Our escape was narrow but our lesson important – never stop to stare.
The truly scary thing about the Undead - besides of course the fact that they are what they are - is their unwavering ability to pursue you. They don’t get tired, they don’t stop to rest and the only thing that stops them is a swift second death.
The trouble with trying to put them all down is that fairly soon you can end up being overrun by their masses, or too tired to fight the ones in front of you. All you can do is keep moving and hope that something catches their attention to divert their ravenous intentions.
To be perfectly honest we had assumed that we had left most of the Undead behind us in Toronto and the surrounding Greater Toronto Area. In the past few days however it’s become increasingly apparent that anyone fleeing the city and suburbs has spread things farther afield than we had dared to anticipate.
Stupid, I know; in any situation one should always prepare for the worst possible outcome, it has the tendency to keep you alive. Planning for the worst or in fact planning for any contingency has a way of keeping you on your toes.
Unfortunately we were all still a little shell-shocked; shocked that the world appeared to be disintegrating behind us. While we had tried our best to prepare for this possible yet improbable eventuality, it was still something that none of us had actually thought would happen. The events of the past one and a half days have left us all a little frazzled, lost, and feeling alone even though we are together in the physical sense.
Putting some distance between us and the horde from the field felt good. In an instant that feeling was robbed from us as we came to the crest of a steep ridge. We were now face to decomposing face with a group of our Undead pursuers. The surprise elicited a shocked, scared little cry from Barbara, one of our group, but it was quickly squashed as we reacted. And there wasn’t much time to do anything but react; our primal, instinctual selves took over.
The sound of the first shot ricocheted off the surrounding foliage in the relative silence of the early morning. Before my eyes the pimpled face of what was once an adolescent boy exploded, shards of bone along with infected brain tissue flying out like they were searching for their next victim even in death. I quickly turned my face, hoping to shield it from the spray of grey matter and connective tissues. Thank heavens I was just out of splatter range as the Undead kept coming at us in what felt like increasing numbers.
In all truthfulness there were only twenty-five to thirty of them and they were spaced out and slow-moving. Unwittingly, they had made themselves easy targets; having to come up the opposite side of the ridge made our task of their death relatively uncomplicated.
We each had our own firearms along with other back-up weapons in the event a gun jammed on us. It was moments like those that I appreciated the fact that my husband had been so meticulous when teaching me to shoot. I could hit both stationary and moving targets at a number of distances. That knowledge made me feel somewhat safe and comfortable in what I had to do. I don’t know how each the others felt in that moment but I could read the resilience in their faces.
Given our knowledge and perseverance, we made it through that encounter and plan to make it though many more to come. Survival is what we have chosen and we are all geared to success.
You have to be.
This is a fight to the death and none of us want to think of the consequences of what death will mean for us. I know that each and every one of us would rather die than become one of them. Of that I’m one hundred percent certain.
It only took us a few minutes to quickly dispatch all of the Undead coming up the hill at us. They came at us in all shapes and sizes. Most of them were still fully intact and had barely started to decompose. It’s only been three days since this all started and what I would have expected to see as a pathologist was normal; some bloating and a little skin slippage, even some discoloration of the skin. Their faces were all slack and carried the expression of vacancy.
It made it easier to kill them if you happened to look at their faces. You knew that there was nothing left of the human soul that once thrived inside the shell.
I tried not to make eye contact with any of them. It was unnerving to catch a glimpse of the dead eyes. Eyes that had likely once held such promise. Now they were just limpid milky pools of emptiness. Stare too long and you can get lost.
It happened to Ben the other day as we were just leaving Toronto. He happened to stare a moment too long and ended up mesmerized by the sheer austerity of those eyes. That moment we had to rescue him as the Undead toddler got closer than any of us would have liked. It was another lesson that we needed to learn. Staring is bad in any form when it comes to the Undead. Unless of course you happen to be behind a barrier that’s impossible for the breach. After all, observation is key; you need to observe in order to understand.
But nothing in the movies we watched could ever have prepared us for what we were now facing. Sure, it was always entertaining to watch the way that Hollywood varied the classic archetype of the “Zombie” but to witness something so fundamentally against nature actually moving toward you; that’s another story altogether.
Your fear and panic can take root in your disbelief. You can either choose to believe and move or you will succumb to it.
It’s a sad thing, coming face to face with the Undead. While we realize that they are just monsters now, they were once people. People like you and me. People that have loved and lost. No one is immune to what is happening. Your money couldn’t save you. The only thing that kept you alive these days was a plan and the will to put it into action. Once you started moving, you can’t just stop. If you do, the Undead catch up.
From our vantage point, we could see that the Undead from the field had gained a little ground on us. The way that we had previously come also had a few stragglers shuffling in our general direction. We decided our only option was to divert our journey along the ridge and hope that we didn’t meet any other unwanted travelers along the way. Ben, our map expert let us know that in a few kilometers another trail heading in the right direction would present itself.
