Suicide. This is suicide. We had a good thing going at the lumber yard. If we hadn't gotten grand designs on finding out what was going on outside, we would have been fine. We should've learned the right lessons when everything went south. We should've learned to stay put and keep our heads down. If we'd stayed there, the jets wouldn't have even dropped the napalm.
Probably. It's possible that the planes would have set fire to the blockade zone even if we hadn't been there, because of James' escape attempt. Even if that's true, James wouldn't have been hanging around, holding us back. Without James, we wouldn't have had the foulup getting cross the river. And without that, Dave's stupid dog would be still be yapping. It was more useful than this idiot.
For some reason, the old man's decided that we need to go into the city to save this girl. This girl who nobody’s seen for two weeks. For all we know, we could fight our way through a flood of moaners only to find her dead body, crouched over the guts and grizzle of one of her coworkers. Wouldn't that be great.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to play hero. She’s cute, and all of a sudden, single. If this was speed dating, I would love to ride to her rescue from bachelor #8. From her button nose to dimples, she’s got to be the most attractive girl within miles. And if she was just stuck in the suburbs, it might make sense to pull off a rescue. But the middle of the city? That’s a different story.
We're giving up on the best way of keeping alive. James’ scrambled noggin doesn’t know it, but these burbs are safer than inside. I remember the night I left my apartment next to campus. It was chaos. And I bet that every one of the people I saw boarding up their doors and trying to save their neighbors is dead or dead and still walking.
Damnit. James doesn't know how bad it is here, but the old man’s got no excuse. He understands what we're heading into. The man is nutty, but this goes beyond garden variety odd. Just ‘cause his damn dog died saving James doesn't mean we need to die saving some girl who may or may not be alive. Every time he talks about saving her, he gets a far off look in his eyes, like he's envisioning a grand noble sacrifice.
Damn fool.
That far off look’s going to get me killed. We can't try to save her. Can hardly stay alive ourselves. This rescue mission, it’s insane. Mark my words, someone’ll die trying this. Most likely, all of us.
7/29 12:00pm
James glanced at me, then at Dave. He began simply: “I had no idea. Not about any of this. When the outbreak began I was studying in Cambridge. The news we got over there was bewildering and contradictory. Some sort of avian flu 2.0. BBC disagreed with foreign networks, with each other, and with all common sense. Inasmuch as I knew, it was just a highly virulent flu which they had managed to quarantine here, in Knox County.”
Dave shot me a glance. He hadn’t moved, as if James hadn’t said a thing. I guess he didn’t mind that something was taking his mind off of what had just happened. James continued. “The bugger about it was that Liz was here. Of all the luck, my sister lands a job here.”
I choked a bit on my water, there. His sister?
“She works at the Waste Treatment Plant on the east edge. Wouldn’t stay in Georgia. Had to get away from Mother. From what I gather, she was present when this, this... crisis began. I came here to get her, but it appears that I lacked some indispensable facts before I arrived.”
“I’m... I’m sorry about your dog. I had no idea... no idea what to do. Those people. They were attacking us, they were cutting their hands but weren’t bleeding... And the noise. That moaning...”
He paused for a long second. “I’m sorry, Mr. Calhoun. I didn’t mean for your dog...”
He trailed off, staring at his own cup of water, a glass swiped from the cupboard. It had sunflowers and daisies all round it. His eyes stared at the unseen. The gentleman may have been walking all today without complaining, but it was obvious he was still weak from the head injury.
“What the bleeding hell is going on?” he whispered, watching the swirling water.
The flames cracked and churned outside. Light pushed through the window, past the brown, dead plants on the kitchen sill. No one moved.
Dave, surprisingly, was the one to answer. He pushed down inside the folds of his jacket and fished out his inhaler. One puff, and his hand reached back inside his breast pocket, pulling out a small flask. He let out a long sigh, then tipped it back.
“Damn horse shit.”
“Son,” he said, pushing his flask in front of Mattteson. “you shoulda listened when those quarantiners told you to stay put. Shoulda heard me when I told you ‘bout Dead Ed out there.”
His eyes glanced at the kitchen table, marked with brow stains. “Shoulda, but you didn’t.”
James started to speak, but the old man put up a hand. “Not the first time I tried talking good sense and nobody listened. Won’t be the last. My mutt is dead, and that’s all there is to say. Good thing she came back for you, ‘cause that shamed me to doing the right thing too.”
He looked at me, brown eyes deep. “Can’t leave nobody behind now. We breathers got to stick thick as thieves. Daisy got it right.”
James opened the flask and took a sip. He coughed, unused to the strong moonshine.
Dave stood. “Now, where’d you say that sis of yours was?”
Dave shot me a glance. He hadn’t moved, as if James hadn’t said a thing. I guess he didn’t mind that something was taking his mind off of what had just happened. James continued. “The bugger about it was that Liz was here. Of all the luck, my sister lands a job here.”
I choked a bit on my water, there. His sister?
“She works at the Waste Treatment Plant on the east edge. Wouldn’t stay in Georgia. Had to get away from Mother. From what I gather, she was present when this, this... crisis began. I came here to get her, but it appears that I lacked some indispensable facts before I arrived.”
“I’m... I’m sorry about your dog. I had no idea... no idea what to do. Those people. They were attacking us, they were cutting their hands but weren’t bleeding... And the noise. That moaning...”
He paused for a long second. “I’m sorry, Mr. Calhoun. I didn’t mean for your dog...”
He trailed off, staring at his own cup of water, a glass swiped from the cupboard. It had sunflowers and daisies all round it. His eyes stared at the unseen. The gentleman may have been walking all today without complaining, but it was obvious he was still weak from the head injury.
“What the bleeding hell is going on?” he whispered, watching the swirling water.
The flames cracked and churned outside. Light pushed through the window, past the brown, dead plants on the kitchen sill. No one moved.
Dave, surprisingly, was the one to answer. He pushed down inside the folds of his jacket and fished out his inhaler. One puff, and his hand reached back inside his breast pocket, pulling out a small flask. He let out a long sigh, then tipped it back.
“Damn horse shit.”
“Son,” he said, pushing his flask in front of Mattteson. “you shoulda listened when those quarantiners told you to stay put. Shoulda heard me when I told you ‘bout Dead Ed out there.”
His eyes glanced at the kitchen table, marked with brow stains. “Shoulda, but you didn’t.”
James started to speak, but the old man put up a hand. “Not the first time I tried talking good sense and nobody listened. Won’t be the last. My mutt is dead, and that’s all there is to say. Good thing she came back for you, ‘cause that shamed me to doing the right thing too.”
He looked at me, brown eyes deep. “Can’t leave nobody behind now. We breathers got to stick thick as thieves. Daisy got it right.”
James opened the flask and took a sip. He coughed, unused to the strong moonshine.
Dave stood. “Now, where’d you say that sis of yours was?”
7/28 11:14am (2 of 2)
Dave’s lead shot tore through two goners. A third’s back was broken, sending it down- but not out. It kept right on moaning, heading toward me with dead eyes and inhuman resolve.
