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       Indian Hill, p.1

           Mark Tufo
Indian Hill

  Indian Hill


  Mark Tufo

  Electronic Edition

  Copyright 2009 Mark Tufo

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  Cover Art: Shaed Studios,

  Electronic Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Dedicated to my wife, who is my muse, my inspiration and my partner in life. (Just like a woman to be able to multi-task, I’m lucky if I can make toast and tie my shoes at the same time, although why I’d need to do those two things at once, who knows?)

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter One – Journal Entry 1

  Chapter Two – Journal Entry 2

  Chapter Three – Journal Entry 3

  Chapter Four – Journal Entry 4

  Chapter Five – Journal Entry 5

  Chapter Six – Journal Entry 6

  Chapter Seven – Journal Entry 7

  Chapter Eight – Journal Entry 8

  Chapter Nine – Journal Entry 9

  Chapter Ten – Journal Entry 10

  Chapter Eleven – Journal Entry 11

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen- Journal Entry 12

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen – Journal Entry 13

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen – Journal Entry 14

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen – Journal Entry 15

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One – Journal Entry 16

  Chapter Twenty Two – Journal Entry 17

  Chapter Twenty Three – Journal Entry 18

  Chapter Twenty Four – Journal Entry 19

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six – Journal Entry 20

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine – Journal Entry 21

  Chapter Thirty – Journal Entry 22

  Chapter Thirty One – Journal Entry 23

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four – Journal Entry 24

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven – Journal Entry 25

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty – Journal Entry 26

  Chapter Forty One

  Chapter Forty Two – Journal Entry 27

  Chapter Forty Three

  Chapter Forty Four

  Chapter Forty Five – Journal Entry 28

  Chapter Forty Six

  Chapter Forty Seven – Journal Entry 29

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Chapter Forty Nine – Journal Entry 30

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty One

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Foreword: Hello Dear Reader so some of you may stumble upon this series after reading the Zombie Fallout stories, and you’ll get to the beginning and be like ‘WTF is Michael Talbot doing in this book? Oh he’s just trying to capitalize on that name.’ I can assure you that is not the case, this story was started some 25 years before Zombie Fallout ever saw the light of day. I can see your next question, ‘So then why stick with that name in the Zombie Fallout books?’ valid question it is. I guess part of it is that I never thought so many folks would love the ZF series and I was more writing it for myself so that I didn’t drive my wife nuts while I was once again laid off from corporate America. There was a point where I could have changed it either in this series or the other but by that point I came across the idea that these are the misadventures of Michael Talbot’s alternate realities. I feel sorry for the bastard he sure has a penchant for getting in to trouble. I don’t think I’ll write another series with Michael as the lead protagonist maybe it’s time he got to go out to pasture. So with that in mind I do hope you enjoy this book.


  Hello, my name is Michael Talbot, Mike for short. I’m 21 years old and a Captain in the U.E.M.C., (United Earth Marine Corps) and war has been raging on our planet for what seems like years now and one would think that from the devastation wrought to our home world. I’m writing these memoirs now because I don’t know if or when I will ever be able to again. The woman I love with all my heart is sleeping, she sleeps a lot these days, and I want to leave something to the child she carries within her. Tomorrow begins our final assault for good or bad, I am to go back up to a ship I vowed twice to never step foot on again, well third time must be the charm and if I should fall I want my unborn son or daughter to know all the grief, suffering and hope that I have carried since this all began. So this is my story - I’m not William Shakespeare, I’m not George Orwell, hell I’m not even Stephen King. (Don’t get me wrong, I love Stephen King, I’ve read all of his stories.) But back to the point, I’m just a person with a story, but please don’t be let down, it’s one hell of story. By now you know the ending thus far… I’m alive. But how I got here might be a tale worth sitting down to and reading. The parts I didn’t physically witness I was able to fill in along the way. And if I’m lucky and I last long enough, I may be able to tell you how this whole mess ends up. Well, if you’re ready dear reader, my child, I’m going to get this show on the road.

  CHAPTER 1 – Journal Entry 1

  The year was 1984, September 1984 to be more specific, I had just started college and my new life; I was finally out from under the rule of my tyrannical mother, your grandmother. I had begun to date who I thought was the perfect woman, all was well with the world. Eighteen and in love, there can be no better feeling. But maybe I should stop there, I’m going to go back a little further in this story. Four years and some change to be exact.

