All We're Missing Is an Apocalypse

Hank and Lisa Gregson were a typical couple in rural east Texas. They turned live animals into dead animals for the express purpose of eating them. They distrusted the “gumment” and “’stistics” and  light beer drinkers.

The good people of this area, in general, were a fascinating mixture of Type II diabetes and paranoia, so it should come as no surprise that they viewed anything or anyone not aligning with their value system as suspicious.  The Sunrise Collective was at the top of the list.

The collective was a farming cooperative, which, to the nearby residents, smacked of communism and hippie culture. The owners of the cooperative weren’t hippies or Communists. For the most part, they were burnt-out executives from big cities, disillusioned lawyers, and minor movie stars.

I introduce the Gregsons and the cooperative in such a straightforward manner because they alone accounted for:

1) Hank’s belief that zombies roamed the woods, and

2) A twist at the end of the tale that even I didn’t see coming.

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                                                           1997

Lisa was adamant. They would sell everything they didn’t need before Y2K. Hank didn’t see it that way. At least, not at first.

“But I need all that stuff,” he whined.

Lisa shook her head. “No! That computer thingy will wipe out everything. We need cash in hand when it happens.”

Hank nodded miserably. Not being up on the Y2K thing since he had never heard of it, all he could do was agree with his wife. He didn’t want to give up his tires and motorcycle engines and a rather fabulous collection of chainsaws, but he saw no way out of it.

He was sitting outside a week later, still unhappy about selling his stuff, when he saw a zombie.

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Hank didn’t actually see a zombie. He saw a member of the Sunshine Collective.

Bronson Devereaux, ex-attorney and a founding member of the Sunshine Collective, sampled the first batch of moonshine brewed by the collective. Then he sampled a little more, enjoying the warm glow he felt after sipping it. Bronson kept on sampling the hellish brew until he passed out.

When he woke up the next morning, he discovered that small animals had relieved themselves on him, and that he must have done something crazy in the middle of the night, for he was covered in cuts and contusions.

Bronson stripped off his clothes, threw a tarp over his back, and trudged back to his cottage. Along the way, he picked a cantaloupe from a field and cracked it open, scooping out the meat and stuffing it in his face.

This is what Hank saw. A naked, bloody man with rags covering his shoulders, scooping out brains from an unfortunate victim.

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                                                             1998

Hank was good at bartering. He would poach the occasional deer and trade it for building supplies. Since seeing the zombie, he vowed to build a bunker to protect his wife and himself. Lisa agreed to the plan because she was certain that the zombie uprising would happen when Y2K happened.

“It only makes sense, Hank. Them brain eaters are slick. When everybody’s busy with Y2K, they’ll slip out of their unholy places and strike.”

Hank nodded. “I think it’s a Communist plot myself. The damn pinkos sent ‘em over here to destroy us.”

“Ok. Gotta get to Edith’s place. She’ll trade us a dozen MRE’s for a coupla rabbits.”

“Did you tell her about the zombies?”

Lisa laughed. “Yeah. She said you need to lay off the moonshine.”

Stupid woman. Hank went back to working on the bunker.

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                                                                1999

Hank’s neighbors viewed his bunker with 1) an appreciation for a job well done and, 2) a fair amount of skepticism regarding a zombie apocalypse. Still, they tolerated Hank’s foibles because if a man wanted to sip ‘shine and see zombies, he damn well had that right. This was America, after all.

When New Year’s Eve came, Hank’s neighbors watched him and his wife descend into the bunker and seal the door. Most of the men felt a twinge of sadness, for Hank often provided deer and rabbit meat for them, and he made damn good moonshine. Now, they ruminated, they’d have to buy their moonshine from the hippies.

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                                                                  2003

Hank and Lisa unsealed the bunker hatch and stepped into a world that they were sure had been ravaged by merciless zombies and devious technology.

They heard a shriek in the distance, but Hank assured his wife that it wasn’t a zombie.

“They grunt and spit. They don’t scream like a little bitch.”

Lisa trusted her husband in these matters. Even though more than two years had passed, they were as fond of each other as ever. I don’t know what that says about husband/wife relationships in rural east Texas, but there it was.

The electricity still worked. The water still worked. Even the television set worked, and this was what surprised and dismayed the couple. Lisa watched the news while Hank went around killing snakes. He returned to the living room with three snakes, all devoid of heads.

“I got dinner.”

Lisa stood up and took the snakes in hand. “Good job. I was tired of all those MRE’s and smoked deer meat.

“Got some bad news for you. Y2K was a bust, and no zombie sightings reported anywhere except in Oregon. And you can’t trust those people. They’re all high on pot and liberalism.”

Hank’s shoulders slumped.

Like many people, regardless of geographic location, he was happiest when doom was on the horizon. He enjoyed thinking of outsmarting zombies or killer robots. He wanted to vanquish a vampire, waste a werewolf, chase a chupacabra. Now that he had been denied a zombie uprising, he felt a little lost.

Lisa understood, for she had looked forward to carnage from Y2K. She put an arm around Hank’s waist. “All we’re missing is an apocalypse. One’s sure to come along shortly.”

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Bronson Devereaux had been brewing moonshine for the past two-plus years while Hank and Lisa were bunkered, perfecting his recipes and sampling his concoctions more and more.

The mist hung thickly over the land the morning Hank and Lisa left the bunker. Bronson heard the door open, but he didn’t know what it was. All he saw were two beings rising from the ground as if they had sprouted from the spot.

He screamed and hotfooted it back to HQ at the Sunrise Collective. He was out of breath and a little tipsy, so it took him a moment before he could impart the news.

“Bigfoot! Two of ‘em!”

And on the strength of those four stridently-uttered words, Bronson was kicked out of the collective.

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                                                                 Epilogue

Seventeen years later, Bronson Devereaux was an acclaimed Bigfoot hunter with a reality TV series and a podcast, raking in millions of dollars a year.

The Sunshine Collective eventually sold out and moved to Oregon, getting cheap land because of Bigfoot sightings in the area.

Hank and Lisa thought they spotted an alien in 2014, but it turned out to be a lost hiker. They fed him an MRE and sent him on his way.