7/24 8:30
Dave finally explained his plan. Like everything else to do with him, it’s cockeyed. “What I need is a distraction. Aint many of ‘em out here this far from the city center. They all was drawn like maggots to roadkill by the burning and sirens and general hubbub during the last fighting down there. All’s that’s here is the stragglers. Staked it out once afore, and most have broken legs or got stuck on fences or something elsewise to keep ‘em around.”
“We can clear them out real easy. Most of ‘em won’t even see us, if we’re good and fast-- but it’ll take two. I aint what I once was, what with this padding I got now,” he adds, his ‘padding’ pressing against the handlebars, “but I can work an axe handle well enough.”
We turn a bend, slow, and finally hop off. Dave looked over his shoulder and informed me that “the most important thing is to not get surrounded. Never, ever get surrounded.”
By the end of the conversation, we’d made it to where we lay now. We’re on the very far edge of a small rise, across a field from a gas station and drug store. There are a fair number of moaners out their, standing listlessly. They look lost, just staring at the clouds or the tall grass waving in the wind.
He pats his obedient mutt’s head, while she tries to fall asleep. That dog’s taken to this horrific world like chimps to jungle gyms. Dave says we’ll scope out the place, then move in. When I ask him what for, his eyes gleam and he answers, “that store. That store’s got the stuff. We’ll stake the place out for a time, then head in.” Worrisome, that my only ally will risk my life for Oxycoton.
--
7/24 10:09am
This is one of the first moments in the entire past few weeks I haven’t been worried, on edge, hungry, or hunted. As I lay in the tall grass, Dave glancing through binocs and muttering quietly to himself, I can’t help but think about Rob. Been putting it off long enough.
He’s is in my dreams sometimes, like a haunting ghost. Shouldn’t feel bad, but some part does. Shit. How couldn’t I? He was my friend. Good roommate. Always cleaned his dishes, never partied. Bit of a slow poke, but does that mean what happened to him is A-OK? Since when does being slow to come round to an idea mean you deserve to die?
I couldn't help him. Sure as hell can't help him now. Nothing to be done about it. He's probably cinders and ash now. If not, then I guess he's gone just the same. Saw him scratched. You don't always turn, but it doesn't matter. He was set to die one way or another.
Feel like I should say something nice about him, like you're supposed to do at a funeral. So, I'll write this: He was a nice guy, a great roommate, and a good friend. But he was slow.
I'll learn his lesson. Don't go slow. Don't slow down. Not for anything.
Dave just tapped me on the shoulder. It’s go time.
7/24 5:45am
Dave woke me early. Right now he’s gearing up-- putting on his rumpled Army jacket, slinging up that shotgun, counting out his shells. He doesn’t look too good. Wheezes a bit, red eyes. Something’s up with him. Don’t want to ask what. Not sure I want the answer.
He tells me that we’re “going on recon.” I ask why recon has to happen at five in the morning, and he says that’s when, as he calls them, the goners can be “caught unawares.”
The man is a fruit cake. Still, he seems to know what he’s talking about. Certainly surviving better than I was. We’re set up now in a lumber yard on the edge of town, across the Spedwater and fields from housing or other clusters of shambling dead. Dave set up a tarp next to a block of railroad ties in the center.
Right now I’m drinking instant coffee from the tin camping pot he warmed up before I woke. That dog’s attacking it’s left leg like it’s got fleas. Hope I don’t get them. Can’t tell if Dave has them or not.
A few moaners passed by last night, as we sat in the center of the fenced in clearing, surrounded by obscuring rows of railroad ties. When I jumped up, slugger in hand, the old man swatted me and told me to calm down. The fire was banked low and he growled that they wouldn’t be attracted to us if they didn’t see us and couldn’t hear us. Told me it was Pleiku all over again. Whatever that means.
The old man mutters to himself sometimes. Stuff like "get the stuff or lose my edge. That's what I always say." He keeps checking his pockets, as if missing something he normally has.
When I ask him about his mutt, he gives me the hardest look I've seen yet from the man. “Daisy will not be a problem. I trained her long time past for quiet. She'll only bark when Dead Ed's ready to take his claws to my back. She's been waiting for this for a long time. Right, Daze?” He asks, absently scratching the dog's ear.
