THE ZOM ZOM CHRONICLES chapter 17 ( The Trashberg Titanic (Why does the river smell like burning hair?)
aop3d techShare
THE ZOM ZOM CHRONICLES
Post Title: The Trashberg Titanic (Why does the river smell like burning hair?)
Date: Thursday Morning
Mood: Nauseous.
Current Status: Prying a diaper out of the boat propeller.
You know how people say, "One man's trash is another man's treasure?"
In the apocalypse, one man's trash is a floating island of horror that tries to eat your boat.
We approached The Garbage Patch. It spanned the entire width of the river, a festering mosaic of styrofoam coolers, driftwood, plastic bottles, and unidentifiable sludge.
"Cut the engine!" Joe hissed. "If the intake sucks up a plastic bag, we're dead in the water."
The roaring motor died. The silence that followed was heavy. We drifted toward the blockade, carried by the slow, oily current.
"We need to pole through," Brenda commanded. She grabbed a long piece of scrap pipe. I grabbed my stick. Dave grabbed a broken oar.
We pushed against the wall of garbage. It felt squishy.
The Squeeze
There was a narrow gap near the eastern bank—a channel about five feet wide between the concrete retaining wall and the mass of floating refuse.
"Keep us off the wall," Joe grunted, using the tiller to guide us.
We slid into the channel. It was like entering a canyon of filth. On our left, a wall of wet mattresses and tangled fishing nets towered over us. On our right, the slick concrete wall.
The smell was indescribable. It was a physical weight on my chest.
"I see something," Dave whispered, pointing into the trash wall. "Inside the refrigerator."
Embedded in the wall of junk was an old, doorless refrigerator, floating on its back. And curled inside it, like a hermit crab in a shell, was a Zom Zom.
It was pale, bloated, and covered in algae. It was missing an arm. It watched us glide by with milky, dead eyes.
"Don't touch it," I whispered. "Don't even breathe at it."
The Grab
We were halfway through the gap when the raft lurched.
SCREEEEEEECH.
Something metal in the trash pile snagged the side of our pontoons. We stopped dead.
"We're hooked," Joe growled. "Dave, get the pole. Push us off."
Dave leaned over the side, jamming his oar into the trash pile to lever us free. He pushed. The trash shifted.
Suddenly, the trash pile erupted.
It wasn't just garbage. The fishing nets were tangled around bodies. Three Zom Zoms, woven into the debris like structural support beams, surged forward.
One of them—wearing a "World's Best Dad" t-shirt—lunged out of a tangle of garden hoses. It grabbed Dave's oar.
"Let go!" Dave shrieked, playing tug-of-war with the undead.
"Dave! Drop the oar!" I yelled.
But another hand shot out of the water—a skeletal, muddy hand—and grabbed the side of our raft. Then another. They were pulling themselves out of the garbage, trying to climb onto The Rusty Bucket.
Buster went berserk. BARK! BARK! BARK!
The giant Rottweiler lunged at the railing, snapping at the muddy fingers.
"The torch!" Brenda yelled. "Joe, the torch!"
Joe didn't hesitate. He clicked the starter on his propane-leaf-blower contraption.
WHOOOOSH.
A jet of blue flame roared out. He swept it across the side of the trash barge.
Plastic melted instantly. The fishing nets snapped. The Zom Zoms didn't scream, but their skin blistered and popped. They recoiled from the heat, releasing the raft.
"PUSH!" Brenda screamed.
I jammed my stick against a burning tire and shoved with everything I had.
The raft groaned, scraped, and then—pop—we broke free.
We drifted out of the narrow channel and into open water, leaving behind a smoking, smelling wall of burning garbage and angry groans.
"Note to self," Dave panted, clutching his chest. "Recycling is dangerous."
LOOT TABLE: RIVER DEBRIS
(Items we fished out of the water with a net while drifting, because we are scavengers now.)
While we waited for the engine to cool down, Brenda insisted on "resource acquisition." Here is what we found floating in the River of Doom.
Item |
Condition |
Utility |
Notes |
Cooler (Styrofoam) |
Damaged |
High |
Contained six cans of generic root beer and a sandwich that was now a biology experiment. Kept the root beer. |
Fishing Hat |
Wet |
Cosmetic |
Dave is wearing it now. He thinks it makes him look rugged. It makes him look like a lost toddler. |
Plastic Bag (Sealed) |
Good |
Legendary |
Inside was a pristine, dry pack of playing cards. Morale +10. |
Mannequin Head |
Terrifying |
None |
We thought it was a severed head. Dave screamed. We threw it back. |
License Plate |
Rusty |
Weapon |
Brenda sharpened the edge on the concrete wall. It is now a shiv. |
Garden Gnome |
Heavy |
Ammo |
Good for throwing at swimmers. |
THE DIARIES OF BUSTER (TRANSLATED)
Entry: The Wet Moving Floor
I do not like the Wet Moving Floor.
The Metal Man (Joe) put me on this thing. It wobbles. It smells like the Bad Water. I cannot find a place to put my paws where the ground stays still.
The Pack is nervous.
-
The Loud Lady (Brenda): She smells like sharp markers. She stands very tall. She is the Alpha, I think.
-
The Stick Man (Narrator): He gives me ear scratches when the Metal Man isn't looking. He smells like old milk (cheese). I like him.
-
The Small Nervous One (Dave): He smells like fear and fake sugar. He holds the Small Soft Gun. It does nothing. He is a puppy. I must protect him.
-
The Sharp Fluff (Mister Whiskers): The enemy. He sits on the high box. He looks at me with his yellow eyes. He knows I cannot reach him. One day, the water will splash him. I will laugh.