I
have mentioned before how the store is big enough where a lot of people can
find their own niche. Everyone seems to have their own little cubby holes where
they can go to if they need to get away and spend time alone. I just found out
that Tommy’s private corner is the Pharmacy.
The windows to the
Pharmacy have these roll down security gates so they can seal it off when the Pharmacy
is closed but the rest of the store is still open for business. We’ve locked
away almost all medical resources in the department. We even moved the stuff
that is normally out in the open – aspirin, alcohol, things like that – into
the “behind the counter” area of the department. It is just a security issue.
The Pharmacy also has the most windows that let you see out to the ground floor
level of the parking lot. In the first sortie missions outside, we barricaded
cars from the parking lot so that direct contact couldn’t be made and back in
September, I told you about how we club zombie heads off using a length of rope
and a cinderblock and baiting them in with meat in the drive-thru bank drawer.
Well, that window above the bank drawer is still pretty open.
I came into the
Pharmacy to get some butt putty because I had a horrible case of the mud butt.
Wait, that is too personal. I needed some feminine wash? Okay, that is just
implausible. Let’s just say I had a headache.
And there was Tommy,
in the dark, looking out the window at the zombies out shambling and shuffling
in the parking lot and at the Party Mart across the street. He did that thing
where you try to clean up as best you can when you try not to let anyone know
that you have been sitting alone in the dark crying. But I have pulled that
trick too many times not myself not to recognize the signs. The coughing, the
frantic looking around so you can pretend you were reading something, the
quick, sharp inhalations of breath. And then I saw his phone.
Cell service has been
down for months. We haven’t been able to connect for a while now. People don’t
carry pictures of their kids in their wallets anymore. They carry pictures on
their cell phones. And Tommy has a boat load of pictures on his phone. Back
before the world when to crap, it seemed like every Monday he would come in
with pics from their Sunday adventures. Pictures or videos. They were always
going to the zoo or to their Grandma’s back pasture to hunt arrowhead or to the
park or out shopping. Tommy took his kids everywhere. Like every parent, he
would bitch and complain about things like the cost of getting all of them
drinks, the inevitable spill at a restaurant, or how they cannot go to the
Tulsa Zoo and NOT ride the train. But the dude has a season pass to the zoo, so
I knew secretly he loved it.
But Tommy stares at
the zombies. I mean, like, serial killer stares at them. He is also the most
adamant about “conserving ammo” but I think that is a cover because he wants to
wade out there with a shovel or a sledge hammer and go psycho ballistic on them
to vent his rage. Now before you judge him, I want you to consider something.
Tommy believes that
zoms ate his children.
Not to go all Matthew
McConaughey in A Time To Kill on you,
I want to imagine a precious little girl with ribbons in her hair, missing a
few baby teeth. She has a favorite blanket, a favorite stuffed animal. She has
a ladybug bed that she sleeps in. She is nervous about going to kindergarten
next year but she wants to be in big school like her brother and sister. This
is a little girl that draws pictures and races to see her daddy every day when
he gets home from work. She asks the same question every day with a gap toothed grin, “Did you bring me a
present?” And daddy just smiles and says, “Not today, sweetheart.”
Well, that is Tommy’s
baby girl.
Now imagine that
little girl scared and screaming as a host of dead walkers close in on her.
Thankfully, she goes into shock and passes out quickly as chomping mouths
descend on her. She dies from blood loss from the savagery of the bites. And
left to their own devices that shamble of zombies eventually consume almost
every bit of her. And there is nothing you can do about it because you are
trapped an hour away in a grocery store.
While your baby girl
was being ripped to pieces, you were sitting in a grocery store doing the math
on how much pop or sparkling water each person could drink so everyone could
survive the year… That, my friends, is what you call survivor guilt. And I
think it is getting the best of Tommy.
Now, his family could
be alive somewhere. It is possible. But not knowing is what is driving Tommy
crazy. I am worried for my friend. I am. But I don’t know if bringing it up is
a good thing. Should I just let him work his way through it himself? Do I just
not mention it at all?
Regardless, I think
if Tommy wandered outside with a sledgehammer in each hand, he would lay waste
to a whole parking lot full of these things if we let him. Such anger is
wonderful if channeled properly. But if he loses it, as much as I hate to say
it, he could be a real danger to all of us. And given Tommy’s size and
strength, there is not one of us in here that could take him on alone. If he
wants outside to go zombie smashing, none of us could stop him.
I keep hoping Tommy’s
phone will ring and it will be his wife and kids on the other end, saying they
are safe… But I know that isn’t going to happen.