Gotta admit, she only whined quietly when the moaner rolled past last night. I was the one who panicked, not her. And it's clear Dave's got an oddly strong attachment to it. Stronger than he has to me right now, no doubt.
Looks like he’s ready to go. He hands me my bat, which gained several galvanized additions this morning. The nails glint dully in predawn light. “Let’s just say it was due for an upgrade. You’re going to earn your keep today, buddy-boy.”
7/23 5:44pm
Diced canned tomatoes. Hot, condensed chicken broth. Freeze dried salami. All cooked together into a thick, salty stew amended with rice and bow tie noodles. What do you have when you put it all together? The most delicious thing I’ve eaten in my life. Courtesy of the rumpled vet sitting across from me.
You see, that old man was smart enough to stockpile. He was smart enough to get outta dodge when the National Guard unit came in. And he was smart enough to save me from my idiotic predicament. He even had the bright idea to camp out near Spedwater River so he could draw water whenever he needed. He does not, however, quite realize the oddity of talking to your dog as if she cares what you’re saying. I admit, she's a nice dog, and she must know her way around this strange world. She's surviving better than me, at least.
When I asked Dave how he knew I was in that damn tree, his answer went something like: “Boy, you need to realize that this world ain’t the world you’re used to. Guns aren’t the best, tanks aren’t the best, and sure as shit trucks ain't the best for this world. Now, Dead Ed, ain’t your typical Charlie. Can’t see real good any more, but can hear pretty good. Guess he ain’t got messy body noises like breathing to keep him distracted. So these goners, they just follow their ears. That’s why I hitched a ride in that shit-on-wheels suburban.”
“Goners likes loud noises. And anymore, loud noises are only caused by people, you an’ me and other live folks. I been tracking the whereabouts of Ed and his friends, and when they all started to move your way, I followed. See, I figure they’d lead me right to some poor sap,” he glances at me from across the embers, “some poor sap that got hisself stuck in a tree like a kitten, what couldn’t figure how to get down.”
“Got their interest with that there truck, then come on back with a silent ride. This ride,” he wheezes, patting the tandem cycle with a loving hand.
The codger is nutty as a wheezing madhouse. Following a pack of moaners? On a bicycle? I may have been the one up a tree, but his mind’s the one in free fall. And now I’m sitting here with him, in his camp, eating his food.
Figures.
The normal ones, fit for the world of insurance rates and alarm clocks and high priced ‘luxury toilet paper’ are gone. Now, only the crazies and the dead are left. And Daisy, who eyes me, asking for some of that salami.
7/22 9:45pm
That didn’t go as expected. Last time I wrote, I was ready to kiss the world goodbye.
The suburban blasting the rap drove by twice more, slower each time. I was too terrified out of my mind to realize that didn’t make a lick of sense.
The last time it passed, almost all the moaners followed. Turns out they like the thought of Mexican food just as much as much as American. There were only five or six stragglers, stuck on fences or tripping over their own broken feet in the yard below.
I didn’t notice this. My thoughts had turned to my brother and parents. They’re all gone, probably. Realized that I'd be following them soon enough. Tried to remember the sinner's prayer. Only got halfway. Knowing I was the last DeWitt on the face of the planet hadn’t really gotten to me until that moment, when I realized that taking a full bottle of Mr. Baker’s happy meds would put an end to our family line. Holding that orange bottle, I almost did it.
Then I heard a tinny bell ring under the distant thump of angry Latinos.
It wasn’t an alarm clock bell, or a kitchen timer bell. When I peaked up from my tree, I found out that the bell was attached to vanilla creme handlebars. Attached to the bars was a picnic basket with an ancient dog poking out. Behind the dog followed the rest of a creme two seater bicycle. On the front seat of the bicycle was a grizzled, pot bellied old man, the kind of guy who had seen the Tet Offensive and too many cheap beers in his long passed hay-day.
The dog barked at me.
The owner had by then gotten off the bike, and pulled out a mean sawed off shotgun from his rucksack. He blasted one of the meatsacks face away, and blasted the guts out backwards from another.
I had scrambled down, picked up my thankfully unbroken slugger and dispatched another of the moaners. It was about then the insanity of the situation hit me.
I wondered if I’d actually taken the meds, and this was some sort of drug induced hallucination. My brother told me once about trying LSD. It sounded similar to this.
