Eat Brains, Ergo Sum

Hangovers were an honorable, even heroic, ordeal. All the best people had them.

John Berendt, author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

What’s in your head? In your head? Zombie. Zombie. Zombie.

The Cranberries

El Camino de los Desperados

The fog of hungover humiliation has left a dew which, after mingling with smudges of trail dust, has spewed a distorted smear upon our windshield. The future, it appears, is uncertain. And we…. we are the vanquished. Traveling eastbound & down, we are fueled only on cold pizza and yesterday’s Starbucks. Our zigzagged retreat out of Charlotte is along a lonely & broken stretch of Highway 74 known as “el Camino de los Desperados”…

Literally, Goose says from the shotgun seat, literally no one calls it that. 

“El Camino de los Desperados”? I call it that. I tell Goose, I literally just called it that.

Yeah, well… Goose says, you qualify as “literally no one”. I therefore refute your refutation, he says. And speak for yourself about humiliation, says Goose. My hangover fog is humid… & hungry, but not humiliating. And, Goose continues, yesterday’s Starbucks has sat dormant in the car for at least two days. I hope it’s not creamed with cow milk. You don’t want to rely on the gas-station out-houses along this stretch of road. You’re more likely to find yourself with tetanus or an opioid addiction than a clean toilet seat. They don’t call it el Camino de los Desperados for nothing!

Haha!, I huzzah victoriously. You agree, “el Camino” has a ring to it! And it’s oat milk in my Starbucks. Because, I tell him, I don’t just sow my oats. I milk their little udders. 

That’s disturbing, Goose says. The fucking adventures of Butch Cassidy and the Oatmilk Kid over here. 

Who between us is Butch?, I ask as I sip from the cold cup of old joe. Regardless…, I say, irregardless, even… I’ll be fine.

No, Goose shakes his head. Fine is no longer an option. Fine went out the window a long time ago. The best you can hope for, Vic, is a quick & painless death. Maybe…, Goose adds with a raised index finger, maybe a ham sandwich. 

The weekend zombie apocalypse simulation has left the film of my memory blurred, over-exposed, spotty. Three red lights ago, I reviewed journal entries and found them a scattershot of vulgar misunderstandings, doodled nudities and blots of dried blood and/or wine. 

Even through the hangovers, I say to Goose, we should have enough remaining brains between us to write our zombie survival handbook. 

Mmm Brains…, Goose says. 

A ZPOC Survival Guide

The premise of this weekend’s exercise was decided weeks ago with a strange platitude offered by Goose at our neighborhood wino den. To catch a zombie, said Goose, you need to think like a zombie. 

The fuck?, I inquired from the comfort of my pre-apocalyptic barstool. Why would we want to catch a zombie? Goose scoffed at my naiveté. Even the Corkscrew King of Castle Street behind bar shook his head at my ignorance as he refilled all three cups. We catch zombies, Goose said, to study them. 

Ah. Yes. Naturally. Okay, but… How do we think like a zombie? Do zombies even have thoughts?

Are they self aware?, Goose asked. No. Can zombies operate heavy machinery? Not well. But they have impulses. And they still posses their basic senses: sight, smell, hearing, ticklishness… perhaps even an extra sense or two. For example, do zombies have a hive mentality?, a collective navigation system? We won’t know until we can catch a few and study their patterns. We can assume, Goose continued, the zombie virus – if it is indeed a virus – does damage to the frontal lobe. Which is why zombies are notorious bad decision makers. They have shitty short term memory. And they are only driven by their basest biological directives. 

You are describing some of my favorite people!, I said. 

Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs for the contemporary upright primate is what?, Goose posited before counting off his fingers: shelter, Diet Coke, Taco Bell, Pornhub…, etcetera. For zombies, it gets reduced to “eat brains”. And perhaps also the instinct to replicate. We don’t know yet. And we won’t know until we catch two zombies, put them in a cage and see if they try to fuck. 

Ah. Yes. Naturally. But, again I ask, how do we think like a zombie?

Goose tapped my forehead with his forefinger. By damaging the frontal lobe, he said. The easiest way to simulate life of the undead is through heavy drinking around hordes of heavy drinkers. And where do we find enough heavy drinkers to rehearse zombie mob mentality? We’re going to the big city, said Goose. Charlotte. And we’re going to attend a football game. The home town frisky meow-meows are hosting your beloved jumpy fish. 

How could I refuse? 

