We abandon our salvage taking what we had loaded in the cart. No use leaving empty-handed. Ron suggested cutting the whole finger off in the hopes to stop the infection. Then what? Cut my hand off? My forearm? The whole arm? Whittle me down piece by piece without any medical tools all for something that might or might not work? It’s so futile and desperate. I don’t think so. Same goes for cauterizing it. It would be both painful and pointless. Ron drove to find a safe spot to camp for the night. He occasionally looked from my wound to his gun, then back to the road. I feel each beat of my heart pulsing in my finger as I hold my bandage my finger.
“Relax, I don’t think the change is like flicking a light switch.”
He sadly nods back, “How do you feel?”
“Hurts like hell, other than that nothing…yet.”
We pass a rest stop, in the past those have been too dangerous (it doesn’t really matter for me, Ron still has a chance), instead he takes the next turn off. It’s still light when we make camp. My stomach feels like I’m on a roller coaster.
It’s starting.
We sit by a small fire, eating chili from a can.
Soon the pain in my stomach feels like being speared with a hockey stick.
I’m sure doctors and scientists the world over have already studied the progression the unfortunate go through so I’ll just touch on it briefly. The pain is intense, in the upper right of the stomach it’s the worst. As if I can hold in the pain I drop to the fetal position clutching my stomach. It doesn’t help.
I looked up to see Ron pulling out his gun, it shakes in his hands as he points it at me.
“Piss off, Ron. I’ll do it myself when it’s time,” I wouldn’t want to add killing his best friend to the nightmare of stuff he has done let alone seen so far. Besides I’m still lucid, when my time is so limited there is no use rushing. We both know the end result.
With a sigh of relief he handed me the gun. I lay flat on the ground, it hurts to move or sit up. Laying hurts too, the cold earth isn’t enough to distract from the pain.
The nausea is never-ending. Ron helps me into the bushes and I ask him to leave me be. I don’t want anyone to see me in this condition. I vomit violently, retching everything out, blinded by the tears in my eyes I make sure not to get any on myself. I spit and rinse with water trying to clear the residue from my mouth. I thought puking would help but it doesn’t. It’s hard to even hold this pen steady.
I sat by the fire, lost staring at the orange flames but only for a few moments before I had to head back to the trees like a wounded animal. I manage to get my pants off and hunch over the grass as the diarrhea starts. At least I didn’t shit myself, I thought as I lay with my pants around my ankles still clutching my stomach. It’s not dignified but in this type of pain your pride quickly checks itself. I lay there in pain watching the sky. No blue moose, no flying canoe, and no twin buffalo calves. Just stars. My visions were false. I manage to get dressed and stagger to the campfire rejoining Ron.
Coming out of both ends, it’s embarrassing. Thankfully he doesn’t ask what I was doing.
As dusk nears, I tell Ron that I won’t sleep in the truck in case I turn in my sleep. Not that I can sleep with the pain and the sweats and the time ticking away. He not so reluctantly agrees (I can’t blame him, I wouldn’t want someone who might change into a monster in the same car as me) but he also doesn’t want me to sleep on the ground exposed. More snow is falling and our breath comes out as white clouds as we discuss what to do. I don’t want to be left in the open, doomed or not, being eaten alive is not something I want to experience. It terrifies me. I’ve seen people pinned helplessly to the ground, screaming for help while they are torn apart. No Thanks.
While I can still help, while I’m still strong enough in body and mind, we should make a burial platform. If I’m going to die, I’m not going to turn into one of those things, and I’m not going to provide them with any nourishment. I’d rather be buried high on a platform like the Cree warrior in the past.
With our machetes we get started, it something to keep us busy. I’m powerless to stop what’s going to happen but at least something is on my terms. I stop every once in a while and head to the bush to do my business but then I’m back at it. I picked the straightest four trees to use as the base poles and the branches for the cross beams. We construct the platform about eight feet high, high enough that they can reach up with those boney fingers and pull me down. I line the platform with pine needles over top of the cross beams for comfort. Maybe in a few days it will make my corpse smell pine fresh. Everything is lashed together with paracord we salvaged somewhere along the way.
