Chet & Floyd vs. The Apocalypse: Volume 1 Page 7

  “You’re a Zen master now? I thought you were a samurai.”

  “Samurais were the beginning of my training, but the lowly samurai servant is well below my current stature,” Chet said.

  “I’ll bite,” Floyd said. “What happened?”

  “When I mixed all those tobaccos together and smoked them as fast as I could, I was blasted with so many flavors and such an intensity of heat that all engulfed into nothingness. Each individual difference lost its identity in the melting pot of my bowl. Each tobacco was a different note, but, when smoked together, the notes became a symphony. I, like the tobacco, have died and been born again. I’ve tasted Nirvana and have come forth, like the phoenix rising from the ashes, with a new name.”

  “What is that?” Floyd asked.

  “I was thinking about Chet Zero.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “How about Chet version 2.0?” Chet asked.

  “How about I just keep calling you Chet, but your new found status of Zen master is intrinsically implied?”

  “That will work,” Chet said.

  “Okay…” Floyd waited for Chet to keep talking but was greeted with silence. “What are we going to do now?” he asked.

  “We have to get out of here before someone sees the smoke you let fly all over the place, you stupid Floyderson. There is a destination I want us to reach that I want to talk to you about. I think it will do us both a whole lot of good,” Chet said.

  He started up the VW and they got back on the highway, heading north.

  Chapter 16

  Chet artfully spun the Super Beetle around piles of road debris. With each passing day the roads and highways became more overtaken by nature. They marveled at how quickly this happened. Within a couple weeks small rents on a bridge became impassible gorges. Erosion ran unabated rutting the roads. The world that Chet and Floyd knew was dying, but amidst the change there was a nagging sense of renewal.

  “So where are we going Chet? You’ve been awfully silent as of late. Is this part of your new found Zen master status?” Floyd said.

  “Don’t make fun of me. There is no need, as your words will have no effect.” Chet said.

  “Why are you twitching like that? You only do that when you’re irked.”

  “I AM NOT TWITCHING!” Chet screamed, almost losing control of the VW. “I am vibrating in tune with nature. Just because I am not prone to your verbal barbs anymore doesn’t mean you have to do them. Leave me alone Floyd.”

  “Sorry. Where are we going?”

  “We’re going home. We’re going to the place of my youth. We’re going to my preschool in South Milwaukee. It was called ‘Little Children are Nice’ or something like that,” Chet said.

  “Little Children are Nice?” Floyd said.

  “I’m not really sure if I have that right. Since I’ve become a Zen master, I’ve felt a dire need to get back in touch with my roots.”

  “There’s going to be nothing but an old broken down building covered in dust and filth,” Floyd said.

  “Being with you can be so damaging, Floyd, stop with all your naysaying.” Chet tried to shift the car into fifth but it didn’t work since there was no fifth gear. He swore. The car crested a hill. At the bottom of the hill several cars were spread out over the pavement, blocking the road. On either side of the road the shoulder dropped off, making circumvention impossible.

  “Looks like a trap,” Chet said.

  “Thank goodness you’re here Chet,” Floyd said. “How could I navigate the treacherous apocalyptic landscape without you?” Floyd chuckled until Chet reached over, popped the passenger door open and shoved. Floyd grabbed hold of the doorframe just in time to keep from falling out.

  “What the hell are you doing Chet!” Floyd yelled.

  “I’ve had enough of your negativity. Our teaming up is null and void.” Chet repeatedly punched Floyd in the face, until he let go of the frame and tumbled out onto the highway.

  “Should have worn a seat belt,” Chet said as he glided the car down to the roadblock. He looked behind him to see Floyd’s prone body fifty yards back in the middle of the road.

  Chet let the car idle as he looked at the line of cars. It would take a little work to move them out of the way but it was doable. For a moment he wished he was still friends with Floyd, for no other reason than it would make the passage easier, but he shut it from his mind. They were no more.

  A harsh voice called to Chet from behind the block, “Put your hands up! I have dead to aim.”

