I've Been Everywhere

I've Been Everywhere

By Johnny Cash

(All featured music belongs to its respective owners and copyright holders. If you like a song, please support the artist and the industry by purchasing it. Those of you who don't dig country, I'll be novelizing other genres of music. I'm starting with Johnny because he's near and dear to my musical heart.)

As I wandered from my boat, I was faced with an unsettling notion. I didn't know where I was, exactly, just that I somewhere south of Memphis- the Mordor of the southeast- and the Louisiana state line. I hadn't seen a city for hours when I finally ditched the boat, meaning I had a whole lot of nothing to my north. These days, it's a curse and a blessing. Most of the infected won't wander off too far, usually hanging around in the cities, convinced that the shuffling and groaning they hear from each other is actually that of a potential victim. The downside is that zombies, like anything, merely adhered to a system of "usually". The reason for the usually is that there were always unconfirmed reports of chaotic hordes of runners, seeming to appear out of the countryside itself to run down and consume unsuspecting victims. There was no escape from runners, except by water. If you climbed a tree, they'd try to climb after you, tearing out fingernails, toenails, and teeth in the process. Then, they'd try to tear the tree down. If that didn't work, they'd just wait anxiously, staying awake and focused for days at the base of your tree until you died of hypothermia, starvation, dehydration, or fell asleep and lost your balance. Then they'd pick the body clean and move on. 

My only solace was the fact that rumors had to be taken lightly anymore- I'd heard such wild claims as an infected flying bear that breathes fire. Yeah, right. What would a horde be doing out here anyway? Still, in my tired, hungry state of affairs, I was unable to shake off the fear. For entirely too long, I stood in one place, at the base of that levee, and stared at those forever dark woods. At one point, I seriously considered striking a match and burning the entire damned forest down. I'd like to see them sneak up on me then- but then there'd be no need, I'd have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Eventually, I worked myself up to the point of accepting whatever was ahead of me. Standing here meant no food, no good water, and no shelter- it meant certain death. At least I might be able to find something past that first dark curtain of trees.

It was while I was still working up the courage to take that first step into those deep, dark woods when I first heard the low hissing sound come rolling over the levee. It was only there for a second, warped and distorted, like an overheated audio tape, and then it vanished back into the silence it came from. I tilted my head and stared absently at the waist-high grass around me. It was more likely to be a giant mutant snake than what I thought that was. Snakes still existed, after all, while aircraft grade fuel did not. Then, I heard it again, this time with a steady, chattering series of thumps- the hallmark sound of helicopter rotors in flight. When it didn't go away, I turned my face to the swathe of sky I was limited to and squinted. When I still didn't see anything, I decided to scale the levee bank to see if the higher ground would afford me a better look.

It took minutes- long, vulnerable minutes of staring- until the noise grew into a downright roar. I've never flown a helicopter, but I've been close to them, been around them enough to know he was operating pretty close to the ground. Then, I saw it- a brightly painted civilian chopper, rattling along just a few dozen feet above the tree line. The machine seemed to be heading in my direction, so I figured it would be worth a shot to try and flag him down- especially since a noise like that was bound to stir up every monster in those woods. I drew my pistol, grasping it sideways by the barrel, and first aimed the stainless steel slide at the sun. Then, with my extended right hand, I made a 'peace' sign, and placed the helicopter squarely in the middle of the 'V' between my index and middle fingers. I brought the pistol in line with my right shoulder and the 'V', and wobbled the gun back and forth- an action similar to opening the throttle on a motorcycle- three quick times. Then, three more times with a longer break in between. Three more quick movements finished it off. 

From the air, I am indistinguishable from a zombie. Any pilot would've written me off as a brain-muncher if I'd just stood there like one, but there's certain things that zombies just don't do. Using signal mirrors is one of those things. Though the metal slide was the farthest thing from a mirror polish, it was clean and reflective. Reflective metal objects can be seen for miles and miles from the air, long before the human eye can actually distinguish any other visible properties such as shape or color. Add in the fact that by wobbling the gun, I'd made the flash pop in and out of view in an 'SOS' pattern- three short bursts, three long bursts, three short bursts- and there was no way he couldn't have noticed me. I had to stop signalling, though. If held on a pilot too long, the signal mirror technique could actually blind the pilot and cause him to crash at worst, or flip you off as he flies by at best. Really, whether he stopped or not was in his hands.

To my complete and utter shock, the helicopter rocked back a little, slowing some as it approached. The whirlybird still shot over my head, temporarily deafening me and blasting me with a dose of rotor wash. I didn't let that bother me, though, and I managed to keep my composure until it banked hard to the left and began to circle back. That was when I lost it and cracked a grin, holding out my left arm and extending my thumb in the hitchhiker's gesture. It was standard for a helicopter to circle first- not only did it give the pilot a chance to assess the scene and pick a good spot to set down, but these days, it let him search for the possibility of hijackers. To my great relief- though my heart threatened to pound out of my chest with joy- the helicopter began approaching and descending, until it sat down in the field at the base of the levee. 

