The Adventures of The HyrdroPonic Commando ~ Episode I ~

April 20th, 2010, I was attacked and bitten by a Crack Zombie, and my life changed forever.

I always took a dirt-road shortcut between US1 and Grissom called Carroll's Run on my way to drop my wife Mary off at work each morning. It was long and lonely and cut five minutes off the drive. We drifted alone down the rough dirt path at three AM, the headlights shining deep into the clear night. I saw nothing in the road ahead but dirt and gravel.

My favorite AM talk program, Bush Crenshaw's Red Rage, played on the radio. Mary applied mascara with a firm and steady hand above her pearl and jade orbs, reflected in the passenger vanity mirror.

"I wish you'd lighten up," she said, apropos of nothing.

"What do you mean?

Mary lifted her chin to better view her lips, and her jet black hair flared for a moment as she applied her favorite cherry gloss before deigning to answer me. She knows I hate that.

"Relax a little, you're too tense," she said.

"You're crazy. I'm the most laid-back guy I know." I was indignant.

"Yeah, but your friends are assholes. I think it's that AM radio you listen to."

She pouted.

"It stresses me out and I'm trying not to hear it. I can't imagine what the constant stream of hate you willingly ingest would do to my digestion," she said.

I rolled my eyes.

"Hey, baby, if you're not upset, you're not paying attention. Do you know what those pot-head liberals are trying to pull?"

"I don't care, Larry, and even if I did, you're just parroting what they tell you on the radio."

"Look, just because I happen to agree with Bush Crenshaw doesn't mean he does my thinking for-"

The pickup truck lurched to a halt and stalled. I flew against the airbags, and the world vanished with a deafening crunch of crumpling sheet metal.

When I woke up, Mary was still unconscious. I checked her breath and pulse before realizing a bone in my left forearm arm was broken.

I got out of the pickup and almost passed out again, hanging on the door to keep my balance. The headlights shone down the empty road.

As I edged my way around, leaning on the hood for support, I fell in a trench. The landing sent fresh waves of pain through my bruised body. The trench was fresh, about a foot deep, and covered with burlap and loose dirt. Sharpened rebar stuck out six inches from the earth at intervals along the trench, and two of them were lodged through the rims in my truck.

My mind reeled at the thought that someone planned this.

I crawled around to the passenger side door on my knees. It hung ajar, just barely, and I pulled with all my weight against the twisted sheet metal to get it open far enough to crawl inside.

"Baby, are you okay?" I gently shook Mary.

She stirred awake

"What happened?"

"Somebody booby trapped the road. We had an accident."

She let this sink in for a second before opening her mouth to speak. Before she could find her words, her face became a mask of terror.

"It was him!" She raised a bloody hand and finger to point at a ragged figure shuffling towards us in the glare of the headlights.

"That's a crackhead, baby, there's no way he could engineer a trench this sophisticated."

"He's creepy, and he's getting closer."

"Don't worry about him. He's harmless. Can I use your phone, mine is busted."

She dug her phone out of her purse while keeping a wary eye on the crackhead.

"He's getting closer, Larry."

"Relax, baby. Crap! Yours is smashed, too."

"What's Good?" The crackhead called from the front of the truck. He had a screechy, gravelly voice, my skin crawled.

"Unless you got a cell phone we can use, you need to kick rocks, buddy." I told him.

He cackled like a crazy maniac. "What's good?" he implored me.

"Get lost."

"Baby, I don't like this."

"I got this, Mary, just chill. Aren't you always telling me to relax?"

The crackhead came around the passenger side headlight and stepped smoothly across the trench with a grace not present in his regular shuffle step. The effect creeped me out.

"Look, Buddy, I don't know what you think you got here, but I know you do not want any of this."

I forced myself to stand without wincing and put the door between me and Mary, facing the crackhead.

"We got a problem?"

He opened his mouth and I stared into the ragged, eroded stumps of his teeth. His breath smelled like paint thinner and death.

"What's Good?" he croaked at me.

"Fuck. Off!" I swung my right fist at his head, but he turned and raised his hands, catching my haymaker in a fluid flash, and sank his teeth deep into the flesh of my forearm.

Fire shot through my body and I fell back into the trench, paralyzed in excruciating pain. From a thousand miles away I watched in horror as the crackhead ghoul pried open the truck door and began feeding on my wife. Her scream cut short, leaving nothing but the sound of his chewing, Bush Crenshaw's bombastic drone, and the repeating bell of the "key in, door open" alarm.

More powerful than the pain and horror, a growing hunger rose within me. I didn't know what I wanted, but I knew I needed it bad, and if I ever walked again, I was gonna make sure I got it.

A bright, clear, stoned-sounding voice broke the night. "Looks like I found you, Buddy. You done messed up tonight."

The voice was above and behind me. The crackhead snapped up at the sound and stared through the open window at the source. He snarled and bits of gore from my wife's wounds dripped from his deformed mouth.

"What's Good, Bud?"

"You are lookin rough, man. Time to put you out of your misery."

A green streak flashed above my head and the crackhead's skull exploded. Gooey brains sprayed the inside of my truck. Glistening, delicious, moist, succulent brains. I salivated at the thought of slurping them down.

An old man in green knelt beside me in the trench. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it, taking a deep, slow draw off the end to get the cherry going. He cupped my nose with one hand and exhaled directly into my open mouth. Thick blue smoke billowed into my lungs, and a cool, tingly comfort spread to quench the fire and thirst in my body.

"Here, finish this." He put the blunt between my lips, and I sucked greedily at the richness of the smoke. The zombie's brains seemed less appetizing with each inhalation. The pain began to fade, and I felt strength returning to my limbs. The insatiable craving changed, from the ache for some unfamiliar fix into a simple hunger for something sweet and salty. A taco, maybe, with a milkshake on the side.

He disappeared into the truck and soon a thick cloud of smoke was streaming from the passenger seat.

The old man was gray, grizzled, and slightly hunchbacked, but he appeared to have a full, healthy build, and moved with an easy grace a college varsity star would be hard pressed to duplicate. His costume, too outlandish to be called an outfit, bordered on the ridiculous, yet managed to maintain a sort of theatric dignity. Burnt Orange, black, and frosty white speckles and highlights intricately wove through a long-sleeved, skin-tight lime green shirt and leggings. A forest green cape, boots, codpiece, belt, eye mask, and gloves, tipped with strategically placed sharpened plasticine points completed the ensemble. In the center of his chest, the letters SM formed into an embossed shield shape of orange and yellow plastic blazed in the moonlight. He stepped back from the vehicle and lit a third cigar while surveying the lonely road.

"Ya'll just smoke up and chill. Ha! Like you have a choice right now, that Juugulitis got you feelin pretty weak yet, I imagine. I'll get this mess cleaned up and get the two of you home. We'll fix ya right up."

I had strength enough to grasp the blunt between two fingers and pull it away from my mouth.

I exhaled and asked "who are you?"

He blew a cloud of his own and said, "I'm Sensei Millia, but you can just call me Sensei."

"Sensei?"

"Yeah, like it or not, you are now my students. Don't worry though, it's chill."

"What?"

"Hey man, all will be revealed to you in time. Just get that medicine in ya. We need to get out of here before his buddies show up."

"Buddies?"

"Shhh," he said. Then he got to work pulling me and the truck out and filling the trench with dirt and gravel.

Even in full health, I could never have kept up with the old man's furious pace, so I let him do it. I just laid back, smoked Sensei Millia's magic cigar, and relaxed for what felt like the first time, ever.

"Do you think we'll have time to hit the drive thru on the way?" I asked.


To be continued...

© Valeria G. 2009