9:38pm continued
My heart skipped a beat. This was it. Last stand. Six on one, zero room to swing, no room to shoot. Several were already mangled, arrmless-- even one that had no head.
As I swung my bat, some small voice screamed out that this was all wrong. No head? That doesn’t make any sense. These things are monsters, but monsters with a certain logic. No brain means no moaner. Always has. So how on God’s green earth--
Bat met body, and rather than the solid, meaty impact I was used to, the moaner gave way with ease. Because, of course, it was no moaner. It was a damn mannican. A well dressed, dusty mannican.
I looked down at the destroyed remains of the plastic body stupidly. James had by then scooted into the cramped back room. “I always thought this fall’s styles were rather vain. But I never felt that strongly about them.”
I glared back at him. He returned the look, superior grin pasting his face.
“Har har. Get a move on.” Dave said, speaking into our momentary pause.
I pulled my bat from the tangled mess of plastic and turned to the window. Could see three. One had already taken an interest in our commotion. The other two, closer to our destination, had yet to turn around.
Without a pause, I shot my directions to Dave and Jim. “I’ll take Curious George. Dave, you’ve got the Ed on the left. Jim, the right.”
The goner who’d seen us had mades it to the window by then. The glass must have been tinted, because it wasn’t beating on the glass or speaking up yet. Must not have seen us at all yet.
For once, I would get a good jump on one.
I raised my bat high and took five charging steps to the window. The goner, formerly some Ralph Lauren sporting paper pusher, had within a foot of the window. Milky eyes stared into their own reflection, a senile sort of confusion marking it’s face.
My bat hit the glass, shattering the pane. The Ash cylinder never swayed, force and fury caving in the goner’s front skull with gorey fireworks.
I jumped out the glassy hole and stood next to the crumpled body, watching the far end of the street. Dave and James made quick work of the other two, blasting holes through heads and slicing directly through the neck.
Curious George had three friends I hadn’t seen, scant yards away. One had clearly been involved in some sort of wreck, giving an enormous, mutilated wound through the chest that cut through to the shreds of it’s lungs. It started up a moan, rattling and whooshing sickly.
Trying to get a jump on them, I took my bat to the first, breaking it’s arm and sending it stumbling back. Mr. Windy closed in with the third goner, both reaching for me with gnarled claws. I swept my bat past their arms and connected with the third goner’s shoulder. It spun away, thick brain unable to coordinate it’s legs.
That gave me time to turn to the first and crrush the first’s skull, twice dead. Which gave Mr. Windy a perfect chance to go for my back. First I knew of him his left arm had gripped my pack, vice-like, and pulled.
I stumbled back, totally off balance. Twisting out of the straps of my pack, I gave the grotesque goner a jab to the exposed ribs with my elbow. This gave me the chance I needed, and I sent my spiked stick around in a whirling hit to Windy’s exposed lungs.
The damn goner didn’t even flinch. I tried to pull my bat out, but the nails, so efficient for piercing thick bone, were fouled up inside the goner.
I panicked, know that no bat meant no defense, and no defense meant death.
When pulling didn’t give me what I wanted, I decided to try the opposite. I slammed the bat forward with all my weight, pushing the vivisected moaner onto the ground. Boans cracked and the rotting cartilage of the rib cage gave way, allowing me to extract my grisly prize. Even with massive beating he’d taken, Windy kept right on snapping, chipped teeth still going for my warm flesh.
It was at that moment, standing over a dead body still fighting for devouring rights, that I realized two very important things.
First, Dave and James had already made a break for the plant, and were a good twenty five yards from me by now. Second, the undead had surrounded me.
The next moments don’t make sense to me. I remember yelling- screaming, really- for them to stop, and swinging my bat again and again. Ash sending congealed blood flying, bones snapping like wet branches. It didn’t take long for me to start running, complete and outright terror shooting through my legs. I pushed through the growing mob of goners. Suddenly, I was at the door of the car dealership, and like a flash, I broke the large showroom windows and headed in.
I climbed up to the glass and steel stair way to the second floor, which overlooks the entire forty yard showroom. Stress and overuse made my arms shake, and with the last of my strength, I shattered the top step. Built with clever interconnecting steel cables, this shock fractured the entire top third of the stairs. When the dead poured into the room and tried to make it up the stairs, many more shattered, effectively saving me from the mob.
And that is where I sit, five hours later. The moans of the dead echo through this damned glass room, unending and hungry. I’m stuck in a room filled with over one hundred goners, that tantalizing carrot dangling just inches above their reaching hands.
And that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that the blood smearing this page isn’t the blood of Mr. Windy, or any other goner. It’s my blood. And it’s coming from a long gash down my right arm, a gash that was exposed to Mr. Windy’s congealed brain matter and the rotting blood of ten other goners besides.
I know it. I can feel it.
I’m infected.
8/5 p2
9:38pm
Excuse the blood on the page. Ah shit. Who am I kidding? No one’s ever going to see these pages. Be dead long before that. Have to take more breaks than normal. The damn pain just won’t go away.
So, how I got here. Let’s see, last time I wrote it was our plan to go through the buildings to make it to the waste treatment center. I’ll backtrack and give the lowdown.
We busted open the ceiling entrance to the office we were on top of. Guess that the law firm had been closed when the world went sideways. No one around, filing neatly stacked on the secretary’s desk. Calm and peaceful.
“As if we were just janitors late to take out the trash.” James said, whites of his eyes flitting back and forth between the offices.
Dave grunted and we kept on moving. The front door was locked on the outside, but opened noiselessly when the old man, careful of his wounded arm, gently tried it.
Before we’d hoofed it out Jimmy had tried to ask him if his left arm’s uselessness would keep him from using his shotgun. He’d just glared at us, which I took to mean it wouldn’t. Not sure how accurate he’ll be, but I guess with buckshot it won’t matter much. Good enough for horse shoes, hand grenades and crochety old veterans.
The rest of the building was locked up tight. Through carpeted hallways, past dying office plants, down darkened stairwells and out to the lobby. I took the lead through all this. Dave had always been point before this, but for obvious reasons, he believed it better to stay put in the back and watch our six. Jimmy still isn’t much use in a fight, which leaves me.
The difference between point and follower wasn’t real to me til then. When you’re in charge of where everyone goes, it’s up to you to stay hyper alert. To keep awares. To make the choice of left or right. In my mind, if anything goes wrong, the one at front’s responsible. Which is why I feel so guilty about what happened next.
I decided to head across the alleyway. At that point, none of us dared talk. No conferencing here. Just thought and action. The coast appeared clear, and honestly, it was almost completely clear. Almost. One crawler was hidden by fallen garbage, but I doubt any of us would’ve seen it, even if we’d all rubbernecked for five minutes each. Least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
We stepped out into open air and quietly, quickly ran to the side door of the office building next to us. The crawler wasn’t even close to us. The garbage it lay in was over thirty feet from us, no way in hell it could’ve reached us.
But even as James closed the door to the side of the building, it had started up it’s moaning and headed toward our door. My pulse quickened, and I looked at the other two. They knew what that meant. Moaning meant followers, followers meant a mob, and a mob meant that door was going down sooner or later.
Without a word, I turned and headed toward the opposite side of the building.
Four blocks to go. This set of offices and shops took up a full two blocks, which only left another two blocks to our destination. I remember thinking “I’ll be damned if these offices are our Waterloo. No damn way.”
As we moved, I picked up the pace. Caution thrown to the wind. We all knew that minutes from now this building would be mobbed by the dead. And none of us wanted to be there for that. As we passed from the office segment of this building into shops, I realized that our hallway was ending. We would need to step into the shops to keep moving forward. And shops mean windows.
Dammit.
We busted into the last store on the row. With my luck, of course I opened the door to a small shop filled with half a dozen moaners.
Excuse the blood on the page. Ah shit. Who am I kidding? No one’s ever going to see these pages. Be dead long before that. Have to take more breaks than normal. The damn pain just won’t go away.
So, how I got here. Let’s see, last time I wrote it was our plan to go through the buildings to make it to the waste treatment center. I’ll backtrack and give the lowdown.