The trouble with staying out of any major urban area - or even minor ones for that matter - is that you end up travelling in less than optimal conditions. We would have loved to get into a car and travel farther and faster but the roads were already treacherous.
With the sheer number of people fleeing from Toronto and the surrounding cities and towns, the roads in some areas were clogged with accidents, cars with empty gas tanks and the Undead that follow the exodus.
It frightens me to think of the number of people who left the town harboring family members or friends that had been infected in recent attacks. One would think that they would have gained some knowledge from the Hollywood blockbusters. But no… It’s like the panic that they felt in needing to put distance between themselves and the situation prevented their brains from assessing sound logic.
Now as a result, the Undead have more of a chance to gain a foothold on our civilization, our humanity. Anyone watching the news can see that Toronto is quickly becoming the antithesis of a tourism hot spot. And the closer you happen to be to Toronto, the more risk you can expect to encounter.
If one could look at a map of Southern Ontario and see the vectors of transmission illustrated, it would look like a bomb had gone off. The damage, in this case the infection, was spreading outward at an alarming rate. The northern shore of Lake Ontario, with all of its urban sprawl, would have become a sea of red. All we want to do is stay as far in front of that sea as possible.
We have been fairly lucky so far by staying off the roads but inevitably we seem to manage to pick up followers when we can’t avoid them altogether. While we are careful as anyone can possibly be, you cannot avoid the Undead completely.
We were fortunate enough to spot an isolated and abandoned cabin in the woods to spend tonight in. It’s small, but that made it all the more attractive to us. I assume it’s a hunting lodge of some so
rt, being that it’s so far from any major access road. Its construction is simple; made of solid brick with two heavy doors and four double paned windows. A lot of egress points if needed and not too many points of weakness to safeguard.
It was a dangerous move to stop for the night especially when we know that there are members of the Undead army shambling in our general direction. It was a direction that we had guided them into taking as well; they had the understanding that there were uninfected people somewhere in front of them.
I may be giving them a little more understanding than they actually have but it’s the simplest way to describe it. But we had to stop; all of us were exhausted from our flight out of the city and all of the encounters with the Undead that we had endured. Combat takes a lot out of you; both physically and psychologically. We needed a few moments to stop and recharge. If we didn’t we might make a mistake that we would never get the chance to correct.
I guess at some point I should let you all know who we are. We’re just a small group of five that came together a few years ago. At one point we had more members but the passage of time has pared us down a bit; time and current events, to be more honest.
We tend to think of ourselves as like-minded individuals - yet having typed that I can’t help but smile. If you knew us outside of these moments you might wonder how in the world we ever came together…
Of course there are some similarities and connections between us. Bob and Max served together in Afghanistan as part of the Canadian military, Ben and I both have medical degrees and Barbara and Bob know each from University. That’s pretty much where it ends though.
Ben is a doctor in the Emergency Room of St. Michael’s Hospital where all of this started and I work as a pathologist for the Center for Forensic Sciences.
Even-though Bob and Max served together they each had different roles. Max was trained as a sniper so he did a lot of work that is classified and can’t really be discussed. Bob, on the other hand became an Intelligence Officer after basic training, mainly because of the education and the penchant for languages that he has. His work is most definitely classified but sometimes he talks about things in bits and pieces from the need to get them out.
Barbara is an Environment Scientist and she works at an Outdoor Education Centre for school children to the northeast of Toronto.
So how did we all come to meet you might wonder? Well, Bob and Max already knew each other; that part is fairly simple to infer. Max’s wife, Miranda is - well was - my husband’s sister. Barbara and Bob used to date in university but managed to stay in touch after they split (they say amicably, but there’s still tension so I think there are unresolved issues). Ben treated Steve, my husband, when he came into the Emergency Room about three years ago after getting shot in the line of duty. Oh, I may have forgotten to mention that my husband was an officer with the Toronto Police Service.
Through the wonder of absent conversations in an otherwise ordinary world, we discovered that we shared something fairly special in common; a love for Zombie media and the willingness and desire to “prepare” ourselves just in case.
I think we all felt a little silly at the time; I’m sure none of us actually believed that we would come to experience a veritable hell on earth. But our discussions and time spent training has gotten us this far so we have to believe that we’re better off somehow.
We can all handle different kinds of firearms; Max and Bob having more experience and better aim. Barbara has schooled us all in edible plants and the types of materials that can be found in the woods with which to make the most durable melee weapons if our ammo runs dry before we can stock up. It’s amazing, actually, the types of woods that are hard enough to actually skewer someone in a pinch! Ben, a child of the foster care system, grew up trying to find ways to escape his life and as a result, he has collected a wealth of maps; maps you probably didn’t even know existed. Heck, I didn’t know they existed but they are a godsend to us now.
