Any advantage I had was more than useful; it could be a matter of life and death. I’d walk from the early morning until before noon, find a safe place to hold up (or is it hole up?) when the sun was at its peak, and then at dusk I’d continue on for as long as I could. The thing about moving at night, your mind plays tricks on you. I heard footsteps everywhere; I swore I heard them whisper my name. I was going nuts. In a crazy world it’s easy.
The moonlight made it seem like someone was in the shadows. Shadows fifty feet long with arms and legs all over the place. Traveling at night was also slow going, I’d pause to peer into the darkness, did I see something move or was that my mind making it seem that way? Either way I’d wait only moving when I was sure it was safe, tripping over the plowed fields. If I twisted my ankle I’d be screwed. I fell and tripped more times then I’d like to remember.
It was hard going and I was constantly hungry. I’d had to find something to eat soon or I’d be too weak to go any further let alone escape if they pursued me. I was scared of going into any towns in search of food; I was scared of even walking on the roads. I was like a scared rabbit hiding in the thickets. My nerves were frayed, I needed to find some place safe, get some food and recover for a few days. Mentally, physically it was hard. I was weak and tired and going crazy.
Crossing a field I saw the tell-tale signs of a house hidden back in the trees planted in a straight line for a wind break. At the end of a gravel road was a clearing with a sea foam blue trailer. The screen door slowly squeaked in the wind. I moved off the path crawling through the brush, dried leaves and snow deciding to watch the house for any signs of signs of anything. When my left leg started to fall asleep I thought I’d waited enough. There were no signs of life or death just that screen door swinging in the breeze and occasionally banging into the side of the trailer. I carefully approached the house, my spear at the ready. I wasn’t sure if I should call out or not . You call out and the living knows not to shoot (you hope) but for any dead it’s like ringing the dinner bell. With that annoying screen door I’m sure anyone alive would have tied it down so figured the place was abandoned. I approached the wooden stairs, stepping lightly to avoid any creeks.
The door was ajar, not a good sign. I glanced around behind me one more time. I used my walking stick to push the door open and waited. It was dark inside as all the shades were closed, I made a perfect silhouette in the door way. I strained my ears to listen, for any sound. Nothing. I took a deep breath stepping in.
Someone packed up in a hurry, clothes were tossed round the floor, the kitchen counters cluttered with cans and spilled dry goods, and the drawers were in various states of open.
Its slim pickings with only two cans of corn left, one can of baked beans, and three of kidney beans. Someone didn’t like their vegetables. My stomach was rumbling just looking at the food. After a quick search of the kitchen drawers, I located a can opener. After dumping half a can of corn in my mouth I found a spoon. The corn tasted good, as I was spooning it in my mouth I realized I hadn’t secured the front door. I unplugged the fridge and slide it in front. All the windows were well off the ground, high enough that it would take effort from someone alive to get in. The door was the only point of entry. Satisfied that nothing was getting in, I enjoyed my corn in peace sitting in an old recliner. The cloth around the elbows was worn and frayed, someone love this chair. I must have nodded off for a few hours as the moon was out when I woke up. Being nocturnal these last few days my internal clock had been reset and I was fully awake. I explored what I could. Peering outside from time to time. Eventually I found hand crank powered flashlight, it made exploring the trailer easier than fumbling around in the dark.
I got excited when I saw a tall gun locker in the bed room. The thick door was ajar but unfortunately cleaned out. Not even a bullet was left. It would have been so nice to have a long-range weapon. I looked through the dresser drawers. A gift from heaven. Socks. Pairs and pairs of socks. I pulled my hole filled, stinking socks off as quick as I could and enjoyed the comfort of a clean pair. No one is was excited to get socks at Christmas, but right now, it was the best gift.
Going through the clothes in the closet, whoever lived here before me was as tall as me but out weighted me by a good twenty pounds. The T- shirts were mostly beer brands, baggy but fine. Even with a belt, the pants would be huge; there was a pair of long johns that fit me. Coming from the north I know the key to survival in cold weather is to wear layers, and not to exert yourself to the point of sweating. When it’s cold out, if you sweat, you die.
