Grunge (ARC) Page 5

  “Mom?” I asked. I was still in a full body cast. There was exactly zip I could do. But I knew what was coming.

  “Well, it serves you right, babykiller,” she snarled, right there in front of God and everybody. Including about four Navy nurses and a Navy doctor. “The only thing that would make it better is if you’d been killed in that justified bombing! Down with Israeli! Down with the tyranny of capitalism! Down with the fascist Imperialists!”

  “Mom!” I shouted. “You don’t understand! You never heard I got promoted!”

  “What?” she shrieked. “Why should I care you fascist bastard!”

  “I got promoted to babykiller first class, Mom!” I shouted over her. “It only took bayoneting two hundred of them! They taste like chicken! Do the whole village! Do the whole village!”

  You could see the “what the fuck?” expressions on the shocked faces of the doctors and nurses. But shortly after that security was called and my mother was permanently blacklisted from Bethesda Naval Hospital.

  After she, and security and the doctors, had left one of the other Marines looked over at me.

  “Dude,” he said. “You’ve got a seriously fucked up mom.”

  “You think? What gave you your first clue?”

  “Babykiller First Class?” another said. “Oh, don’t make me laugh! It hurts!”

  “‘They taste like chicken!’” the guy all the way at the end of the ward yelled.

  Laughing hurt so good.

  Then, naturally, the Brentwoods came to visit. And stayed. They moved in with another Marine couple they’d known for years with a house in Alexandria. They not only visited me, they visited pretty much every Marine in the hospital. Mr. Brentwood had taken a leave of absence from the school district to make sure I was going to be okay. He spent the time he wasn’t talking to me going around the hospital telling WWII stories and explaining how, yep, recovery sucked pretty much the same now as back then. Mrs. Brentwood smuggled in real food.

  They almost immediately heard about the incident with my mother. Mrs. Brentwood tried very hard not to be amused.

  “Oliver Chadwick Gardenier,” she said, shaking her head. “That was…” She stopped, looking for the right stern words and started giggling instead.

  “Serves that harridan right,” Mr. Brentwood said, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, God, I want out of this cast,” I said, chuckling. “I miss eating babies.”

  The casts slowly came off and tubes slowly came out. Then the fun part started: Physical tyranny.

  I knew there was a point to it. If there was going to be any chance I’d ever be able to be a Marine rifleman again I had to go through it. But it was really God awful. I stuck precisely to their regime. If they told me to lift five pounds ten times, I lifted exactly five pounds ten times. And that’s where it started, five pounds, ten reps. I was so incredibly weak I simply could not believe it. And I don’t care what they say, the hospital food did not help. I needed some of Momma Brentwood’s chicken fried steak and gravy.

  Finally I was released to go live with the Brentwoods’ friends, the Shermans, and made day trips to Bethesda. Then I could really start to recover. I’d lost major poundage on rubber chicken and half a beef patty. Momma Brentwood and Mrs. Sherman took turns ensuring that I gained all that weight back fast. They competed to see who could get me to pig out more. Mrs. Sherman was Korean and that’s when I started my life-long interest in ethnic foods. Her winter kimchee was awesome and her bulgoki was nearly as good as manna.

  But on another subject of food. At that time, you wouldn’t guess who had the commissary contract for supplying condiments in Navy cafeterias. That’s right. Heinz. Not only did every single bottle of ketchup have ‘57’ on it, every single damned ketchup packet had a ‘57’ on it! There were fricking 57s everywhere. It was driving me nuts!

  Fifty-seven Chevy? Maybe it had to do with a ’57 Chevy. I kept my eye out for cars that might have been made in 1957. Could it be part of a street address? 57th Street? Maybe?

  At one point in therapy, I thought they were going to give me fifty-seven reps. Could this be it? Was this the moment the sign would appear?

  But, no, they went from fifty-six to fifty-eight…

  I finally gave up looking. It was just too exhausting. I also never mentioned the vision, dream, near-death-experience or whatever to anyone but priests and then only under the vow of confession. I did begin the process of conversion to the Catholic Church. If I’d met a saint, I figured might as well go with the main church that believed in them. At one point, one of the priests who I was briefing in on the situation pointed out, reluctantly but honestly, that Episcopalians were saint oriented and I could have talked to the first Episcopalian priest about it.