As for me - I’m a mechanical and technological junkie. I’ve spent years learning how things work and I can thank my brothers for that. Those skills may be the difference between life and death for us out here. So that’s us in a nutshell, just a group of people trying to stay alive.
Tonight we’ve decided not to light a fire or use any of our camping lights. We don’t understand everything about the Undead at this point and we are all tired enough not to want to draw any unwanted attention. The only light we have is from my laptop screen but that’s turned as low as I can get it and still see what I am typing to you.
Our hope is that we will be safe tonight and many more nights to come. Some of you out there - those untouched by the reality that we are living first hand - might think this is a joke, a prank or some sick and twisted hoax. I can certainly attest that it is not. What’s happening is real and this is our record of it. I do hope that my frantic typing isn’t garbled and that I don’t repeat myself too often. PLEASE forgive me if I do. My intent is only to give the world a glimpse into our survival until the very last possible moment.
I hope this communication finds you in a safe place where the Undead have yet to proliferate. Pray for Us. Pray for life. Just pray… Please.
Day 4…
For those of you out there that have no idea what is going on or those dealing with minimal information, I’m going to fill you in with what we know so far. Ben managed to survive being at the epicenter when Patient Zero transformed from being medically dead to Undead. Forgive me if the language I use is technical or scientific; being a pathologist, it’s how my brain is programmed to work and right now it’s on autopilot.
Four days ago my world - our world - went to hell and I don’t think it’s coming back. From what I’ve been able to gather from Ben, Brooks VanReit, whom I will refer to as Patient Zero from this point, came into the Emergency Room of St. Michael’s Hospital with practically non-existent vital signs. The staff assigned to treat him tried to resuscitate him but their efforts failed. Sometime between 7:30AM and 7:45AM, he was pronounced dead and as quickly as he died, he came back to life. From what I understand, the doctors and nurses first thought they were witnessing a miracle. They immediately found out how wrong they were.
Ben had tucked himself away in the nearby nurse’s station while completing a few charts before going home and he said he had a fairly good view of what transpired. His description of the carnage left in the wake of the reawakening is brutal.
As a doctor, you get used to the sight of blood but even Ben tried to impress upon us the sheer volumes that covered the Emergency Room that day. It was all over the floors making any means of escape difficult if you were in the direct vicinity of the attacks. Arterial spray marked the walls in long sweeping arcs of crimson.
It didn’t take long for the nurses and doctors who had been working on Patient Zero and thus been attacked in the chaos that erupted to reawaken and start to attack other people. It was like a wave; attack, death and then reawakening. The more that were attacked, the more that came back.
In one of the busiest Emergency Rooms in Toronto, it was absolute pandemonium. With blood everywhere and many of his colleagues succumbing to death and then entering a second life of sorts, Ben knew it was only going worse.
He said the worst moment he witnessed was an attack on an elderly invalid woman left in the hallway on a gurney. She had nowhere to go when it all started and the fear present on her face and in her frail body made Ben wish he could go to her rescue. Since she wasn’t mobile Ben said that it seemed to take them a little longer to find her.
There was a moment that he thought he could have gotten to her but he hesitated. With the moment lost, all he could do was watch from his vantage point as they homed in her fragile frame.
As he retold how they tore her apart, leaving only the bloody mass of a skeleton behind, his eyes welled with tears and his voice caught in his throat. Ben thought that maybe she would escape the same fate as the others given the fact that her small body was very
literally shredded.
He was stunned, however, when the bloody pulp of a skeleton started to move. It tried to get up but in its less than whole state, it couldn’t quite manage and instead fell to the floor with an audible wet slap. It started to move across the floor powered by what Ben described as sheer will and determination.
It had aimed itself in the direction of a small boy that had taken refuge under the bank of chairs along the wall of the waiting room. Ben could see the whole thing play out from where he was and it just made his heart ache when she caught up to him. The young boy was frozen in place like a deer in headlights. She kept slowly but determinedly slithering across the floor toward him and with each inch it gained, the boy’s face grew more scared yet vacant at the same time. Ben described it as such; like there was recognition in the young boy that he would die and instead of fighting, his mind gave over into acceptance.
Realizing that most people were beyond help, he knew he had to leave. What good was he dead - or worse? His best bet was to escape the hospital and prepare to leave the city as soon as possible.
He said getting out was difficult by that point but that he was lucky enough to find a way. Before leaving though he did manage to call 911 and notify them of the situation. He’s not entirely sure that the operator took him completely seriously, who would have when the caller is stating emphatically that the dead are coming back to life? In the end, we know that the police responded and became fast believers.
I was a few blocks away working at the CFS (Centre for Forensic Sciences) and I was just beginning to hear the grumblings of some sort of strange occurrence at the hospital. Steve, my husband and thirteen year veteran of the Toronto Police Service called to let me know that some sort of riot (as it had been reported at first) had erupted at St. Mike’s and to stay inside until further notice.
Darlings of Decay Page 83