  Chet put his hands up but let the car idle with his foot on the pedal.

  A tall and gaunt man stepped out from behind the roadblock. He had a full head of black hair and a beard. In his hands he held a hunting rifle trained on Chet.

  “How many of you are there?” Chet called from the car.

  “More than you can handle,” the man said.“Are you sure you’re not the last one? I don’t see anyone else. I think you may have already eaten them.”

  “Shut up,” the man said.

  “I know how things can happen between friends and compatriots,” Chet said. “Just like me, you are. I used to have a friend named Floyd. He and I did everything together. We were close like brothers, Floyd and I,” Chet said.

  The man poked the rifle through the window of the car, digging the barrel into Chet’s cheek.

  “Shut up! I told you to keep quiet!” the man said.

  “Ouch!” Chet said, trying to pull his head away from the gun. “That hurts. But there is no end to a pain like ours. We share it! We share the deep emotional scars that only severing close ties can rend! Oh, how I miss my friend Floyd! I did him wrong, just as you did yours wrong.”

  “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” the man said. “I will teach you. Stop the car and get out.”

  “I don’t want to stop the car,” Chet said. “I need to let it idle. This is a fine tuned machine.”

  “If you won’t listen, I’ll make you turn the damn thing off.” The black haired man stepped in front of the car and fired a bullet through the hood. He looked puzzled when the car continued to idle. The man shot into the hood again. Still the vehicle kept running.

  “The engine is in the back,” Chet said.

  The black haired man walked around to the back of the car a little sheepishly and fired through the rear hatch. The car died.

  Chet got out, hands straight in the air. “Was that what you wanted to do? Kill my car? Well that doesn’t matter to me. I am already dead inside. What does a man need with things when he is estranged from his best friend? I am dealing with loss.”

  The black haired man trained his rifle on Chet and pulled back the hammer.

  “Do you have any food?” The man asked.

  “I have food for the body but no food for my soul. Man needs companionship. I kicked my companion out of the car at thirty miles an hour. What kind of friend does that?”

  “Where is the food!” the man screamed, the rifle shaking with his frustration.

  “There’s about one and a half dead dogs in the back,” Chet said, nodding in the direction of the skull bug. “You can have that them.”

  The man motioned for Chet to move away from the car. Keeping one hand on the rifle, he pulled the dog carcasses out of the back seat.

  “You have food so I’ll let you live,” the man said. “You’re lucky. Otherwise I would be eating you right about now.”

  “It’s better to be lucky than good,” Chet said. The guy gave him a weird look. “That’s what I always say at least.”

  “You’re kind of an odd guy. Maybe I’ll kill you anyway. You’re creeping me out.” The man raised his rifle to Chet’s forehead. Chet closed his eyes. “Any last words?”

  “Yes I do have a few words,” Chet said. “I’m holding a grenade.”

  The man nearly dropped his gun at Chet’s words but didn’t fire the rifle. He kept the gun barrel pressed to Chet’s forehead as he let his eyes drift to Chet’s right hand. Chet was
in fact holding a very scuffed grenade.

  “As you can see, the pin is out. I am able to keep the striker lever pressed even though I am under considerable duress with that rifle in my face.”

  The man looked shocked and lowered his rifle. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “I don’t know,” Chet said, looking down at the grenade thoughtfully. “I don’t have much choice as to it going off now that I’ve released the pin. I could throw it away.”

  “Throw it away,” the man stammered.

  “That’s the problem,” Chet said. “I’ve never been much of an athlete. I am all bumbling butterfingers. I could just as well throw the thing backwards in the attempt.” Chet laughed. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Blow us both to kingdom come.”

  The man wasn’t laughing.

  “You don’t seem to think that’s very funny. I suppose you had a good upbringing with a dad that would take you out every day and throw the ball around. You’re a regular Brett Favre. Well it’s not my fault I didn’t have that sort of athletic support in my life. I don’t appreciate you bringing that up and then looking at me with those accusing eyes.”

  “I didn’t bring it up. I don’t….”

