BETH JARULE
My dad was always there for me. He gave me hope, guided me toward my dreams. He told me I could accomplish anything. Said the key is to follow your passion. To ignore the crowd.
Mom was different. She was, how you say, more old-schooled.
“If there's anything you need to know,” she'd always say, “look around you. Turn to the crowd. Follow the crowd. They have the answers. Do as the Romans do.”
When I did something that my mom 'defined' as bad, she'd beat the living crap outta' me. Bamboo broom and all – just full-on WHACK! One night, I found myself in that classic scene where, as a wee child, I heard my parents arguing about me in the kitchen. So I go and hide behind a corner and give a little listen. Yeah. It was about me. More specifically, it was about how to discipline me. Dad was going on about the importance and delicacy of my brain (which we'll get more into later), and Mom was just not hearing it.
She had enough of Dad's “voodoo talk”, is what she said. When they first met, she thought it was cute, but now it was just too weird and too annoying. Dad cautioned of the danger that I may grow up thinking that beating people would fix my problems.
“Let's raise our precious daughter right,” he said. “Let's think this through intelligently. Let's not be stupid about this.”
Of course, Mom came back with, “ Eh! So what dat mean? You sayin' I stupid, eh?!” Then she'd throw frying pans at him.
After Mom died of cancer, Dad got to work on my brain. He said that my thoughts were seeds, and I had to be careful what I was thinking about all the time – what I was planting in the field of my subconscious mind. Most of our days were spent talking about great people throughout history, what it meant to be great, and why people do the things they do. Although he's long since changed bodies, I can still hear him in my skull: “You are Great.” He'd say it every day. Even wrote it out on the refrigerator using magnetic alphabet letters. Sometimes, I'd move old picture frames and find those words written on the walls.
Dad always gave me options. Always showed many examples. I could always choose.
“What are we eating this morning?”
He'd open the refrigerator and ask, “Which feels interesting?”
“What should I wear to school?”
He'd stand me in front of my closet and ask, “Which feels interesting?”
“Which religion should I follow?”
He'd tell me about all of them and ask, “Which feels interesting?”
For my career, I surprised him. I wanted to be an archaeologist, just like him.
“I want to do what you do,” I said. “I want to discover great things.”
He was happy to hear it. He taught me so much about history and relics and all that good stuff. I love what I do. There's nothing else that makes me happier. I love being active in my field. Every day feels like Heaven. My career is always unearthing new things about myself.
Imagine how peaceful the world would be if everyone did for a living what they loved?
I am so grateful to have found my ideal career.
I am so grateful to have had an inspiring dad.
LARS
A month later, I got sick (sore throat, high fever, a general sense of unease) – way too sick to go on any jobs. An important one had come up, and although he begged me to go with him, I convinced Jerome that I couldn't manage by vomiting on command. He said, “Fine. Just know you're not getting paid,” and left.
That was the last I saw him.
No message. No car. Nothing. I assumed he was dead. Probably – most likely – eaten by zombies. I prayed for him. Got down on my hands and knees and prayed that God be good to his soul. Well, that was it. I was on my own again. Went out and made some posters and stuck them onto cars and telephone poles and even to stray dogs. My fliers read: Lars – Zombie hunting expert for hire. Cheap rates!
No one called.
Depressed, I found myself sleeping all the time and taking long showers. The showers were my favorite part. It was how I escaped from the world. Combine that with being drunk, and you got yourself one hell of a meditation. I'd step out from all that steam, look at my watch, and wonder where the time went.
One morning, I was standing naked at the kitchen sink and staring at the running faucet, really not thinking of anything at all...just absorbing the sound of static...just losing myself...when there was a knock on the front door. I ignored it. I didn't want to be bothered. I was on the verge of crying again. I wanted it. I needed release. Needed to get all that sadness out – all that frustration. Holding all that shit inside...felt like I was gonna explode.
“Cry, you ninny.”
And I did.
And it felt good.