I instinctively ducked as he fired three shots into the moaning crowd, cowering away from angry lead streaking toward me. Have no idea how close it actually came, but I could swear my jacket got new ventilation.
Another four clambered out of the storefront window, slicing and shredding their hands as they did. Realizing that the odds were against me, I retreated back to the other two, while Daisy yapped away, hackles up. I saw several more in the darkened interior of the store, shuffling toward us.
Dave nodded to the house on opposite side of the street, and we booked toward it. James, still in complete shock at the sudden violence, turned to follow us a moment later. The old man and I were not in the mood to slow, and James realized this. “Don’t leave me!”
Terror, absolute, total, and complete, filled his quaking voice. He raised a hand toward us.
And he tripped.
I turned, barely inside the door of the house. He fell, and fell hard. Unsteady limbs collapsed. The ax fell, cutting edge striking the curb, chipping with a sharp clang.
Dave turned, further in than I, and put his hand on my shoulder. His face was set in hard lines. “Damn fool. Can’t risk that mob killing us too.”
I paused, much less certain. My mind flashed back to Rob, that night. Dave was right, of course. I should have learned Rob’s lesson and not stopped, not even for a moment. I saw a whole set of moaners stumbling out of the store, toward James’ fallen body. I knew that the possibility was good that we would all die in a fruitless last stand. But I stopped, for just a moment. Uncertain.
That’s when Daisy slipped out the door. In a flash, she was out next to James, then she was past him. Hackles raised, she loped toward the invading moaners.
Dave cried out. I paused a moment more, surprised witless. That damn dog was was acting more loyally than Dave or me.
Daisy snapped and retreated, trying to scare the moaners. What worked for all canines for all time past did not work for her. These walking corpses have more in common with Roombas than any animal wolves ever fought. They don’t stop, don’t turn, don’t even blink. They just move forward, dog or not.
I ran out, Dave’s slack grip not letting me go. Old, congealed blood flew when I got close. The slugger pushed them back, Daisy snapping and snarling. Goners want us, people that is, more than animals. But they still grabbed at her. They still got a couple bone crushing swipes in.
Dave was next to James by then. He didn’t worry about counting his rounds then. Blasted into the crowd, screaming. Not words, just screaming.
The goners died for their second and final time. Every single one. Done. Holes punctured, blouses blasted, faces smashed. Few had hamstrings ripped loose, bloodied by Daisy’s fangs.
In a minute, maybe less, the firefight was over. Three of us breathers trying to run and gun’s one thing. Trying to move without being seen, trying to avoid loud noises. We’re pretty weak, doing that. But fangs, bat, and a shotgun bent on murder are another story entirely.
Daisy was huffing and puffing by then. Blood matted her fur, too much. She swayed on her feet. Without comment, the old man picked up his dog. She’s not a small pup; Dave didn’t care.
I helped James up, who’s mouth still hung at all the carnage, and we caught up to the veteran. He wasn’t waiting for us. He was murmuring to Daisy, who wagged her tail off and on, whimpering.
We made it through a few blocks down, and we’ve set up in the top part of a store, the part above that doubled as the owner’s home.
The lumber yard is burning now, across the Spedwater. We were lucky. Out of the frying pan, for sure. But what the hell kind of fire have we jumped into now?
I instinctively ducked as he fired three shots into the moaning crowd, cowering away from angry lead streaking toward me. Have no idea how close it actually came, but I could swear my jacket got new ventilation.
Another four clambered out of the storefront window, slicing and shredding their hands as they did. Realizing that the odds were against me, I retreated back to the other two, while Daisy yapped away, hackles up. I saw several more in the darkened interior of the store, shuffling toward us.
Dave nodded to the house on opposite side of the street, and we booked toward it. James, still in complete shock at the sudden violence, turned to follow us a moment later. The old man and I were not in the mood to slow, and James realized this. “Don’t leave me!”
Terror, absolute, total, and complete, filled his quaking voice. He raised a hand toward us.
And he tripped.
I turned, barely inside the door of the house. He fell, and fell hard. Unsteady limbs collapsed. The ax fell, cutting edge striking the curb, chipping with a sharp clang.
Dave turned, further in than I, and put his hand on my shoulder. His face was set in hard lines. “Damn fool. Can’t risk that mob killing us too.”
I paused, much less certain. My mind flashed back to Rob, that night. Dave was right, of course. I should have learned Rob’s lesson and not stopped, not even for a moment. I saw a whole set of moaners stumbling out of the store, toward James’ fallen body. I knew that the possibility was good that we would all die in a fruitless last stand. But I stopped, for just a moment. Uncertain.
That’s when Daisy slipped out the door. In a flash, she was out next to James, then she was past him. Hackles raised, she loped toward the invading moaners.
Dave cried out. I paused a moment more, surprised witless. That damn dog was was acting more loyally than Dave or me.
Daisy snapped and retreated, trying to scare the moaners. What worked for all canines for all time past did not work for her. These walking corpses have more in common with Roombas than any animal wolves ever fought. They don’t stop, don’t turn, don’t even blink. They just move forward, dog or not.
I ran out, Dave’s slack grip not letting me go. Old, congealed blood flew when I got close. The slugger pushed them back, Daisy snapping and snarling. Goners want us, people that is, more than animals. But they still grabbed at her. They still got a couple bone crushing swipes in.
Dave was next to James by then. He didn’t worry about counting his rounds then. Blasted into the crowd, screaming. Not words, just screaming.
The goners died for their second and final time. Every single one. Done. Holes punctured, blouses blasted, faces smashed. Few had hamstrings ripped loose, bloodied by Daisy’s fangs.
In a minute, maybe less, the firefight was over. Three of us breathers trying to run and gun’s one thing. Trying to move without being seen, trying to avoid loud noises. We’re pretty weak, doing that. But fangs, bat, and a shotgun bent on murder are another story entirely.
Daisy was huffing and puffing by then. Blood matted her fur, too much. She swayed on her feet. Without comment, the old man picked up his dog. She’s not a small pup; Dave didn’t care.
I helped James up, who’s mouth still hung at all the carnage, and we caught up to the veteran. He wasn’t waiting for us. He was murmuring to Daisy, who wagged her tail off and on, whimpering.
We made it through a few blocks down, and we’ve set up in the top part of a store, the part above that doubled as the owner’s home.
The lumber yard is burning now, across the Spedwater. We were lucky. Out of the frying pan, for sure. But what the hell kind of fire have we jumped into now?
7/28 11:14am (1 of 2)
Made it south of the river, barely. Somebody died doing it. Here’s how it went down.
We stuffed our packs full as we dared. Dave, rumpled army rucksack, me and my old Jansport, and James with his svelte motorcycle backpack. Daisy ran around all of us the whole time, wagging her tail and begging for a treat.
Dave handed his fireax to James. James has a pitifully small pocket pistol. Four shots, .22 caliber. Even I know there’s no punch in a gun like that. When I get a chance, I need to ask him exactly what he thought was going on when he came in here. Miniature gun and a gasmask? Strange combination to be entering a medieval arena with.
