Rust, Gore, and The Junkyard Zombie Read online

  Rust, Gore,

  and the

  Junkyard Zombie

  By Serena Mossgraves

  Copyright 2018

  Serena Mossgraves

  www.facebook.com/serenitysfall

  Email: [email protected]

  All rights reserved

  Editing by

  Kelly Hartigan

  www.Xterraweb.com

  ~Dedicated to my truest inspirations...those I love.

  Jimbo

  Dearest Lizzie,

  I know that you don't understand why I followed your brother to the marines. I don’t know if I can explain.

  Baby, I love you. I always have, but Chris is alone out here. He is often stuck in his own head, and I believe that without me here he would be in a bad space. He is too quick to try and do it alone.

  The desert is such a foreign place. There is not the community that exists at home. There is a deadly nature to just the environment here. Storms that can strip the skin from man or beast.

  He has told me that he grows weary of the service and has no intention of re-enlisting. So I am going to come home when my time is up. He has some ideas for improving the junkyard. He has offered me the chance to be a part of that. It will give me a way to support us if you choose to be with me.

  I would have found work regardless, but what he offers is doing something that I love with the family I want to be a part of, yours.

  I know that I am asking a lot, and I know that you are still dealing with college. I hope that you have been thinking about my question. If you do not want me, then I beg you to tell me soon, for I do not wish to make things difficult or awkward.

  I have asked my mom to give you Nana's ring, and I hope that you decide to take it, and me with it.

  All of my love always,

  Jimbo Cavendaugh

  Tara

  Journal dated one year prior to the end of the world as we knew it.

  Walking around the town with a badge and a gun tended to create an attitude. Especially since the whole town knew that I was a SEAL. I had been considering going for detective and even took the initial tests for it. Still, in the moment, walking my beat, well I felt like a badass.

  Even the asshole drunks didn't tend to fight when I sent them home. Yeah, it was easy to allow it to go to my head, so I would let the idea of being a badass run through my mind to boost my confidence before I patrolled. Confidence helped to prevent the idiots from challenging me. Jarvin really was not a place where violence was a concern.

  It was really small-town America, for the good and the bad. There was the cozy little diner on Fifth I stopped at every day for coffee. Cops didn’t have to pay for their coffee. The coffee was so good you could even taste the free. The waitress always dragged her feet, sleep deprivation weighing her down. The table next to the door had a disturbing stain across one side, and no one seemed to know what caused it. History came in so many forms.

  The drugstore down on Main had a clean old-fashioned soda counter. Glistening white edged by chrome was lined with a dozen faded red-topped stools. So many lunches I had spent sitting on those stools, feeling like I stepped back in time. After all, how many drugstores still had a freaking soda counter? It was the same now as it had been when I was ten and used to sneak in for a milkshake, having saved up the money I made from mowing old Mr. Jeffries’ lawn.

  Much of Jarvin was still stuck in the fifties. The nearest grocery store was over forty-five minutes away, leaving the diner and the drugstore where most of the town ate. On Wednesday nights before Bible study, the Baptist church had a food pantry to help the ones who couldn't afford to get groceries. They also had a soup kitchen and served lunch daily.

  Everyone grew vegetables in gardens and kept animals. This was expected. Life just moved slower here, and it made more sense to do things in an old-fashioned manner.

  I honestly loved it the way it was. It was akin to a moment out of Mayberry with the rednecks that West Virginia naturally bred. Only strangers would ever cause any true issues.

  This town was good for jokes, and I was probably a joke. My drinking was well-known. Just a chip off the old block. However, I always did my job and never allowed my drinking to interfere with my work. Not that there was much work to interfere with; the worst crime in my town was Jackson Graham’s mutt dog digging up old lady Sanderson’s roses. Career cops moved on, leaving to join the state troopers or the police force in Charlestown. We were barely big enough of a town to have a budget for police officers, but I couldn't imagine leaving home again.

