A Practical Man

 (Zombies. A Maine Lobsterman. Guns.)

A Practical Man

(Chris Walters 2002)

I’ll tell you one thing, I fuckin’ hate the state of the world. I didn’t have much use for people when they was alive, clutterin’ up the highways, buying up my town. Now they’re fuckin’ dead, and they still be in my way. Well, I got a solution for ‘em, in just about every fuckin’ caliber.

Call me Howie. I’m a lobsterman by trade, and a Mainer by birth. Spent my whole life in a town called York. My family was all there. Reckon my parents are dead now. They wouldn’t come with me when I went for the boat. I know they went down shootin’. My Ma was a hell of shot, even in the wintertime when arthritis curled her hands up like dead chicken feet.

My son took off with that friend of his, who always got conversion kits for new guns. I’d bet they’re all right, if anyone is.

See, I was home that February day when I finally found out what was worst than tourists and carpetbaggers: fuckin’ dead carpetbaggers without the goddam decency to stay dead. The weather was mild, but there was rough water out where I put my traps. I was takin’ er easy cleanin’ some guns, and putting a new muffler on my truck. (I’ll tell you what, if the head of Ford got ate by one of those things, I would not be upset). 

Anyway, ‘bout noon I hear screamin’ from the Goddam Yuppie housin’ development down the street from me. I figured they were just lettin’ those useless little leech kids of theirs run wild, like always. Never did discipline those little assholes, just gave “time outs”, like they was playin’ hockey. I swear those people only had kids to show ‘em off.

Well, the screamin’ got real loud for a bit, then it sort of trailed off. Then I heard sirens. The York PD were on their way. I figured whatever was wrong, those people’d do better to bribe their assailants, rather than depend on the fat stupid cops to save their bacon.

Being as I’m a practical man, I went inside, and loaded the guns I’d just cleaned. I called the wife downstairs and told her to check her rifle. She looked concerned, but she knows better than to argue when I start talking about guns.

I turned on the scanner. They changed the police frequency a few years ago, so you can’t listen in on the cops. They didn’t do nothin’ to the fire and ambulance frequencies, though. Those equally fat useless fucks at the York Volunteer Paramedic squad were on their way to scene. Seems there were a lot of seriously wounded Yuppies. If I wasn’t so close to those Yuppies, I might’a been right pleased.

When the first ambulance got to the scene, I heard one of the attendants puke out his window. From what they were saying, a mortar round may have gone off in a Yuppie’s yard. I felt like I’d dreamed that at some point. Anyway, the cops started putting rounds into somebody, and that somebody wasn’t impressed. The whole thing turned into the opening of “Saving Private Ryan”, blood, screaming, bullets, and craziness.

The wife turned on the TV, to see if there was any news about it (not likely in York), and found every station, including cable, talking about attacks by unknown assailants. The National Guard was called up everywhere. Jesus H. Christ.

I went down in the cellar, and got my prize weapon: an M60 machine gun. I had three crates of ammo, and gathered all that up and brought it out the truck. I told the wife to start loading all the guns into the truck, and to grab some food. We were going to the boat.

It’s been what they call an open secret ‘tween me and the cops; about the machine gun, I mean. They know I got it, I know they know. They know that if they ain’t got a warrant, and the National Guard, they are not to come on my property, or I’ll demonstrate the effective use of it. I didn’t care a turd about the secret right then, as I didn’t think there were gonna be any more cops in just a minute.

The wife got the supplies in the truck, got in. Right about then I saw the first of those things: a Yuppie, naked except for sandals (what kind of a man wears sandals?), and a toupee that was coming unglued.  In spite of the wounds (bite marks and bullet holes), I recognized him as the arrogant fucker who tried to buy my land two years ago.

Now, I had no idea that he was dead, so to be a law abidin’ citizen, I gave a warning.

“You sick bastard, stay the fuck off my land!”

