The Redneck Clean-Up Crew: A Short Story

I awoke on the road beside my truck, right ear ringing as I propped myself up on my left elbow. Bo, Jim, and Bert were sitting around me in different states of recline.

"What the heck was that about?" I yelled at Bo, realizing my mistake as the ringing increased to a high-pitched whine as I spoke. My right hand immediately cupped the offending area.

The boys rolled back, hooting with laughter. Bert was literally rolling on his back and holding his belly as his flannel-and-camo-covered body shook with waves mirth.

"You shouldda seen yerself doing that faceplant," Jim explained through tobacco-stained teeth.

"You shot at me," I said, returning to my original question. I swiveled back toward Bo with one hand still holding my ear.

"No,"

I climbed up into the bed of the pickup and they all piled into the cab. I noticed a few sideways glances from them before I settled with my back to the cab’s rear window. As my eyes grew heavy from the events of the last few hours, I could hear them arguing about what they should call themselves. "The Redneck Zombie Clean-up Crew... The Hillbilly Headshot Posse..."

I woke to the sound of shotguns firing and the hooting of my saviors. Gripping the side of the truck bed, I hauled myself up to see what was happening.

Bo and the boys had leapt from the truck and were off the road about twenty yards, looking at something in the grass. I quickly surveyed my surroundings for any danger and, feeling relatively safe, I took a seat on the cab roof.

In the movies, the living always seems to have boundless energy; constantly on the move, never taking a moment to rest or even relieve themselves. In reality, I was exhausted. Coming off of the adrenaline rush, I could have gone right back to sleep. I never did get that nap back at home.

Curiosity got the best of me as I rose once again and hopped down from the full-sized pickup. The dirt road gave way to brush as I approached my travel mates.

"What ya got?" I asked no one in