Haitian Guide to Zombie Apocalypse

"We need to leave Boston, the city has fallen to the zombies and the military are going to bomb it," Patrick Fils-Aime said urgently. A rather tense silence reigned over the family living room. This wasn't a good sign, Patrick figured. The big and tall young black man looked at his relatives. Uncle Gavin, Aunt Malina and twin cousins Dominic and Valentina didn't seem to have heard what Patrick said. Their eyes were glued to the TV. CW News was going on and on about the Massachusetts National Guard duking it out with the zombies in places like Brockton, Fall River and even distant Plymouth. How could they think this would solve anything?

"You forget yourself, nephew, I do the voice raising around here," Gavin Fils-Aime said sternly. The dark-skinned and silver-haired Haitian patriarch shot Patrick a disapproving look. Patrick had been on the receiving end of that look ever since he came to live with Uncle Gavin after his parents Francisco and Elsa Fils-Aime died in a car accident. Some things never change. Even the damned zombie apocalypse cannot make stubborn old Haitians give up their bad habits. Oh well...

"The Governor of Massachusetts said to shelter in place," Aunt Malina said sternly. Patrick swallowed hard. If Aunt Malina saw things his way, she might have been able to persuade Uncle Gavin and the others. He looked to his cousins Dominic and Valentina. The twins had just completed their first year at UMass-Boston and were home for the summer. Patrick looked to Dominic, the only one under this roof whom he was close to. The tall, bespectacled young Haitian American man met Patrick's gaze and the message silently emanating from him was simple. Shut the fuck up.

"Alright, I tried," Patrick said, shrugging. He went to the basement, and packed up some clothes, canned goods, medicine and water. Seated at a corner of the vast basement, Harriet the dog looked curiously at her master. Patrick smiled and patted the dog's head. He went to his fridge, and took a bunch of dog food. He put it in his backpack. Grabbing Harriet's leash, Patrick fixed it on the dog's collar and then led her out through the basement's backdoor.

Patrick got in his beat-up old Toyota with Harriet in the backseat. Man and dog headed out of Dorchester. The City of Boston was alive with gunfire, the sound of explosions and screaming. Ordinary men and women of all hues found themselves pitted against the Living Dead and the damned zombies were definitely winning. One bite, one scratch, and a perfectly normal and decent man or woman gets infected, and then becomes a zombie in a few hours. The spread of the infection made any containment efforts meaningless. The zombies were invincible...

"Time to hit the road," Patrick said to himself. Harriet the dog woofed in the back. Patrick smiled at the dog then focused on the road. He headed to I-95, the Interstate linking the States of Massachusetts and Rhode Island. The normally packed highway was massively congested. It seemed like everyone was trying to get out of Beantown and its surroundings. Patrick had four large cans of gasoline which ought to last him long enough to make it out of Massachusetts. There were spare tires in the trunk, along with weapons. A machete, an axe and three long knives consisted the totality of Patrick's weapons. He wasn't a gun-toting brother, no matter what the stereotypes said about 'hood' dudes in New England.

Patrick and Harriet arrived at the border between Providence, Rhode Island, and the State of Massachusetts. There was a large military presence there. A lineup of cars at least several hundred vehicles long was queued up on the highway. At the beginning of it, uniformed men and women holding guns ordered ordinary people to step out of the cars. People in hazmat suits were conducting tests on the drivers. Military dogs barked fiercely at some people while ignoring others. What in the actual fuck?

"So much for the land of the free," Patrick muttered to himself. He turned on the radio since it looked like they were going to be there a while. In the backseat, Harriet the dog woofed once more. Patrick took some doggie treats and gave them to the dog. He laid a water bowl flat on the backseat floor and Harriet slaked her thirst. It was beginning to look like a hot summer day. Late June in New England is normally quite beautiful and pleasant. Patrick used to go play soccer with buddies in Bridgewater. He also attended parties in Brockton, city of the hot Cape Verdean chicks. Good times.

None of the usual disk jockeys played any music on the radio no matter which channel Patrick tuned into. Everyone was talking about the zombie apocalypse. Someone said something about the President leaving the White House and retreating to a secure bunker. Patrick laughed at that. The wealthy and the powerful always have a way out when the shit hits the fan. The zombie apocalypse and that decades-old movie Titanic definitely had something in common.

Since Patrick wasn't moving, Patrick went on his cell phone. He skipped the news and instead went to a porn spot. He went to the black porn section and chose an old favorite. Legendary black male porn star LT was having some fun with a big-booty sister named Blu Magic. Blu Magic, a tall and curvy, dark-skinned honey, lay on her back as LT worked his big black cock into her asshole. Patrick watched the video enviously. Blu Magic the porn star reminded Patrick of his former classmate Kali Rampersad, a tall, big booty black chick who was nice but never gave him the time of day. Patrick finished the video and then resumed watching traffic.

At some point, Patrick must have nodded off because he was snapped out of his stupor by the sound of screaming. In the backseat, Harriet the dog barked furiously. Patrick looked around and saw people getting out of their vehicles and running. Men, women, black, white, brown and everything in between. Everyone was running. An old white lady ran past Patrick's car with her orange cat in her arms. Patrick shook his head. He stuck his head the window and tried to see what was behind the crowd. What Patrick saw shocked him to his core...

A horde of zombies was walking, and literally eating its way through I-95, dragging people out of their cars and feeding on them. Patrick's blood ran cold. The young Haitian American man forced himself to be calm. He had his car, and weapons, and food, plus his dog, he ought to be alright. Patrick patted Harriet the dog on her furry head. Taking a deep breath, Patrick stepped out of his beat-up old Toyota with Harriet in tow. Man and dog stared at the scene of chaos.

"Fuck that, let's get out of here," Patrick grumbled. He grabbed a bag full of food, water and rations for both himself and Harriet the dog, and then took his weapons. Bending down on one knee, Patrick removed Harriet's leash and collar. He trusted the little dog to follow him wherever he went. Man and dog exchanged a look. This was it. The moment of truth. With a baseball bat in his hand, a heavy bag full of supplies on his back and his trusty dog Harriet by his side, Patrick went to face the zombie apocalypse.