  Eh. Catholic light. Twice the ceremony, half the guilt. I’ll stick with the Holy Mother. Even if it is, occasionally, a Mother.

  I never went back to the 1/8. I’d been permanently transferred to the Detachment of Patients at Quantico. Honeybear and all my gear was transferred up. I didn’t have to have a billet so with the Sherman’s permission I moved into their basement, pulling DC BAQ which was way more than the rent they charged me, while I went through continuing rehab. I had to show up for a formation once a week in uniform. It was always neat as a pin. Hobbling on crutches gave way to using a cane and a major limp.

  My confirmation in the Catholic Church was on the same day as my medical review board. I didn’t have to “stand” the review. It was on paper only. So I confirmed that I wished to be a Catholic, having already been baptized, stood first communion, first confession (that was long) and all the rest. I’d reviewed all the saints that were worth reviewing. I came to the conclusion that although I might or might not have met Saint Peter, I really wasn’t into the whole martyr thing. I liked Pete, don’t get me wrong. But I was a warrior at heart. Not the best approach to Christianity but it was who I was. So I finally settled on Saint Michael the Archangel. Guy who had tossed Satan’s ass in the clink. Flaming sword, kicking ass. Worked for me.

  Had no idea, then, how appropriate the choice would be. I’ve anathemized more demons than Special Agent Franks.

  The results of the medical review board came down a week later. My right thigh bone had basically been put back together with rigger tape and baling wire. There was no way it was going to support the rigors of being a line infantryman. I would have a permanent limp and all sorts of other issues.

  Like, they thought, only seventy percent use of my right arm for life. Hah. When I went in for an eval and they found my right arm stronger and more flexible than my last physical before the bombing they called it “a minor miracle.” Try lots and lots of workouts. After the kappa I had to throw away all my old X-rays lest doctors completely freak out. The kappa was a miracle.

  Anyway, Infantry was out. If I chose, at that time, to re-up for a less strenuous MOS I could continue to be a Marine. But nothing involving direct combat. No tanker, no AMTRAK crewman. Nada. So I started researching MOS.

  The Marine MOS field 5700 referred to Chemical, Biological and Nuclear fields. A sign! I knew I had the brains for it. There was a problem. My ASVAB. It wasn’t that I couldn’t ask to retake some tests. It was that if I suddenly went from a perfect 100 (mediocre, perfect for infantry) to the 150 minimum for some of those fields…It would be pretty clear I’d deliberately boned the first test. Which, by the way, was a Federal Offense.

  So they came back and offered me continuing service on reenlistment, the only fields open were cook and clerk.

  Not a sign. At least not one clear enough for me to sit behind a desk and be a REMF for the next seventeen years.

  At 1537 hours June 12th, 1984, pretty close to three years after my enlistment, I put most of my worldly belongings in the trunk of Honeybear, went to the final out-process station at Quantico and was formally retired (medical) from the Marine Corps with thirty percent disability.

  Mr. Brentwood’s words at our first real meeting came back to
me.

  “Do you have any idea what you want to do with your life, son?”

  Not a clue. I was just hoping for a sign.

  CHAPTER 3

  There’s a straightforward way to get from the DC area to Louisville. Get on I-66 and put the hammer down. There’s a dogleg on I-79 and another on I-81 and then you’re on I-64 and Louisville bound. Most of the time you’re in the hills of West Virginia. Not in my opinion the prettiest state in the world but not bad. Girls tend to be really good looking (when they’re young, they age fast) and it’s got decent scenery. Roadsides are trashy and the whole place has a slightly grimy industrial feel even in the country. But a decent drive.

  In this case, with nothing better to do, I decided to take a more “direct” route. At least on paper. This involved lots more time on West Virginia Highway 55 (US 33). (I’d checked, there was no noticeable “Highway 57.” Note the word “noticeable.”)