The old man was on edge, and for good reason. I nearly died moving from one house to another just a few weeks ago. Now we were crossing a bridge to an unknown neighborhood inhabited by who knows what, to avoid an inferno at our back? Absolutely insane.
Dave took point with his sawed off pump. “Five shells in the tube, one in the chamber,” He told us, “and then I’m up for a reload. Gets bad enough, I’ll toss one of these,” he growled, showing us several bottles, stopped off with rags at the top. “get the hell away when I do. Fire is a fickle beast, and it’ll eat you, give it a chance.”
Daisy obediently by his side, we crept out of the yard. I jumped at every creak and whisper, not ashamed to admit. The only one who wasn’t so keyed up was James, either because his head was still discombobulated or because he had no idea what he was getting into. Probably both.
The street was unseemly quiet as we scuttled down. Sweat stained my hands, and I had to keep wiping left, then the right as we moved. Dave did his best to cover every door and alley we passed, and did a decent job, for being only one gun and one man.
We passed over the bridge without trouble. But it was soon in coming.
Just as James stepped off the bridge and onto cracked sidewalk, Daisy whined. Dave swept his gun to the right as a moaner, previously silent, emerged from a house’s shadow. “Only one of ‘em. Handle it, Mikey,” Dave hissed. I took two long steps through the swinging fence, and pierced the graying shambler’s brain with my six-spiked slugger. James, who had been shocked by the very sight of it, cried out when I brained it.
“My God! What the hell did you just do?” He yelled, all pretense at quiet completely lost.
Dave furiously hushed him, while I turned, blood throbbing through my temples. As I did, I caught sight of two more locals on the other side of the street. “Shut. The Hell. UP.” I croaked, raising my bat.
Daisy was whining to her master, who swung around his barrel at the approaching DeadEds. “Goddamnit James. Get the hell over there and take those two down.” He said, eyes flicking back and forth from the two moaners to our shocked group mate.
“Wha-what? No! You shoot them!” He yelled, still completely unaware of his own volume.
Without a moment of warning, Dave darted over to Matteson and slapped him. Hard. The DeadEds kept coming, moaning louder now that they saw three of us. As this happened, I strode toward the other side of the road, readying my bat to deal with the mulitple threats.
“What did I tell you! Damn idiot pansy! You do what I damn well say when I damn well say it or we all die? Get the fucking picture?” Dave roared, unshaven face inches from James’.
The moaners were frisky, raising their arms in an attempt to grab my arms and take a bite. The slugger broke all the fingers on the left one’s outstretched hand, but that didn’t stop it. I stepped in, bringing the bat down in a crushing blow to the head. The other, seeing an opportunity, grasped my undefended right arm. Viselike, it pulled my arm hard, crushing and bruising my forearm. I kicked it’s inside knee, which snapped with a wet thump. This of course did not stop it, but did give me the space to buck it’s grip and bring down the polished wood on it’s face, effectively neutralizing it.
James, face drained of color, watched it all happen. He then nodded, wiping from his face some of Dave’s spittle. For a moment, I stood, staring at him, corpses at my feet.
Unbeknownst to me, several goners had been watching us from the wide windows of the store I stood next to. As I stood, appetizing back completely open to them, they burst through the window. Dave saw them and realized five goners would easily overpower me. He levelled the short barrel at them, and unleashed a cloud of Double Oh lead at them.
That, I believe, is when it all went south.
We stuffed our packs full as we dared. Dave, rumpled army rucksack, me and my old Jansport, and James with his svelte motorcycle backpack. Daisy ran around all of us the whole time, wagging her tail and begging for a treat.
Dave handed his fireax to James. James has a pitifully small pocket pistol. Four shots, .22 caliber. Even I know there’s no punch in a gun like that. When I get a chance, I need to ask him exactly what he thought was going on when he came in here. Miniature gun and a gasmask? Strange combination to be entering a medieval arena with.
The old man was on edge, and for good reason. I nearly died moving from one house to another just a few weeks ago. Now we were crossing a bridge to an unknown neighborhood inhabited by who knows what, to avoid an inferno at our back? Absolutely insane.
Dave took point with his sawed off pump. “Five shells in the tube, one in the chamber,” He told us, “and then I’m up for a reload. Gets bad enough, I’ll toss one of these,” he growled, showing us several bottles, stopped off with rags at the top. “get the hell away when I do. Fire is a fickle beast, and it’ll eat you, give it a chance.”
Daisy obediently by his side, we crept out of the yard. I jumped at every creak and whisper, not ashamed to admit. The only one who wasn’t so keyed up was James, either because his head was still discombobulated or because he had no idea what he was getting into. Probably both.
The street was unseemly quiet as we scuttled down. Sweat stained my hands, and I had to keep wiping left, then the right as we moved. Dave did his best to cover every door and alley we passed, and did a decent job, for being only one gun and one man.
We passed over the bridge without trouble. But it was soon in coming.
Just as James stepped off the bridge and onto cracked sidewalk, Daisy whined. Dave swept his gun to the right as a moaner, previously silent, emerged from a house’s shadow. “Only one of ‘em. Handle it, Mikey,” Dave hissed. I took two long steps through the swinging fence, and pierced the graying shambler’s brain with my six-spiked slugger. James, who had been shocked by the very sight of it, cried out when I brained it.
“My God! What the hell did you just do?” He yelled, all pretense at quiet completely lost.
Dave furiously hushed him, while I turned, blood throbbing through my temples. As I did, I caught sight of two more locals on the other side of the street. “Shut. The Hell. UP.” I croaked, raising my bat.
Daisy was whining to her master, who swung around his barrel at the approaching DeadEds. “Goddamnit James. Get the hell over there and take those two down.” He said, eyes flicking back and forth from the two moaners to our shocked group mate.
“Wha-what? No! You shoot them!” He yelled, still completely unaware of his own volume.
Without a moment of warning, Dave darted over to Matteson and slapped him. Hard. The DeadEds kept coming, moaning louder now that they saw three of us. As this happened, I strode toward the other side of the road, readying my bat to deal with the mulitple threats.
“What did I tell you! Damn idiot pansy! You do what I damn well say when I damn well say it or we all die? Get the fucking picture?” Dave roared, unshaven face inches from James’.
The moaners were frisky, raising their arms in an attempt to grab my arms and take a bite. The slugger broke all the fingers on the left one’s outstretched hand, but that didn’t stop it. I stepped in, bringing the bat down in a crushing blow to the head. The other, seeing an opportunity, grasped my undefended right arm. Viselike, it pulled my arm hard, crushing and bruising my forearm. I kicked it’s inside knee, which snapped with a wet thump. This of course did not stop it, but did give me the space to buck it’s grip and bring down the polished wood on it’s face, effectively neutralizing it.
James, face drained of color, watched it all happen. He then nodded, wiping from his face some of Dave’s spittle. For a moment, I stood, staring at him, corpses at my feet.
Unbeknownst to me, several goners had been watching us from the wide windows of the store I stood next to. As I stood, appetizing back completely open to them, they burst through the window. Dave saw them and realized five goners would easily overpower me. He levelled the short barrel at them, and unleashed a cloud of Double Oh lead at them.