When it comes to the armageddons, it’s not always what you know, but who you know. When it comes to zombies, Goose is your guy. He put in the work. He read the literature. He watched film. He studied anatomy (with the subject’s consent, of course). He prepared a zombie defense perimeter around his house. He buried caches of weapons throughout town. Interested in monetizing his expertise, Goose hired an agent: Mary Lou le Roux, doyenne in the bridal industrial complex. He was expecting to consult on movie sets or be invited to speak at the Pentagon, but the only gig Mary Lou booked him was posing as a handsome hayseed for a smutty romance novel cover. Ploughman and the Seed of Destiny. Fuck that, said Goose. He wants to be the zombie Steve Irwin. Just with less stingray. But how to get his big break? How to get noticed by Hollywood or Homeland Security or whoever else is discussing zombie apocalypses?

Here’s how:

He writes a ZPOC survival guide based on our experience amongst the undead. Which is where I come in. I’ll be the ghost-writer for Goose’s handbook. Or maybe we write a screenplay. Imagine The Walking Dead, but instead of Georgia, it’s North Carolina. This was the plan. Mary Lou le Roux arranged our weekend zombie apocalypse simulation. Her husband Randy le Roux, Goose’s longtime bar brawl buddy, would be on-hand as extra security. The future was certain. 

Well, the future seemed certain. Looking in the rearview mirror at the sheriff we just breezed by, I realize this future has become a little iffy. 

Don’t worry, Goose says, we’re too white to get pulled over ‘round these here parts. 

What lessons?, I ask Goose, if any, did we learn?

Chapter 1, says Goose, have a personal infection plan. 

Chapter 1: Have a Personal Infection Plan

It is hard to remember if there were multiple bar fights before/after/during the game Sunday or just one long gauntlet of loose fists. Goose and his dude, Randy, are no strangers to bare-knuckle diplomacy, but they are as good at inciting the violence as they are at fighting their way out of it. If you’re looking for pregame pugilism, barroom fights or drunken punch-ups at weddings, look no further.

Speaking of weddings, Goose said to his agent outside the stadium, I noticed there is not a single picture of me in your wedding album. Mary Lou le Roux laughed before expressing faux surprise. Oh no?, she asked. No pictures from the reception where you fought everyone? No one bothered to pose next to Gustaf Odinson, the wine-drunk viking marauder, long enough for a picture to be taken? Shocking!

Roller skates!, Randy said. Our heads turned towards him. You asked if I had a personal infection plan for if I am bitten by a zombie. Well…, Randy continued, it wouldn’t be Christian of me to end things myself, so instead, I will lace-up roller skates. That way, when I un-die, become undead, there is no way I can cause any harm to my friends or family. I’d be slipping all over the place.

Oh my god, Mary Lou le Roux said, zombie on wheels. I have a new nightmare.  

Chapter 2: Mind Your Calories

While Randy is a certified ruffian: ex-navy whose tales of the Seven Seas rival Sinbad; Mary Lou is no slouch. Her acrylic claws alone suggest a carnivorous menace not to be fucked with. At one point, the Appalachian became intrigued with my youth in Florida. That must have been fun, she suggested to me at one bar or another. You must have had all the best candy in Florida, she said. We never had any good drugs in West Virginia, she said, only mountain drugs. Y’know, meth!, Mary Lou clarified. To which Goose joked: and they say white people can’t cook!

Next to the bar’s lavatory, a cat-fight broke-out between two women. One of the combatants had a blue jump-suit in honor of the frisky meow-meows. Mary Lou le Roux disapproved of the fashion choice, saying, her torso is too long for that top. Oh…, I said, agree to disagree…

The bathroom line scuffle brought to Goose’s mind an expert tip. In the ZPOC, he told us, if nature calls, don’t let it go to voicemail. Always piss and/or shit any time you get the slightest tingle. Holding a full bladder or puckering your anus burns calories. And calories are hard to come by in the zombie apocalypse. 

Chapter 3: Silence is Golden

Don’t worry, Vic, Mary Lou le Roux said to me after noticing alarm in my face. If things get real dangerous I will call in the cavalry, she said, the neighborhood long-hair boys. “Long-hair”?, I asked, what are they hippies? No, she clarified: Costa Rican. Long-haired Ticos?, I asked, what are they?, a motorcycle gang? No, she said, they ride mowers. I began to imagine a gang of hippie Costa Ricans patrolling the streets of suburban Charlotte on riding lawn mowers. No, Vic, not “long-hair”, Mary Lou corrected me, “lawn care”. 

Oh!, I said realizing I misheard. That makes more sense! A gang of weed-whacking cavaliers coming to save the day. Charge of the Landscape Brigade! Once more unto the breach!