  I left town right from the out-process station and just started driving. It was afternoon and the sun was in my eyes as I headed west. DC traffic was miserable. I decided to stop and spend a little time on happy hour. Not the best choice in the world considering I was still on a light Tylenol 3 prescription. (Which the docs had said was more or less permanent.) But I threw in some food and kept the drinking light. At 1830(ish) I left the bar and grill on the outskirts of DC and tried again. Traffic was lighter. I hooked up with Highway 55 and started wending my way through the hills of West Virginia.

  The sun was beginning to fade, and very much in my eyes, when I hit the outskirts of a small town called Elkins. I was coming down into the valley when a moose jumped out in front of my car.

  At least, that was what my brain said it had to be. It was the single largest white tail deer I’d ever seen in my life. And after jumping into the road it just stood there, looking at me, as if daring me to hit it. “Go ahead. Make my day. I’ll take us both out!” Kamikaze deer.

  The drinks had, thank God, worn off a bit and I hit Honeybear’s brakes as hard as I could, swerving to the right to avoid the massive ungulate. I slid off the road (American muscle cars have about no real control) and into a road sign. The deer snorted as if to say “Pussy!” and ran off.

  I took a few deep breaths, adrenaline pumping, limbs shaking, muscles bunched up to really remind me how banged up I still was, and peeked at the front of my car to assess the damage. I’d barely tapped the road sign.

  Which read: County 5/7.

  Under it was taped a homemade sign.

  “Primitive Baptist Tent Revival! Come one, come all! Isaiah 26:19!”

  I couldn’t help it. I just sat there and laughed and laughed for about five minutes, nonstop. Every time I thought I had it under control, I’d stop and look at those fucking signs and start again.

  God’s signs tend to be obvious.

  “Okay,” I finally wheezed. “Got the message, Pete. But, seriously, a tent revival?”

  I put Honeybear back in gear and took the left fork.

  I passed through a wooded area by a pretty stream then into some fields. On the far side of the fields was another wooded area. Just inside the second wooded area I spotted another badly made sign pointing to another left. Sure enough, it also read “Tent Revival.” As I approached the turn, Honeybear just shut off.

  “I said, I got it already,” I muttered as Honeybear coasted to a stop right in front of the gravel road. The road went up a slight slope then over a hill. The tent revival itself was out of view.

  I cranked the engine but to no avail. After a bit I could smell she was flooded. Could be anything but I was guessing something in the electrical system. Clearly “The Boss” wished me to humbly walk to this event. Well, limp. Maybe the preacher was supposed to lay on hands or something. Nice part was the question of “did I just dream that?” was answered. God wants me to limp up that damned road, who am I to argue?

  I got out, pulled out my military issue cane, and prepared to limp up the somewhat steep, very uneven, road. As I did, a U-Haul van pulled over the hill, drove down to the road and without stopping or even looking for traffic made a right-hand turn back the way I’d come and drove away. The driver had brown hair and as he made the turn gave me the oddest look.

  The reason I say “The oddest look” is that it was one of those looks you rarely see in a lifetime. It wasn’t curiosity as to why a guy with a cane was standing by his car. It wasn’t wondering “Should I stop?” The best I can do is say it looked the way a farmer might look at a hen that was off her lay. It was a really cold, very…detached, look. As if I wasn’t important enough to bother about.

  That was when I noticed the screaming. I’d never been to a tent revival but I’d heard about them. There was supposed to be a lot of shouting, not really the way I felt proper to worship God. I realize this is personal taste and has zero to do with what’s necessary or “right.” The terms are “Apollonian” versus “Bacchanalian.” The latter term, despite referencing Bacchus, Greek God of Wine, was not an insult. It was about whether you considered quiet contemplation on the mysteries of God (Apollonian) to be the proper way to worship versus jumping around and screaming “Hallelujah!” at the top of your lungs (Bacchanalian). Both had their place I supposed. I just preferred quiet contemplation.

  But I wasn’t hearing much “Hallelujah!” or “Preach it, Brother!” or “Amen!”

  This sounded more like screams of terror.

  As I was quietly contemplating this development, two young women appeared over the crest of the hill, running like the devil was behind them. They weren’t screaming. They were reserving their breath for putting distance between themselves and whatever was going on over the hill.

