"John, you need to get whatever you think is important and we need to get out of here," I said. He was too lost in the vision before him to even take note I had not called him by his proper name.

"Get up, get out, get out of the door," he said still in a sing-song mode.

Good, I thought, he's on the same page. At least that is what I thought until I realized he was still singing the song. "John!" I said grabbing him by the shoulders. "We need to get the f.u.c.k out of here!" I yelled, small flecks of spittle hitting him in the face, he didn't seem concerned.

"I know that, does John, though?" he asked.

"Probably not. Grab whatever you think is important and can help," I added. Who knew what he thought was important. For all I knew, he would start ripping out the copper piping down in his bas.e.m.e.nt. "Do you have a car?"

"A car? No," he answered, I could physically witness his thought process as he was trying to go through the catalog of his possessions.

My heart sank. It was going to suck trying to get out of the city ahead of the zombies and the fire.

"I've got a van, though."

I almost kissed him, until I began to wonder if maybe he was using it as a planter in the backyard or something equally as useless. "Keys?"

"In the ignition," he said, turning back towards the fire. "I was always losing them and that seemed like the safest place.

"It runs then?" I asked, still keeping my fingers crossed.

"In the garage," he said pointing. "I grew up a few streets away from here before I became a roadie. I loved being on the road, but there was always a part of me that wanted to come home." Tears were forming in his eyes. "I heard that you can never go home, but that isn't true. I did, married my high school sweetheart...she still held a flame for me after all those years I was away. We took some cooking cla.s.ses because we liked to eat well when we got the eats." He smiled sideways as he reminisced. "Come to find out, I was something of a protege in the kitchen and ended up teaching the cla.s.s the following year. Stephanie never got any better, but she attended just to stay close to me." He didn't clarify, but I figured Stephanie was his wife. "We were married for seven of the greatest years of my life."

"I'm sorry, John the Tripper, I am. What happened?"

"She went to Washington."

"What?" I figured she had contracted some rare blood disease and died in his arms.

"She got a job offer. She wanted me to move with her, but I had finally come home and I didn't want to leave again."

I wanted to berate him for letting the love of his life get away from him, but it was his life to live as he saw fit. Who the h.e.l.l was I to tell him differently? s.h.i.t, I was just some bald guy wearing a poncho and a tin foil hat. I would have been shunned by b.u.ms in Detroit. "I'm sorry," was all I could muster."

"For what?" he asked, looking at me. I truly think he forgot the entire thread of the conversation we were just having.

"Ah...nothing. Do you have any shoes I could wear?" I asked as I looked down at my yellow-rimmed tube socks.

"You going somewhere? I sure could use some mushrooms."

"For cooking or eating?"

"Both, what else would I do with them."

"I was thinking you meant the psychedelic kind."

"Oh no, those taste like s.h.i.t. I make sheet acid."

"Forget I asked. John, I need some shoes if you have them, and you need to go pack some s.h.i.t up. We need to get out of here."

"Why would I pack s.h.i.t up?" he asked.

"Figure of speech."

"You make no sense, man," he told me as he headed up his stairs. I really hope it wasn't for a nap.

"Well this is a first," I said to the empty room. "I'm not the craziest one in attendance."

"What size foot do you have?" John the Tripper yelled down.

"Ten!" I yelled back up.

"I'm an eight. Can you fit in those?"

"When I was twelve maybe."

"Well can you or can't you then?" he yelled down.

I think I would be better off with socks rather than trying to cram my feet into a shoe two sizes too small.

"You could wear a pair of Stephanie's that she left behind!"

"I don't think that's going to work."

"She was a women's thirteen!" he added.

"What are they canoes?" I asked softly, I didn't think he would have heard me.

"She had a condition."

"Amazonian?"

"A women's thirteen is about a men's eleven-and-a-half. You want them?"

"Sure, bring some extra socks." Now I just had to get over my phobia of putting on someone else's shoes. Hadn't been bowling in over twenty-five years after I once figured out how many nasty-a.s.s feet those things had been donned on. And that little squirt of disinfectant deodorant that the 'shoe technician' put in there would do little to overwhelm the hardy microbes that must be breeding vigorously in that germ-rich soup of toe fungus and foot jam. How's that sound for appealing? Might as well dip your feet in dirty toilet water.

I was still rubbing the unseen germs off of me when John came back down the stairs. He was carrying an armload of socks and quite possibly the brightest pink sneakers I had ever seen in my life. I mean they looked as if they were potentially battery powered.

"You're kidding right? Please?" I begged.

"I like socks."

"No the sneakers."