More pounding on my front door. Angered, I wrapped a towel around my waist and strolled through the living room, feet pounding, kicking trash. I grabbed a golf club and opened the door.
“What the hell do you want?” I waved around the club. “Can't you see I'm crying!?”
The woman dressed like Indiana Jones stood there with her hand frozen in the air – mid knock – face shocked.
“You're not Jerome,” she said.
I kept my towel from falling around my knees.
“He's not home,” I said, wiping snot from my nose.
She frowned, looking over my shoulder, trying to peek in.
“That fool! I need to chat with him. This is important! Any idea when he'll be home?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“He's probably – most likely – dead.”
“How? What? And why?”
“Zombies, zombies, and zombies.”
“You mean they...ate him?”
“Zombies tend to do that. They don't care. They're like babies. They do what they want.”
“And who are you?”
“Lars. I'm a zombie hunter. Jerome – God rest his soul – was my partner.”
“Partner-partner?”
“No,” I frowned. “Business partner. And anything you have to say to him, you can say to me.”
“Perfect!” she said, and walked right on in.
I was slightly peeved. I still had more crying left in me. I was addicted to the high.
“Make yourself at home,” I said in an irritating way.
The woman was at the kitchen table, taking out all these papers and maps.
“My name is Beth Jarule. I'm an archaeologist.”
“If this is about work, I think you'll find that I'm very cheap. I can handle any zombie. I have years of experience. See? I have scars. This one on my hip was from a zombie pig, back in, I think 1997. This one here, on my other hip, was from a zombie vulture. Strange, but true.”
Beth wasn't even paying attention. She dumped a ton of pictures on the table and held one up right to my face.
“Know what this is?”
“A mountain. So what? Who cares?”
“Not just any mountain, you ignoramus. Mount Tantalus. Also known as Round Top Drive.”
“It's also cursed. A witch lives there with her zombie army. She controls them. Those imbeciles killed my zombie hunting friend – Barbara. The cops looked all over that place. She was never found. No body. No zombies. No nothing.”
“That's depressing. Tell me everything.”
“Not much to tell. She made friends with a foolish writer. They went there and got killed. I didn't go. Once is enough. Any more mind melters?”
“So you've been to Round Top Drive?”
“For a job. This Filipino old man wanted me to bring back his runaway daughter. Said that she was there, at Tantalus. At first I didn't want to go, but after he literally threw money at my face, I did it anyway. Not the best decision I made. When I got there, the place was dead silent. Dark as a mouth full of assholes, too. I saw a zombie dressed like a construction worker standing by a stream, eating a cat. The undead fiend saw me and snarled and drooled green stuff. I guess the others heard him, because more zombies started coming out of th
e ground – hands reaching for air. More came walking out from behind trees, moaning and falling apart. I never saw that many before. I was impressed. Screw it, I thought. I'm outta here! A zombie fell from a tree and tried to bite me. I cried out like a fancy girl and took hold of the beast and tossed it into the crowd of zombies. Too many to deal with. All walking, hungry and excited. As I ran off, kicking zombies in the face as I went, I heard screaming. I saw a damn witch – complete with pointy, black hat – sitting on a broom and floating a little ways off the ground, struggling with a young girl. Crissy. The witch said she was gonna feed Crissy to her children – to her zombies. I ran up and kicked that witch in the head and grabbed Crissy and bolted out of those woods. Crissy was screeching in my ear the whole time. Goddamn those woods. Never again, I swore. Never again.”
Beth shook her head.
“What an awful, exciting story,” she said. “I need you to go back again.”
I held up my hands and backed away.
“F that. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”
I folded my arms across my chest and shut my eyes and turned my head. Beth grunted.
“Even for these hundred dollar bills I'm holding in my hands right now?”
I took the money.
“I will do whatever you tell me to do.”
“I'm going to that mountain today. I need you to watch my back, okay?”
“Yes...master.”
I packed my gear, and we were off.