  “Run!” the one in the lead shouted as they reached the road. She was blonde, teens, touch short, nice bod, definitely top-heavy, dressed conservatively in a simple top, long skirt and no makeup but I got the feeling she normally preferred shorts and a tube top.

  I looked down at my cane then back up.

  “Possibly,” I replied, calmly. “But not far these days. What’s happening?”

  “Zombies!” the trailing one shouted, headed for Honeybear. “Git in the car! Git in the car!” She was a brunette, a bit heftier than her companion. I’m pretty sure she was the remora of the twosome.

  I considered the implications of her words as the two girls reached me and frantically bailed into Honeybear then over the seat and into the back.

  “Is it working?” the blonde shouted.

  “No,” I said, leaning into the car. “Shortest version possible, please.”

  “Travelling preacher,” the blonde said. “He was talking about how in Isaiah it said the dead will walk. We were outside but we could hear it. Then there was a bunch of screaming. Then everybody come running out, screaming. Then the zombies come out the tent. And none of the cars would start except the preacher’s! And he just drove off! And…Shit! Behind you!”

  I turned and, sure enough, there was a zombie shambling down the hill. Or at least what looked like a zombie. Its head was flopping as if it was broken and it looked vaguely like it was probably a corpse from a vehicular accident. There were other broken bones and the face was smashed up. It was also naked which wasn’t the way it usually was in movies. I realized, from the still attached toe tag, that that was probably because it had been a medical cadaver or from a morgue.

  It was having some problems with the slope, occasionally tripping and falling only to rise again. Which gave me just enough time to adjust. I’d seen enough in Beirut to realize that, yep, this guy, based on the neck angle, was definitely dead. Dead as a post. Should have been pushing daisies. But he wasn’t.

  I walked to my trunk, opened it and started rooting around as the zombie closed.

  You’d think, what with growing up always wanting to own a gun and my tutelage by Mr. Brentwood, that I’d have a big gun collection. That would have been the case had I not been a Marine private. You see, Marine privates don’t make very much money. Not enough
to amass a huge gun collection. So the only firearms I possessed was a 1911 Mr. Brentwood had given me for my eighteenth birthday and a .30-06 hunting rifle. While in the Corps I had picked up a .22 conversion kit for the .45 to save money on ammo. Which was how it was currently configured. In a soft case. In one of my civvy bags. Without a magazine in the well. You never knew when you’d run across some state trooper with a hard-on for guns. I did, however, have several loaded magazines and a bunch of spare .22 ammo.

  It was one of those moments when the words “Don’t panic” run through your head. I had to do a series of steps in a defined order, quickly but not so quickly as to fail any of the steps. Open the trunk. Open the civvy bag. Open the soft case. Retrieve the weapon. Open the bag with the magazines. Insert one magazine in the well of the weapon. Rack the slide. Take a two-handed grip. Look around the open trunk lid…

  Fire one round into the forehead of the zombie at nearly point-blank range.

  There was no time to ensure that this wasn’t some elaborate joke. But I really wasn’t bothered. I’d seen the signs. I’d thought God wanted me to attend a tent revival. Maybe another message would be there. The message, pretty clearly, was “Save people from zombies, my son.”

  Listening, God.

  I learned, later, that zombies tend to be somewhat harder to kill than it is portrayed in the movies. You have to scramble a lot of their brains to get them to drop.

  Pro-tip: A .22 rimfire has barely enough power to penetrate a skull at anything other than short range. Once the bullet penetrates it doesn’t bounce around inside like a ping pong ball. It just pokes a hole. If it fragments it pokes smaller holes in different directions, but poke enough holes in a zombie’s brain and a .22 will do.

  However, at the current time I had only five magazines of ten rounds of .22 LR and a box with another two hundred. If I took the time to reconvert to .45, not hard or long, I had an additional three magazines, unloaded, for .45 and fifty rounds. And a .30-06, buried, with if I recalled correctly seven rounds.

  The zombie fell onto the trunk lid and shut it as it slid down the side of Honeybear. Fortunately, I’d dropped the keys back in my pocket. I opened the trunk back up, pulled out the rest of my mags as well as the box of .22 and walked back to the driver’s side door.