The next morning as I opened the blinds the sun shone in, revealing what was obviously a bachelor pad. I started the day off with cold kidney beans. The breakfast of champions. Our feet were the same size (eleven) and he had a decent pair of hiking boots to replace my worn-out runners. I don’t think he would mind someone in need using what he left behind. I doubt he will ever be back. I threw on a red and black plaid quilted jacket completing my layers and headed outside.
Near a weathered shed was an old pump for a well, after twenty or thirty squeaky pumps, out poured a stream of clear, fresh cold water. Later, I’d take a bucket inside to wash my face and hair and wish luck found a clean razor.
To the back there was bunch of old cars, their hoods up in a rusty salute. It reminded me of my great Uncle’s farm, old cars parked in rows, the grass growing half way up the doors. Old Junkers left to rust. None of the vehicles have been on a road in at least a dozen years. Leaning against a shed was a mountain bike, the chain was rusty but on, the tires weathered but held air. It’s not what I was hoping for but it would be quicker and less tiring than walking. I oiled the chain with cooking oil and checked the brakes; it was as road worthy as it was going to be. My new apocalyptic mode of transportation was ready but was I ready to leave?
Tucked off the road hidden in the tress, I could have rested and stayed in the trailer longer but there is only one direction to move and that’s forward. I found an old backpack loading it up with anything I could salvage, and left. Other than a few cans, all the food was gone or spoilt. However, there were a lot of dry goods - flour, baking powder, salt, shortening. Everything I needed to make bannock. Going from memory I poured in the right (close enough) amount of each ingredient in a plastic two liter bottle. Just add water and fire, and I’d have some carbs.
If anyone was around to see I must have been a sight, a guy peddling down the highway wrapped up in many layers of ill-fitting clothes. For a while it was clear sailing. Just me riding my bicycle on the snow blown deserted highway. When I saw the undead in the distance I would steer over to one side, when they moved to block my path I’d quickly swerve back to the other side and scoot around them. They were too slow and too uncoordinated to change course quick enough to get me. I got cocky, waiting longer and longer to dart out of the way until one managed to slap my leg in an attempt to grab me as I went by. I didn’t notice as it was using its arms to drag itself along the road a mangled leg trailing behind. I was more careful after that.
It was mostly a lonely ride, miles of nothing, passing a few abandoned cars and boarded up farm houses. Only once did I hear signs of real life. A pick-up truck in the distance, as it came closer I dove off road lying in the ditch until it passed. Pressing myself into the snow, I crawled up as it passed. The truck was heading right into a roadblock that I hadn’t noticed. They weren’t clever about hiding it around a bend or a dip in the road. It was out in the open. When the overloaded truck stopped a group of armed men pulled the occupants out. They made them kneel, hands over their heads. I heard two shots then laughter.
I kept an eye on them as they went through the victim’s pockets. Back-tracking, walking my bike cross-country making sure to kept my distance. That night I slept in the bush, making a shelter out of pine branches and snow. I kept my boots on, and used my backpack as a pillow. It was cold and it took a long while for me to fall asleep. Footsteps woke me up; each step breaking the icy crust of snow. Three feet i
n front of me was the lipless grin of a hunter. His orange jacket torn and stained red and black. I scrambled away as it reached for me with its boney flesh-free hand. I rolled away from its grasp. The hunter was between me and my bike so I couldn’t get it. I grabbed my pack hugging it in my arms as I searched for a path between the trees. The hunter was close on my trail; I could hear it moan but didn’t dare look back. I already knew what it looked like. Breaking out of the woods I stopped halfway through a clearing, bending down hands braced on my knees to catch my breath with a nervous laugh at how close I had come. I was far from safe as I saw the orange of the jacket in the trees and then it burst out of the woods. Exhausted I forced myself to go on. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake him. This went on for hours with him trailing anywhere from a football field length to a stone’s throw away.
