So, I never really took any of the news reports seriously, y’know? I mean, most of the incidents were pretty isolated, starting out somewhere in China, I think. The news channels all made it sound like it was just another of those disease outbreaks that was exaggerated and hyped, like SARS and that newer version of the bird flu. I wasn’t really concerned because it was in China. A big deal is always made out of diseases and viruses that start over there and kill about 100 people, but stuff like that hardly ever actually makes it all the way over here. I just kinda became numb to all the overreaction by media to stuff like that, so I just spaced out or changed the channel whenever something about it would come on.
And who can blame me for not taking the threats of a “zombie invasion” seriously? I was just a wannabe musician playing nights in a worn-down bar in the town of Christopher Walken, Georgia, a fairly simple town in case you couldn’t tell by the fact that they decided to name their little dirt heap of a town after an actor. It’s pretty well out in the middle of nowhere, attracting only a handful of farmers, folks passing through, and people that want to get drunk while having some live entertainment (AKA me and my buddy, Jerry).
Jerry and I work weeknights at a smoky bar called The Black Ragdoll. I play guitar and harmonica, or take a seat at the piano on the small platform that Roscoe, the owner, has the nerve to call a stage, while Jerry stands at the mic and spouts whatever useless knowledge and trivia comes to mind. I know it’s odd that neither of us ever sings, but it really works. I can’t sing worth anything and Jerry talks almost in a monotone, so the idea of us being a completely musical act doesn’t really work. Instead, I plunk whatever I feel like playing on the piano while Jerry just stutters and chatters like a monkey in a tree.
Jerry is an autistic savant. Think about Dustin Hoffman in
Rain Man and you’ve got Jerry in a nutshell, minus the toothpick counting thing. He can hardly dress himself, but he can remember just about anything he hears. In the 2 or so years that we’ve been working in the bar, I’ve only heard him repeat about 10 facts, total. There was one time, after a night of work, I decided to test him. I said to him,
“Jerry, what’s your favorite show?”
He thought for a second before saying, “The Simpson’s.”
I knew that. He always insisted on watching it anytime it was on. I asked him to recite the lines of his favorite episode. He did. As soon as he finished, I went and watched it. He knew every single line perfectly.
For whatever reason, drunk people don’t mind listening to a savant just cough up completely useless knowledge and trivia, especially if it’s something they can test right there or later that night. For example, on the night that all hell broke loose, Jerry mentioned that, “The king of hearts on playing cards is the only king without a moustache.” As soon as he said that, a fella and his buddies sitting in a corner playing poker checked their kings and yelled that Jerry was right. A few moments after that, he pointed out that Maine is the only state whose name is just one syllable. Some guy sitting at the bar happened to be a Geography teacher and drunkenly confirmed Jerry’s statement. Jerry just nodded without any expression on his face and continued talking. He was used to people confirming what he already knew to be the truth.
Not even a half hour into our night, Roscoe came up to the “stage” and whispered in my ear that there was some hotshot talent scout sitting a few tables away from us. My mouth went dry at the news, so I just nodded to him and he walked off. I couldn’t believe my luck. Since I started playing in The Black Ragdoll, I’ve wanted to take this act of ours on the road, maybe even make it big and get rich. Finally, the chance had arrived. I wasn’t really sure what the hotshot would think of Jerry, but I just continued playing like I usually do.
About 2 hours into our night, at around 8:30, some guy shambled in. I could hardly see him from up on the “stage,” so I didn’t really pay him any attention. A few seconds later, a scream ripped my attention from my piano and I abruptly stopped playing, prompting Jerry to shut up. The guy that had just come in had actually bitten the hotshot guy in the neck. The hotshot was trying to pull away, but it was obvious to just about everybody in the bar that the zombie-guy had him held pretty good. Judging by the blood quickly running down his chest, I didn’t think there was really any chance of him living. However, before I knew what I was doing, I had jumped off of my piano bench, grabbed a cheap bass guitar made somewhere in Korea, bounded from the “stage” and had begun to wail on the zombie-guy. After about three or four good swings, I had knocked him off of the hotshot, and after seven more I was fairly sure that his head was smashed in. I was breathing heavily and shouted at the bartender to change the TV to some news channel, any news channel.
Reports were coming in that the “virus” that had originated in China had made its way over here to America through infected people that were traveling. That much was obvious to us. Somebody peeked out the window and shouted that there were more of them coming, though they were still fairly far away. About two minutes ago, we finished barricading the doors and windows with whatever we could find. We’re hoping to be luckier than the hotshot talent scout lying dead in front of the stage. I’m afraid. Jerry is sitting on the edge of the stage, muttering to himself. God, I hope he has something useful to say for once. We could use it.