The Black Tuxedo

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With only a few more miles between himself and the state line, Sergeant First Class (SFC) Ernest Palmer turned back. He had been travelling for close to a week -- by bicycle or motorbike for half the trip, by foot the other half. It was imperative that he get the hell out of Louisiana while he could, but what was waiting for him in Texas he couldn’t remember.

One of the catches of the Z-Day, Palmer noted, aside from the walking, starving, feral dead, was his sudden forgetfulness. Days went first.  Then went names, faces -- not that he had very many acquaintances. It was as if his old life was slowly being erased and he was stepping into a new one. Most would view the zombie apocalypse as an end of times; end of life. Depression. Solitude. Suicide. But Palmer sensed a second chance -- stepping across the Louisiana/Texas border would equate to stepping into his new self.

SFC Ernest Palmer turned back because there were still some things that weren’t ready to be erased. Things he knew he wanted to have with him for his next life, and some things, maybe hidden somewhere deep in his subconscious, that he knew he couldn’t yet release. Battling the hot Louisiana sun and the unforgiving pain in his feet, Palmer began his journey back to Bleak Street.

*

Bleak Street had changed. What used to be a shabby neighborhood with a couple dozen deadheads was now a string of abandoned houses, boarded up. Palmer assessed no signs of life, except for the large crowds of zombies, if they can be counted. Anyone still hiding out here would have to be a damned fool.

In his first attempt to escape Louisiana, Palmer learned to fear packs -- too many to take down, and too many to run from. Never get too close, and always have an exit. He remembered the first few days, and how much he enjoyed them. There were no groups, they had no awareness -- something they must’ve picked up just recently -- it was so simple to kill them. On an easy day, a fella could kick back with a six-pack and unload from his front porch. Today was not an easy day at all.

Palmer worked out a path in his head -- he would have to come around the back of his house to avoid any zombies. This meant he’d have to jump Donny’s fence, and he wasn’t so sure he’d be up for that. As to not tire himself, Palmer moved no faster than a brisk march. He passed almost too close to a trio snacking on an elk, stripping apart vital organs, fluids bursting out, and thought it strange to find such an animal out in the neighborhood, when, as if by coincidence

a SNEEZE from inside the house at his side, immediately followed by a hush.

Palmer swung around and opened his mouth, perhaps a inch too wide: “..the hell!?”

It was the first thing he spoke in days, maybe weeks (how should he remember?), and it cost him. At first he heard some shuffling and whispers, until everything was drowned out by the sounds of the approaching undead chorus -- a brutish cacophony of moans, screeches, panting. The elk trio spat what rotten gobs of blood they sucked and moved in with the crowd. Palmer kicked off the ground and strained a sprint towards his house on Bleak Street. With a wall of zombies behind him, the only exit was forward.

The zombies couldn’t run more than a forced shoving motion, but the real danger was Palmer’s racing heart, and the increasing number of zombies he alerted as he trudged by.

He had to slow down. There was no air. Grumbling to a halt, Palmer leaned his hands on his knees, bent over and huffed for breath. Against the backdrop of thirty-odd zombies, he raised his head and met Donny’s fence.

F*ck fences.

He struggled a few hops to catch the top of the fence until he caught, hands raw. As he lifted his weight off the ground and over the fence, he felt a tug. They had him. His left leg. Palmer then decided that he would make it over the fence with or without the leg. With all his effort, Palmer flung himself over the fence.

The impact crushed his left ankle -- a searing pain darted up his leg and out of his mouth in a howl. He tried to stand, limping, hopping on one foot. His chest and head both shook from the fall; nonetheless, he kept hopping towards his back door.

*

It’s broken. Palmer sifted through the little box he found on his front porch and did what he could for his ankle. He wrapped himself up with nothing more than a flimsy splint and the security of antibiotics to fight infection.

The note:

“Maybe we’ll see each other when all of this is over.”

Palmer folded the note and tossed it into the box.

The zombies had made it over the fence, or around the fence, or somehow they found a way to slam on Palmer’s front door. It was all too familiar. Palmer chuckled to himself when he saw the bullet-sized hole in his front door. Had he forgotten?

He was almost ready to leave Bleak Street forever. There was only one thing he needed to do. Palmer entered his simple bedroom and opened the sliding door of his closet. A change of clothes would do him good. He sifted through his hanging clothes until he reached his old military uniform. It was weathered, but he knew it would still fit him.

He contemplated packing an extra set of clothes, and almost did, until he found it -- an artifact from his past. A BLACK TUXEDO. Lifeless, covered in dust, covered in neglect.

SFC Ernest Palmer had never really been fully married, but he had that black tuxedo. Still there, all the way at the back of his closet.

He closed the closet; not forcefully, but stolid. Then he went to his kitchen and found a bottle of whiskey.

*

There was only the light of the moon. No more streetlights; they went with the electricity. SFC Palmer was dressed in his old uniform at the house where he heard the sneeze.

He had made a pact with himself not to speak again on Bleak Street.

Unless he was spoken to.

No. Perhaps, not even then.

Palmer moved in closer to the house, still getting used to his busted ankle. How long could he last with one good leg? He was quieter than before, although there were no zombies around this house anymore -- must’ve all run out after him.

Now Palmer got in close to the house and listened:

“I think it was a wake-up call.”

“How do you mean?”

“There are people on Bleak Street.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well. There are others out there. There’s a chance for that.”

A beat.

“You’re right about leaving. Maybe you’re right. We’ve got nothing left here. We need to look for others. We need help. We need to just get away from Bleak Street.”

There were two of them. Man and woman. They were young, just out of college?; Palmer saw that. They continued talking, something about working with others, how much better off they could be. Despite the lesson on strength in numbers, Palmer wasn’t paying much attention. He had already left before they mentioned Texas. It didn't matter much. They would never find the help needed to cross the state line.

*

On his way out, Palmer crossed a playground where he found two dead humans. Both shot in the head. They were a couple, girl and boy.

For an instant, Palmer saw them as bride and groom. She was in a pure white wedding dress, but the boy wore an old, dusty, black tuxedo.

SFC Ernest Palmer spat on the corpses and left Bleak Street for the second time.

***