A howling echo from behind. A pack of wolves trailed the hunter and myself. Sensing a meal crows and magpies circled above landing on branches to watch us. They laughed amongst themselves as I pushed forward, each step an effort, the soft snow was like walking in sand. They didn’t know who but they knew someone was going be laying face first in the snow before the day was out. I was tiring fast. The wolves got closer and closer soon they were behind the hunter. I walked backwards watching the show. When the wolves got no reaction they got brazen encroaching closer on the undead. A big reddish wolf, the alpha, cocked his head in thought. These things walk like man. Man is dangerous so stay away. But these things do not smell like man, they don’t act like man. Closer they came. Braver. First a nip at the hunter’s heels. No reaction from the undead. I increased my pace, putting some distance between us. They yelped and danced with excitement. The red wolf nipped again. This time it sank its teeth deep into the calf muscle on my undead friend. The flesh pulled away easily. The wolf retreated with its prize. The howling stopped as the hunt got serious. The pack acted together, their instinct was to tire their victim, to make their pray panic, to exhaust them. This did not work on the undead. On and on it trudged, following my footsteps in the ankle deep snow. Limping on its damaged leg, black sludge leaking out leaving a train in the snow the hunter went on. The gap between us opening to where I felt save. The wolves were quick to adapt, taking the undead down by biting and ripping the tendons.
The same lesson Saruka taught me. Crippled and rendered immobile it continued to struggle kicking up snow with its thrashing. Its eyes still focused on me as the wolves attacked. I stopped to watch and catch my breath, the chase had been long. I didn’t know how much long I could have kept going with the hunter following. The wolves ripped out the hunter’s throat, in the past a sure fire tactic but here useless. The pack clawed and bit and tore at the orange hunting jacket, cotton stuffing tossed in the air in the frenzy. They finally got into the abdomen, ripping it open. Two wolves had a tug of war with the intestines. When it snapped in half each wolf ran off with its prize trailing behind. The pack didn’t care that the undead hunter continued to struggle, continued to try to get up. I walked on looking back to see if they were following me and to see the progress of their feast. A black green and red smear painted the snow. They were still eating the carcass as I entered the woods.
The next day I found Ron’s camp. Bottles scattered around the camp, him with his rifle waiting. He cautiously let me sit by the fire, the other side of the fire from him.
I added some water with my bannock mix. Forming the soft dough into fair sized balls and wrapping them on the end of a stick. The fire turned them brown as they cooked. I wished I had jam or butter but they tasted fine on their own. We sat in a warm glow as I told him my story, the same one I’m writing now. Every once in awhile he’d give me this look; a strange look, a look like he didn’t trust me or trust what he saw. We both know I should be dead, should have changed into a monster but somehow I hadn’t. He didn’t think I noticed but I saw Ron slip his machete under his pillow.
February 20
Got the first semi-good sleep in days. I dreamt again of the white buffalo. That door to the dream world is open just a crack. I’m no wiseman or visionary but people can wait their whole life for a vision, for something to guide them. Sitting Bull had visions, Louis Riel, the metis leader had visions. We’ve been trained in western society not to trust these things. Not to trust things you can’t study, or touch. If you can’t classify something or understand it then it’s looked down upon. I’ve been telling myself “Smarten the hell up. You’ve lost it. You are following some crazy drug induced hallucination.” I’ve been wrong those twin white calves mean something.
February 21
Found Dave’s truck.
No sign of Dave.
It was like any of the hundreds of abandoned vehicles we’ve seen on the side of the road. No sign of what happened to the driver, only this time it isn’t some stranger, it’s our friend.
We’d just crossed the Idaho state line when we spotted a familiar truck pulled over onto the shoulder. We stopped in the middle of the road to survey the scene. I hoped that he had just pulled over to get some rest. The cab was empty and the ranger’s suburban had two flat tires. The road was clear, with no signs of danger we got out to investigate. Not a soul or soulless in site, nor wrecks or debris. Just the lone truck on the side of the road, a spare tire leaned against the truck; the unused jack lay beside it. The keys still in the ignition but no signs of a struggle, no blood, and most importantly no sign of Dave. He was just gone.