You need to clean the jello out of your ears, Vic, Goose said. I’ve never seen anyone make such a mess out of so little jello. You got more in your beard than down your gullet. 

How helpful would lawn care tools be in the ZPOC?, I asked Goose.

Depends, he said. Riding lawn mower, not at all. Too much fuel, too slow and way too loud. Chain-saws may be more effective, but again, too much fuel and too loud. Zombies are alerted to noise. A machete would be more subtle, but good luck dislodging the blade once embedded in a skull. Baseball bat would be better. Croquet mallet. Guns are noisy and should not be used unless its an emergency. Unless you have a suppressor. Which I do. Put me on a rooftop and I can pick-off zombies all day and they’d never be the wiser. Silence is golden. 

Chapter 4: The Best Misdirect Is Straight Forward

The jello shots occurred at QCBC, an alleyway dive in the 3rd Ward. I was studying the beer menu with little decisiveness as Randy le Roux relived a tale from Singapore. He spoke of a dive bar which had two-for-one long island iced teas. One of his midshipman pals ordered a dozen. I asked Randy if he meant the midshipman ordered 6 and they drank 12 and Randy said, no, we ordered 12 long island iced teas and drank 24. All he remembers waking-up in San Diego. 

As he told his tale, I heard Mary Lou order 12 jello shots from the waitress. I turned towards her and asked, 12?, for just the four of us? And that is when the waitress scolded me for not minding my own business. You just focus on choosing a beer, the waitress insisted. 

Fortunately, Randy went on, the Navy prepares you for being black-out drunk for months at a time. You learn muscle memory and rehearse reactions in order to cruise by on auto-pilot. It also helps you remain calm when being interrogated. 

In the ZPOC, Goose told us, if you are solitary and become captured by a roving tribe of survivors, they will interrogate you to learn your sources of food and ammunition. It is important to know which lies you can get away with. Be careful what bullshit you feed your captors. For example, if you tell the lie, “I have an army of friends in the woods and you’re going to make them mad unless you release me”, your captors are going to laugh in your face. However, if you say, “there is an army of assholes in the woods and they want me dead” then your captors will feel kinship with you over the shared threat of this asshole army. 

As he grabbed his first jello shot, Goose added, it doesn’t matter if the army of assholes is out there or not.

Oh they’re out there, Mary Lou le Roux assured us. 

Chapter 5: the Root of All Evil

After QCBC, our troop wandered to the Irish Pub, Belfast Mill. Randy le Roux was taunted for jersey he wore by a fan of the rival shit-birds. After a few shared fang-bearing glares, Randy insulted the instigator by suggesting the size of his shit-bird garden was small. The shit-bird took immediate offense. He didn’t even have a garden. How dare you?, the shit-bird said to Randy, how dare you insinuate that I if I had a garden it would be small? I’m going to kill you!, the instigator said to Randy, and then I’m going to find out where you live and dig-up your garden to let everything spoil in the sun. At this, Goose displayed his Big Goose Energy, honking & flapping, and locked the shit-bird in the bathroom. Perhaps we should get the check?

What’s with all the garden insults?, I asked Mary Lou le Roux. She said, I finally got Randy to watch Pride & Prejudice with me. He really appreciated Jane Austen’s class warfare insults. 

In the ZPOC, we will require sustenance, Goose said. We cannot rely on anthropophagy. If we do, we’re no better than the zombies. What we need is a root garden. Potatoes. The Irish had it right. Potatoes, carrots, turnips. Easier to hide food when it is underground. 

Exhausted, we remained silent. Yes, Goose said to break the silence, eventually, we’ll raise crickets. 

El Camino de los Desperados

The pinelands, with its hungry Carolina dingoes watching our eastward progress, is suddenly behind us as the coastal salt marshes open before our smeared windshield. Ghost forests of dead pines in the brackish muck stand sentinel with vultures perched upon high wooden thrones. There is not much land left between us and the sea… We’re nearly home. And just in time as yesterday’s Starbucks is starting to get squirrelly.

Is that enough?, Goose asks. Do we have a book yet?

We need more material, I say from behind the wheel. What about disguises?, for chapter 6? I’ve learned quite a lot through all of my international intrigues over the years. It is amazing what a toupee, fake limp and trusty mustache will allow you to getaway with.

We’d need to capture a zombie first, Goose says. We’d need to understand what the zombie perceives as fresh meat versus dead meat. Once we know how a zombie thinks, we will know how to gaslight the son of a bitch. 

Where do we go next in pursuit of zombies?, I ask. Dunno, Goose says, Atlanta? We could see when the smutty pigeons play next.