We busted open the ceiling entrance to the office we were on top of. Guess that the law firm had been closed when the world went sideways. No one around, filing neatly stacked on the secretary’s desk. Calm and peaceful.
“As if we were just janitors late to take out the trash.” James said, whites of his eyes flitting back and forth between the offices.
Dave grunted and we kept on moving. The front door was locked on the outside, but opened noiselessly when the old man, careful of his wounded arm, gently tried it.
Before we’d hoofed it out Jimmy had tried to ask him if his left arm’s uselessness would keep him from using his shotgun. He’d just glared at us, which I took to mean it wouldn’t. Not sure how accurate he’ll be, but I guess with buckshot it won’t matter much. Good enough for horse shoes, hand grenades and crochety old veterans.
The rest of the building was locked up tight. Through carpeted hallways, past dying office plants, down darkened stairwells and out to the lobby. I took the lead through all this. Dave had always been point before this, but for obvious reasons, he believed it better to stay put in the back and watch our six. Jimmy still isn’t much use in a fight, which leaves me.
The difference between point and follower wasn’t real to me til then. When you’re in charge of where everyone goes, it’s up to you to stay hyper alert. To keep awares. To make the choice of left or right. In my mind, if anything goes wrong, the one at front’s responsible. Which is why I feel so guilty about what happened next.
I decided to head across the alleyway. At that point, none of us dared talk. No conferencing here. Just thought and action. The coast appeared clear, and honestly, it was almost completely clear. Almost. One crawler was hidden by fallen garbage, but I doubt any of us would’ve seen it, even if we’d all rubbernecked for five minutes each. Least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
We stepped out into open air and quietly, quickly ran to the side door of the office building next to us. The crawler wasn’t even close to us. The garbage it lay in was over thirty feet from us, no way in hell it could’ve reached us.
But even as James closed the door to the side of the building, it had started up it’s moaning and headed toward our door. My pulse quickened, and I looked at the other two. They knew what that meant. Moaning meant followers, followers meant a mob, and a mob meant that door was going down sooner or later.
Without a word, I turned and headed toward the opposite side of the building.
Four blocks to go. This set of offices and shops took up a full two blocks, which only left another two blocks to our destination. I remember thinking “I’ll be damned if these offices are our Waterloo. No damn way.”
As we moved, I picked up the pace. Caution thrown to the wind. We all knew that minutes from now this building would be mobbed by the dead. And none of us wanted to be there for that. As we passed from the office segment of this building into shops, I realized that our hallway was ending. We would need to step into the shops to keep moving forward. And shops mean windows.
Dammit.
We busted into the last store on the row. With my luck, of course I opened the door to a small shop filled with half a dozen moaners.
8/5 p1
This is it. Final stretch now. We make it or die in the next blocks.
We spent last night exhausted on top of the office building roof. Got about four hours of sleep before the sun rose. It burned my eyes and woke me to the aching of my shoulder, nearly torn out of it’s socket. My eyes burned in their sockets, dry and painful. Not that anyone else was better off.
“Goddamn that crossbow. Goddamn that ladder. Goddamn them moaners. Goddamn.” Dave muttered, in between pained grunts. The wound of his arm had bled through the bandage last night, dark brown caking the is rumpled green army jacket.
James groaned like a dying dog. “Dreamt I went to exams in my underwear. Then in the middle of explaining to the proctor, in exacting detail, why I’d done such a thing, he turned dead and chased me out the room. Guess my blasted nightmares can’t keep up.”
The old man grunted. “Jimmy, could you doctor up my arm over again?”
While James complained about how “Jimmy just isn’t my name, I insist you stop calling me that,” I tended to our breakfast. Turns out that my near brush with gravity had been more than near for much of our food. We still have clam chowder, dehydrated mashed potatoes and more Spam. Not bad, really, but not great.
Dave and James, still complaining about his grievous nickname, go for the clam chowder, which leaves me with spam and half a bottle of water.
Not as bad as it sounds when you’re hungry.
Sporting a new bandage, the old man gets moving again. Amazing how unshakable that man is.
“Here’s it all. Got six more blocks. Got my scattergun, lost half the shells. Chow supply’s nixed. I’m only half a man with this taped up. Jim, you got that splitter still?”
By way of answer, James raised the smooth wood handle of his ax.
“And Mike, your bat still thumps like new.”
I nod.
“We still got Molly’s and flares, but down here we’d be dialing the reaper to use ‘em. Too much that’ll burn, no control. Aint an option. And we still have those six damn blocks.”
We turn to our vantage point then. This area’s business of various sorts. Travel bureau’s close by, then some mixed offices and shops. A car dealership to the right of the street takes up two blocks, which ends off about where the waste treatment plant starts.
And of course, the moaners. They stand and sit throughout the streets, vacant and empty. More part of the burned up landscape than anything else. Many meander aimlessly, shuffling left and right with slow, unexcited steps.
James shakes his head. “How do you propose we make our way through them? Doesn’t seem that they take kindly to our presence.”
We mull that. Goners are bad news, worst part being when they see you. Then their rotten greeting tells everyone around them about you, and they mob you. That’s when it gets desperate. So, the smart thing is to keep them from seeing you. In this situation, that gives us only one option.
James doesn’t like it. “I understand your point, Mike. You’re quite right. However, the problem is that just as much as they don’t see us, we wouldn’t see them. Electricity is on the fritz around here, in case you haven’t noticed. Going through the buildings guarantees we find unpleasant surprises in the closet”
I lose it a little here. Quietly, but with real heat, I say “Damnit! I know. James, I don’t want to die. We’ve scraped by the skin of our teeth too many times. Luck’s not on our side every damn time. This. Is suicide. And I don’t like suicide, because that involves me dying. We don’t even know if your sister’s alive. We don’t know if we can even get inside the damn building fence. All I know is that there are way more dead and gone then us. I’m only along for this ride because you’re the only damn living people who haven’t shot at me. That’s as far as it goes between you and I. So stop trying to get me fucking killed.”
For all I can tell James wants to snap back, the old man gets in first. He’s surprised. Guess he didn’t know that I’m not a fan. “Shit, son. That’s the only reason you’re here? Can’t wait to get outta the bush?”
I nod.
The aging vet sighs. Then he looks to James. “Not the time to argue. Mikey here’s on the dime about getting in. We can’t get them locals riled up, so we got to sneak in all quiet. If we want to succeed, this is the only way. No John Wayne, no guns blazing.”
James obviously wants to argue. I think he’s shocked that I haven’t drunk the kool aid over his idiot plan. But he knows he can’t get out of this. We distribute the rest of the goods, all the while discussing the details of our plan. James gets the rest of my meds, I take the bulky molotov cocktails, and Dave’s pack gets the flares and the pittance of food we have.
And that’s it. We’re heading into the throat of the goners. And our only chance at living is to hope they don’t realize.
We spent last night exhausted on top of the office building roof. Got about four hours of sleep before the sun rose. It burned my eyes and woke me to the aching of my shoulder, nearly torn out of it’s socket. My eyes burned in their sockets, dry and painful. Not that anyone else was better off.
“Goddamn that crossbow. Goddamn that ladder. Goddamn them moaners. Goddamn.” Dave muttered, in between pained grunts. The wound of his arm had bled through the bandage last night, dark brown caking the is rumpled green army jacket.
James groaned like a dying dog. “Dreamt I went to exams in my underwear. Then in the middle of explaining to the proctor, in exacting detail, why I’d done such a thing, he turned dead and chased me out the room. Guess my blasted nightmares can’t keep up.”
The old man grunted. “Jimmy, could you doctor up my arm over again?”
While James complained about how “Jimmy just isn’t my name, I insist you stop calling me that,” I tended to our breakfast. Turns out that my near brush with gravity had been more than near for much of our food. We still have clam chowder, dehydrated mashed potatoes and more Spam. Not bad, really, but not great.
Dave and James, still complaining about his grievous nickname, go for the clam chowder, which leaves me with spam and half a bottle of water.
Not as bad as it sounds when you’re hungry.
Sporting a new bandage, the old man gets moving again. Amazing how unshakable that man is.