That, I believe, is when it all went south.
7/27 12:00 noon
Looks like the old man’s hallelujah chorus came too early. Turns out the jets weren’t just dropping bombs. Decided that adding some napalm to the mix was a great idea. And, unfortunately for us squatters in a lumber yard, the wind is blowing to the south. Toward little old us.
We can see the smoke from here. Black, acrid stuff. My skin’s already prickling, just thinking how hot it’ll get.
And the cherry on top. James Matteson woke up about five minutes ago. Gave him some water and went off to try to quiet Daisy down. Looks like he didn’t get a concussion of any sort. Maybe a bit wobbly on his legs, but right as rain otherwise. After the knocking he got, I’m rightly surprised. Course, I already know he’s world shatteringly hard headed. Right now he’s standing up and walking over to Dave. Looks like I’m missing the board meeting. Be back.
--
7/27 1:30pm
We’re heading out. James swears that the only safe option for us (he’s part of ‘us’ already?) is to move south and hop the river. Has a map out and everything, says he familiarized himself with the land, and it’s our only shot. Honestly, I don’t see any alternatives, but I’m still not happy. No way of carrying all of the old man’s stockpile, so we’re leaving behind a lot of supplies.
Irks me that we’re following some guy who just got here, too. Doubting James has any real idea what he’s insisting we do. That river is a good moat for us, this side of the river. Goners from the city are stuck on the other side. That’ll all change when we cross it.
Dave’s speaking to James now, doing his best to explain the way the world works inside the picket line. Lots of hand waving and ‘Dead Ed this, Dead Ed that,’ going on. James keeps shaking his head. Trying to clear it or thinking that the old man is lying. Either way, Jimmy Matteson is in for a suprise when we get out. If he doesn’t know about the moaners, he will soon enough.
Haven’t told Dave yet about the text messages, and James doesn’t know I saw them. I‘d bet that his real reason for heading toward the city is to make his way to the processing plant and his girlfriend.
We’ll see. In the meantime, I’ve got some packing to do.
We can see the smoke from here. Black, acrid stuff. My skin’s already prickling, just thinking how hot it’ll get.
And the cherry on top. James Matteson woke up about five minutes ago. Gave him some water and went off to try to quiet Daisy down. Looks like he didn’t get a concussion of any sort. Maybe a bit wobbly on his legs, but right as rain otherwise. After the knocking he got, I’m rightly surprised. Course, I already know he’s world shatteringly hard headed. Right now he’s standing up and walking over to Dave. Looks like I’m missing the board meeting. Be back.
--
7/27 1:30pm
We’re heading out. James swears that the only safe option for us (he’s part of ‘us’ already?) is to move south and hop the river. Has a map out and everything, says he familiarized himself with the land, and it’s our only shot. Honestly, I don’t see any alternatives, but I’m still not happy. No way of carrying all of the old man’s stockpile, so we’re leaving behind a lot of supplies.
Irks me that we’re following some guy who just got here, too. Doubting James has any real idea what he’s insisting we do. That river is a good moat for us, this side of the river. Goners from the city are stuck on the other side. That’ll all change when we cross it.
Dave’s speaking to James now, doing his best to explain the way the world works inside the picket line. Lots of hand waving and ‘Dead Ed this, Dead Ed that,’ going on. James keeps shaking his head. Trying to clear it or thinking that the old man is lying. Either way, Jimmy Matteson is in for a suprise when we get out. If he doesn’t know about the moaners, he will soon enough.
Haven’t told Dave yet about the text messages, and James doesn’t know I saw them. I‘d bet that his real reason for heading toward the city is to make his way to the processing plant and his girlfriend.
We’ll see. In the meantime, I’ve got some packing to do.
7/27 10:45am
I was dreaming of cute, screaming girls and waste facility plants when the jets woke me. Dave was already outside by the time I shambled out of the lean-to.
He told me that they were F-17’s, and something about a sortie. I had no idea what he meant, but the answer became clear enough when the ground began to shake, and rippling, bassy booms of explosives ripped through the air.
Dave whooped- actually jumping off the ground. He slapped my back and whooped again. “Rock and roll steals the show! I ever tell you I was on the ground during the Rolling Thunder? That was a damn righteous act, don’t care what anyone says. God Bless the Air Force!”
After the explosions (and Daisy) died down, I got the old man to explain his enthusiasm to me. He impatiently explained that, since the blockade was to the north of us, and that’s where the jets had gone, the picket line must be advancing to retake the city. “Don’t you watch History Channel, Mikey? Close air support’s like God himself taking your side. Always want it when you’re taking back an area.”
This lumber yard is right next to the northern picket of the quarantine. We only need to sit tight and make sure that the advancing lines don’t mistake us for Dead Ed’s compadres. Should tell Dave about the Mr. Matteson's suicidal goal, but not now. Don't want to kill his buzz.
The new guy isn’t up yet. Hope that fall didn’t scramble his brains permanently. Would hate to tell his girlfriend he made it to the doorstep but tripped on the welcome mat. 'Course, she’s probably more interested in eating his gray matter, scrambled or not.
He told me that they were F-17’s, and something about a sortie. I had no idea what he meant, but the answer became clear enough when the ground began to shake, and rippling, bassy booms of explosives ripped through the air.
Dave whooped- actually jumping off the ground. He slapped my back and whooped again. “Rock and roll steals the show! I ever tell you I was on the ground during the Rolling Thunder? That was a damn righteous act, don’t care what anyone says. God Bless the Air Force!”
After the explosions (and Daisy) died down, I got the old man to explain his enthusiasm to me. He impatiently explained that, since the blockade was to the north of us, and that’s where the jets had gone, the picket line must be advancing to retake the city. “Don’t you watch History Channel, Mikey? Close air support’s like God himself taking your side. Always want it when you’re taking back an area.”
This lumber yard is right next to the northern picket of the quarantine. We only need to sit tight and make sure that the advancing lines don’t mistake us for Dead Ed’s compadres. Should tell Dave about the Mr. Matteson's suicidal goal, but not now. Don't want to kill his buzz.
The new guy isn’t up yet. Hope that fall didn’t scramble his brains permanently. Would hate to tell his girlfriend he made it to the doorstep but tripped on the welcome mat. 'Course, she’s probably more interested in eating his gray matter, scrambled or not.
7/27 6:03 am
Couldn’t sleep. Gray predawn just threatening the horizon. Tossed and turned, but the ruckus up north hasn’t quit yet. Still seeing flares once in a while. Still hearing some gunfire. The old man could sleep through a carpet bombing, and the new guy could well be in a coma, which leaves me. Unwilling to choke down another Ambien. Don’t want to get addicted to that stuff.
So, I decided to see what the new guy brought with him. What I found surprised me. Who would bring a cell phone into a war zone? Havent’ seen a functional one since all this began. Signals were blocked since before I ever saw my first moaner. Mr. Gas Mask’s name is James Matteson. Almost all his texts are to that same Liz. Pretty standard stuff, can’t wait to see you, when are you coming back, etc etc.