  “DON’T INTERRUPT ME!” Chet screamed.

  The man dropped the rifle and raised his hands to his face. Chet didn’t say anything until he dropped them. “It’s not polite. We have another issue here entirely. Even if I somehow throw this thing away, we’re going to have to deal with shrapnel. Usually you have a certain amount of time with these things, but I’ve found this situation to be so damn unpredictable. Do you know Steve Jorgenson?”

  “No,” the man said.

  “Well!” Chet said, gesticulating wildly with the grenade. “Steve Jorgenson tried throwing these things like they were some sort of impact explosives.” Chet snorted. “These are obviously, not that. These are timed. The grenade hurler usually has about six seconds before the grenade explodes. That is an awful lot of time to duck and cover.

  “The problem was Steve would throw these things and the person he was throwing them at would toss them back. Steve would have just enough time to toss the live grenade back yet again before it exploded. The whole ordeal was so very stressful—did you say something?” Chet asked.

  He tapped the man on the side of his face with the grenade, which made the man wince and piss himself. “I guess not. Feel free to interrupt at any time with a question. I want to make that clear. You can interrupt me with a question to clarify elements of the story that you don’t understand. The last time you jumped all over my words it was to argue. That was just plain rude. No questions? Good.

  “Anyway, where was I? Jorgenson! Steve Jorgenson thought he could get around the whole tossing back and forth of deadly explosives by pulling the pin, releasing the striker and counting for a few seconds before throwing the grenade. His strategy was to avoid playing the world’s worst game of hot potato. You wouldn’t want to loser in that game, I assure you. His logic was that, if he waited for a few seconds, the grenade would explode on impact and prevent his foes from counterattacking.” Chet heaved as his words ran out with his air.

  The man gave a small yelp as he warily watched the grenade in Chet’s hand.

  “Now, the logic of Steve Jorgenson’s plan was perfect. I could appreciate that about him, but he is a very dead logical person because he chose to leave out one very solid fact about life in general. It is very unpredictable. Is that not so? There are times, my hairy friend, that life throws such a curveball that even the most factual of facts is debunked.

  “That being the case, a normal person would not have even bothered playing around with explosives. It was dangerous enough betting on whether the train would run on time. I wish old Steve Jorgenson had thought of that. It’s one thing to make bets on a train schedule and be a few minutes late. Jorgenson made a bet on a simple grenade timer and blew his stomach through his backbone.

  “It was an awful sight. I was right there to see it happen. I am very lucky to be alive right now because of my good friend Steve Jorgenson’s habit of cradling the grenade like a newborn babe as he counted down the seconds.

  Anyway, long story short, when you pull the pin on a grenade, don’t fart around with it. Throw the bastard. Here catch.”

  Chet lobbed the grenade underhand to the man, who shrieked, caught it and quickly tossed it back to Chet. Chet caught it underhand and threw it back. As he did, he launched himself backward, rolling painfully over the hood of the Super Beetle hood and landing on the far side of the car.

  The man dropped the second toss at his feet and leaped away in hysterics. He scrambled backwards for a moment then stopped. The small green orb lay on the ground. Not exploding. Not doing much of anything.

  “This is exactly my point.” The man heard Chet’s voice from behind the car. “It was a dud all along! If Steve held that grenade, he could have counted till the cows came home.” The man walked over to his rifle and picked it up. “Instead, Jorgenson bought the farm. The difference between a grenade with a two second fuse and one that will never pop, is like most things in life, all up to chance.” Chet stood up.

  The man fumbled with the rifle. His hands were shaking badly from his scare with the grenade.

  Chet smiled. “The good thing in life is that in most cases, unlike poor old Steve Jorgenson, a person gets a second chance.”

  The man pulled the hammer back and raised the rifle.

  “Here’s to second chances.” Chet pulled another grenade out of his pocket and flipped it artfully over to the man, the pin spinning on Chet’s pointer finger. The man fired the rifle. The bullet caught Chet in the left hand, blowing off his pinkie and ring finger. Chet fell back behind the car, clutching his bleeding appendage. The grenade exploded, and the man died instantly as shrapnel ripped through him.