“Here’s it all. Got six more blocks. Got my scattergun, lost half the shells. Chow supply’s nixed. I’m only half a man with this taped up. Jim, you got that splitter still?”
By way of answer, James raised the smooth wood handle of his ax.
“And Mike, your bat still thumps like new.”
I nod.
“We still got Molly’s and flares, but down here we’d be dialing the reaper to use ‘em. Too much that’ll burn, no control. Aint an option. And we still have those six damn blocks.”
We turn to our vantage point then. This area’s business of various sorts. Travel bureau’s close by, then some mixed offices and shops. A car dealership to the right of the street takes up two blocks, which ends off about where the waste treatment plant starts.
And of course, the moaners. They stand and sit throughout the streets, vacant and empty. More part of the burned up landscape than anything else. Many meander aimlessly, shuffling left and right with slow, unexcited steps.
James shakes his head. “How do you propose we make our way through them? Doesn’t seem that they take kindly to our presence.”
We mull that. Goners are bad news, worst part being when they see you. Then their rotten greeting tells everyone around them about you, and they mob you. That’s when it gets desperate. So, the smart thing is to keep them from seeing you. In this situation, that gives us only one option.
James doesn’t like it. “I understand your point, Mike. You’re quite right. However, the problem is that just as much as they don’t see us, we wouldn’t see them. Electricity is on the fritz around here, in case you haven’t noticed. Going through the buildings guarantees we find unpleasant surprises in the closet”
I lose it a little here. Quietly, but with real heat, I say “Damnit! I know. James, I don’t want to die. We’ve scraped by the skin of our teeth too many times. Luck’s not on our side every damn time. This. Is suicide. And I don’t like suicide, because that involves me dying. We don’t even know if your sister’s alive. We don’t know if we can even get inside the damn building fence. All I know is that there are way more dead and gone then us. I’m only along for this ride because you’re the only damn living people who haven’t shot at me. That’s as far as it goes between you and I. So stop trying to get me fucking killed.”
For all I can tell James wants to snap back, the old man gets in first. He’s surprised. Guess he didn’t know that I’m not a fan. “Shit, son. That’s the only reason you’re here? Can’t wait to get outta the bush?”
I nod.
The aging vet sighs. Then he looks to James. “Not the time to argue. Mikey here’s on the dime about getting in. We can’t get them locals riled up, so we got to sneak in all quiet. If we want to succeed, this is the only way. No John Wayne, no guns blazing.”
James obviously wants to argue. I think he’s shocked that I haven’t drunk the kool aid over his idiot plan. But he knows he can’t get out of this. We distribute the rest of the goods, all the while discussing the details of our plan. James gets the rest of my meds, I take the bulky molotov cocktails, and Dave’s pack gets the flares and the pittance of food we have.
And that’s it. We’re heading into the throat of the goners. And our only chance at living is to hope they don’t realize.
8/4 p4
11:40pm- continued.
The world tilted insanely, and I knew that this could be the end. The weight of the huge pack pulled my left side up. My left hand, slick with sweat, gave way, slipping completely loose of the rung. At that same time, the goner tipped sideways, it’s legs caught in a rung, sending the whole ladder onto it’s side. My body twisted along with it, and the world flipped a one-eighty.
I could feel, even as this happened, that my right hand wouldn’t hold. Really, couldn’t hold. The pack added a third to my body weight, and the sweat was like teflon on my hand, keeping any good grip from staying solid.
I knew it then. In my heart, even as I screamed, even as the ladder dumped me off it’s side, that I was going to die. That this whole insane half baked plan would kill me. I flailed my left arm trying to get a balance, trying to assert control over my twisting body.
Oddly, my flailing fingers connected with something. Something solid.
That’s when James, screaming just as loud as me, broke his way into my panicked thoughts.
“Grab the axe! Goddamnit, Grab the bloody axe!”
And there it was, suddenly. My left hand mere inches from an axe. From James’ axe, in fact, shaft down.
I grabbed it, pulling myself forward on it, even as the ladder began to twist again, falling away from the motel behind me. unexpectedly, my feet touched down onto solid stone as I pulled forward. The ledge! Keedy, and Lee Law had a damn ledge!
While James kept his grip on me, steadying me as I stood, I realized I might get out of this.
My feet steadied down onto the ledge, and I found myself blessedly, insanely, against all odds, still alive. Not a mangled heap on the sidewalk. Not dead.
Dave lowered his shotgun, sling hanging loose from one end. “tie your pack into the sling and let me pull it up, boy! Do it fast, ‘fore you lose your balance!” A precarious, desperate minute later, I struggled out of the over stuffed pack and saw it slowly, painfully rise over the lip of the building.
Dave lowered the sling again and I tightened a loop against my right arm. The ax disappeared, and with much heaving and effort, James and the grizzled vet pulled me up over the edge.
We lay there, panting. We’d done it. We’d lived.
The moaners, suddenly unable to see us and with a gap so wide even their worm ridden brains registered it as impassable, lost interest. They milled around up top, spreading out and eventually losing the cohesion of a hunting mob.
We crawled, exhausted, to the far end of the long, rectangular building. There I lay now, the moans of the undead and brush of wind the only sound. We’ve survived.
Only six more blocks. Six blocks to the treatment plant. Six blocks to ground zero of the outbreak. Six blocks to ride to the rescue. Or die trying.
The world tilted insanely, and I knew that this could be the end. The weight of the huge pack pulled my left side up. My left hand, slick with sweat, gave way, slipping completely loose of the rung. At that same time, the goner tipped sideways, it’s legs caught in a rung, sending the whole ladder onto it’s side. My body twisted along with it, and the world flipped a one-eighty.
I could feel, even as this happened, that my right hand wouldn’t hold. Really, couldn’t hold. The pack added a third to my body weight, and the sweat was like teflon on my hand, keeping any good grip from staying solid.
I knew it then. In my heart, even as I screamed, even as the ladder dumped me off it’s side, that I was going to die. That this whole insane half baked plan would kill me. I flailed my left arm trying to get a balance, trying to assert control over my twisting body.
Oddly, my flailing fingers connected with something. Something solid.
That’s when James, screaming just as loud as me, broke his way into my panicked thoughts.
“Grab the axe! Goddamnit, Grab the bloody axe!”
And there it was, suddenly. My left hand mere inches from an axe. From James’ axe, in fact, shaft down.
I grabbed it, pulling myself forward on it, even as the ladder began to twist again, falling away from the motel behind me. unexpectedly, my feet touched down onto solid stone as I pulled forward. The ledge! Keedy, and Lee Law had a damn ledge!
While James kept his grip on me, steadying me as I stood, I realized I might get out of this.
My feet steadied down onto the ledge, and I found myself blessedly, insanely, against all odds, still alive. Not a mangled heap on the sidewalk. Not dead.
Dave lowered his shotgun, sling hanging loose from one end. “tie your pack into the sling and let me pull it up, boy! Do it fast, ‘fore you lose your balance!” A precarious, desperate minute later, I struggled out of the over stuffed pack and saw it slowly, painfully rise over the lip of the building.
Dave lowered the sling again and I tightened a loop against my right arm. The ax disappeared, and with much heaving and effort, James and the grizzled vet pulled me up over the edge.
We lay there, panting. We’d done it. We’d lived.
The moaners, suddenly unable to see us and with a gap so wide even their worm ridden brains registered it as impassable, lost interest. They milled around up top, spreading out and eventually losing the cohesion of a hunting mob.
We crawled, exhausted, to the far end of the long, rectangular building. There I lay now, the moans of the undead and brush of wind the only sound. We’ve survived.
Only six more blocks. Six blocks to the treatment plant. Six blocks to ground zero of the outbreak. Six blocks to ride to the rescue. Or die trying.
8/4 p3
11:40pm- continued.
For a moment, the right side of ladder twisted up dangerously, rung rising one, then two, then three inches into the air. I threw my body onto that side as James did the same, setting our three hundred pounds against inertia and momentum. The right side, after a moment of breathless worry and straining, slowly came back down.