When that’s done I cut an example of Red Willow to show Ron. I ask him to gather some bark to make tea. I remember my grandma telling me it helps with the nausea. It’s also something to keep Ron busy, keep his mind off the fact he will be alone in a matter of hours. I peel the bark and drop it into a pot of water. The tea is bitter, but it warms me on this cold night. We sit around the camp fire, not saying very much, enjoying the orange glow and the sparks rising to meet the falling snow. I take out the map and we go over the best routes to go to find Dave. When it’s time for bed, Ron boosts me up to the platform and I make myself comfortable. Hanging my hat up on one of the poles, I look at the stars. In the city you forget about the stars, now they shine bright everywhere. Now there are no city lights to block out the stars above. We can see just how small we are once again. The snow has let up, the chill hangs in the air I expect to hear the Jeep door open and close as Ron goes to bed but instead I hear him grunt, the sound of sneakers squeak on metal. I turn to see Ron on the roof of the Jeep with his sleeping bag.
We’ve changed our mind in finding Dave. Ron is just going to try for home. Dave must be too far ahead. We don’t even know if he stuck to the route he told us he was going to follow, so many factors could have caused him to alter his course. The best route is to take highway 40 until it hooks up with 191, take that all the way north, entering Saskatchewan instead of Alberta to avoid whatever craziness that’s going on in Montana.
I have no idea how quickly the virus progresses. I’ve only seen them after they have changed, and at different stages of decomposition. The only guy we know who was bitten, was the surfer who shot himself in the head right after he saw his wound. He must have known something pretty dark to do that. I hope nothing dug up Kirk and Miles. I’m confident that when it’s time I can end it myself. Ron gave me the handgun with its last two rounds. I only need one. The gun is heavy, cold, and final in my hand.
No matter how many blankets Ron throws to me I’m still cold.
I try to keep my fluids up but being dehydrated is the least of the problems for someone who is turning.
Orange juice. I have this craving for orange juice. Ron goes to the cooler and tosses me a bottle. I take a deep gulp, some runs down my chin. I slow down to savor it.
Ripping a page out of the journal I write a note to tuck into my shirt if anyone ever finds my body. It just says who I am and where I am from. I tell them if they need to take my machete and gun (which will soon have one bullet left), and if they need they can have my boots.
Ron has reluctantly agreed to take over this journal. With what little time I have left he’s been annoyed that I’m still writing in it. I’ll just write a short last entry. My eye lids are heavy. The world is becoming fuzzy.
My last will and testament.
I, Jake Wandering-Spirit give everything I have salvaged along the way to Ron, with the expectation that when he makes it home he will look in on my mom and help her out. Everything I have in my apartment goes to my mother or next living relative. Ron can have the old star wars toys, most of which I bought when he had that garage sale in Jr. high and regretted selling them ever since.
To my mother I thank her for raising me well and loving me. I tried to make it home but fell short.
I’m tired. I write this last sentence and will hand my journal over.
I
tried so hard to make it home.
Jake
Dear diary?
I have no idea what to right here. Haven’t done a journal since some assignment in junior high and even then I mostly talked about hockey and video games. I’ll just write what happens, pardon my poor spelling.
I left Jake in the night. I didn’t want to see him change and I couldn’t bring myself to shoot him. I laced the tea with some sleeping pills. I put even more in his orange juice. I hope it eases his pain. I’m not sure if it was enough to kill him but he fell asleep so he isn’t in pain. When I saw sure he passed out I packed up and drove off. I couldn’t stay and see him shoot himself, but I also want to make sure he does not turn. I owe him that much. Now that I drugged him what if he doesn’t wake with enough time to … to do it? I messed up. I wasn’t thinking. Now I got to make it right. Time to man up.