Paging through the messages now. Seems she worked at the local waste treatment facility. It’s right next to the college I dropped out of last year. Wonder if I saw her there?
Shit. Looks like she was there when all this started. Muldraugh U was hit hard. Dorms are a pressure cooker for flu and the cold. Why not this virus too?
...And that’s where it ends. Shit. If this Liz was in the city when the outbreak began, she’s gotta be dead. Hope James wasn’t trying to get to her, though by the look of it, that’s exactly what was happening.
Sleep tight, Mr. Matteson. In for some major disappointment when you wake.
So, I decided to see what the new guy brought with him. What I found surprised me. Who would bring a cell phone into a war zone? Havent’ seen a functional one since all this began. Signals were blocked since before I ever saw my first moaner. Mr. Gas Mask’s name is James Matteson. Almost all his texts are to that same Liz. Pretty standard stuff, can’t wait to see you, when are you coming back, etc etc.
Paging through the messages now. Seems she worked at the local waste treatment facility. It’s right next to the college I dropped out of last year. Wonder if I saw her there?
Shit. Looks like she was there when all this started. Muldraugh U was hit hard. Dorms are a pressure cooker for flu and the cold. Why not this virus too?
8:00PM
James: You’re the one who wanted to do hazmat repair. Your own fault if only one district had an opening... only one outside the Peach State, that is.
8:03PM
Liz: Don’t do this again. I couldn’t stay in Georgia. You know mother would have kept me on a short leash.
8:08PM
James: Honestly Liz, do you think I was worried about that? You’ve been able to avoid her reach for years. BTW, going in the tube.
8:08PM
Liz: K. How is Glasgow treating you? Enjoying your little Scottish adventure?
8:18PM
James: It’s not a little adventure. It’s an overseas education at a PREMIERE medical institute. Wish you would support me.
8:20PM
Liz: Riiiiight. I support you more than anyone else. Stuck up much :)?
8:25PM
Liz: Did they have to build the plant next to sorority row? I’ll NEVER get any work done tonight.
8:30PM
James: Partying again?
8:30PM
Liz: God. Louder than normal. Starting earlier than normal, too. Not Halloween now, is it?
8:31PM
James: When was the last time you left work? It’s spring, not fall. NOT All-Hallow’s Eve, pet.
8:32PM
Liz: Your European uppity-ness is getting annoying. There’s just a lot of screaming going on over there.
8:33PM
Liz: What the hell? Oh mh Ffkudfjlgggggos
8:34PM
James: Liz? What’s up?
8:35PM
James! sShit, James! They’re eating each other1 James/1a sdfou wehsdf the hell/?
8:36PM
James: LIZ? LIZ? I can’t raise you through a call! Liz? What’s going on? LIZ?
...And that’s where it ends. Shit. If this Liz was in the city when the outbreak began, she’s gotta be dead. Hope James wasn’t trying to get to her, though by the look of it, that’s exactly what was happening.
Sleep tight, Mr. Matteson. In for some major disappointment when you wake.
7/27 4:38 am (3 of 3)
Dave had to work a winch and pulley system he’d rigged up to get us back into the yard. The place was quiet and deserted as ever. Daisy, muzzled and penned in the center of the yard, stayed hidden by piles of lumber, safe from milky undead eyes. While Dave busied himself with raising the gate, I was stuck baby sitting.
I only moved away from him for a second. He leaned against a stop sign, breath thick and staccato. Swayed like a drunk after last call, but stable enough. I thought I’d seen some movement. Must have been a jackrabbit or other critter, because when I went near it rustled away from me, deeper into the underbrush. That was about the time when Mr. Gas Mask started yelling.
I ran back to him, only to see him leveling a small gun at a crawler who had apparently been late to the party. It was crawling toward him, and the idiot was trying to reason with it. Some such crap as "I'll do it," "I'm warning you," "Don't make me." I ran up behind him, and I’m not ashamed to admit, knocked him another good one to the head.
If he’d fired off a round that close to the yard, it would have taken absolutely no time to attract any other moaners in the area, either here or across the river. So, I did what was necessary. Even if Dave doesn’t see it that way.
The crawler was put down in short order by my spiked Louisville slugger, and Dave was back, asking what had happened. I explained it to him, and he of course wasn’t happy. Mr Gas Mask had regained some sort of consciousness by then, so I took his peashooter away from him and pulled off his mask to help his hyperventilating breath. He promptly puked and passed out. We figure he has a concussion. I gave him some water and we manhandled him back into the yard. He’s asleep (unconscious?) now. I wish I knew what to do, but I haven’t the faintest idea. I never got my First Aid merit badge in scouts.
He’s still breathing, and his pulse is strong, so we’ve decided to leave him be. He keeps on mumbling “Got to... Liz” under his breath. Liz his girlfriend? Don’t know.
Dave found his wallet. He’s got a photo of the two of them, Christmas or something. The girl, Liz, is... well, to be honest, she’s Attractive. Capital A and all. Silly Christmas stocking cap, blonde hair sticking out. Dimples. Great smile. Laughing, in the picture.
If he’s come for her in here, she’s probably very, very dead.
I only moved away from him for a second. He leaned against a stop sign, breath thick and staccato. Swayed like a drunk after last call, but stable enough. I thought I’d seen some movement. Must have been a jackrabbit or other critter, because when I went near it rustled away from me, deeper into the underbrush. That was about the time when Mr. Gas Mask started yelling.
I ran back to him, only to see him leveling a small gun at a crawler who had apparently been late to the party. It was crawling toward him, and the idiot was trying to reason with it. Some such crap as "I'll do it," "I'm warning you," "Don't make me." I ran up behind him, and I’m not ashamed to admit, knocked him another good one to the head.
If he’d fired off a round that close to the yard, it would have taken absolutely no time to attract any other moaners in the area, either here or across the river. So, I did what was necessary. Even if Dave doesn’t see it that way.
The crawler was put down in short order by my spiked Louisville slugger, and Dave was back, asking what had happened. I explained it to him, and he of course wasn’t happy. Mr Gas Mask had regained some sort of consciousness by then, so I took his peashooter away from him and pulled off his mask to help his hyperventilating breath. He promptly puked and passed out. We figure he has a concussion. I gave him some water and we manhandled him back into the yard. He’s asleep (unconscious?) now. I wish I knew what to do, but I haven’t the faintest idea. I never got my First Aid merit badge in scouts.
He’s still breathing, and his pulse is strong, so we’ve decided to leave him be. He keeps on mumbling “Got to... Liz” under his breath. Liz his girlfriend? Don’t know.
Dave found his wallet. He’s got a photo of the two of them, Christmas or something. The girl, Liz, is... well, to be honest, she’s Attractive. Capital A and all. Silly Christmas stocking cap, blonde hair sticking out. Dimples. Great smile. Laughing, in the picture.
If he’s come for her in here, she’s probably very, very dead.
7/27 4:38 am (2 of 3)
We ran into the trees, out of sight of the bloodbath ratcheting up by the picket line. The old man helped our new handicap run. The man, sporting a jury rigged gas mask, was pretty shook up from his fall. He kept stumbling and forcing Dave to slow to keep both standing.