Bad as it was on the building, I don’t want to think how Dave must have felt. He hung on with his good arm, whimpering - honestly, whimpering- and clenching his teeth even harder against the movement.
Face to the rungs, staring at fifty feet of nothing between you and the concrete, no one would’ve blamed him for freezing. I remember going on roller coasters and vicing down so hard to the holds my hands turned white. So, if Dave froze, who would blame him? It’d be condemning me to a screaming death in the mouths of moaners, but honestly, who could’ve blamed him? Sure as hell not me.
Which is why Dave has my respect. After only a few seconds of hard breathing, staring into that empty, huge nothing between himself and the ground, he released his death grip on the rungs. Slowly, unsteadily, he got back up to a crawler’s stance. And he moved forward.
Damn. That man is a man.
I wanted to wipe the sweat from my forehead, but was too afaid to let go of the bottom rung. So I let the stinging stuff drip into my eyes. Agonizing second by second, he kept on pushing, kept on moving. At last, he made it to the other building, and rolled onto the building, drenched in sweat and groaning in pain.
That left me, and not a moment too soon. The crashing, moaning racket from the stairs kept getting louder and louder. Swallowing back my worry, I crawled onto the ladder. The pack I wore, bulging with all of my supplies and much of Dave’s, swung back and forth dangerously as I moved. Fifty pounds of gear is a lot to keep in control. A hell of a lot.
As I neared two thirds of the way across, James called out.
“Bloody hell! Get a move on! Mike! They’re coming out the stairwell!”
Shit. I glanced behind me, and realized that the lead goner had indeed made it to the roof. The rotting body raised it’s arms, showcasing disgusting, rotten slashes on either side of it’s torso. Something, dog or other beast, had made their best attempt to chow down the corpse before it had risen again. I think I saw an intestine, half mangled, hanging out it’s browning, disgusting button up shirt.
I looked back to my hands and prayed that the sweat coating them didn’t kill me as sure as a goner’s crushing bite. One hand in front of the other, I crawled up the ladder.
I was only feet away from the top edge when the moaner got to the ladder. And decided to keep going, stepping onto the bottom rungs itself.
The goner shambled another step onto the ladder. It tilted crazily, suddenly completely off balance. As it twisted I felt the huge weight of my backpack working against me, undeniably called by gravity toward the ground.
I was going over.
For a moment, the right side of ladder twisted up dangerously, rung rising one, then two, then three inches into the air. I threw my body onto that side as James did the same, setting our three hundred pounds against inertia and momentum. The right side, after a moment of breathless worry and straining, slowly came back down.
Bad as it was on the building, I don’t want to think how Dave must have felt. He hung on with his good arm, whimpering - honestly, whimpering- and clenching his teeth even harder against the movement.
Face to the rungs, staring at fifty feet of nothing between you and the concrete, no one would’ve blamed him for freezing. I remember going on roller coasters and vicing down so hard to the holds my hands turned white. So, if Dave froze, who would blame him? It’d be condemning me to a screaming death in the mouths of moaners, but honestly, who could’ve blamed him? Sure as hell not me.
Which is why Dave has my respect. After only a few seconds of hard breathing, staring into that empty, huge nothing between himself and the ground, he released his death grip on the rungs. Slowly, unsteadily, he got back up to a crawler’s stance. And he moved forward.
Damn. That man is a man.
I wanted to wipe the sweat from my forehead, but was too afaid to let go of the bottom rung. So I let the stinging stuff drip into my eyes. Agonizing second by second, he kept on pushing, kept on moving. At last, he made it to the other building, and rolled onto the building, drenched in sweat and groaning in pain.
That left me, and not a moment too soon. The crashing, moaning racket from the stairs kept getting louder and louder. Swallowing back my worry, I crawled onto the ladder. The pack I wore, bulging with all of my supplies and much of Dave’s, swung back and forth dangerously as I moved. Fifty pounds of gear is a lot to keep in control. A hell of a lot.
As I neared two thirds of the way across, James called out.
“Bloody hell! Get a move on! Mike! They’re coming out the stairwell!”
Shit. I glanced behind me, and realized that the lead goner had indeed made it to the roof. The rotting body raised it’s arms, showcasing disgusting, rotten slashes on either side of it’s torso. Something, dog or other beast, had made their best attempt to chow down the corpse before it had risen again. I think I saw an intestine, half mangled, hanging out it’s browning, disgusting button up shirt.
I looked back to my hands and prayed that the sweat coating them didn’t kill me as sure as a goner’s crushing bite. One hand in front of the other, I crawled up the ladder.
I was only feet away from the top edge when the moaner got to the ladder. And decided to keep going, stepping onto the bottom rungs itself.
The goner shambled another step onto the ladder. It tilted crazily, suddenly completely off balance. As it twisted I felt the huge weight of my backpack working against me, undeniably called by gravity toward the ground.
I was going over.
8/4 p2
11:40pm
Somebody upstairs must love us.
When I told Jimmy and the old man about my grand idea, I was surprised to find that Dave was the one to turn green. Never had him pegged as afraid of heights. Honestly, never had him pegged as afraid of anything in particular.
They were both wary, but Dead Ed kept on banging, and that constant beat filled in every pause of our conversation. Made a more convincing argument than I ever could. James kept glancing at the floor, as if he was worried a clawed hand would shoot up from the threadbare carpet, like in the horror flicks. “Haven’t much choice, do we, anyway?” He asked, more to himself than either of us.
It was decided. We packed up the stairs to the top floor, carefully locking every door behind us. Sometimes Ed gets confused by all the closed doors and busts each one open, one at a time, especially if he can’t hear your direction. Makes him aimless.
When we got to the top floor of rooms, James and I dragged some of the shapeless mattresses to the roof. Dave was busy talking himself into how this was a great idea. The man sure seems crazier when he’s in the middle of a heated argument- with himself- but I didn’t let that worry me. The crash of the bottom stairwell door breaking gave me enough to worry about. Ed finally made matchsticks of our last defence. Time to get a move on.
James had by them positioned the heap of mattresses about two feet from the edge. I lugged the ladder over and set it’s base down, using the mattresses as a backstop. I extended the ladder to it’s tallest and, hands sweaty with worry and fear, began to lay it as gently as I could across the open chasm between us and our neighboring building. As the ladder began to feel it’s own weight, I pulled against it, working to keep it from gaining momentum and slipping out of control. Of course, my sweat drenched palms didn’t help that process at all, and my caution was useless.
The good news is that the ladder was only about four feet from the edge of the of the other building, and didn’t bounce off the law office and into the alley. That would’ve been our death knell. The bad news is that it fell four feet, clattering like monkey cymbals, calling to every moaner’s attention that, yes, there are still living sacks of meat in the area, and yes, they’ve conveniently announced their location to you and all of your other rotting pals.
James was the first onto the ladder. He’s the lightest, and Dave had pointed out that the thing wouldn’t be stable until someone was holding it on the other side. You could tell Jimmy was scared as a cat in the dog kennel, but he put one hand ahead of the other. Dave cringed away as he slowly, so slowly moved across. The aluminum groaned ominously as Mr. Matteson scampered across on hands and knees, but held until he reached the other side.
The old man had absolutely no desire to make the crossing, which is why we decided he should go second. Second place, in this situation, was better than first or last. With one of us on either side keeping it steady, the middle monkey would get the most stable trip. I took the shotgun from him, and we moved as much of the food and molotovs from his rucksack into mine. The climb would be difficult and dangerous enough with an injured arm. With a fully loaded pack, it was just suicide by another name.
Dave was praying to Jesus by then, telling the good Lord he’d get right with him and didn’t want to get eaten. Lot of swearing too, but I doubt God cares. One booted foot went onto the bottom rung, then his right hand on another. Slowly, he shrugged his arm out of the sling, and gently put pressure on it.
I could almost feel his pain, by all the grunts and squelched screams that vented through his clenched teeth. The muscles in his neck tensed up each time he made another move with his wounded arm, painfully articulating the agony he was in. About halfway through, it gave. He landed flat on his face, cheek burying into one of the metal rungs of the ladder. It swayed dangerously then, threatening to flip onto it’s side and leave the vet hanging as if on a monkey ladder. I dropped to my knees and laid hands on the bottom rungs, trying to use my weight to keep it from tipping.
