Tamberlin's Account (18 page)

they’re
in for a surprise

I can’t stop laughing. I can’t stop shaking. I’m hysterical.

Stop. STOP.

He won't be there to protect me—he will be with me—I know he'll be with me. He's with me

Oh God his poor body

They
aren't
going to leave. They aren’t. They aren’t. They
aren’t
. I'm gonna make them scream and they're going to die like cowards—I need to believe God will understand. He knew Mr. Ages better than me—so I'm counting on Him cheering me on.
For I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Right?

If I face St. Peter in the next few hours and he asks about what I'd done there. I'll answer, "Hell yes and I'd do it again. I wish I had lived to do worse—unless you can stop me, I'd like to finish the job.”

I know he’s in heaven and if I want to be with him I really shouldn't do what I'm going to do, but
not
doing it doesn't give me any guarantees. Not doing it leaves those monsters to breathe, to prey on someone else, which I think is a sin in itself.

To Saint Peter, I may remind him, “God already knows.”

As it says in Psalms somewhere:

I was made secretly in the lowest parts of the earth. God knew me, before I had formed. And in His book they all were written, the days planned for me, when as yet there were none of them.

Today, I'll take my chances.

I was foraging in a gas station parking lot, checking the vehicles. Mr. Ages was some distance off to one side sniffing the underside of a camper.

Out of nowhere—ice and snow crunching and smashing. A large, dirty, thick hand seized my left wrist and I was slammed to the ground. Something went wrong in my shoulder. His long, filth clogged nails bit into my wrist. But my right hand was full of high carbon steel and when I swung my hammer it blew out the shape of the man’s knee and in seconds blackish red started wicking through the fabric.

He flung back like a pigeon with a broken wing, rocking and flapping near the front bumper of a little green Honda Civic. A second man, younger caught my lower right arm and twisted it until I let go of the hammer. My bag was ripped off my back. The first, the older, was back. He grabbed my screwdriver and tossed it. They were threatening me. I could barely understand their words. They alluded to others who would also hurt me. Even now I hear those words as clear as a poet laureate reciting them in a perfectly quiet room.

The one I hurt returned the favor—his big boot jumped into my ribs, awaking the slumbering giant of a childhood injury. I gasped out a cry at the same time I was punched in the mouth. My teeth shredded the block of hand and the man made an awful sound. I almost giggled.

I'd seen enough
end of the world
movies to know their intentions, even
if
intuition hadn’t been screaming the same thing.

The older yanked my belt out and cast it aside while the slightly younger bastard held my wrists and a fistful of hair.

I was vaguely aware of his penis when it flopped against my knee. I don’t know when he took it out. In that moment I heard the winding down of his time on earth.

I knew they'd beat me more if I fought—they were probably going to beat me and kill me anyway,
but  
How could I call my life worth living, if I wasn’t going to pay any price to protect it and the body charged to carry it.

In these matters, the only thing to do is fight.

Suddenly Mr. Ages was on the older's trunk-like throat—there was screaming and blood. The younger let go of me. I kicked the older off. I grabbed my belt on the end and swung the buckle as hard as I could at the younger's head and again from the opposite side. He toppled backward on his heels and I stomped between his open legs as hard as I could.

While the older man struggled with Mr. Ages I recovered my hammer and screwdriver. I put on my bag. The older man stood, I swung up from knee level with the claw of the hammer turned up and caught him under his exposed testicles. I followed through—a swing hardly interrupted by tearing flesh.

His skull made a melon-like sound when the screwdriver punched it.

The younger disappeared. We needed to too.

I ran for the truck. I called for Mr. Ages. I heard him run with me.

Then I heard him running away.

I looked over my shoulder, his path swung wide to a third man, a tall skinny white punk with long straggly weakly bleached dreads and a long gaunt face—his gun was trying to keep up with me.

Mr. Ages' teeth clamped on the arm with the gun.

The man kicked him. He let out a whimper—I'd
never
heard him make any sound of pain before.

I was nearly to them.

Mr. Ages fell on his side from the blow.

He was getting up when
then he just dropped.

I started screaming.

He leveled the gun at me and then I saw the blood pouring from his lower arm. I could see the fleshy mechanics of it through the rushing blood. He looked dumbly at the wound. Then he ran.

I chased for only seconds—Mr. Ages was more important.

Busy bodies were already there.

I thought I’d found Heaven. I don’t know if I was too right or more wrong than I have ever been.

If all goes well I'll be back to take care of Mr. Ages. If not, he will be wrapped in the shower curtain, in the tub. I have left a note with him.

If he's not there and you've found this, then I'm not back yet or I've been hurt and won’t be back. If they’ve mortally wounded me, I won't die before I've taken care of him. Not if I'm that close. I
won’t
.

I’m ready.

I’m ready.

I’m ready.

I am ready.

I’ve got
Ether
by Nothingface in my head. And that is good—I’m
really
fucking feeling it.

Like the victims of NIMH. We’re not rats, not anymore. At least, I’m not.

I don’t feel strong—after all of this, I don’t know if there ever was such a thing as strong or brave. But there has always been hurt. There has always been anger. There has always been terror.

This needs to happen, when anything matters that much—fear can’t be an issue… or an excuse.

I don't really expect to survive.                                                                         

So I’m leaving my things here so they don’t get ruined.

So, if you found this I am probably dead, but please try and find me. If I’m alive, I don't want to be alone.

If I am dead, please kill me again.

Sincerely,

Tamberlin Miner

Enjoy the fruit cocktail. It lasts about 2 years. You will like the Slim Fast. I feel that time is running out—even as I watch the seconds steadfastly add up on my watch. Maybe you can use the time. I don't want it anymore.

I've lived 253 days. That feels pretty significant.

I'm lucky.

You are too.

ZOMBIE TRACKING CHART