  June 1980. I did the majority of my growing up in the suburbs of Boston in a tiny little town named Walpole, with a non-existent father and an over-bearing mother. Oh, the stories I could tell you about her, but I have no desire to write a Psychology 101 book. We had lived in Boston proper for the first 14 years of my life, and then my mother decided that the house I had grown up in was too big. The dice had been rolled, my parents had made the most fateful decision regarding this story. We moved out of Boston and its ‘bad’ schools and into the past. At least that’s what it felt like to me. Here we were in downtown Boston where everything and everybody was going a mile a minute, to Walpole, Massachusetts, a town right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. They even had soda fountain shoppes. I was going friggen nuts. The boys around here liked to do things like go fishing or hiking at some place called ‘Indian Hill.’ Gee, did they go to ‘picture shows’ on Saturday nights too? Golly gee willickers, Mom, the ice cream man’s coming, can I have a nickel? Did you wash behind your ears? I thought I was in ‘Leave it to Beaver’ only this was more Twilight Zone-ish because I wasn’t watching it, I was now part of it. That first summer was the toughest in my young life. None of the kids I semi-hung around with wanted to do anything that I thought was pretty cool. Like throwing rocks at the passing trains or stealing liquor out of mommy and daddy’s liquor cabinet, or pilfering Playboys from the local variety store. They wanted to fish and paint fences and suck cow teets. It was hell. The upcoming school year did little to improve my mood. Great, I thought to myself, now I get to be expose
d to the whole damn crazy village as opposed to just a few of the village idiots. My mother couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t out with the other boys enjoying the fresh air. And do what, Ma, plant flowers? So the summer pretty much came and went without too much fanfare. I had a couple of people you might call friends, but I wasn’t sure if I’d even get wet if they were drowning, if you catch my meaning. September came and I trudged myself to school, my mom had offered a ride but I was having a hard enough time adjusting without my mother dropping me off in her beat up station wagon. I had slumbered through the first five periods of my first day of junior high, only perking up enough to check out a couple of the finer things, I mean girls.

  Eating lunch alone was a blast (that would be sarcasm). My semi-buds had the next lunch bell. Oh man, this school year was going to be as painful as the summer. And then came Algebra. I didn’t think much of it, what teen does. I sat as far from the front as I could, which luckily with all these Johnny’s and Becky’s wasn’t a tough seat to get. Last row, far left. The teacher had turned to write her name on the wall. I was just getting ready to write her name down, when ‘splat’ a huge spitball landed right next to her face. She had spit juice all over her face and the front of her blouse. Whoever had been working on that beauty must have started two periods ago, that sucker looked to be two whole sheets of paper. Of course she immediately looked at me as did the rest of the class.

  “Mr. Talbot, I need you to go to the principal’s office,” one exasperated teacher named Mrs. Weinstedder said.

  “I didn’t do anything!” I pleaded. I sure didn’t need my mom picking me up on the first day of school.

  “Come, come, Mr. Talbot, we all know you’re the new boy here and I’ve never had this problem before.” She now had her arms crossed and her left foot was tapping on the ground.

  “Mrs. Weinstedder, I didn’t do it!”

  Her foot was going faster, any faster I figured and she was going to take off. “Young man, you march down to the principal’s office right now or I’ll drag you there by the ear.”

  That got a snicker out of the class.

  “Mrs. Weinstedder, check my notebook, I don’t even have any pages ripped out of it.”

  She started to head towards me, at a svelte 250 pounds I had no doubt she would make good on her threat. I grabbed all of my stuff and headed toward the door. The other students were almost choking they were so intent on holding in their laughter. I was so pissed I must have turned four shades of red.

  “That’s right, class, we don’t need his type in here now do we,” I heard her say scornfully.

  “Why don’t you shut up you fat cow!” I spewed. That was the line that got me three days suspension. But it was worth it. And I walked out of the class and down the hall towards the principal’s office. I had been taking my sweet time, I was in no rush to go meet Mr. Ratspindler. You knew just from the name what kind of person he was, he’d have my mother up here before I got the seat cushion warm and then the real fun would begin. I had gotten about two-thirds of the way down the hallway when some kid I had never seen before came half running with his books and book bag out of the class I had just been ejected from. You could hear the class roaring in laughter as he made a mad dash out of the class.

  “I know your mother, Mr. Ginson, don’t think that I won’t be talking to her after this little incident!”

  “For your information Mrs. Weinstedder, she is not my mother, and that other kid was right, you are a fat cow.” The class was now bursting in laughter, a few of the teachers even opened their doors to see what all the commotion was about.

  “Hey kid, hold up.”

  “You talking to me?” as I pointed to myself.

  “No, the other kid that just got kicked out of Algebra.”

  “Well, I’m Michael, not ‘kid,’ and my friends… at least the ones from back home… call me Mike.”

  “Well ‘Mike,’ my name’s Paul Ginson. My friends call me Ginner.”

  “Nice to meet you,” as we shook hands. “What are you here for?”

  “Well, when she turned back towards the board I nailed her with the second barrel of my spit cannon.”

  “Oh, so you’re the one that got me kicked out of class.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one that called her a fat cow first.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  “Hey, I know a short cut to Ratsniffer’s office.”