Somebody upstairs must love us.
When I told Jimmy and the old man about my grand idea, I was surprised to find that Dave was the one to turn green. Never had him pegged as afraid of heights. Honestly, never had him pegged as afraid of anything in particular.
They were both wary, but Dead Ed kept on banging, and that constant beat filled in every pause of our conversation. Made a more convincing argument than I ever could. James kept glancing at the floor, as if he was worried a clawed hand would shoot up from the threadbare carpet, like in the horror flicks. “Haven’t much choice, do we, anyway?” He asked, more to himself than either of us.
It was decided. We packed up the stairs to the top floor, carefully locking every door behind us. Sometimes Ed gets confused by all the closed doors and busts each one open, one at a time, especially if he can’t hear your direction. Makes him aimless.
When we got to the top floor of rooms, James and I dragged some of the shapeless mattresses to the roof. Dave was busy talking himself into how this was a great idea. The man sure seems crazier when he’s in the middle of a heated argument- with himself- but I didn’t let that worry me. The crash of the bottom stairwell door breaking gave me enough to worry about. Ed finally made matchsticks of our last defence. Time to get a move on.
James had by them positioned the heap of mattresses about two feet from the edge. I lugged the ladder over and set it’s base down, using the mattresses as a backstop. I extended the ladder to it’s tallest and, hands sweaty with worry and fear, began to lay it as gently as I could across the open chasm between us and our neighboring building. As the ladder began to feel it’s own weight, I pulled against it, working to keep it from gaining momentum and slipping out of control. Of course, my sweat drenched palms didn’t help that process at all, and my caution was useless.
The good news is that the ladder was only about four feet from the edge of the of the other building, and didn’t bounce off the law office and into the alley. That would’ve been our death knell. The bad news is that it fell four feet, clattering like monkey cymbals, calling to every moaner’s attention that, yes, there are still living sacks of meat in the area, and yes, they’ve conveniently announced their location to you and all of your other rotting pals.
James was the first onto the ladder. He’s the lightest, and Dave had pointed out that the thing wouldn’t be stable until someone was holding it on the other side. You could tell Jimmy was scared as a cat in the dog kennel, but he put one hand ahead of the other. Dave cringed away as he slowly, so slowly moved across. The aluminum groaned ominously as Mr. Matteson scampered across on hands and knees, but held until he reached the other side.
The old man had absolutely no desire to make the crossing, which is why we decided he should go second. Second place, in this situation, was better than first or last. With one of us on either side keeping it steady, the middle monkey would get the most stable trip. I took the shotgun from him, and we moved as much of the food and molotovs from his rucksack into mine. The climb would be difficult and dangerous enough with an injured arm. With a fully loaded pack, it was just suicide by another name.
Dave was praying to Jesus by then, telling the good Lord he’d get right with him and didn’t want to get eaten. Lot of swearing too, but I doubt God cares. One booted foot went onto the bottom rung, then his right hand on another. Slowly, he shrugged his arm out of the sling, and gently put pressure on it.
I could almost feel his pain, by all the grunts and squelched screams that vented through his clenched teeth. The muscles in his neck tensed up each time he made another move with his wounded arm, painfully articulating the agony he was in. About halfway through, it gave. He landed flat on his face, cheek burying into one of the metal rungs of the ladder. It swayed dangerously then, threatening to flip onto it’s side and leave the vet hanging as if on a monkey ladder. I dropped to my knees and laid hands on the bottom rungs, trying to use my weight to keep it from tipping.
8/4 p1
9:45 am
Jimmy had it right. By this morning the old man was swearing and making plans as if yesterday’s violence hadn’t even happened. James put on a good, tight bandage ‘for compression’, he says. It keeps Dave from doing any flexing with his bicep, which is supposed to help it heal correctly. Jimmy thinks that, with proper rest and nutrition, the old man could have full use of the arm in a week. ‘Course, with our current situation, a week of proper rest and food’s about as likely as a helicopter evacuation staffed by New York super models.
However, I might have an evac plan that works almost as well. Not half as glamorous or distractingly pretty, but it has the upside of being workable. So long as none of us gets vertigo.
I went through the rest of the floors of our roach motel, hoping our crazyman had some sort of hidden escape route. He didn’t. By the time I got to the fifth and final floor, I was about ready to call it quts on life and eat the barrel of Jame’s peashooter pistol. That’s when I saw the final set of stairs, to the roof.
When I got out there, I was greeted by the standard box-building toppings. A few dead AC units, leaves scattered around, dirty brown puddles in the low spots-- and a ladder. Turns out that the maintenance man had been doing some work on the hotel’s neon sign and needed to reach the top of the ad. I turned behind me and realized that the building across the alley from us, an office complex, has a roof only one story higher than the motel’s. And this insane, stupid idea formed in my head.
I (very quietly) grabbed the ladder, and eyeballed the distance between us and ‘Keedy and Lee Law Offices’, proudly established circa 1983. The alley’s about ten feet wide, and I judge the distance between the tops of the two buildings to be about twenty feet, give or take. The ladder stretches far enough if you include that last rung that you’re not supposed to stand on, because it’s unsafe.
Unsafe. Right. Let’s see how this works out.
Jimmy had it right. By this morning the old man was swearing and making plans as if yesterday’s violence hadn’t even happened. James put on a good, tight bandage ‘for compression’, he says. It keeps Dave from doing any flexing with his bicep, which is supposed to help it heal correctly. Jimmy thinks that, with proper rest and nutrition, the old man could have full use of the arm in a week. ‘Course, with our current situation, a week of proper rest and food’s about as likely as a helicopter evacuation staffed by New York super models.
However, I might have an evac plan that works almost as well. Not half as glamorous or distractingly pretty, but it has the upside of being workable. So long as none of us gets vertigo.
I went through the rest of the floors of our roach motel, hoping our crazyman had some sort of hidden escape route. He didn’t. By the time I got to the fifth and final floor, I was about ready to call it quts on life and eat the barrel of Jame’s peashooter pistol. That’s when I saw the final set of stairs, to the roof.
When I got out there, I was greeted by the standard box-building toppings. A few dead AC units, leaves scattered around, dirty brown puddles in the low spots-- and a ladder. Turns out that the maintenance man had been doing some work on the hotel’s neon sign and needed to reach the top of the ad. I turned behind me and realized that the building across the alley from us, an office complex, has a roof only one story higher than the motel’s. And this insane, stupid idea formed in my head.
I (very quietly) grabbed the ladder, and eyeballed the distance between us and ‘Keedy and Lee Law Offices’, proudly established circa 1983. The alley’s about ten feet wide, and I judge the distance between the tops of the two buildings to be about twenty feet, give or take. The ladder stretches far enough if you include that last rung that you’re not supposed to stand on, because it’s unsafe.
Unsafe. Right. Let’s see how this works out.
8/3
11:48 pm
Say what you want about them, but goners are hard workers. Oh sure, they’re intelligent as brain damaged lemmings, but when they get an idea in their damn rotten noggins, it sticks.
When there’s only one of them slowly, patiently banging at the door, it’s not a problem. When three others decide to join the party, even that isn’t too worrying. But when a mob of fifteen are slowly splintering the heavy oak door below you, every day, every hour, every minute, never tiring, never taking breaks you have to admire their persistence. And inhale icy dread into every nook of your heart, because you know that they’re coming for you.
James noticed first. We were trying to catch some shut-eye in room 203 when he rolled over and groaned into the darkness. “What in good God’s name is that insufferable noise?”
I opened a sandpaper eye, staring into the darkness. “Jimmy. That’s the sound of the largest woodpecker in the world knocking the window down.”
Jim moaned. “And he’s a comedian as well as major league hitter.”
I was readying another snark when the noise doubled, followed by a thin but very distinct crack.
“Oh bloody hell. Is that really those monsters?”
I nodded, then remembered how dark it was. “Yup.”
“And you’re not worried?”