Pulling into a farmer’s field, we parked the Jeep behind a grove of trees. Hidden from the road we waited to see if he returned. I’m taking the time to write this entry. It’s been a few hours, just sitting here. Nothing is happening, soon it’s going to be dark. Where are you Dave? He has to be around here somewhere. We’ve waited long enough.
Donning our new shoulder pads, hockey sticks and shields we are going back to the road. Ron brought along the rifle and we both are bringing out trusty machetes. We look like, a cross between medieval knights and mental patients, Don Quixote lives. There is no one to laugh at us anyhow. I tried to imagine where he would go after suffering two flat tires. The only thing that stands out is a clump of trees in the distance that may shelter a farm. Maybe he went there for shelter. We are heading there now.
I found this journal when we searched the truck of the two men captured today. Been reading it for the last few hours figuring out what to do with these two.
Jake seems to get down the stories of people he meets along the way, pardon if I’m intruding but I’ll add mine.
He don’t talk about God in this journal, just some injun demons but Jesus must be looking after these boys. Not just for making it such a long way but much of what is written in this journal backed up their story. The proof we needed to pass judgment on behalf of God. We frown on looters and bandits. These boys sometimes walked a fine line but they were scavenging. They took essentials, food water, and fuel. Things they need for survival. If they did loot, it was against those that were themselves thieves. The bank? Shoot, banks were taking stuff that didn’t belong to them for years. Bankers and lawyers are the only ones who truly deserve what is happening in the world now. Looting and scavenging are worlds apart.
Recently things are getting worse, we’ve come across some cannibals and looters. Those who rob, rape or eat their fellow man. People uninfected turning to eating others. Is that what is come to? We did what needed to be done. I take no joy in that, I acknowledge it’s just my Christian duty. A few days ago we caught two men with a cooler full of flesh and a car full of stolen jewelry and other valuables. That’s not going to stand not when we are on watch. With the bible in our hands we are the ones regulating things now. Someone has to now that it’s all gone to hell.
Back to my story.
My friends and I have been preparing for years. EMP attacks, terrorists, stock market crash we made contingencies for each of those plus half dozen farfetched and not so farfetched scenarios but not the undead. Not zombies, we didn’t see that. No one did. Maybe
we should have. The dead raising, it’s in the Book of Revelations. Turns out it’s not a symbolic battle after all. It’s real. So real it shakes the foundations of even the purist believer. It’s Tribulations out there. Hell is full and the dead are spilling out.
Can anyone weather the thousand two hundred and threescore days this will last? We’ll try but we only have so many bullets. Anyway we have been preparing for the end of civilization for five years. Slowly buying land out here (it’s isolated and fertile) and stockpiling supplies and arms to withstand the coming cataclysm, whatever it may be. Kind of like Noah and his Ark, but with automatic weapons. We saw the signs and found like-minded up-standing Christians to throw our lot in. When the news first broke, we all high tailed it to our compound and have pretty much been isolated since. T.V. off the air, Internet was spotty out here before this happened, Radio mostly static. This boy’s journal provided some Intel on what’s going on out there. Sounds like hell. My group is going to stay here, venture to the nearby farms, and towns regulating things best we can.
May god go with you and guide your way.
Bill Carse, South Idaho Militia.
February 22
I didn’t think I’d get this journal back. Our search for Dave clearly didn’t go smoothly. Bill made his entry so I’ll just fill in what happened on our end.
After cutting through the field, sure enough we found a road that led toward the farm.
Two figures stood just off to the side, watching us. I gave a friendly wave as we walked towards them. They didn’t acknowledge us, content to just watch as we approached. As we got closer I saw why they were so still, the two people weren’t alive, and weren’t the undead. They were two bodies tied to trees. With a sign hung around their neck which read “Murdering cannibal looters and rapists”. I have no idea what order they did their crimes but they stood frozen stiff in their macabre poses.
Tomahawks & Zombies Page 15