The man yelled something at me, then motioned to the second seat of the bicycle. The dog barked at me again, then at one of the walkers who was heading toward the cycle. It’s head disappeared in a blood mist, and I decided to get onto the back of the bike and go with this man, his dog, and his shotgun.
Now I sit at the man’s campfire. The mangy dog, unholy union of a schnauzer and a bulldog, yawns indulgently. The man scratches the dog’s belly, and yawns himself. My savior’s name is Dave Calhoun. Crazy Old Man Dave.
7/18 6:40am
Shit. Shit shit shit. I don’t know what’s worse. Sitting in this cramped playroom, the ever increasing mass of open mouths below me, or the the Mexican gang-banger rap.
Spent the night up here. Didn’t really have a choice, given that the entire homeowner’s association is heading this way. Must be a hundred of them closing in. I don’t dare move. Don’t want to give the slavering meatsacks any more incentive to pile on top of one another and drag me down. Their moaning and groaning is seriously getting to me. It’s like listening to a sea filled with piranhas, every hour bringing the tide lapping closer to my toes.
I could’ve dosed myself some more of Mrs. Baker’s never ending supply of sleep aids, but I don’t think they would’ve helped. Besides, the thought of rolling over in my sleep, out of the fort and into the crowd of moaners scared scared me stiff. If any other living soul was here, we could've slept in shifts. But Rob’s moaner munchies now.
I didn’t think I could get more keyed up, until I heard the music start up about fifteen minutes ago.
I can see the car where the Latino bass is blasting from now. A huge black suburban, complete with tinted windows and drive-by ready moonroof, making it’s way into the neighborhood.
7/15 12:04pm
Learned two things today. First, a fourth grader’s tree fort is too small for a six foot five man. Second, every plan I make seems doomed by Murphy’s law.
It was going all going to work perfect. Only two meatsacks in the front yard. Only one between me and the tree fort. Open the door, pop the the moaner one to the skull, and scramble across the wet grass to the tree.
So what, I told myself, if the other moaner saw me? I would only be a minute up to the top of the tree and a minute back down. Hardly enough time to worry about anything other than the great view up top. Right?
If only. I was halfway up the fort’s ladder when my foot slipped on one of the rungs. The rung my left hand was on, suddenly holding more weight cracked, all loud like. That left me with one hand hold and a shin just in claw reach of the other moaner, who had taken a keen interest in the flailing foot hanging in front of him.
I kicked the corpse’s hand away and made it the rest of the way up the tree, to the fort. Undaunted, the walker just kept right on moaning, which quickly drew the rest the undead in the cul de sac.
I now have a swarm of twenty-five of Muldraugh’s concerned citizens all vying for their own little piece of me. My bat fell out of my pack and sits underneath their feet. The backpack is still full of meds and completely empty of food. I still have this journal and a pen, for what it’s worth.
I guess I did learn one other thing today. The tree has a great view-- of even more suburban hell, each with proud dead homeowners meandering down the streets, toward my tree.
7/13 6:00 PM
I've gotta get out of here. The more I look at this house, the more I realize I'm not the first one to make my way through it. The previous squatter was neater than me, but there is no way Mr. Fisherman would have cleared out every nook and cranny of any foodlike substance. Not even a can of cream of mushroom soup to be had. Just isn't natural.
As I look out the upstairs window, I realize that this neighborhood will be my graveyard, if I let it be. The problem is, I don't know where to go. I made it here under cover of night last time, and Rob was the one who knew the area. But I can’t think about him. He’s gone.
Last I heard, all of Knox was under quarantine. I'd rather not set off into the picket line and get myself shot to pieces by the quarantine.
Can't even see where I'm at, have no real idea where I can go. I need to get my bearings. And it looks like the only place taller than the top of the uniform two story houses is in the front yard.
Mr Fisherman must have had a kid. Must have even been a good Dad. With that huge oak out front, who could have refused their son? A five story tree, a treefort, and even a kid sized wooden ladder. That should elevate me just fine above this muck.
7/11 11:34 am
Definitely hung over. Still hungry. Very screwed.
This house is empty. All that outdoor equipment? Just fishing gear. Nary a shotgun, rifle, or even bow and arrow. And closing the garage to find that out nearly got me killed.
Had already made it from the Baker’s to here. In celebration, I had eaten the last of the cereal, then returned downstairs to enter the garage.