"No, Stephanie left a bunch of stuff behind. We're still married. She visits about once every two months...she's late this time though."

My mouth opened, he had once again surprised me. I moved on to something I understood.

"Can you shut those off?" I asked, shielding my eyes from the brightness.

"You're a funny b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he said, handing over the shoes and some socks.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," I said sadly as I went over to the couch to put on my new digs.

John went over to another table in the far corner of the room. He retrieved a large folder that looked thick with paperwork.

"I don't think you're going to need to file taxes any time soon," I said, looking up happily. The sneakers were ugly as h.e.l.l, but with the added pair of socks, they fit pretty well. Plus, I had the bonus of being able to walk on water if the need arose.

"I've never filed taxes," he said.

"You're kind of my hero right now," I told him as I stood, surprised at how well Stephanie's footwear felt.

"I'm ready to go," he said, heading towards the kitchen.

"That's it? That's all you want to take?" I asked him. "Paperwork?"

"Oh s.h.i.t, man!" he exclaimed when he turned to me.

"What?" I asked looking around wildly.

"My wife has shoes just like that! How weird is that!"

"Weirder than you know. Let's get out of here."

He led the way into the kitchen which had a door to an attached garage, thank G.o.d for small favors. The garage was filled with fine soot that was coming in through a partially broken window, but even that did little to obscure the rainbow painted VW van sitting there.

"Did I really expect anything else?" I told the G.o.ds of irony.

"Isn't she a beauty? I bought her brand new back in '92."

I didn't have the heart to tell him they stopped production of his particular model somewhere around the mid-seventies. And beauty was not a word that could be used to describe what rested in his garage. The bright paint did little to hide the various rust holes or the vast number of dings, the van looked like it had been parked on the moon for a few centuries and had suffered a barrage of micro meteor hits.

"It runs?" was all I could ask. It looked too beat up to even be considered a hippie planter.

"Stephanie can't cook worth a s.h.i.t," he said conspiratorially. "Don't tell her that," he added as if she were in the next room. "But she has a way with tools like you wouldn't believe."

I was now secretly wondering if perhaps Ship-Sized-Shoe-Stephanie, who couldn't cook but could apparently keep an ancient vehicle finely tuned may or may not be of the feminine persuasion. Again it made absolutely no difference to me, just fodder for my thoughts.

I handed the keys back to John, I wasn't too particularly thrilled with someone of his mental state driving, but it was still his car.

"Oh s.h.i.t no, man," John the Tripper said, pushing the keys back. "I haven't driven since '88 and I just dosed."

"You're kidding right?"

"Nope."

"Besides thinking that right now was a perfect time to drop acid, why would you buy a car if you don't even drive?"

"The dealer said it fit me."

I shrugged. "It does, but that still doesn't make much sense."

"You feeling anything yet?"

"About what?"

"I put some in your fire water."

CHAPTER SIX.

Eliza & Tomas Tomas sat for a moment longer. His sister turned her gaze back towards the city that was now under attack. He had felt Michael, of that he was one hundred percent sure, but then what? He could not figure it out; it was as if someone had used the Jaws of Life to severe their connection. Tomas was certain that Mike yet lived, because the connection had not faded to black; it had just stopped even as it was increasing in strength. No, something else was happening here. So when his sister suggested they go and join in the fun down below, he was all for it, if only to see whether he could get some clues and possibly feed; he was so hungry.

"Do you smell that, Tomas?" Eliza asked as she tilted her nose up.

"I smell fire and fear," Tomas said morosely.

"Exactly," she answered with a smile. They had just reached the outskirts of the city and were coming in from the west the zombies were pouring in from the north.

"What are you two doing?" a woman shouted from her porch. She was flanked by three malnourished children, all of which were carrying rifles of varying calibers.

"We are just going for a stroll," Eliza answered in a sing-song voice, grabbing Tomas' arm.

"You need to get out of the street!" the woman cried. "There are zombies all over the place!" The woman was dressed in a moo-moo that at one time may have fit, but now billowed in the breeze. Her hair was pulled back tightly, pinching her sagging flesh against her ears.

"Are we truly in danger?" Eliza asked aghast, placing her hand to her breast.

"Is she daft?" the woman asked Tomas.

"Most likely," Tomas said. Eliza shot him a wicked glance.

"Come in here!" the woman screamed.

Eliza started heading towards the door.

"What are you doing?" Tomas asked.

"She's inviting us in for dinner, Tomas. It would be rude of us not to accept."

"They're just children, Eliza," Tomas moaned.

"That's what makes it so special. Come on, Tomas."

He reluctantly followed.