  Unfortunately, small-town values apparently included laughing about the children of the local drunk asshole—who never amounted to anything—the children who worked their asses off to prove themselves in the eyes of the town they grew up in. Chris had his garage with people coming from the next county over, I was a police officer, and Lizzie was a research scientist. Despite our career choices, I wondered if we would ever earn that respect or if we would ever be the joke.

  Amara

  Dear Kathy,

  Growing up in a small town, one learns the edges of privacy. I shop for household supplies out in Charlestown to keep people from being as nosy into what I was buying. Sounds crazy, but I end up spending less that way too. I try to grow a decent garden and have planted a few fruit trees to offset costs. The drugstore carries a lot, but I think the Safeway and the Save-A-Lot carries more at better prices.

  Jarvin has very little in the way of grocery stores anyway.

  We do have a semi-decent farmer’s market between us and Charlestown. I found a great farm there that was willing to help me learn how to keep chickens, quails, rabbits, and bees. I also got me a pair of mated goats and a couple of sheep. Sounds like more work than what it really is.

  I teach my children how to make things from scratch, to keep them from wanting as much expensive premade junk. Also because it prepares them to be self-sufficient, something that I firmly believe everyone should know how to be. Johnny, my eldest son, is one of the best damn cooks I have ever seen.

  My boys help with feeding the animals, and in return, I supply them with food. Most kids move out when they are grown, but I have been lucky enough that my eldest have not wanted to move away. I figure part of the reason is because the junkyard has a life all its own. It always has. I have found stories about the property from before the Civil War and how it was a safe place for slaves. I may have to copy them and send them to you. I know how you love

  stories like that.

  My children still each have their own rooms, the same ones they have always had, and the only bills they really have is their phones. I expect them to help with chores, but it is spread out enough that no one has much they are responsible for.

  Chris, though he often complains, is tickled beyond belief that they have chosen to stay. He, I think, tends to see this as being protective. Keeping all of us close. He doesn’t realize that part of the reason that they stay is because the junkyard is a safe place. A comfortable place that none of them feel like leaving anytime soon.

  It is home.

  So now that I have rambled about me, dear cousin, please know I am sending love to you and yours. How is Janet doing with her play? Is Kevin still having issues with math? And how is your husband Bill?

  Love,

  Amara

  Jimbo

  Hey, Chris,

  This trip has been longer than I expected. Thanks again for letting me take Lizzie along. It made the trip double as a romantic getaway for us. California sunlight agrees with her. She has been happily enjoying the beaches and shopping while I am doing the conference.

  Royal Purple has some good points. If w
e can get the contract, the garage will definitely profit from it. Synthetic oils in general are too pricey, but this one is great for general use. Their wholesale prices for garages would bring it down to being cheaper for us than any other name brand oil, even the generic non-synthetics. There has been a couple of guys here in the conference who have some interesting build ideas. Including a dude who has a biodiesel engine rebuild that I think you will like. And yes, I got his contact info.

  Lizzie sends her love. She is laughing about you and I having email and has made several comments about rednecks in the space age. She claimed that we were created from the same broken mold. Not sure if it was meant as a compliment…or a complaint. Not sure I want to know.

  She enjoyed the plane flight here. Our flight home is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and we are going to have to buy extra bags to have enough space for the souvenirs she has bought everyone.

  This is her first time leaving West Virginia, and I doubt that she wants to make a habit of it. She keeps looking for the familiar mountains, and her shoulders slump when they are not there. It breaks my heart.

  I miss the garage and teaching your young princess how to fix engines. I think that child will be doing hover cars long after we are too old to lift a wrench. She and Lizzie have so much in common. Though I doubt either would appreciate the statement. I really look forward to seeing her grow.

  We needed the vacation, but, dude, seriously have a cold beer waiting on me. I can’t wait to try and beat your score on pinball again.