I pulled into that rest stop we passed on the way. It overlooks where we camped and where Jake lays on that burial platform. Rest stops always seem to have zombies lurking around, even if there are no cars around you can always count on at least one or two of the rotten bastards to be around. Maybe there were hobos back when they were alive, I don’t know. There are a few abandoned cars and a semi truck and trailer but so far nothing.
I don’t know what I would do if I were in his shoes. Blow my brains out.
But can he do it? I guess it’s not killing yourself if you are about to become a monster. Does he have it in him? What if he changes in his sleep? That would be my fault for drugging him. I promised him I wouldn’t let me become one of those things and so I’m on the roof of the truck, in the prone position, the scope pointed at where he is. I’ll wait. He hasn’t moved or stirred since I set up.
Between our camp and the rest stop I noticed a zombie tangled in a barbed wire fence.
Perfect to site my gun. If Jake does turn before he can stop himself then it’s up to me and I don’t want to miss. This far away, it’s less personal, and I don’t want to see his face when I do it. It will be just like a sniper in a video game.
The zombie tangled in the barbwire, was a brunette, she still has on those nerdy but sexy black framed glasses, her clothes and skin are torn in long thin cuts through her struggles in the wire. Each move making more cuts and only manages to get her tangled even worse. She reminded me of one of those medieval priests that whip themselves, can’t remember the word, whip themselves for the sins. Scourge? I think that’s the word. But no amount of punishment she can do to herself will stop her sins. That sin being hunger. That sin of trying to destroy the living. She can’t stop it, she can’t help herself. But I can. She isn’t even a person anymore. I can stop her sins. I haven’t been to church since my grandfather died, look at me talk religiously.
One more look around, no signs of life. Back to the scope. I take no pleasure in this, in any of it. She was a person once, from the looks of it about two-three weeks ago, everything she once was is gone. She is just a shell, a sack of rotting meat now. The crosshairs aimed for a head shot, just a little higher, to take the distance into account. I’m putting down this stupid journal. Nothing to do now but get it over with.
Dear Diary.
I’m a fuck up. Big time.
I took her out; she crumpled and did not get back up. This farm boy can shoot. Putting the sites back on the burial platform, there was no movement.
Was Jake dead, or passed out?
Better be safe than sorry. I took a quick sip of vodka, it warmed my throat and fogged my mind enough that I could do it.
I had convinced myself that Jake was going to change while passed out. I couldn’t let that happen.
Another drink. I’ve known him since grade two, went to high school with him. A few more drinks and I was as relaxed as I could be.
I raised the sights to the platform. I held a breath keeping the sights on his head. My finger slowly went to the trigger. It was cold but quickly warmed under my touch.
I worked up the courage to take the shot. Now or never, no use postponing what needed to be done. That liquid courage was flowing in my veins.
I lined up the shot. My finger began to pull the trigger. As I took the shot the SUV rocked. A hand with most of the flesh torn off reached up. The shot at the business woman must have attracted others and now the second shot would attract more.
I look back and down saw a very rotten bloated bag of guts pounding on the Jeep. Standing on the roof I aimed the gun right at its ugly face. As its face exploded I noticed more of them coming from the rest area. I fired a couple hurried shots at them to buy me some time. I hit one in the shoulder causing it to spin before recovering and coming back on its original course. Another I got right in the eye. Still standing on the roof I turned to Jake’s direction. Did I get him with that shot?
