Originally published on gohavok.com.
“We hit this gas station”—I point at a crease in the map spread out over the RV’s dining table—“grab food, toilet paper, gas—”
“And slushies,” Martin chimes in.
“—and slushies. Then we hightail it to the monument, here.”
I survey my crew. Martin, my younger brother, looks like a cover model for GapKids in his button-down and khakis, with the addition of blood stains.
Hannah puts her gloved hand on Martin’s shoulder. She’s wearing elbow pads, knee pads, a bike helmet, a goalie shirt, hockey pants, and Crocs. She’d probably survive getting pushed out of the RV at top speed. Sometimes, when she won’t stop singing off-key, I’m tempted to try it.
Lucius is our last member, and probably the only one of us who should still be alive this far into the apocalypse. He sits in the driver’s seat, muscles bulging against his tank top and seatbelt. Of course he’s wearing his seatbelt. You don’t forget that after years of driving a school bus, even if the world is ending.
My outfit is the bridge between Martin’s impractical style and Hannah’s bubble wrap: dark jeans, a leather jacket, and a baseball cap over my long, curly hair.
“Is everyone clear?”
They nod.
“No messing around.”
Martin gives me a thumbs-up. “You got it, sis.”
The chosen gas station only has two zombies. Lucius kills one with his bowie knife. Hannah engages the other with her hatchet, which is attached to a broken pool cleaner—a weapon she calls The No-No Square Enforcer. By the time she’s killed her zombie, Lucius and I have restocked and gassed up and Martin’s tongue is blue with Powerade—the slushies have long since melted.
We pile back into the RV and speed off to our next destination.
“Good work,” I say.
Hannah collapses on the couch.
“Maybe if you took the hatchet off the—”
She cuts me off with a hand in the air.
I sigh. “Now for the hard part—the Washington Monument. You all know your jobs?”
“Like the back of my head,” Martin declares.
“That’s not…” I shake my head. “Good.”
The RV screeches to a stop. We emerge, brandishing our weapons.
“Whoa.” Martin gapes.
The Washington Monument towers overhead like a giant white nail ready to be slammed into a zombie’s brain. It’s beautiful.
I crack my neck. “Let’s go.”
Martin leaps onto Lucius’s back, and we run across the thick grass. Once we’re close enough, I call a halt.
“Hannah?”
“On it.”
She pulls a Polaroid from its case around her neck. We all lean in.
Snap!
The picture slowly rolls out. Hannah fans it while the rest of us watch for zombies.
“Kelly!” Lucius drops Martin on the grass. Three zombies stumble toward us from the gift shop.
I charge, impulsively swing my sharpened pool cue, and break it across the first zombie’s head. Martin yelps and dives between the legs of the second. Hannah freezes, eyes wide.
Lucius pumps all three enemies full of shotgun lead.
“Thanks,” I say, looking at my two useless sticks.
He smiles. Smoke pours from his gun, which has the word “Gabby” painted on its side.
“Dangit!” Hannah exclaims. We all crowd around the image as it fades into color. “Someone’s corpse ruined the shot!”
Sure enough, in the bottom right of the picture, a zombie reaches toward the camera.
“Lucius?” I inquire.
“Yep.”
He sprints to where the zombie has fallen over and dispatches it with his knife. He’s scarcely returned when Hannah snaps a retake.
“We’ve got more incoming,” Martin warns.
Attracted by the gunshots, dozens of zombies close in on our position.
“We have to hope the second picture does the trick,” I say. “To the gift shop!”
Our troupe makes it into the small store just in time to shut the doors on a pair of shambling undead.
Martin tumbles off Lucius’s back and knocks over a shelf of personalized mugs. More zombies slam against the doors. The glass cracks.
“Hurry!” I call.
Martin wades through a pile of stuffed animals. “We said no spoons or postcards, right?”
“Right,” Hannah replies.
The glass shatters. Zombies tumble in over each other. Lucius blasts the first handful with Gabby. I start throwing souvenirs at their faces. “Karen,” “Ralph,” and “Sophie” mugs take out one creature. A replica of the monument sinks into the brains of a second, and I smile. I knew it would make a good weapon.
“I’ve got it!” Martin cries triumphantly.
“This way!” Hannah shouts from a back exit.
Lucius reloads and follows. I dump a rack of hoodies to block our escape. We sprint to the RV and dive inside.
“Go!” I scream.
A hoard of zombies threatens to block our path out of the parking lot.
“Hang on!” Lucius guns it.
The house-on-wheels lurches forward. We squeeze through a gap in the sea of undead. The metal spike that remains of the right side-mirror skewers a zombie in the head.
“Gross,” Hannah mutters.
I kick the corpse off with my boot then sit down to catch my breath.
“So,” I say once we’re on the highway again. “What’d you get?”
Martin holds up a shirt with drawings of the monument and George Washington next to each other. Underneath, it says, “Ever notice that the monument looks nothing like Washington?”
“Sorry it took so long. Hard to find anything in Lucius’s size.”
I wave my hand. “It all worked out.”
“Except for the picture,” Hannah moans. She holds it up for everyone to see. The small image displays our smiling faces in front of the monument. At the edge of the white frame is a zombie flailing for balance as it trips over a bloody rib cage.
“I think it adds flavor,” Martin says.
Hannah shrugs and pins it to the corkboard between pictures of our group in front of the Grand Canyon and the Gateway Arch.
I grin. “Another successful stop on our route. Where to next?”