When he sat down, he summoned me down by beckoning at me through the cockpit glass. The rotors were still going, ready for a quick take-off should the need arise. This also gave me the chance to see that he had nobody else in there with him- just some wooden crates covered in canvas. Then, he pointed at me and put his hands up in the air in the 'stick'em up' pose, and then waved his index finger around in a circle. I was his guest, and as he saw it, it was my duty to show him I wasn't a threat. Fair enough. I did as he asked, setting my gun down, lifting my shirt up, dropping trou to my knees, and doing a three-sixty. After that, I saw him beckoning me to the passenger door. I left my gun- I got the feeling he wasn't letting me on without it. I wasn't too concerned either. In the apocalypse, people had more guns than they knew what to do with- asking someone for one was like asking for a glass of water pre-apocalypse. It wouldn't be hard to get another one. 

When I stepped in, the first thing he did was put the back of his hand against my forehead, and I his- as traditional a gesture for the zombie apocalypse as the handshake pre-zombies. It was more of a matter of self-preservation than saying hello- before people turned, they always developed a fever. It's so bad, some people think that's what does it- that you don't actually die, just that the fever cooks your brain and vital organs alive. It also helped protect against things like Influenza in a world severely lacking in healthcare. When he was satisfied that I wasn't ill, he nodded at me and pointed to the door, implying that I should shut it. When I cooperated, he handed me a headset, and was taking off before I had time to put it on my head.

"Hey there, stranger," he said. 

"Hey now! Thanks for picking me up," I answered. 

"Aw, it's nothing. Fella gets lonely every now and then, need a little conversation to keep ya from going crazy, y'know?" he said. 

"Yeah, yeah I guess so. So... uh... Where were you headed?" I asked, staring out at the woods below.

"Winnemucca," he answered without a second's hesitation. "Last 'safe haven' I visited said that was the place to be. It's not that far from here. Problem is, Winnemucca's one of the worst shitholes yet- nothing but dust and zombies. So now, I don't know where I'm going." The frustration was tangible in his voice, even though the microphone had deadened some of it.

"Well," I said, "I hear good things about Tulsa this time of year."

He shot me the most confused glare I've ever seen. "Listen, mac. I've been to every major city in this here land. There's nothing left, just pockets of people here and there."

I frowned. That couldn't be true, there had to be a holdout somewhere- some city had to have locked down and prepared for it. "Well, what about-"

"Now you listen here," he said, sounding increasingly unsettled, "I've been everywhere, man, everywhere. I've been over the mountains and across the deserts, and there's nothing. I've been to Reno, Chicago, Fargo, Minnesota, Buffalo, Toronto, Winslow, Sarasota, Wichita, Tulsa, Ottowa, Oklahoma, Tampa, Panama, Mattawa, La Paloma, Bangor, Baltimor, Salvador, Amarillo, Tocapillo, Baranquilla, and Perdilla. I've had to shoot men and zombie down alike in almost every one of those towns. That's just scratching the surface- Boston, Charleston, Dayton, Louisiana, Washington, Houston, Kingston, Texarkana, Monterey, Faraday, Santa Fe, Tallapoosa, Glen Rock, Black Rock, Little Rock, Oskaloosa, Tennessee, Tennesse, Chicope, Spirit Lake, Devil's Lake, Crater Lake, they're all dead cities now. Any questions?"

I pondered my next question carefully. If I let him stay mad, there was nothing to say he wouldn't drop me off back in Winnemucca, and if I made him any more unsettled, I suspected he'd try to boot me out in mid-flight. A very thoughtful question was required, so I gave him the one I thought would work best. "Is there anywhere you haven't been?"

There was a long pause where his anger seemed to dissipate, unable to be sustained under the cognitive weight of my question. Then, he sighed and said "Yeah, there's a few places, I reckon. Hell, it'd still be easier to name the places I've been to than those I ain't. I been from Louisville to Shreveport before. Did you know there's a place called Hackensack? Neither did I," he said, he voice shifting into a more reminiscent tone. "Yeah. Pittsburgh made it a good while before it fell. Next stop was El Dorado- that one didn't last too long. Dodge City, heh, that place was just downright pitiful. Where you from?"

"Saint Paul, Minnesota," I told him.

"Hah! Saint Paul, eh? Never been there. Let me guess, it's toast too, huh?" he asked.

"Yep. Coupla weeks ago, I guess. I'd been following that river ever since," I answered.

"Figures. That's great, just great. Well, I can tell you one good thing."

"What's that?"

"If you're down with hanging with me until the Mojave, I know it's safe out there. It's too hot, most zombies avoid it altogether, and the ones that don't rot apart in a matter of two days- too quick for 'em to get into the heart of it. Whaddya think?"