  Jimbo

  Chris

  {Author’s note...This is a peek at Chris Pre-Zombie...enjoy}

  Standing here, so far from home, I found myself unsure how I got talked into this bullshit. Jimbo usually dealt with the social side of the garage. Still he said that Lizzie had a checkup, and he wanted to be there. He so rarely asked for time off that I would feel like an ass to deny him just because I didn’t handle shit like this well.

  The oil company that we were looking at carrying threw a mixer for the garages, and we had to be represented. Still, at least I was not the only stiff looking uncomfortable there. I would be glad when I could get out of there and into clothes that didn’t require fancy machines to clean them. The trip to and from the Holiday Inn in Charlestown ate at nearly two hours of my day, but I considered myself lucky that they did not choose to do it in Morgantown or Charleston. Or worse, Parkersburg.

  The music they were playing wasn't too bad. Sounded like something me and the boys might play on a Saturday night. The food looked too froufrou to be edible. Who knew what chemicals were in that crap. They were serving a sparkling wine, and I was willing to bet that most of the people there were more inclined to beer. If their synthetic oil blend wasn’t one of the best I had used, seeing the setup for this party would have sent me home. Jimbo swore by their stuff, but their pitch was not impressing me. I seriously had better things to do than rub noses with snobby stiffs. I was only at the party to get the wholesale pricing for the garage, and I just had to keep reminding myself.

  Yeah, I could socialize as needed, but shindigs like this made my skin crawl. I didn’t know anyone there, and I had been less inclined to go to mixers since I got out of the service. Usually, I let others who were better equipped deal with it. I was a simple man, and this shit was too complicated for me. Lizzie was wrong; Jimbo and I were not cut from the same broken mold—after all, he enjoyed being around people.

  Shara

  Family was everything. We had a large, extended, and close-knit family with the junkyard as our center. It sounded very redneck, but it was just how my world was—before the dead came. The details of the junkyard, my family, and our town were all part of my tale. Mom was the homey sort, and the whole town knew it.

  All the kids in town just migrated to our house, so I was never sure how many actual siblings I had. Some were even younger than I even though I was supposed to be the youngest. The others were always calling my parents Mom and Dad, so it made it harder to tell who was family and who was not. Mom turned the tendency into a way to support the cost and charged the parents a babysitting fee.

  We always had fun things to keep us busy. Dad made sure of that. Mom kept everyone clean, clothed, and fed. Dad kept us busy. We were learning, growing, and working. Somehow it was fun. He always seemed to understand what would be right for each of us to learn. The elder kids joked it was his superpower.

  He grew up in this junkyard. This was part of our own freaking circle of life. The story was that the junkyard had been in the family since the country started, though not always as a junkyard obviously. According to what Mom found, the house was a stop on the underground railroad. Dad seemed so freaking proud of the history in our home.

  It was a huge property, easy for a person to get lost in, if the situation required it. There were ghost stories about soldiers during the Civil War doing just that. In addition to the junkyard, there was also a large pond full of fish and lots of personal hunting land. I learned to fish early and later to hunt as well. Dad used to joke the only season in the junkyard was what we put in the pot to cook. We didn’t sport hunt or fish. If it was killed, it was eaten. For Dad, part of learning to hunt and fish was learning how to clean our catch. Dad taught us to respect the land and the animals on it. Hunting and fishing had helped them to keep the food cost for so many mouths down.

  The only entrance to the property was through the front or over the mountains. This added to our security or to our isolation at times. Isolation, though occasionally painful, was in the end what kept us safe.

  The house dated back to before the Civil War. It had dozens of bedrooms, and some were converted from sitting rooms. It once was an antebellum mansion, or so I had been told. Bathrooms had been added within the last couple of generations. Dad had the plumbing and electrical updated while he was in the marines. The house was almost another member of the family. I couldn’t imagine us living anywhere else even with all that came later.