After the blinding light of the blockade, plunging into the neighborhood was like going from sunny Jamaica into the dank throat of the Devil himself. Everywhere around us moans swirled and circled, as if every fence and overgrown hedge hid a dozen goners rising from their slumber to see what was so foolish to wake them.
Scared the living shit out of me. Still shaking, even as I write this. Crap like this won’t let me go to sleep, no matter how exhausted I am.
Dave and I agreed to head to a house to wait out the inevitable stream of goners that would head toward the blockade. If the soldiers kept up their rock show, we could let Dead Ed walk right past us, giving us smooth sailing back to the lumber yard. The most terrifying half hour of my life crawled past, thick with the rotten stench of dead bodies, filled with the ungodly soundtrack of dozens of moaning undead, their throats covered in a thick slime of coagulated blood and putrid bile. Vice handed my bat at every stumbling shadow passing the curtains-- just a little flimsy fabric and thin pane of glass separating me from chipped fingernails and open throats.
Even after the bulk had passed us, every twisting tree and shaking branch held the hint of a crawler just waiting to sink it’s broken teeth into my ankles. God damn. My ankles twinge at the very thought.
Dave pulled a flask and took a swig, bearing the whole ordeal with an admirable combination of iron nerves and fire water. Our gas masked addition kept going in and out of consciousness. Useless as he is, I pity him for the dreams he must've had then. He kept on groping against invisible enemies, and I had to cover his mouth several times as the idiot tried to cry out, screaming that there was live flesh in our little hidey hole, ripe for the mangling. He fought weakly against it, and I'm sure my arms clamping round his mouth added to his semi-conscious panic. What could I do? Wasn't about to let that idiot get me killed. I clamped harder.
Eventually, Dave gave the all clear. What undead had been in the neighborhood were occupied by the fuss the jarheads were causing, so we threaded our way back with no problems. The only real hindrance was Mr. Gas Mask, still disoriented by the stunt he’d pulled. The old man kept whispering comforting words to him, pulling him along.
We made it back to the lumber yard entrance, no problem. That’s when our new lead weight nearly got us killed.
After the blinding light of the blockade, plunging into the neighborhood was like going from sunny Jamaica into the dank throat of the Devil himself. Everywhere around us moans swirled and circled, as if every fence and overgrown hedge hid a dozen goners rising from their slumber to see what was so foolish to wake them.
Scared the living shit out of me. Still shaking, even as I write this. Crap like this won’t let me go to sleep, no matter how exhausted I am.
Dave and I agreed to head to a house to wait out the inevitable stream of goners that would head toward the blockade. If the soldiers kept up their rock show, we could let Dead Ed walk right past us, giving us smooth sailing back to the lumber yard. The most terrifying half hour of my life crawled past, thick with the rotten stench of dead bodies, filled with the ungodly soundtrack of dozens of moaning undead, their throats covered in a thick slime of coagulated blood and putrid bile. Vice handed my bat at every stumbling shadow passing the curtains-- just a little flimsy fabric and thin pane of glass separating me from chipped fingernails and open throats.
Even after the bulk had passed us, every twisting tree and shaking branch held the hint of a crawler just waiting to sink it’s broken teeth into my ankles. God damn. My ankles twinge at the very thought.
Dave pulled a flask and took a swig, bearing the whole ordeal with an admirable combination of iron nerves and fire water. Our gas masked addition kept going in and out of consciousness. Useless as he is, I pity him for the dreams he must've had then. He kept on groping against invisible enemies, and I had to cover his mouth several times as the idiot tried to cry out, screaming that there was live flesh in our little hidey hole, ripe for the mangling. He fought weakly against it, and I'm sure my arms clamping round his mouth added to his semi-conscious panic. What could I do? Wasn't about to let that idiot get me killed. I clamped harder.
Eventually, Dave gave the all clear. What undead had been in the neighborhood were occupied by the fuss the jarheads were causing, so we threaded our way back with no problems. The only real hindrance was Mr. Gas Mask, still disoriented by the stunt he’d pulled. The old man kept whispering comforting words to him, pulling him along.
We made it back to the lumber yard entrance, no problem. That’s when our new lead weight nearly got us killed.
7/27 4:38am (1 of 3)
First chance I’ve had time to write since it all hit the fan. Dave and the new guy are asleep and there’s nothing to do but replay what happened in my head, over and over. Maybe writing it out will help me sleep. Don’t want the Ambien I’ve got too much of- makes my head cottony. Lethal debilitation, that is.
The plan was solid. We waited until dark, sitting in the shadow of overgrown hedges, trying to get a bead on any possible moaners or crawlers in the no man’s land between the neighborhood and the picket. Field was clear; Military was keeping their clear zone cleaned of moaners.
We crept out, slow. Saw spotlights mounted up, but they didn’t switch on at dusk. Dave thinks they were infrared, which means we wouldn’t have seen them anyways. He’s probably right, because they started rotating in the darkness. The sliver of moonlight would reflect off their glass plates every few turns.
Still, Dave guaranteed me that we'd be good. “Don’t be a little child about it,” he told me. “IR goggles won’t see at this distance.”
So we crawled, slow as snails, into the field.
It was actually working. We’d crawl five or ten feet, side by side, then Dave would twist the volume dial just enough to see if we got a signal. When we inevitably didn’t, we’d inch forward, and try again. Slow and stealthy.
We were about thirty feet from the trees when the sirens started. And oh, they blared. Think they were air raid type sirens. Loud, and getting louder. Then they popped red flares into the sky. Bright as little suns, lighting our field like midday on mars.
Not too proud to admit it, I’d have peed myself if I had anything in the tank when those lights burned on. Dave would’ve screamed if he didn’t have to whisper: “Shut up, and DON’T MOVE.”
I thought he was just nuts again, what with them obviously having seen us. The lights, the sound, all of it must be for us, I thought.
Can’t think of many time’s I’ve been more happy to be dead wrong.
Soldiers screamed and pointed, and what do you know, a dirtbike rockets out from the hillside, towards us. Somebody got on a bullhorn and screamed that ‘Knox County is a restricted zone, under martial law through’ blah blah blah. The legalese didn’t matter to me; After all, I was already stuck inside.
Must not have phased the biker, either. He would’ve kept rocketing toward the city had it not been for a well aimed shot to the back tire. Rear wheel disintegrated, and he lost his seat from under him. The rider fish tailed twice before separating from the bike. Only thing that saved his life, too.
The bike kept rolling, momentum bringing it to the very edge of the neighborhood, and the emerging goners. Like a drunk in a marathon, the lead goner stumbled to the bike, hoping for it’s first hot, screaming meal in weeks. More followed.
There hadn’t been many dead in that area, but every one came calling when the army started the ruckus. Twelve exited the woods, heading toward the carnival our field was becoming.
