting fucked up. The beers were going down WAY too nice. I kept bummin’ butts from Dan. And I remember he paid no mind to what the fuck was going on around him. He just readied his M1-A and held it like he wanted to fuck it. He cradled it and was whispering sweet nothings to it. I got Keith’s attention and pointed to Dan. We both fell over laughing. So much so that I fell out of the Hummer and banged my goddamn lip! One of many stupid moves that day.
And I’ll never forget this: Dan looked at me on the ground, raised his shades and said in a calm voice, “you shouldn’t drink and play with guns.” Then he laughed loud finished his beer and burped somethin’ fierce.
Jim got back in the passenger seat laid his rifle on his lap and kept drinking. Keith just let the Hummer coast down Farmington Ave at a slow pace to stir up the still air. Right about this time the freaks started to come out of the woodwork. We were in no serious threat because they were a ways away. The glistening sweat on our bodies gave the aroma of beer. It probably added to the attention we were giving ourselves.
Then things started to get serious. We all had to pee.
Keith stopped the Hummer again. Dan stood on the roof and pissed right there. Me, Jim and Keith stood up and did our business right in the street. We laughed…but laughed crazy when Keith farted and then puked at the same time! HAHAHAHA!
I have to admit the smell of the dead was overwhelming here. And I guess the right gust of ‘ass-rot’ stink caught Keith right in the face…well, that and the fact he was standing on a ‘used-to-be-old man’ pissing right in the goo.
I did a radio check with the ‘homestead’ to see if everything was ok. I maintained a serious voice and tried to sound professional…but to no avail. My slurring was a dead give-away. But nobody back ‘home’ suspected a thing!
So, we continued on our way. Drinking and taking pop shots at the approaching freaks. At this point it looked like 20-25 of ‘em. Keith moved the Hummer on the other side of the road, stopped…then we waited. Of course pounding the remaining beers. How else to be brave than to be drunk and brave? Or be drunk and brave and some serious firepower?
We all took notice of the large pay-loader just adjacent to our position. But I guess Keith had a gleaming twitch in his eye to fire that bitch up. I have to admit, I did too. Oh this gets better!
NOW. This has to be the dumbest thing as a collective group we ever did…ever. But as I look back now, one of the fuckin’ funniest. I never laughed so hard during this stupid stunt, as we all did, and I never laughed so hard now looking back at it. Although, I am also surprised nobody was seriously injured or killed for Christ-sake. One ‘for the books’ definitely.
With just about the beer gone and the racket we were making, we started to get antsy…and silly…and we were attracting attention by every undead ass-wipe within earshot. So what do we do? Well, Dan stayed with the mini-gun keeping over-watch and cradled his ‘girlfriend’ M1 ready to fire away. Jim got in the drivers seat and took aim…but sparked up a butt first. Keith and I took our guns and stumbled across the way toward the pay-loader. Laughing and acting crazy like two little schoolgirls…
Jim and Dan started to fire away at their own leisure because what else do you do when you are drunk with a high-powered rifles?
There had to be 200-250 at this point milling around approaching, but nobody was actually counting.
Jim and Dan started to blast caps at their own leisure. Albeit not paying mind to valuable rounds being wasted.
All I saw was Dan and Jim turning bright red as the veins bulged from their heads from laughing so much. (Must have been a joke I missed.) Actually, Dan was crying with laughter! He could not hold his weapon up anymore and his head-shots were turning into knee-cap smashes and pavement dust. Jim was the same way. Laughing in tears. Jeeze guys, something I missed? He just gave up (so to speak) and placed his M4 on the dash and just aimed his pistol into the ‘dead peoples’ crowd and blasted away.
Keith seemed to be in his glory. After about 10-15 minutes. He fired up the beast. I jumped on the roof hanging on for dear life…laughing and pissing myself at the same time. This pay-loader was not stoppin’ for nuttin’. Perfect!
Now with all the goddamn noise we were making, all of 'West Hartford’s un-finest' were well on their way to join the party da boys created. They must’ve been jealous they were left out. Oh yeah, we were still having a grand ole’ time! Fuck the noise. Fuck those undead pieces of shit. We were venting months of boredom, frustrations, anger and any other bullshit that I forgot to mention.
We still had the advantage though: a good line of sight, quick escape route, plenty-o-ammo (we thought)…and, oh yeah, more warm beers still bangin’ around in the cooler.