We didn't talk the whole ride over to the mountain. Even when we unpacked under that hot, messy sun, nothing was said. I walked in front of her, stopping every now and then to squint my eyes and shake my head in disappointment and move on. Was she getting the picture? Was I shaking my head hard enough? This was a bad idea. A bad job. A bad everything. The things I did for money....
We were careful not to be seen by passing hikers. In the thick of the woods, I stopped in front of a sign that read: “There be Zombies Here.” It was written with a black marker, and the “Z” was backwards. I looked closer. Blood was on the sign. Fresh blood, judging by the flies swimming in the goo. I threw my hands up and turned to Beth and put on my best sad face.
“This is it. We can still turn back.”
She walked on by me.
“No!”
I reached out to her.
“Stop. Don't make me do this, please. I can't bear it. I don't want to die here. Not here.”
I could see through the back of her head that she was rolling her eyes. She turned around and threw a dollar bill at me. It stuck to the sweat on my face. I took it and crumpled it up and stuffed it down my pocket.
“I will do whatever you ask of me,” I said.
Beth reached into her backpack and pulled out a stick.
“A gift from my dad. Given to him by a three-eyed fortuneteller in exchange for ten albino camels, so you know it's good.”
“Ten albino camels for a stick? What a rip off. It's not even a handsome stick.”
“This Y-shaped dowsing rod is made from the same wood the ark is made of. For years, it's pointed toward Oahu.”
She stared at it like a hypnotist and gave it a good squeeze.
“Guide me. Help me find the entrance to the ark. I love you. Guide me now!”
The thing moved in her hands – jumped around. I was skeptical. Was it a trick? Was she trying to impress me? Beth spun around a few times, stopped, and walked off with the rod held out in front of her.
“Yes! It's working! Guide me! Usher me! Escort meee!”
It was an uphill walk, and my feet hurt. I hid behind a tree and drank a beer to help soothe the pain.
Beth...she began talking.
“My dad was the one that found the ancient scripture, under the Great Sphinx of Giza...under its right paw. Dad said that one day he heard the Sphinx whispering to him, telling him where to dig. Took him a week to find the scripture describing Noah's three arks.”
My sides hurt. Too much drinking did that to me. So I drank a bit more to dull that irritation. I was careful that Beth didn't see me, well, drinking on the job, ha ha ha.
“Ehhh? I thought Noah just made one ark,” I said. “A really BIG one. Right?”
“Wrong,” Beth said. “Noah had three arks. He made one for typical animals, one for unicorns, and one for transdolphins. This mountain – Round Top Drive – IS the ark holding the transdolphins...and I'm going to open it. What could go wrong?”
“This is amazing! I can't believe it ended up here in Hawaii.”
“The great flood scattered the arks. The biggest one – the one with standard animals – is sitting on top an icy mountain somewhere. I'm not sure where the Unicorn Ark is. My theory is that it's under the ocean. The Transdolphin Ark is the smallest – its front door hidden somewhere in the mountain, under all that dirt and grass. I'm screwed if to get in I gotta go digging under some tree or house. But let's stay positive. We're getting close. I can smell it. Can't you? Bah! Of course you can't. You're no archaeologist. You're just a zombie hunter for hire. All you smell is money.”
I was mildly insulted, but I let her continue talking.
“I smell discovery,” she said, sniffing the air. “I smell history. Sacred history. Dangerous history.”
I was getting the anxiety again. I wasn't drunk enough. My legs wanted to disconnect from my body and run back to the truck and hide under the seats. Terrible thoughts of doom and gloom.
“I can smell their stink. The walking dead are here. All around us. Under the ground. In the trees,” I said, struggling to breathe. “This is too risky. What are we getting ourselves into?”
“I don't care,” Beth said. “I must find the ark. Nothing can stop me. I will bring respect back to my father's name. I will prove that he wasn't crazy. My dad was not crazy.” She turned around and pointed at me and yelled, “I AM NOT CRAZY!”
I froze.
Her hand was shaking. It looked like she wanted to weep – bottom lip trembling, eyes huge. We looked at each other for a really long time. Two hikers walked down. They warned us about strange activity.
