Slack Slacker and Doobie Fight to Survive Zombies on a Caribbean Bound Cruise (Part 2)
We were in the midst of an escalating zombie apocalypse at sea, with no rules and no heroes in sight to mitigate the situation. Slack was alone, armed only with a stolen prosthetic leg, two silver-plated flasks of Patron tequila, and a mind soaked in liquid courage. And clearly, that wasn’t enough. Slack needed a plan. Luckily, even in his inebriated state, he came up with something that seemed to make sense.
Slack started banging on doors frantically, screaming, “Open up if you want to live, I’m not a zombie. For fuck sakes, I’m not even hungry!” “I got a plan, but I need your help.” With caution, a few passengers peered through their peepholes and were satisfied, as Slack appeared to be one of the uninfected: no visible bite marks, open wounds, or blood stains on his clothing. Still, initially, the most fearful wouldn’t open their doors. They made Slack make his pitch in the hallway.
While exposed and nervous, he’d be attacked at any moment, Slack spoke as fast and calmly as he could to convince them that cowering in their rooms was a bad idea, because help wasn't coming. If they wanted to save their lives and loved ones, they’d have to do it themselves, and he had a plan. The liquor was working. Slack's demeanor projected authority and confidence, character traits foreign to his usual fuck-it, it’s every man, woman, and child for themselves. So, he took another swig of his tequila, tucked the flask in his back pocket and proceeded to persuade the reluctants to take a chance on the concept of safety in numbers so they could unite to mount a resistance against the hungry hordes of maniacs for membranes and human bone marrow, rather than starve to death in hiding,
Realizing he’d achieved a consensus among the group, Slack was positive he’d assembled a motley crew of crutch and cane wielding passengers along with a few abled bodied crew members with tools like hammers, heavy wrenches, and sharpened steak knives from the ship’s galley ready and willing to bash the brains out of these brainless zombie bastards.
The Plan: Make it to deck 4, where the lifeboats were located. The crew members were trained to assemble there in case of an emergency. A zombie outbreak qualifies as such an event. They were also sure others would be there to increase our numbers. After much debate, all agreed and began our joint journey to save ourselves and with any luck fine doobie.
Since Slack started this quest, the hastily assembled group of reluctant warriors elected him leader of the pack (Slack's Pack!) Yeah, sounded catchy, Slack thought. So he slung the prosthetic leg commandeered from the disabled veteran, a somewhat disagreeable chat, Slack thought. And he held it firmly in both hands and proceeded to lead the way.
Since the pack was located on deck 10, everyone knew they had six flights of Hell to fight, because the elevators were too small for a brute the size of 25, and separating was a bad option. Stragglers would be left to their own devices, and everybody knew it. And, collectively, they knew all would have to fight like Hell cats against who knows what we would encounter along the way. With nerves on edge, shaking to the core, and hearts pounding in anticipation of the worst, Slack took another swing of liquid courage for luck, made the sign of the cross instinctively from years of parochial schooling, and moved slowly and cautiously down the narrow hallway toward the wide staircases.
And sure, as ZOMBIE SHIT, the slack pack came face to face with a half dozen creatures too dumb to know they were dead and were knee deep in limbless caucuses mindlessly in a piranha like feeding frenzy. So consumed with satisfying their need to feed, these beasts fail to notice the pack's presence. Slack was so grateful that he made a mental note to thank all the gods, Jehovah, Allah, Yahweh, and, of course, the baby Jesus, for the blessing. Still, Slack took another swing of tequila from his trusty flask just in case he missed one of the almighty.
So far, so good, the pact moves on until they arrive on deck eight, when they're confronted with their first challenge. It was the biggest zombie anyone had ever seen. He was the size of Andre the Giant on steroids with hands the size of catcher's mitts made for King Kong. The slack pack was like the Lilliputians of Gulliver's Travels by comparison. This was truly an “Oh Shit” moment. And "Oh Shit" was on the mind of everyone when the colossal zombie, bit the head off one of the passenger's heads, spitting her dentures on the floor and started sucking out the eyeballs from the bloody skull. It was then that the pack surrounded the big bastard and began hacking, chopping, and carving everything from his ankles to his kneecaps. It took a while, but the hulking figure eventually fell. With fucked up legs, the pack knew he couldn't give chase so they all thew caution to the wind and ran like Black slaves fleeing a lynch mob in Mississippi.
Tripping, stumbling, and falling over one another, the pack made it to deck 5. There, they came upon a nest of zombies of a different kind. This seemingly organized grouping showed signs of life in their eyes. They moved differently. They appeared to be thinking, planning, and plotting our demise. And they, too, had a leader. Although these creatures were clearly not alive, they weren't exactly The Walking Dead types either. Yeah, another Oh Shit moment to contend. But this time, Slack was running low on liquid courage. He was down to his last flask of bravery juice, so it was time to conserve and share none with anyone.
Fortunately, Slack still had two functioning brain cells to rub together to formulate another plan. Somebody had to be used as bait. But who? Slack was in survival mode, and that’s when he thought with Machiavellian clarity. Without a second thought, he pushed all those with crutches and canes forward to be attacked, so the others with the most lethal weapons could fight their way past the battle between the zombies and the physically challenged.
When the remaining members of the weary pack finally reached deck 4, they realized all but one lifeboat was left. And it was the smallest one being held by, you guessed it, Doobie. He indicated in doggie sign language, which only he and Slack were fluent in, that Slack should select only the fittest to be allowed on the last lifeboat, because there were only provisions enough for a few. He had no idea how long they’d be adrift at sea.
The choices were as painful as they were sorrowful, but they had to be made. Since Doobie had appointed himself in charge and I was his pal, the two of us had guaranteed seats. Everybody else ended up fighting to the death for a spot, while Doobie laughed and Slack swigged the last drops of tequila as the lifeboat floated off into the sunset.
It must have been weeks at sea, or so it seemed, drifting aimlessly on blazingly sunny days and moonless nights with no sight of a passing ship. Slack was listless and hallucinating. Finally, he’d lost consciousness altogether and passed out from the traumatic experience. But Doobie stayed alert, guiding the little life toward a tiny, deserted island he’d sighted while Slack snoozed.
Dragging Slack’s limp body ashore and dumping his near-lifeless body on the sandy beach, Doobie went scavenging for something to sustain them until some form of help would come along.
And within hours, a form of help did show up. But it was the last help Slack was looking forward to. When he came to his senses, there was the disagreeable disabled veteran Slack had snatched this angry-faced man’s leg from, now standing on two shiny new prosthetic legs and sporting a tag on his tailored naval blazer reading Captain Karama, retired. And as life would have it, Captain Karma was a BITCH!
I don't think this is the end, but it'll have to do for now. I'm out of Tequila! 😏