  Chet laughed from behind the car. “I never did like that Steve Jorgenson to tell you the truth.” Chet’s laugh had a more-than-slightly insane quality to it. His injured hand burned, sending waves of shock and pain to his brain. “He was too rational for his own good. What good it logic? Logic is no good. His logic told him to hold an armed grenade in his hand and count to three. That sort of thinking is not for me. I choose to live full throttle and off the cuff. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Chet looked over the car to see the smoke and bits of man all over the road. He laughed again. “It’s not polite to answer a question with silence. What has become of this world?”

  Chet sat back down on the asphalt and held his wounded hand. He rocked slowly back and forth, lost in his own thoughts, until he realized he was rocking to the sound of oncoming footsteps.

  He looked over the car to see Floyd, looking worse for wear. His clothing was torn, skin scraped up and he held one hand over his ribcage like he was protecting a particularly injured part of himself. He was looking at the splattered bits of flesh and gagged a bit at the smell.

  “Kind of like Steve Jorgenson?” Floyd said.

  Chet nodded.

  Floyd walked around the car and sat down next to Chet. Chet put his injured hand on Floyd’s shoulder.

  “Floyd, I would like to begin my three part apology by saying that I respect you as a person…”

  Chapter 17

  Their friendship mended, Chet and Floyd spent the next week in hiding. Their bodies had taken too heavy a toll to be strutting around a post-apocalyptic world. They needed some quality rest to heal their bodies and minds. Most of the time was spent in deep sleep to speed along the healing process.

  Chet and Floyd’s wounds turned into scars that crisscrossed their bodies, making a kind of tapestry. Of the two, Chet had the worst of it. His first few nights were spent in abject agony from cauterizing his finger stumps.

  As happens with all things, time heals all wounds. Their aches and pains subsided, and they began plotting to move on .

  They took their belongings out of the VW, left it at the roadblock and walked a couple miles down the road, mak
ing camp in an old abandoned barn. There was decaying hay to sleep in, a loft which made a good lookout and they had the dog meat to sustain them.

  It was day eight in the loft when Chet and Floyd began to get antsy.

  Chet was up in the loft of the old barn. He lit up the tobacco in his pipe and inhaled deeply. He puffed the smoke out of his nostrils in short torrents. It billowed down the front of his clothes and caressed his face as it dissipated in the atmosphere. Chet smiled a sweet smile of bliss.

  “I love smoking!” Chet slapped Floyd, who was sitting next to him, on the back. “Smoking is great!”

  “You should quit,” Floyd said. Chet was shocked.

  “Quit!” Chet exclaimed. His mouth fell open. The pipe fell out and landed on the concrete. “Sweet mercy!” Chet picked up the pipe and took a long drag. He took the briar out of his mouth and looked at it. “I will never drop you again my baby. Never. I love you.” Chet made a kissy face and took a short drag. He blew the smoke in Floyd's face.

  “You should quit,” Floyd said. “Smoking gives you cancer.”

  “Only the best cancer of all Floyd.” Chet took a long drag blowing out the smoke while spinning around.

  He stopped his spin and faced Floyd directly. Mid spin Chet had produced a pouch of Half and Half from his pocket. “Want a smoke?” Chet asked.

  Floyd shook his head.

  “You should smoke. Man must have a vice. You have no vices Floydy my baby.” Chet jittered in place.

  He dumped out the ash in his pipe, repacked it and lit it up again. “Cancer you can earn Floyd. Cancer you can earn. Do you want to wake up one day at fifty-five and find out you have prostate cancer?”

  “No,” said Floyd.

  “I don’t either! Do you want to wake up one day at fifty-five and find out you have lung cancer?” Chet asked. He poked Floyd in the stomach.

  “No,” said Floyd.

  “I don't either! Which one would you rather have?” Chet jumped and spun.

  “Come again?”

  “Would you rather have prostate cancer or lung cancer?” Chet asked.