The big aluminum door was three quarter's closed when I entered. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that the mountain of fishing gear was just that. Not one granola bar in sight. Of course, in my frustration, I stopped paying attention to the half open door, but the moaner hadn’t. It was foolish idea to sigh, and an even worse to kick a fishing pole. How was I to know that a dead suburbanite had been shuffling toward the garage already? How was I to know that these things still have the (rotted) brain capacity to crouch and crawl?
By the time I realized that one of them was inside the fisher’s garage with me, it was four feet away, reaching out with it’s broken fingernails.
I only turned when it tripped over a pair of waders, sending it to the floor like the uncoordinated meat sack it is. Scared the hell outta me. My response was a bit enthusiastic. Turned it’s head into a thick stain on the concrete, and kept pounding for a while after that, too.
It was all I could do to not make another stain, this one down my jeans.
Following a quick dose of Mr. Baker’s Propranolol panic attack meds, I checked out the rest of this damn house.
Nothing. Now what am I going to do?
This house is empty. All that outdoor equipment? Just fishing gear. Nary a shotgun, rifle, or even bow and arrow. And closing the garage to find that out nearly got me killed.
Had already made it from the Baker’s to here. In celebration, I had eaten the last of the cereal, then returned downstairs to enter the garage.
The big aluminum door was three quarter's closed when I entered. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that the mountain of fishing gear was just that. Not one granola bar in sight. Of course, in my frustration, I stopped paying attention to the half open door, but the moaner hadn’t. It was foolish idea to sigh, and an even worse to kick a fishing pole. How was I to know that a dead suburbanite had been shuffling toward the garage already? How was I to know that these things still have the (rotted) brain capacity to crouch and crawl?
By the time I realized that one of them was inside the fisher’s garage with me, it was four feet away, reaching out with it’s broken fingernails.
I only turned when it tripped over a pair of waders, sending it to the floor like the uncoordinated meat sack it is. Scared the hell outta me. My response was a bit enthusiastic. Turned it’s head into a thick stain on the concrete, and kept pounding for a while after that, too.
It was all I could do to not make another stain, this one down my jeans.
Following a quick dose of Mr. Baker’s Propranolol panic attack meds, I checked out the rest of this damn house.
Nothing. Now what am I going to do?
7/6 3:30pm
Stale corn flakes and stale water. Surprisingly good when you haven't eaten for two days. Found a dusty half filled box in the back of cupboard next to the baking soda and cooking sherry. Shit. How long can a man live on baking soda? As the good Lord said, “Man does not live on bread alone, but on every box of Arm and Hammer during the undead uprising.”
There’s the corn flakes, the sherry, and not much else to take. Other than the drugs. Obviously, can’t forget the mountain of pharmaceuticals. Was surprised they prescribe Prozac to canines, but a dog has every right to be as neurotic as it’s pill popping owners. Ms. Baker had four separate prescriptions to different sleep aids, and Mr. Baker’s daily dose of panic attack preventers would make me as glassy eyed as the stumbling citizens outside.
Leaving tomorrow. Plan to pop one of Ms. Baker’s finest sleep aids and down the last of the cooking sherry to get a good night’s sleep. On an empty stomach, odds are good I’ll be hung over tomorrow morning, but I’ll chance it. There aren’t many of them out there, but the moans are grinding my nerves raw. It’s really getting to me. Shows I wasn’t made for this. I got kicked out of cub scouts on account of paying more attention to the Oreos and juice boxes we got at the end of the meeting than the survival lessons during.
The next house over, the one with all the fishing gear peaking out the garage, should have something worthwhile. Hiking food? Freeze dried dinners to go with the outdoor gear?
Hope springs eternal.
There’s the corn flakes, the sherry, and not much else to take. Other than the drugs. Obviously, can’t forget the mountain of pharmaceuticals. Was surprised they prescribe Prozac to canines, but a dog has every right to be as neurotic as it’s pill popping owners. Ms. Baker had four separate prescriptions to different sleep aids, and Mr. Baker’s daily dose of panic attack preventers would make me as glassy eyed as the stumbling citizens outside.