As I gained my composure and clutched my ‘AK-bestfriend’, I happened to take view of the big picture. My buzz plateau’d but I still had two cans in the cargo pockets. Anyway, Keith was looping the pay-loader around. I couldn’t see what he was doing or how he was working this thing. But at least it was moving. We had to go around a building out of the line of sight of Dan and Jim-bob for the moment. I wasn’t worried about them too much; I was more worried about us. I had no idea where the fuck Keith was going! At least there were no freakos following us. The majority of them were slowly moving up Farmington Avenue just beyond The Elbow Room heading straight for Jim-Dan bait. I banged on the roof and Keith stuck his head out replying ‘hello?’ in a little homo kid voice. ‘Dude, where you goin?’ I asked in a loud slur. He didn’t say anything but let loose an ear blasting mouth fart and ducked back into the cab. Our position was now facing west (away from the action) but my stupid ass didn’t realize the turn radius of this pigbitch***.
I still hung on to dear life. But not so much worrying about the greyskins…more about falling off of the roof and smacking my skull in the street OR getting crushed by the BFTs (Big Fucking Tires).
Oh yeah, the big picture. We turned onto LaSalle Street and cruised toward Main Street. Keith and I were getting farther away from our campadres AND during our ‘no thinking mode’, we forgot the ear mikes! We were drunk, what do you expect? Left em' in the Hummer where they will not be broked! (smart) But I did hear an occasional rip from our pal the mini-gun a few streets over to our rear. That made me feel safe.
Now Keith turned left onto the main street and stopped the pay-loader. I couldn’t hear shit, just the idling of the loud engine and the ‘ripping mini-gun’ in the distance. From where we sat we could see the ‘zomboys’ heading toward Dan and Jim’s position. Those same zomboys really paid no attention to us. I guess they were attracted to the beautiful bursting noise of the mini-gun that was chewing up their dead-ass friends. Don’t get me wrong: there were some freakos to our rear getting closer and we could see others clawing at the doors and windows of the building insides trying desperately to suck to beer from our brains.
At that moment I was starting to get scared. Well, it was more like ‘aware’. I sat up on the roof and dangled my feet over the side in front of Keith (just in case he forgot I was there). So…I popped open a can of beer. And so did Keithy. I was not quite sure what the hell we were doing and just then Keith said ‘Hold On!’ I gripped the pigbitch for another hell ride. But this time Keith opened full bore and charged right for the gang of walking rot-flesh that were advancing toward the Hummer’s position. I chugged the last of my second-to-last-beer and took a bead on one of them standing in shop window like a mannequin. A short hard kickin’ burst just threw glass and dust into the air (I never did look back to see if I hit my intended target). My rush was starting to pick up again!
Then BOOM BOOM BOOM. That fuckin’ noise made my shades take a flight off my head and into the wind. Gone. It just so happens that Keith was doing a ‘Rambo’ impersonation. One hand on the wheel (or his beer…you pick) and the other sweeping curbside rot-boys with the SPAS-12 as we vroomed on past. What a sight. Legs, skull fragments, shredded clothing, fingers. They were tore the fuck up! I was cracking up now. The adrenaline was back. The adrenaline was flowing.
Another surprise. Oh this was funny as shit…
The bucket on the pigbitch was raised about…hmmm…yay-high (shoulder height) while Keith was driving, drinking AND turning heads of zombies into chunks of mush. I was starting to really really love this. Without warning I climbed into the bucket from the roof, cracked my last beer, turned to ‘Mario Andretti’ and gave a big shit-eating grin. I was replied with a thumbs-up. At least the bucket felt a helluva lot safer than that goddamn roof.
We were gaining now. We took another right onto Farmington Ave. Right into the hoard of freaks and into Dan’s line of fire! I ducked into the bucket, but thank the almighty that our hootin’ partners had enough brains to halt their barrage of bullets. That, OR they just scratched their heads in amazement at our stupidity as we turned the pigbitch right up ghoul alley and into the fire of the blazin’ mini.
It didn’t really matter at this point. Keith was B-lining toward our original position- back at the Hummer. All that was evident was the crunching of ribcages, the jolt of pay-loader running over wreckage and fuckos, the smell of buckshot from the Franchi, dark splats exploding from under heavy tires, the clanging of smoking 7.62 brass hitting the bucket insides, The sudden stoppage of that irritating moaning- replaced with shouts of laughter, the deforming of faces when bucket teeth enter an unexpected cranium. And we were not even home-free yet....
To be continued…