  “What could be shorter? He’s right at the end of this hall.”

  “Do you really feel like going down there? Mrs. Fat Cow, nice call by the way, doesn’t know how to work the intercom. She won’t even be able to tell him about the whole thing until after class, by that time we could be long gone.”

  “But we’ll get in trouble.”

  “Too late for that.”

  I thought about it. “What do you have in mind?” And that was how I met my best friend.

  CHAPTER 2 – Journal Entry 2

  We spent the day up on the local supermarket’s roof, of all places. If you pulled the dumpster over just a little bit you could climb on that and up a drainpipe and onto the roof. It was an easy climb for a spry 14 year old. I didn’t think my mom would be coming to get me up here any time soon. The thing that struck me the most when I got up there was how huge it was. It looked like a giant shingle parking lot. There were all sorts of vents and air conditioners and fans all over the place. I stood there kind of slack jawed taking in the scenery.

  “Come on!” Paul yelled. “If you stay too close to the edge and a passing car comes by they’ll be able to see you.”

  I started to move toward the center, but I was getting the willies in my stomach. What if the roof gives, what if someone in the store hears us? What if….

  “Come on man.” Paul saw my hesitation. “Don’t worry, the roof won’t cave.” He then proceeded to jump up and down on it. I motioned him to stop and put a finger to my mouth. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Don’t worry they can’t hear us either!” Then in a more user-friendly voice, “Come on man, I want to show you something.” He headed toward the center of the roof where a huge air conditioner was. He then opened up a little trap door that seemed to be there for maintenance, and pulled out five beers. “It keeps them cold,” he said casually as he tossed me one.

  “Thanks man,” as I stared in wonder. I popped the top and he wasn’t kidding, I nearly froze my throat and I got a brain freeze to boot.

  “Slow down, dude, you act like you’ve never had a beer before.”

  Well technically no, it wasn’t my first, more like my fourth but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Man, I’ve been hanging around this whole summer with Billy Summers and John Smithstone.”

  “Oh man, I’m sorry,” he said in mocking tones. “Those two turds would probably shampoo with the beer before they’d drink it.” We both laughed.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “So what’s your story, Mr. Talbot?” he said in his best Mrs. Weinstedder impersonation, which wasn’t all that bad. I told him about the deal with my controlling mother and my dad who headed out to parts unknown every Friday night and magically reappeared every Monday morning. And even the times when he was physically present, he was nowhere near the vicinity mentally.

  “Ah, that ain’t nothing,” Paul said as he tossed me another beer. “My dad and my real mom got together in one drunken moment and produced yours truly. They tried to make a go of it, but when my dad decided to go to AA and then tried to get my mom to enroll she wigged out and left him. He then married some born again Christian lady named Barb.”

  “Like barbed wire,” I said, now starting to catch a little buzz.

  “And that she is, a big fucking barb in my ass.” The visual was too much. I laughed and sprayed beer all over the place. Paul joined in the festivities.

  “Anyway,” he started after we had calmed down a bit. “She has no clue at all. Dude, I’m not kidding but she actually pulls out a child-raising book whenever she has a pr
oblem that she doesn’t know the answer to. She makes me and my sister have family discussion hour after dinner every friggen night. I don’t know what to say to my girlfriend for an hour, what the hell am I going to tell this lady?”

  “So what do you do?” I couldn’t believe it. His family sounded as dysfunctional as mine; apparently all was not well in Smallpole.

  “Well mostly I just nod and go yeah, uh-huh, exactly. Luckily my sister loves to yack so she takes up the majority of the time.”

  “What does your dad do during all of this fun time?”

  “He sits on the couch, watches sports and drinks bourbon and coke.”

  “I thought you said he went to AA.”

  “He did, but he didn’t like the part about complete abstinence regarding booze. He doesn’t get smashed like he used to, but I can tell he’s definitely getting buzzed.”

  “Your mom, I mean, Barb doesn’t care?”

  “Oh hell no, she’s too busy with her nose in some parenting book trying to find new ways to cope with teenagers.”

  “Dude I thought I had it rough.”

  “Don’t sweat it I’m pretty much used to her now, besides I read the books she’s looking at so I know how she’s going to approach almost every scenario.”


  “Yeah, not bad huh?”

  “Where’d you get the beer? We’re running low.”

  “Well, we can’t get it in this town, the friggen mayor would know about it before dinner. If we go to the town over, Norwood, they have an area called the Flats. Sort of the seedier side of Mayberry. There’s a bum there. If I give him the money and one of the beers he’ll buy for me.”

  “Awesome, I have five bucks. You got anything, maybe we could get a twelve-pack.”

  “Yeah I’ve got four, that should be plenty.”

  We split the last beer and climbed down a little groggier than when we had climbed up. “So how do we get there from here?” I asked, more than a little pleasantly buzzed.

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