Today celebrates the release of my first book. That is a strange sentence, I know. I've already put out two books in the past year, so how is it that this could be my first? This is how - Hargood and the End is actually the first book I've written on purpose. While I'm proud of Riverward Dialogues and Memoirs of the Revelator, they were both products of my blog compiled as an afterthought into publication. In this case, however, I thought of Hargood and the End (originally called Floridead) as a possible book over a year ago, and now here it is - and man, it is more than I could have ever dreamed!
This is the story of an old mailman named Warnie Hargood, and his experiences with the undead of Florida. His encounters with both the living and the dead foster some deep questions about life, death, and all the stuff in between. It is not, I warn you, a leisurely read. It is enjoyable, but challenging. The zombies, mind you, are just the backdrop here - it's the living, breathing, thinking survivors who carry this story into places you may or may not wish to go.
I'm a sub-culture nut, so zombies come pretty naturally to me. It's one of my favorite things to write about. There are some amazing works out there on the subject, and I'd like to especially thank Max Brooks, Edgar Wright and co., Josh Porter, Kurt Fowler, Joe Whiteford, H.P. Lovecraft, and of course George A. Romero for their contributions to the genre.
Also, a huge thank you to Shea for his edits and wherewithal to bring this project to fulfillment. And lastly, thank you to my big brother Andrew for his input, both in the literary and visual sense. This book wouldn't exist without these two guys. I just write the words - they make it look good.
If you'd like to buy the book, it's available for kindle on amazon. Just click on the cover above.
Prologue
Imagine with me, if you will, a codger. The Florida morning sun pours into his bedroom. It is a different sun than the rest of the day; a different warmth; a different light altogether. With noisy stretches and a single yawn, the old man massages his tree-knot knees and stands slowly, joints protesting every inch of the way. Signs of age are these, and they are accented when he walks. On his way to the bathroom, he realizes he's forgotten something. But what is it? Ah yes, dentures, swimming in the glass by his bed. Just leave them in the bathroom tonight instead, he tells himself. He'll forget, though, and remember again tomorrow.
Confounded things they can be - dentures. He was blessed with 20/20 vision, but he couldn't keep his teeth for more than sixty years. The last tooth went just before the wife did, though she was too sick by then to notice. She would smile sweetly as he leaned over to kiss her forehead, and he would return her smile with one of his own, though more of a smirk to hide his shame. "Doctor say yet when I'll be on my way home?" she would ask, and the toothless man would smirk again and hold her hand.
These tender memories follow him from a dream world through the screen doors of morning and on into the rest of his day. His uniform blues fall into line and button themselves out of habit. Breakfast is quiet; a cup of coffee and some toast. He skims the paper and picks at the crossword like a black-and-white scab. The comics were his wife's favorite, so he peruses them and pretends she is there, reading over his shoulder and laughing at the ones involving pets. Once he's finished both coffee and comics (for toast is always the first to go), it is the man's duties to the U.S. Postal Service which occupy the remainder of his day.
He has known the job longer than he has drunk coffee. His return from the Second World War led him straight to it, having excelled as courier in the trenches. So, up and down the streets of Hollywood, Florida he has gone. Over the course of his career, he has successfully covered every neighborhood and business park in the 33020 zip code. There's not a mailbox around that he has not opened on behalf of the United States of America. And he has done so all these years with some sense of pride, but more recently, business has become bleak and mundane.
The glory days of maildom have passed - perfume-scented poems to soldiers; crumpled up notes from novelists to editors; crisp, clean acceptance letters from prestigious colleges. It was a time of magic, of honor, and he had been the certified deliverer of it all. The parcels gave life to those houses, big and small. Each envelope, every box, held a story; a lifeline tethered between two addresses - the sender and the receiver. Then came cell phones, e-mail, Facebook and the like. The mailbox became obsolete; a trapdoor into which magazines and junk mail disappear, and even these are tapering off quietly. The houses have fallen silent. Stories have come to a close. The end of an era, it would seem. How appropriate, he thinks to himself, that my trade should die out with me.
For you see, he is a retired mailman. Or he will be in three days' time. And while most hardworking folks look forward to such a day in their trade, this gentleman does not. After all, his trade is all he has left. No family, no friends, no purpose to wake in the morning but to fill dusty mailboxes with glossy pamphlets that will never be read. The beauty has gone out of it, he'll be the first to admit, but it's all he has left, and it too will be gone in three days' time. Then what does a mailman do?
There is the occasional package, such as the one in his hand today, letter here and there. His little mail truck putters to the corner of the first neighborhood on his assigned route. He's been on this route for the last few years, and could probably walk it blindfolded. He idles before a row of mossy green homes and checks the address on the package one more time. Out of the mail truck he climbs and makes his way down the sidewalk. Notice the signs of age as he goes. With each step, his thin arms swing loosely from fishhook shoulders, snagged on a crooked chimney chest. He still insists on walking his route as long as he can. Some would say he's stubborn, but none can deny it keeps him in some semblance of shape, at least more so than most patrons his age. He comes to the home of the package - third house on the right. It looks like all the others except for its peach colored window frames and "Don't tread on me" flag. Dodging a toy car, he ascends the porch and knocks.
No answer.
Across the street, a neighbor waters his plants, and the mailman offers a friendly wave.
He knocks again.
No answer.
His foot bumps the morning paper, still bundled and resting before the unanswered door. He picks it up and carefully places it, along with the package, in a nearby rocking chair. He stands back to appraise his display and then, satisfied, alights to the sidewalk once more to continue his route.
Yes, today it is a trade thankless and graceless. But for Warnie Hargood, it is all he knows. It is his life, it is the world to him; and in three days' time, his world will end.