“Door’s oak. I’m beat, couldn’t run if I wanted to. And there are only--”
Another sharp crack warbled up the stairwell, and I stopped.
“Shit. Changed my mind. Yes. I am worried. Must be more of them than last I saw down there. One wouldn’t be cracking it down so fast.”
Realized then how close to stinking death we were. We’ve got to get the hell out of this motel. Those oak doors won’t stand more than a day, tops, and after that they’ll be right to us. No use hiding. I’ve seen moaners splinter down every single door of a place once they get in the mood. Not the faintest idea why, but I’ve never had the chance to ask. Maybe their brain just keeps reliving all the door opening memories of the past. Maybe the devil himself whispers in their ear. Don’t know. Don’t want to find out.
Not sure Dave’s up to any travel. Slept through our entire conversation. Wound to his arm gave him a hell of a time, and he sucked down the rest of his hip flask after James patched him up. James guesses a good night’s sleep and painkillers will go a long way. Sure damn hope so, ‘cause we’re leaving tomorrow.
One way or another.
Say what you want about them, but goners are hard workers. Oh sure, they’re intelligent as brain damaged lemmings, but when they get an idea in their damn rotten noggins, it sticks.
When there’s only one of them slowly, patiently banging at the door, it’s not a problem. When three others decide to join the party, even that isn’t too worrying. But when a mob of fifteen are slowly splintering the heavy oak door below you, every day, every hour, every minute, never tiring, never taking breaks you have to admire their persistence. And inhale icy dread into every nook of your heart, because you know that they’re coming for you.
James noticed first. We were trying to catch some shut-eye in room 203 when he rolled over and groaned into the darkness. “What in good God’s name is that insufferable noise?”
I opened a sandpaper eye, staring into the darkness. “Jimmy. That’s the sound of the largest woodpecker in the world knocking the window down.”
Jim moaned. “And he’s a comedian as well as major league hitter.”
I was readying another snark when the noise doubled, followed by a thin but very distinct crack.
“Oh bloody hell. Is that really those monsters?”
I nodded, then remembered how dark it was. “Yup.”
“And you’re not worried?”
“Door’s oak. I’m beat, couldn’t run if I wanted to. And there are only--”
Another sharp crack warbled up the stairwell, and I stopped.
“Shit. Changed my mind. Yes. I am worried. Must be more of them than last I saw down there. One wouldn’t be cracking it down so fast.”
Realized then how close to stinking death we were. We’ve got to get the hell out of this motel. Those oak doors won’t stand more than a day, tops, and after that they’ll be right to us. No use hiding. I’ve seen moaners splinter down every single door of a place once they get in the mood. Not the faintest idea why, but I’ve never had the chance to ask. Maybe their brain just keeps reliving all the door opening memories of the past. Maybe the devil himself whispers in their ear. Don’t know. Don’t want to find out.
Not sure Dave’s up to any travel. Slept through our entire conversation. Wound to his arm gave him a hell of a time, and he sucked down the rest of his hip flask after James patched him up. James guesses a good night’s sleep and painkillers will go a long way. Sure damn hope so, ‘cause we’re leaving tomorrow.
One way or another.
8/2 4:38pm
8/2 4:38pm
Turns out James is a doctor. He has medical training and everything. He is, however, almost completely useless.
By the time I returned to the other two, Dave was holding his Leatherman multitool, pliers out, toward James. James’ face had turned broiling green. “You’ve got to be off your bleeding rocker! I have no training whatsoever to do that!”
Dave, whose eyes were closed, spoke with steel in his voice. “Goddamnit. You said you were a doctor. Pull the arrow!”
“I was studying to be a rehabilitative podiatrist! Not some godforsaken trauma medic! I can’t stand the sight of blood!”
The old vet threw the pliers at him, then cracked open one eye. “You. Are a doctor. Pull the arrow.”
James picked up the pliers, gulped, and carefully went to work.
By the time it was done, we had used the rest of the flask of hard liquor Dave had been saving, and James was ready to retch.
Thank God Dave knew to keep his mouth shut through the whole arrow pulling operation. If he had started screaming, rather than whimpering loudly into a rolled rag, we would have been dead. Even so, a moaner heard the noise and began pounding the door. The dull ka-thump, ka-thump stretched on underneath Dave's slow, heavy breathing.
We slept the night through up there, and have (very quietly) gathered everything useful from the hotel floor we're on. It’s not much. I returned to the place my opponent had died, room 216. James was standing in there, staring at the corpse. “How long was he here?” James asked. “How long does it take for a sane, normal human to go crazy? How much of this blasted moaning does it take for someone here to lose themselves?”
His eyes, haunted by images of the room and the city, told me he wasn’t just thinking about this man. He was wondering about the condition of someone else, someone much more important to him than a lunatic with a hunting crossbow. Suppose she’s alive. Suppose she’s a crazed animal. What do we do then?
I know my answer. Looks James finally realized he needs to take a hard look at his. This world’s gone medieval. Time we do the same.
Turns out James is a doctor. He has medical training and everything. He is, however, almost completely useless.
By the time I returned to the other two, Dave was holding his Leatherman multitool, pliers out, toward James. James’ face had turned broiling green. “You’ve got to be off your bleeding rocker! I have no training whatsoever to do that!”
Dave, whose eyes were closed, spoke with steel in his voice. “Goddamnit. You said you were a doctor. Pull the arrow!”
“I was studying to be a rehabilitative podiatrist! Not some godforsaken trauma medic! I can’t stand the sight of blood!”
The old vet threw the pliers at him, then cracked open one eye. “You. Are a doctor. Pull the arrow.”
James picked up the pliers, gulped, and carefully went to work.
By the time it was done, we had used the rest of the flask of hard liquor Dave had been saving, and James was ready to retch.
Thank God Dave knew to keep his mouth shut through the whole arrow pulling operation. If he had started screaming, rather than whimpering loudly into a rolled rag, we would have been dead. Even so, a moaner heard the noise and began pounding the door. The dull ka-thump, ka-thump stretched on underneath Dave's slow, heavy breathing.
We slept the night through up there, and have (very quietly) gathered everything useful from the hotel floor we're on. It’s not much. I returned to the place my opponent had died, room 216. James was standing in there, staring at the corpse. “How long was he here?” James asked. “How long does it take for a sane, normal human to go crazy? How much of this blasted moaning does it take for someone here to lose themselves?”
His eyes, haunted by images of the room and the city, told me he wasn’t just thinking about this man. He was wondering about the condition of someone else, someone much more important to him than a lunatic with a hunting crossbow. Suppose she’s alive. Suppose she’s a crazed animal. What do we do then?
I know my answer. Looks James finally realized he needs to take a hard look at his. This world’s gone medieval. Time we do the same.
8/1 11:58pm p3
Dave fell, the thin, black arrow protruding from his left bicep. He cried out in unexpected pain and fell, dropping his shotgun. At almost the same moment, scrambling, scratching noises burst from the second story of a dingy motel next to us. An avalanche of falling cans jangled on as someone, obscured by the deep shadow, scampered away from his sniping perch.
For a moment, I stood frozen, my hands white knuckled on bat, legs frozen mid stride. Then James darted forward to grab Dave. I ran forward to help him, grabbing him underneath his right armpit and dragging him away from the sidewalk, toward the motel’s lobby.
“Damnit! You dipshits! I can handle my damn self! Grab THE SHOTGUN!” He screamed, struggling to use James’ outstretched arm to lever himself up. In a shocked and guilty moment, I realized we’d left our only non-clubbing weapon in the center of the street. I left the old man and James and made a run for the gun, which lay in the center of the street, blunt barrel touching yellow divider line.
The rasps were close now, four, five, eight of them, all around. As I ran toward the gun, a moaner, this one lacking use of one of it’s legs, trudged halting toward me. A hollow, reedy moan passing through it's broken teeth.
I grabbed the fallen gun and ran, ungainly with a heavy pack, back into the lobby. Dave and James were already heading toward the stairs. Dave’s face, a white mask, spoke volumes. The arrow went in one side and exited the other side, four inches of black metal piercing his arm.