I quickly raised my gun and fired at him again but my adrenaline was pumping. His hat hanging on one of the poles jump and fell to the ground. While reloading I fumbled dropping a few precious shells. They roll off the roof and down the windshield. Over my shoulder I saw more of the ugly bastards coming, those lipless faces grinning at me. If I waited any longer I’d be trapped on the roof of the Jeep. I jumped off landing on the stomach of that fast bastard I shot. My feet sunk in deep and the gases build up inside him was forced out with a mighty fart. As scrambled inside they were banging on the rear window. I slammed the SUV into reverse. The jeep bounced as I rolled over one that fell underneath. I dropped it into gear and drove off, one kept up for a moment. A real ugly sucker, its nose was bit off, cheek ripped apart so it looked like it was grinning. We lock eyes for a second as I pulled away, it slapped at the window leaving a bloody hand print. In the rear view mirror I saw that they started to wander down the road in a vain attempt to follow me. Stupid bastards. I drove on, excited I drove fast. I knew they couldn’t catch up but I wanted to be as far away from them as I could get, as far away from Jake. After a few minutes, I slammed on the breaks and put the SUV in park. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. After I checked to make sure I brought the rifle when I made my escape, I did. I put my hands in my head. I totally fucked that up. I needed another drink. I’ve stopped for the night. My mind was still reeling from the last half hour. What I just wrote is how I remember it. I wish I didn’t.
I’m dead set against drinking and driving but it hardly seems to matter now. Let me correct that, back in the old world, I was dead set against something as selfish as drinking and driving.
Now the only one who would be hurt is myself, I can handle that. I’d rather have vodka & orange juice but Jake drank the last of it. That sounds terrible doesn’t it? If someone’s dying wish is for orange juice they can have all they want. There are bigger issues in the world as to whether I have the preferred mix or not. I don’t mind really, vodka and Pepsi is just as good. It gets you were you want to go. For me it always starts in the toes. That numb feeling, kind of like when your foot falls asleep, then my tongue and then my mind, all foggy and warm. I take a side road parking behind some trees out of sight well before my mind is foggy.
Next morning. I think the 7th of Feb.
I’m all the fuck alone. How did Dave do it? How far did he get? How far will I get? Tank is half empty, haha at one time I would have said half full. Guess that’s just the type of guy I am now. The gas tank is half empty and so if my glass type of guy. Still enough mix and vodka to fix at least one of my problems.
I don’t know how writing how I screwed everything up is supposed to help. What’s the point? What’s the point of anything? No one is going to read this. No one will be left. I just spilled some of my drink down the front of my shirt. Great way to start the day. That reminds me of Jake in the Cancun airport just when all this was starting. I think I hear something outside.
After drinking some more, I went out to check the road. Let me correct that, I went out there with the machete looking for trouble. I would have taken on any number of those undead bastards without a care if they bite me. Maybe that’s what I wante
d, to take as many of them out before they ended this hell for me. No sign of anything so I went back and fell asleep. My fingers are sore from writing, I haven’t wrote this much in years. Stupid journal.
Feb 8th
I woke up this morning and crossed the “S” of our my “Hurtin’ Albertans door crest. After all it’s not plural any more. I’ve decided I won’t flip through the journal to see what Jake wrote. I lived it and don’t want to revisit any of that.
Later
I took the paint we got from the hardware store and start painting a rough camouflage pattern on the truck, careful not to cover the crest. This white truck stands out too much. When it dries it’s time to move on. It looks rough n tough.
Couple days later.
Another shit show in hell.
I didn’t lose two friends along the way to be taken out by some red neck slacked jaw yokels. No, not me. Minutes ago I blew through some kind of road block. Up ahead I saw what I thought was a pile up. Something we I’ve seen many times in the last while. This time I had a feeling. It struck me as strange, something was wrong, the road was straight why would cars collide like that? Then I saw them. Men with guns.
I leaned over towards the passenger side ducking as I drove through. Lucky I did, as two or three rounds went through the driver side windshield. The wind was howling through the holes as I steered the truck. I had to peak up to make sure I was still on the road, when I saw this one asshole firing his shotgun from the hip. He was standing right out in the middle of the road like his shotgun could stop my truck. I edge the truck ever so slightly to line up with him. He still had his other barrel. I wasn’t going to move out of the way and he was too stupid firing like he was. I hit him straight on, felt the slight jump of the tires as I drove over him at 70km/hr. Before I knew it I was through and away from those vultures. They fired a few wildly wide shots as I round the corner. I gave them a “screw you” long honk as a salute.
Tomahawks & Zombies Page 13