As the military got distracted by what the megaphone squawked were ‘India Eights’ on ‘Perimeter North’, the old man and I made our exit, all plans of stealth radio forgotten. I was up and running, more adrenaline than blood running through my veins. Turned to make sure that the gunmen weren’t targeting me and saw Dave had stopped entirely. He’d picked up a new pet. The rider had come to a stop some eight feet away from us. Dave helped him up and ran into the trees.
Of all things, did we really need extra weight on a night escape? With lead zipping by and every goner within earshot heading toward us?
Decision was out of my hands. The old man just can’t leave a man behind, even if it gets us killed.
The plan was solid. We waited until dark, sitting in the shadow of overgrown hedges, trying to get a bead on any possible moaners or crawlers in the no man’s land between the neighborhood and the picket. Field was clear; Military was keeping their clear zone cleaned of moaners.
We crept out, slow. Saw spotlights mounted up, but they didn’t switch on at dusk. Dave thinks they were infrared, which means we wouldn’t have seen them anyways. He’s probably right, because they started rotating in the darkness. The sliver of moonlight would reflect off their glass plates every few turns.
Still, Dave guaranteed me that we'd be good. “Don’t be a little child about it,” he told me. “IR goggles won’t see at this distance.”
So we crawled, slow as snails, into the field.
It was actually working. We’d crawl five or ten feet, side by side, then Dave would twist the volume dial just enough to see if we got a signal. When we inevitably didn’t, we’d inch forward, and try again. Slow and stealthy.
We were about thirty feet from the trees when the sirens started. And oh, they blared. Think they were air raid type sirens. Loud, and getting louder. Then they popped red flares into the sky. Bright as little suns, lighting our field like midday on mars.
Not too proud to admit it, I’d have peed myself if I had anything in the tank when those lights burned on. Dave would’ve screamed if he didn’t have to whisper: “Shut up, and DON’T MOVE.”
I thought he was just nuts again, what with them obviously having seen us. The lights, the sound, all of it must be for us, I thought.
Can’t think of many time’s I’ve been more happy to be dead wrong.
Soldiers screamed and pointed, and what do you know, a dirtbike rockets out from the hillside, towards us. Somebody got on a bullhorn and screamed that ‘Knox County is a restricted zone, under martial law through’ blah blah blah. The legalese didn’t matter to me; After all, I was already stuck inside.
Must not have phased the biker, either. He would’ve kept rocketing toward the city had it not been for a well aimed shot to the back tire. Rear wheel disintegrated, and he lost his seat from under him. The rider fish tailed twice before separating from the bike. Only thing that saved his life, too.
The bike kept rolling, momentum bringing it to the very edge of the neighborhood, and the emerging goners. Like a drunk in a marathon, the lead goner stumbled to the bike, hoping for it’s first hot, screaming meal in weeks. More followed.
There hadn’t been many dead in that area, but every one came calling when the army started the ruckus. Twelve exited the woods, heading toward the carnival our field was becoming.
As the military got distracted by what the megaphone squawked were ‘India Eights’ on ‘Perimeter North’, the old man and I made our exit, all plans of stealth radio forgotten. I was up and running, more adrenaline than blood running through my veins. Turned to make sure that the gunmen weren’t targeting me and saw Dave had stopped entirely. He’d picked up a new pet. The rider had come to a stop some eight feet away from us. Dave helped him up and ran into the trees.
Of all things, did we really need extra weight on a night escape? With lead zipping by and every goner within earshot heading toward us?
Decision was out of my hands. The old man just can’t leave a man behind, even if it gets us killed.
7/26 6:46pm
At the picket line now. The jarheads on the other side are jumpy as a cat on coke. Not good.
We left behind the tandem and Daisy for this one. The inhaler makes it dramatically easier for the old man to get by on foot, and I suggested that, no matter how quiet the ride, we would have to abandon it later on. Moaners may have decayed eyesight, but it’s a fair bet that the guys with guns don’t.
Dave agreed grudgingly. This wasn’t his idea of a picnic, and I can understand why. He has some serious attachment for the dog, and leaving behind the transport that makes us faster than the moaners takes away one of our biggest advantages.
The trip up was mercifully quiet. Leapfrogging forward, Dave’s ax and my bat took down any locals before they had a chance to raise the alarm. It was surreal, to creep through neighborhoods like a thief, and see an abandonded tricycle on the corner, or a garden in the yard, abandonded mid-planting. Like we’re ghosts, living in a world forgotten by everyone else.
That silence gets to me. Makes me feel like a stranger walking through the ruins of lives. Then a battered panama hat rises up from the ground, attached to a decaying body. Wet, rotting gardening gloves rise, and Dave slices straight through it’s neck, sending it toppling down.
When we do this, it’s like we’re trespassing on the last moments of those people’s lives, rusted into place. Rotting, dead, and hopeless, but still their’s, not ours.
That kind of place is for the goners, not us. But I guess that’s the whole city now, isn’t it? We’re the aliens and trespassers, not them.
We made it to within two blocks of the northern pass. Dave’s tried the radio, but the overgrown trees in this neighborhood are giving us a hell of a time. All we can get is intermittent signal of some useless public interest station playing opera.
We need to go into the open fields between us and the blockade if we want to get anything useful, but that means falling directly in the sights of the soldiers manning the blockade. So, we’re waiting for dark.
Dark, and danger. It’s what awaits me and the old man.
7/26 3:44pm
Haven’t heard a working radio for weeks.
It’s amazing how much the noise you never think about becomes ingrained into your life. After the first days of chaos were over, I couldn’t get over how quiet it was. Sitting, holed up, starving, scared to so much as peek out a window, that constant quiet really got to me. No cell phones, no radios, no iPods, no traffic. The give and take of constant noise- constant activity- was gone. Wind blowing through the trees is as loud as it gets around here anymore. Except, of course, for the hollow breaths of the undead.
The low crackle and static of an AM radio, then, was understandably not what I expected when I woke up. I guess, honestly, I should have expected it. What God fearing survivalist nutjob would ever leave the house without a working solar powered survival AM-FM-Distress Band Civil Alert Radio? Some shmuck like me, yes, but not the old man.
He explained that, what with all the crap weather we’d been having, solar powered is as good as unpowered most days. “Only get two or three minutes of uptime on it. Not caught a signal yet. Still, better than nothing,” Dave told me, as he slowly dialed up and down the AM tuner.
It came as a shock even to him when the squelching and scratching resolved itself, for a few blessed seconds, into a distinguishable voice. Dave lost it the moment he realized it was there, and scrambled to find it again. He pinned the dial back and forth, between 1800 and 1805, slower and slower, trying to pick up the thread. No luck.
The rest of the day was spent in a gloom by both of us. Situated in a deep valley surrounded by mountains on every side means that radio signals have an exceptionally difficult time getting to Muldraugh. It gets better on the north end of the valley, which leads to the widest pass out, and to Baker, closest habitation to us.
The old man and I spent the rest of the day in a gloom, turning over and over again what it all means. By this afternoon, we had come to the same conclusion.
We need to know what’s going on in the outside world. Last either of us heard, the valley had been blockaded. Shoot on sight is an accurate description of military-resident relations, and the north pass is surely one of the areas where that order has been carried out more than once. Regardless, we need to go up there.