We busted into the stairwell, shutting the door of the stairwell and blocking it with a shaft of broken railing. Whoever did the shooting must have cleared the motel with his bow, and if not the entire building, the definitely the floor he was on when he shot.
We followed the old man into the main hallway of the second floor, where we paused. Dave was close to collapse; “The hell with this,” he growled. “Goddamn cowboys and indians in here.”
James set down his pack and rifled through it, his hands visibly shaking. “Knew that I found some back there... Where is that blasted... There we go!”
He pulled free a package of gauze and ripped it open.
With the other two busy, I was the only one equipped to find the bastard with the bow. Handed the shotgun to James and told him to watch over our friend.
It only took until the third room. The door was unhinged, and when I burst in, an arrow swished past my cheek. I didn’t wait for any other invitations and barreled in. The man was hastily attempting to reload his crossbow, and didn’t even see me hit him. I swung with the blunt side of my bat, smashing his arm in mid reload. His bone snapped audibly, send him crashing to the floor, tangling his broken arm in the workings of the bow.
He tried to rise again, and I saw the flash of steel in his other hand. With another powerful strike, his back, arched and thin, collapsed. Someone was screaming at that point, me or him, I don’t know.
I raised my bat once more, as he lay, flopped on his side, pain etching his hollow face. His eyes were wild and a scratchy, overgrown beard only reached halfway round his jaw, leaving a dark patchwork to descend his neck. His adam’s apple bobbed, and I realized that he was speaking.
“They came here! They’ll eat you! They’ll eat me! I won’t let them! They’ll grab and rip and break and gnaw and moan and moan and moan and--”
The insane, crazed man whipped out in one last, violent spasm. His huge survival knife, still somehow held by his unbroken arm, stabbed out. I brought the slugger down, screaming, onto his temple.
He died instantly.
For a moment, I stood frozen, my hands white knuckled on bat, legs frozen mid stride. Then James darted forward to grab Dave. I ran forward to help him, grabbing him underneath his right armpit and dragging him away from the sidewalk, toward the motel’s lobby.
“Damnit! You dipshits! I can handle my damn self! Grab THE SHOTGUN!” He screamed, struggling to use James’ outstretched arm to lever himself up. In a shocked and guilty moment, I realized we’d left our only non-clubbing weapon in the center of the street. I left the old man and James and made a run for the gun, which lay in the center of the street, blunt barrel touching yellow divider line.
The rasps were close now, four, five, eight of them, all around. As I ran toward the gun, a moaner, this one lacking use of one of it’s legs, trudged halting toward me. A hollow, reedy moan passing through it's broken teeth.
I grabbed the fallen gun and ran, ungainly with a heavy pack, back into the lobby. Dave and James were already heading toward the stairs. Dave’s face, a white mask, spoke volumes. The arrow went in one side and exited the other side, four inches of black metal piercing his arm.
We busted into the stairwell, shutting the door of the stairwell and blocking it with a shaft of broken railing. Whoever did the shooting must have cleared the motel with his bow, and if not the entire building, the definitely the floor he was on when he shot.
We followed the old man into the main hallway of the second floor, where we paused. Dave was close to collapse; “The hell with this,” he growled. “Goddamn cowboys and indians in here.”
James set down his pack and rifled through it, his hands visibly shaking. “Knew that I found some back there... Where is that blasted... There we go!”
He pulled free a package of gauze and ripped it open.
With the other two busy, I was the only one equipped to find the bastard with the bow. Handed the shotgun to James and told him to watch over our friend.
It only took until the third room. The door was unhinged, and when I burst in, an arrow swished past my cheek. I didn’t wait for any other invitations and barreled in. The man was hastily attempting to reload his crossbow, and didn’t even see me hit him. I swung with the blunt side of my bat, smashing his arm in mid reload. His bone snapped audibly, send him crashing to the floor, tangling his broken arm in the workings of the bow.
He tried to rise again, and I saw the flash of steel in his other hand. With another powerful strike, his back, arched and thin, collapsed. Someone was screaming at that point, me or him, I don’t know.
I raised my bat once more, as he lay, flopped on his side, pain etching his hollow face. His eyes were wild and a scratchy, overgrown beard only reached halfway round his jaw, leaving a dark patchwork to descend his neck. His adam’s apple bobbed, and I realized that he was speaking.
“They came here! They’ll eat you! They’ll eat me! I won’t let them! They’ll grab and rip and break and gnaw and moan and moan and moan and--”
The insane, crazed man whipped out in one last, violent spasm. His huge survival knife, still somehow held by his unbroken arm, stabbed out. I brought the slugger down, screaming, onto his temple.
He died instantly.
8/1 11:58pm p2
We’d seen a number of corpses, either dead or twice dead on our way in. Crashes, crushed pedestrians, residents of Knox who lost their lives one way or another. This, however, was the first battlefield we’d ever seen.
The reason for the fight’s obvious. Front window like a mouth filled with broken glass teeth smoldered the ruined remains of a gun shop. All round it, the dead festered. Bodies closest to the store were badly burned. Charred necks strained back at unnatural angles, the heat of fire bunching muscles. Further away, many of the dead appeared to be victims of the store’s goods. Whether or not they were dead when they were shot, I don’t know.
James retched. Whiffs of cooked meat freely mixed with the decay of rotten death and old bile. The intersection, shielded as it was from wind, stunk of many, many dead. I had to clamp my own jaw as my diaphragm considered adding the stench of vomit to the riot of smell bombarding my nose, my face, and my watering eyes.
Dave immediately brought up his shotgun, wary as a nervous old jack rabbit. “Bad sign, this is. Better get on out of here.”
James wiped his mouth, trying to avoid looking at any bodies. “God. Yes. Appears we’ve got eight blocks, if we go straight. We’re close.”
Evening was falling fast, and long shadows blanketed the city streets. Eye watering sunlight contrasted sharply against the deepening building shadows, making an impossible patchwork of too bright and too dark that we snuck through, every hair pricked and every sense tight with dread. James, finally, realized how much trouble we were waltzing into. His eyes darted front and back, breath tense. He wiped sweat from his forehead with quick, anxious hands.
Even given our attentiveness, the attack struck us like lightning- impossibly fast and impossibly bad. One second, Dave walked ahead of us, and the next, a black arrow streaked into him.
The reason for the fight’s obvious. Front window like a mouth filled with broken glass teeth smoldered the ruined remains of a gun shop. All round it, the dead festered. Bodies closest to the store were badly burned. Charred necks strained back at unnatural angles, the heat of fire bunching muscles. Further away, many of the dead appeared to be victims of the store’s goods. Whether or not they were dead when they were shot, I don’t know.
James retched. Whiffs of cooked meat freely mixed with the decay of rotten death and old bile. The intersection, shielded as it was from wind, stunk of many, many dead. I had to clamp my own jaw as my diaphragm considered adding the stench of vomit to the riot of smell bombarding my nose, my face, and my watering eyes.
Dave immediately brought up his shotgun, wary as a nervous old jack rabbit. “Bad sign, this is. Better get on out of here.”
James wiped his mouth, trying to avoid looking at any bodies. “God. Yes. Appears we’ve got eight blocks, if we go straight. We’re close.”
Evening was falling fast, and long shadows blanketed the city streets. Eye watering sunlight contrasted sharply against the deepening building shadows, making an impossible patchwork of too bright and too dark that we snuck through, every hair pricked and every sense tight with dread. James, finally, realized how much trouble we were waltzing into. His eyes darted front and back, breath tense. He wiped sweat from his forehead with quick, anxious hands.
Even given our attentiveness, the attack struck us like lightning- impossibly fast and impossibly bad. One second, Dave walked ahead of us, and the next, a black arrow streaked into him.
8/1 11:58pm p1
Shooting’s over for now. Hopefully writing this won’t get me killed for not paying attention. The old man is keeping watch out the window. Hopefully he’ll stay conscious the entire time. Bleeding stopped, so he shouldn’t be passing out anytime soon.
Our little foray into hell got us right where I thought it would. Knee deep in crap.