Leaving tomorrow. Plan to pop one of Ms. Baker’s finest sleep aids and down the last of the cooking sherry to get a good night’s sleep. On an empty stomach, odds are good I’ll be hung over tomorrow morning, but I’ll chance it. There aren’t many of them out there, but the moans are grinding my nerves raw. It’s really getting to me. Shows I wasn’t made for this. I got kicked out of cub scouts on account of paying more attention to the Oreos and juice boxes we got at the end of the meeting than the survival lessons during.
The next house over, the one with all the fishing gear peaking out the garage, should have something worthwhile. Hiking food? Freeze dried dinners to go with the outdoor gear?
Hope springs eternal.
7/1 4:34 pm
Twenty days. Twenty days sneaking, twenty days hiding, twenty to watch my food disappear. Twenty days to quake in fear, at them. The moaning bodies of former friends. That long to watch my city die and rise again, and to hide from it all, in terror. What else can I do? Without a gun or baton or even a measly tire iron, what can I do? Defenseless equals dead now. And for the past twenty days, I had no defenses. But that all changes today.
Saw it through the grimy kitchen window of the house I'm hiding in. A baseball bat in the back yard of this godforsaken spec home, stuck like the Sword of Excalibur in a patch of weeds. It brings me back to the good old days when I thought I had a chance at minor league. Hopefully I still have the touch with a wooden slugger. Heading out to grab it now. Wish me luck, journal.
I can hear moans on the wind.
---
7/1 5:08pm
That was close. Opened up the back porch door, quiet as silk, and tip toed out to the spot topped with weeds and my prize. So far, so good. Picked up the bat and managed to pivot onto a mangled canine chew toy. Which of course clued in my very dead neighbor in the next yard over. Rotting corpse turned it’s head, and I had to duck into the weeds to keep out of sight. It hadn’t moaned yet, so I thought I was safe.
I wasn’t.
It shuffled toward the white picket fence-- only thing between me and it. I did what any sensible idiot would do. Crawled up to the fence. When it got within swing range, popped up and knocked it’s brain loose with a grand slam. The overripe neck snapped, and that was the end of our neighborly conversation.
Yep. Still got the touch. Wooden haft made of solid pine. It'll do just fine.
Good thing, too. Running out of food. Portioning a can of Fancy Feast dog chow can only last so long. Need to get out of this house, and soon.
Should leave this valley entirely, soon as I can manage. Whole town went to hell in a handbasket three weeks ago. Last I heard, we'd been 'quarantined' inside and the army had shoot on sight orders at the blockades. In a fight between my baseball bat and a machine gun, my vote is against the sports equipment.
Doesn't really matter. I've been stuck in this little suburb for a week already. Priority number one is to get out of this dead end cul de sac.
And find some food without a damn dog on the label.
Saw it through the grimy kitchen window of the house I'm hiding in. A baseball bat in the back yard of this godforsaken spec home, stuck like the Sword of Excalibur in a patch of weeds. It brings me back to the good old days when I thought I had a chance at minor league. Hopefully I still have the touch with a wooden slugger. Heading out to grab it now. Wish me luck, journal.
I can hear moans on the wind.
---
7/1 5:08pm
That was close. Opened up the back porch door, quiet as silk, and tip toed out to the spot topped with weeds and my prize. So far, so good. Picked up the bat and managed to pivot onto a mangled canine chew toy. Which of course clued in my very dead neighbor in the next yard over. Rotting corpse turned it’s head, and I had to duck into the weeds to keep out of sight. It hadn’t moaned yet, so I thought I was safe.
I wasn’t.
It shuffled toward the white picket fence-- only thing between me and it. I did what any sensible idiot would do. Crawled up to the fence. When it got within swing range, popped up and knocked it’s brain loose with a grand slam. The overripe neck snapped, and that was the end of our neighborly conversation.
Yep. Still got the touch. Wooden haft made of solid pine. It'll do just fine.
Good thing, too. Running out of food. Portioning a can of Fancy Feast dog chow can only last so long. Need to get out of this house, and soon.
Should leave this valley entirely, soon as I can manage. Whole town went to hell in a handbasket three weeks ago. Last I heard, we'd been 'quarantined' inside and the army had shoot on sight orders at the blockades. In a fight between my baseball bat and a machine gun, my vote is against the sports equipment.
Doesn't really matter. I've been stuck in this little suburb for a week already. Priority number one is to get out of this dead end cul de sac.
And find some food without a damn dog on the label.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)