“Wild animals are up there,” said hiker #1, combing her sweaty, knotted hair. “There was all this growling. I put on my clothes, got hold of my husband and ran us the heck out of there. What a way to spend your honeymoon.”
Hiker #2 shook his head.
“I've always heard rumors of jaguars in Hawaii. Could it be true? Be warned.”
Beth's magic stick jumped and aimed up the mountain.
She grinned at me.
Later, we stopped and had a little picnic of sandwiches and milk. Beth showed me drawings of some dolphins. Arrows from them pointed to naked men and women. A giant arrow pointed to a combination of both. What strange creatures. They looked somewhat humorous, but I didn't dare giggle. Beth looked dead serious.
“People laughed at him. Respectful people spat at him on the streets. My dad couldn't take the ridicule. In a drunken rage of shame, my old man burned the scripture. Before his depression, he did translate it. Wrote it all down in a notebook. Good thing I stole it, or else he would've burned it up, too.” She pointed to a page. “This is a rough translation. The scripture goes on to say, 'Ah, praise! O yes, and then God made fine animals that danced on the earth. But they were dumb and excitable, and God was unable to hold intelligent conversations with them. Unsatisfied, He invented fine humans of the male and female sort, and all was satisfactory. However...some time passed, and people became thoughtful and magically became wicked: Hating one another, prostituting one another, molesting one another, drunking one another, shouting gossip, and sometimes fondling one another and shouting gossip at the same time, and there was much stealing and general complaining. An astounding disgrace took over the world....'”
I shook my head.
“I know all of this from Sunday school,” I said. “Please, go on.”
Beth raised her finger, eyes glued to the page.
“And I quote: 'Upset about His last conc
oction, God decided to invent a new creature, one that would tame the wild beasts known as man and woman, and help them in their farming and in the building of houses and in the pulling of wagons and yachts and yaks. So, with the blast of those nostrils, He somehow created the unicorns, and it was good. For a long time, human and unicorn lived together in peace of mind, with the unicorn teaching the man about love and teamwork, and the woman about birth and cleanliness and all that. However...like the full glass of water made halfway...man once again got the bad vibes, and enslaved the unicorn to dig for precious gold and forced them to fashion said gold into fine coins and tiaras. Upset, the unicorns rebelled and drove their horns into some people and set fire to others by chasing them into burning buildings. A stink, outstanding mist of cooked meat filled the air. All hope was lost. Sitting on His throne of cloud, God shook His head. The world, once again, was a wreck. But He was not without pity, meaning that He had much pity. To help the few remaining humans, God merged the general intelligence and compassion of the dolphin with the extremities of the man and too the woman, and created transdolphins to destroy those horses with the horn on top. Human and unicorn and transdolphin were in various battles of blood and spit and other mean fluids. The world shook with the cries from mouth and sword. But hope was not lost, for a patch of land on the noisy planet found peace. God looked down on this all right place, and He was laughing in a good way. Here, transdolphin and human and unicorn lived in relaxation. A great man ruled the land, and he was called Boah. When this fine man died of a normal skin-eating disease, his equally fine brother took over the land, and his name was Noah. And indeed, because of his great leadership skills, this land found peace for some time. And this land was called...Dwarka.'”
“Hmmm,” I went.
Beth continued reading.
“'However, in other parts of the world, there was still great confusion and horrible bickering between the three races. God thought for a long time. Something had to be done. He needed a solution to this problem. He needed a gentle idea. This was a delicate situation. Lives were on the line. Souls were at stake. And thus let there be praise all around, for He did finally receive said idea. Hence: A giant flood. And He snapped His mighty fingers, and the world BOOMED and turned upside down, and all the oceans were upset, and this great deluge cleansed the lands. However...before that terribleness, God spoke to Noah and told him to fashion three arks. These, yes, fine peoples and unicorns and transdolphins who lived in that fine land of Dwarka were to be saved for a happier time. Peace. Peace. Peace. The end.'”