  Down by the pond, Aunt Tara had an old three-bedroom trailer. It was much bigger than she needed, but it allowed her privacy. She was not always around, but when she was, she often wanted to be alone. She could be off-the-rocker crazy—enough that we all had no issue leaving her be. If she was not in her trailer, she was often in town or swimming in the fish pond. Still, she was really kinda neat for all the crazy.

  Her trailer was on the edge of the area Dad kept clear of cars. On the other edge of the yard was Aunt Lizzie’s house and the garage. The garage was along the road with an extra fence that surrounded that side of the property. The road coming to the junkyard from town was County Road 5. It wasn’t a particularly well-kept road, but it wasn’t the worst road in the area. The potholes were at least visible and weren’t large enough to lose a Greyhound bus in. The junkyard was only about three miles from town. It was walkable, but the older kids were often willing to give us rides if we asked. If nothing else, there was always a shit ton of bikes piled up beside the garage. I got the impression that a couple of them had been there since Dad and Tara were kids. Dad kept them all in good repair in case we ever wanted to ride.

  The mountains formed a triangle with the fence, enclosing the entire junkyard. The space was larger than one would think it would be. It sounded like a lot to say the property was roughly thirty-five hundred acres, but it was only about six miles across. Dad kept the front fifty clear of rubbish and cars so that us kids had a real yard to play in. That was important to him. He used to say that we needed play, fresh air, and real food to be healthy.

  The garage was a gorgeous three-story brick building with four gray bay doors on the base floor. The second floor had equipment and tool storage, and the third floor had a breakroom with a spare crash room. The crash room had two bunk beds, a futon, and a shower for emergency use.

  Considering there was a total of ten employees, and six of them lived in the main house, the crash room was large enough for everyone else. Dad and Jimbo kept it clean, so some of the guys crashe
d there even when they weren’t on shift. It was how we knew they were having trouble at home.

  The breakroom had two vending machines that Dad filled himself, one with drinks and the other with snacks. Dad made the best homemade chips and jerky. His stuff didn’t last long, and I thought that it was probably for the best...as it didn’t have the preservatives that the store-bought stuff did.

  There was also a chessboard and a Barb Wire pinball machine in that room. The pinball machine was based on some weird movie from the past. It had a nearly naked chick on the back board. Dad kept the high score on the pinball machine, and Mom teased him and called him Tommy. I asked once what that meant, and my mother laughed herself to tears. Dad then introduced me to The Who’s rock opera. He was such a freaking old geek.

  The office area on the main floor of the garage had two bathrooms for customer use, and there was one in the breakroom area for staff. Supposedly, Dad and Jimbo built the garage themselves. The building seemed so professionally built that I couldn’t imagine them doing it. The garage was my second home. All my family practically lived there. Mom came in and helped with cleanup on a rare occasion, but mostly it was me and my siblings who did the work there. We had to prove that we could handle it before we were allowed near the customers’ vehicles.

  When he came of age, Dad joined the marines. He never said what he did there, and I don’t think he wanted us to know. This town had tarred him as being just like his father, and I got the impression that was the only way he felt like he would be able to make something of himself.

  When he was done serving his time with the military, he wanted to come back to the junkyard and raise some kids. He settled in with his high school sweetheart, according to him the only one he could ever love, and had a group of us. Mom swore that there were only seven kids. I had never seen that few around the house at any given time.

  His younger sister joined us in the junkyard before I was born. She also did military time, but she chose the navy. Aunt Tara was a Navy SEAL, so us kids called her the Junkyard Squid—only when she couldn’t hear, of course. Tara was a bit of a lush and more than slightly crazy. She had several medals displayed in her trailer, but she didn't let us kids in there very often. She kept booze and guns there and was afraid that Dad would get mad about us going in there. Honestly though, I doubt he would care. We often found her swimming in the pond, drunk as she could be. I remembered Dad saying that only a squid could swim ten sheets to the wind. I always got the impression that her drinking bothered Dad, though I was never sure why. It was not a topic anyone ever discussed, at least not where I could hear.