And we’re heading out. Now.
7/24 6:30pm, cont.
Surprisingly, Dave didn't scream at me, or call me a 'damn civvie' again. The old man just helped me up, then dashed toward the back of the store, and the pharmacy-chemist section.
It was furthest from grimy windows and therefore hidden by dark shadow. Dave had reloaded the shotgun, but slung it at his back. Seems that he didn't savor the thought of ringing the dinner bell again. There was a dead labcoated woman there, but she must not have turned, or had the forethought to imbibe her own product. Either way, she didn't bother us.
I shoveled random prescriptions, from codeine to fish oil meds into the mouth of my backpack. I didn't care much what we had. Dave, however, started hunting.
I had always suspected the man had some sort of addiction. It would certainly have explained some things. His habit of muttering to himself, his obsession with getting these drugs, the way he treated his dog, his nervous tics.
He crowed in triumph, and pulled three blister-pack sealed inhalers from a recessed shelf. "Hot damn! They really did have my prescription in!" Turns out, my suspicions have been completely wrong.
Dave sits across from me now and tells me that, when it all hit the fan, he'd ordered the inhalers from that Walgreens, but had "bugged out to to the sticks" before they'd called him.
Given Dave had what he needed and my bag was overflowing with even more jangling orange bottles, we turned to head out, and that's when we saw them.
A cross section of Amercian life were bursting through the doors. Soccer moms, staid old ladies, a pair of joggers, and a decaying weight lifter headed toward us. Their apparent confusion and docility was gone; it was replaced by a slackjawed determination to add us to their tableau of horror.
I turned to Dave, but he had already lurched over the counter, shoving his prized possessions into his own pack. Asking him, “what do we do now,” I must have yelled. Dave gave me the evil eye before pointing, as if I was an idiot, toward the stockroom exit, which he was already gimping toward.
The explosion in my eardrums was becoming less deafening by the time we made it to the back door. Dave paused, hands on his knees, coughing. I tore open a blister pack and he grabbed the metal cylinder, taking a deep puff. He paused for a moment, then exhaled. Beneath the retreating thunder of gun noise still echoing in my head, I heard him mutter “that’s more like it.”
The moaners were halfway across the scattered shelves, falling and jostling one another in their mindless journey to my pumping heart. Determined to keep it working, I kicked the swinging door open, which immediately rebounded back toward me, propelled forward by the body weight of a half-eviscerated clerk who was heading our way.
Dave brought his barrel to bare, ready to make me permanently deaf. I screamed incoherently, jumped forward into his sights and slammed the dripping stockboy onto the ground. Screaming in fear for my ears and overall wellbeing, I slammed the bat down into the squirming moaner’s nose, penetrating through to frontal lobe.
This time Dave did scream “Damn idiot civ!”, but he was already moving forward, my foolish moment of aggression already forgotten. He burst out the back door, slammed a goner in the head with the stock of his gun, blasted another’s skull to jellied confetti, and kept on running.
I followed, glad the open environment absorbed the geyser of sound better than reverberant aluminum shelves. Most of the undead had made their way toward the front entrance, and we only snagged against a single crawler on the top of the hill, it’s back legs a mess of broken bone.
Daisy was fired up, whining incessantly the moment Dave got in sight. He dumped her in the basket and I jumped on. I don’t think I’ve paddled faster in my life, that damn dog yapping the whole way back.
The sun is now setting on our fenced in safe area. Dave is turning the precious medical inhaler over and over in his hands. “Just wasn’t much good without my second wind,” he says. “They say the most important thing in a survival situation is shelter and a gun. That’s God Damn Horse Shit,” he states, smiling. He glances at Daisy and adds, “begging your pardon, Ms. Daisy. Your health, now that’s important. Could live in Buckingham Palace itself and wouldn’t matter if you caught death of a cold for yourself.”
Daisy yawns and grins a doggie grin. She’s just happy to be home.
And you know what? So am I.
7/24 6:30pm
What a rush. Here's how it went down.
It started off directly enough. Dave showed me a few hand signals so we'd be able to communicate without words. Knew some of it from movies, pretty simple stuff. Fist up to stop, point to show where to go, patting your head to show who would be the distraction (like I want that job).
We made a beeline through a fallen part of the chainlink fence. Dave had already coached me on this. We'd run quick and quiet until a moaner saw us, then run to it and pop it fast. Dave had left, I had right. We would make a beeline to the door of the WalGreens, dropping any that saw us, unless a pack came about.
The newly fanged bat worked like a charm. If a goner saw me and raised it's arms toward me, I could brush aside the grasping hands with the smooth end. When I had an open shot at the head or neck, the wicked nails penetrated skull straight through to brain matter. Much less force necessary to kill the brain that way, while still having good reach and pushback.
Quickly enough, we made it to the store. Dave pushed open the unpowered automatic door, and we headed inside. He paused, wheezing for breath, “gotta get my meds.” I made to head in a separate direction from my overweight companion, but he swatted at me. "What the hell d'you think you're doing? You want to skedaddle off to find moisturizer and have the damn stockboy eat your back? Never go anywhere on your lonesome. Do that, we both die... Damn civvies."
I wanted to tell him I'd been doing just fine for weeks without him. However, it's hard to be believed when you were the one who was stuck in a tree, not the other guy. So, I nodded, and we set off down aisle 1, toward the pharmacy in the back.
Dave and I worked down the row without incident until one a moaner turned out to have a friend. Dave sliced straight through the neck of the obvious one-- a tattered and worn businessman. However, Dave didn't see his business partner, a moaner that, for whatever reason, didn't have use of it's legs. Not seeing it, Dave actually stepped into it's reach. Despite being dead, those things have a hellofa grip, and Dave almost went down when the legless one grabbed his ankle. He yelled, and I spun. I saw it and smashed it's arm, forcing it to release it's grip from Dave. He had by then brung up his shotgun, pointed it in the general direction of the pitiful creature, and blasted away, both barrels.
Something I did not realize before the world went hellish is the actual volume of a weapon. When I watched movies, super spies and their arch enemies would carry on witty conversations while blasting at each other. Soldiers would mow down half a forest to kill an alien, but still be able to hear the crack of a twig that meant it was actually behind them.
As Dave would say, all that is "God damned Horse Shit." Dave tells me now, sitting at the campfire, that a single shotgun round sounds off at "a hundred fifty decibels, or whatever they call it." That, he assures me, is louder than a jet taking off.
Both barrels would be even louder.
I can't put words to the volume. Scared the ever loving religion out of me. I jumped back, hit the aisle behind me, and knocked the entire shelf backward. It fell into aisle 2, which in turn hit aisle 3, and so on. This went on for about thirty seconds. As Aisle 15 collapsed into the far wall, clattering heavily, I looked to Dave, then the fallen shelves, then the door. A moaner in the parking lot turned toward the building, then another. Dave stared at me. More to himself than me, he muttered something. My ears were ringing for hours afterwards (still are, in fact), but it looked a lot like his mouth formed the phrase "oh shit." We had just rung the bell for every one of Dead Ed's friends that dinner was served.
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