He didn’t stop of course, so I shot him in the knees, smiling like a kid on Christmas. It cut him off at the legs, but the sonofabitch started crawling. I figured that was clear and present danger, so I cut him in half, lengthwise. That stopped him.

Then I saw three more of ‘em coming up the road. I threw my ’60 into the back of the truck, got in the cab, and ran those things over quick.

The wife had put my M16 in the cab of the truck, along with the .357 and her hunting rifle. I took the pistol, and she took the ’16. We made a beeline for my parents’ house.

We got there, and we had to shoot a couple of those things to get to the door. My parents were busy carefully loading their rifles. They were taking a goddam long time about it too. Well, when you’re eighty-five you just can’t move all that fast.

I tried to get them to come with us, but they were stubborn like a couple of granite bulls. They had too much medicine to carry, and besides, they said, it’ll blow over.

I tried to argue with ‘em, but you can’t argue with people that old. Ma kicked me out of her house. Me and the wife left. We saw some of the creatures making their way up the street. I hoped the parents had plenty of ammo.

There weren’t too many creatures yet, so we didn’t use up much ammo on the way. We got to the dock where my boat was. There weren’t any creatures there yet, so we got the guns on my boat quick.

I started the engine, and the wife ran back to the truck to get…some damn thing. We don’t have a lot of bums in York. Fuckin’ great luck the only one in town had been napping under the dock, when the cirrhosis got him. He crawled out, and started for my wife.

I grabbed my .30-06 and tried to take aim. The goddam boat was pitchin’ just enough to throw my aim. I fired off a couple a rounds, but best I hit was the bum’s shoulder. He just kept right on after my wife. I yelled to her, but she couldn’t hear so well at the best of times. I got onta the dock, but by this time a good shot to the bum would hit the wife.

It was then she turned to come back, with an armload a stuff, and she ran smack into ‘im. I was runnin’ to her at this point, but not fast enough. He took a big ol’ chunk of her face, got that whole too big nose I always had to forgive, and part of a cheek.

All the noise of her shriekin’, me yellin and me shootin’ had attracted a few more things. I recognized some of my competition from lobsterin’ wanderin’ hungry towards my wife.

I told ya, I’m a practical man. I couldn’t save my wife, so I did her a favor and blew her head off. Then I got in my boat and headed to open water.

It’s April now, and I been to dry land three times, for fuel, and some nets. Had to be able to catch fish. There ain’t a lobsterman I ever met who’d eat those fuckin’ things. Lobsters I mean. The shit they eat (and I mean that literal-like) you realize they’re just a walking sewer treatment plant.

I heard a couple a transmissions on the radio, somethin’ about a bunch a people holed up in Wal-mart. Fuck that. I don’t want to be where I can be snuck up on.

There’s a small group of islands, not too far off shore called the Isles of Shoals. I tie up there on occasion, when the sea gets too high; don’t get off the boat, though. It took me a while to clear the Isles of dead people, but I did it. Mostly, I keep on the water.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I ran into a Navy patrol. This fuckin’ destroyer hauls ass over the horizon one day, starts trying to get me on the radio. I ain’t fuckin’ answerin’ them.

Well, they pull up alongside, and the skipper get’s on his bullhorn, and starts yellin’ at me. This sonofabitch tells me that since I didn’t answer their hails, they consider me hostile.

Fuckin’ right I’m hostile, I says. I don’t like being told how to behave.

He tells me that martial law has been declared, and I’m obligated to obey his commands. He says they gonna draft me! At my age!

Simon says go fuck yourself, I says to him.

He is empowered to use deadly force to gain my compliance, he says.

Better shoot me then, I says.

I am the stubbornest sonofabitch he’s ever met, he says.

Thank you. Now fuck off, if you would, I says.

Blow him, he tells me.

We trade one-finger salutes, and they fuck off. And that’s the last contact with the living I had for a long time. I’ll go back to dry land eventually. At least there won’t be any more goddam tourists, carpetbaggers and Yuppies.