Started out sensible enough. We’d put a keen edge on the axe for Jimmy-- he hates it when me and the old man call him that. Along with a set of Molotov's for each of us and a set a flares I found in the back of an SUV. Decided we’d looted what we needed from the surrounding area. Stepped out the back, and Dave spent a couple minutes next to the fresh patch of dirt where his dog lays. When he got back to where I uncomfortably waited, he was talking about how “dog’s got a sense of duty. Duty to it’s master, duty to us all. Us left alive got to stick together.”
He took a puff of the inhaler, and we set out. James wasn’t trying to outrun the two of us this time. Call him a lot of things, but I won’t call him a fool. Learned his lesson.
There were a few moaners as we passed through back alleys and across intersections. As long as we went slow, didn’t talk, and staked out each area ahead, we did fine. Moaners are slow as hell if they don’t know you’re there, and can be snuck up on. Every time we saw one, two would hang back while the last snuck up on it and bashed it’s skull in quiet as can be. First time James was up, he managed to kill the thing-- a petite old lady in sweats-- with one violent, well aimed stroke. He turned green when he looked her over. Found out that James can vomit quieter than he can walk.
We saw a few large groups shambling along, but heard them far before they saw or heard us. Was easy to sneak round them, taking side roads and carefully picking our way through buildings. The old man had studied a local map for a long time to fix in his mind how to get to the waste facility. Can’t think of many things worse than getting lost in HellTown USA.
Sneaking into the lion’s den got to all of us. The moaning, most of it muddy and distant, got louder the further we went into the city. By about noon, the old man signaled we would stop for ‘rations’ in a ‘temp camp’. Basically, we holed up in the back corner of a second story apartment and chowed on cold Spam and crackers. The walls quieted the noise a bit and removed some of the hair prickling certainty that this city no longer belongs to the living.
James didn’t eat much, but he kept on through the afternoon and into the evening, more and more jumpy. I’m jumpy too, round this much danger and blighted despair, but James took it harder, specially as we got closer to our destination. Saw him shaking his head to himself a couple times. Must be thinking of Liz. Just his luck, then, that he was the first one to see the bodies.
Our little foray into hell got us right where I thought it would. Knee deep in crap.
Started out sensible enough. We’d put a keen edge on the axe for Jimmy-- he hates it when me and the old man call him that. Along with a set of Molotov's for each of us and a set a flares I found in the back of an SUV. Decided we’d looted what we needed from the surrounding area. Stepped out the back, and Dave spent a couple minutes next to the fresh patch of dirt where his dog lays. When he got back to where I uncomfortably waited, he was talking about how “dog’s got a sense of duty. Duty to it’s master, duty to us all. Us left alive got to stick together.”
He took a puff of the inhaler, and we set out. James wasn’t trying to outrun the two of us this time. Call him a lot of things, but I won’t call him a fool. Learned his lesson.
There were a few moaners as we passed through back alleys and across intersections. As long as we went slow, didn’t talk, and staked out each area ahead, we did fine. Moaners are slow as hell if they don’t know you’re there, and can be snuck up on. Every time we saw one, two would hang back while the last snuck up on it and bashed it’s skull in quiet as can be. First time James was up, he managed to kill the thing-- a petite old lady in sweats-- with one violent, well aimed stroke. He turned green when he looked her over. Found out that James can vomit quieter than he can walk.
We saw a few large groups shambling along, but heard them far before they saw or heard us. Was easy to sneak round them, taking side roads and carefully picking our way through buildings. The old man had studied a local map for a long time to fix in his mind how to get to the waste facility. Can’t think of many things worse than getting lost in HellTown USA.
Sneaking into the lion’s den got to all of us. The moaning, most of it muddy and distant, got louder the further we went into the city. By about noon, the old man signaled we would stop for ‘rations’ in a ‘temp camp’. Basically, we holed up in the back corner of a second story apartment and chowed on cold Spam and crackers. The walls quieted the noise a bit and removed some of the hair prickling certainty that this city no longer belongs to the living.
James didn’t eat much, but he kept on through the afternoon and into the evening, more and more jumpy. I’m jumpy too, round this much danger and blighted despair, but James took it harder, specially as we got closer to our destination. Saw him shaking his head to himself a couple times. Must be thinking of Liz. Just his luck, then, that he was the first one to see the bodies.
7/31 8:53pm
Spent the day getting ready to go. My worries kept growing, like rust eating through sheet metal. Leave it out long enough, it’ll just crumble to bits. James gets to me. He's the weak link in this chain.
We gathered supplies from the surrounding buildings. Hazardous if done wrong, but the old man decided it would be necessary if we were going to “get the hell into dodge”. I had the luck of holding James hand while Dave slipped out behind the neighboring gas station. He worked on getting a pump to work while I stood with slugger cradled, playing lookout and kindergarten teacher.
James sat on the curb, staring at a headbashed moaner we’d dispatched on the way over. “This is so absurd. Just incredible.” he mumbled, mesmerized by the rotting goner.
“Believe it,” I grunted. “This is where you’re at. Can’t have you staring at them every time we see a group, tripping all over yourself. You’ll do your share of swinging soon enough. If you want to survive.”
“What could do this?” James asked, my comment completely ignored. “The experts said it was artificial influenza. Broke out of the university containment labs, they said. Like Whooping Cough. Only hit you if you came in contact with someone infected. Lock down Muldraugh and let it burn itself out.”
He laughed, hoarse, at that. “Burn itself out. Nutters. My only sister’s in here, and they say, ‘problem will solve itself, don’t trouble yourself’. Self righteous pricks. No idea what was actually going on in here, and they expected me to just forget about her? Insufferable, short sighted, small minded idiots.”
He looked up at me, then. “I was studying for my MD. When the world caught wind of ‘the Knox County Contagion’, I forced my way to the head virologist at Cambridge. He told me not to worry. He told me to let the bloody ‘problem solve itself’.”
His brown eyes burned as he watched the wind flit the jacket of the goner back and forth. “Bloody prick.”
Dave came round about then, hauling two bright red gas cans. James stood, and unexpectedly, clasped my shoulder. “Thank you, Michael. Thank you for helping me.” He left toward Dave, taking one of the cans. Didn’t see my glare.
Well, shit. James is fruitcake much as the old man. And he thinks I’m on board with this suicide mission. No convincing either of them off this track. Not even if it gets us killed.
We gathered supplies from the surrounding buildings. Hazardous if done wrong, but the old man decided it would be necessary if we were going to “get the hell into dodge”. I had the luck of holding James hand while Dave slipped out behind the neighboring gas station. He worked on getting a pump to work while I stood with slugger cradled, playing lookout and kindergarten teacher.
James sat on the curb, staring at a headbashed moaner we’d dispatched on the way over. “This is so absurd. Just incredible.” he mumbled, mesmerized by the rotting goner.
“Believe it,” I grunted. “This is where you’re at. Can’t have you staring at them every time we see a group, tripping all over yourself. You’ll do your share of swinging soon enough. If you want to survive.”
“What could do this?” James asked, my comment completely ignored. “The experts said it was artificial influenza. Broke out of the university containment labs, they said. Like Whooping Cough. Only hit you if you came in contact with someone infected. Lock down Muldraugh and let it burn itself out.”
He laughed, hoarse, at that. “Burn itself out. Nutters. My only sister’s in here, and they say, ‘problem will solve itself, don’t trouble yourself’. Self righteous pricks. No idea what was actually going on in here, and they expected me to just forget about her? Insufferable, short sighted, small minded idiots.”
He looked up at me, then. “I was studying for my MD. When the world caught wind of ‘the Knox County Contagion’, I forced my way to the head virologist at Cambridge. He told me not to worry. He told me to let the bloody ‘problem solve itself’.”
His brown eyes burned as he watched the wind flit the jacket of the goner back and forth. “Bloody prick.”
Dave came round about then, hauling two bright red gas cans. James stood, and unexpectedly, clasped my shoulder. “Thank you, Michael. Thank you for helping me.” He left toward Dave, taking one of the cans. Didn’t see my glare.
Well, shit. James is fruitcake much as the old man. And he thinks I’m on board with this suicide mission. No convincing either of them off this track. Not even if it gets us killed.
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