It was like the whole town had hit the “pause” button and we missed the memo. I wanted to use the complete void of activity to get inside Steve’s apartment to check to see if he’d returned, but I was voted down by the crew. Rightfully so. We really should not have made any noise, or stopped to attract attention unless we had a plan, or had a damn good reason, and looking for Steve with no notice was not a good enough reason.
The parking lot at his small apartment complex was pretty empty of vehicles, and as I said, it was totally empty of survivors and zombies. Very creepy.
If you recall Mr. Journal, not far from his apartment is my place. Cassie and I’s place. Otis’s normal stomping grounds. Home. Or what used to be home before this bullshit started.
We planned our driving so we would hit the condo on the way back, and that’s what we did. As I said there are two rows of condos in my complex. The two rows are perpendicular to the street, and my condo is on the left row, slightly below the row on the right. Essentially my place is downhill from the other row.
Our parking lots were flush to the front of the condos and were just barely large enough to fit all the resident’s cars, and have room for a few guest cars as well. In the whole complex there was something like 30 units of homes. My unit is nearest the street.
Parked directly in front of my unit, slightly cock-eyed was a Black BMW 7 series. A beautiful car. One that Steve would probably have stolen if he made it into the city to the only dealership I’m aware of. He could’ve done it too. He had the balls, and the smarts, and from the letter he read, he was serious about having some fun while the world burned.
Most of the snow had melted off the car. Our parking spots were out in the open, and got hit by sun almost all day normally. The fact that there was still snow on the car meant it had been there quite some time. We haven’t had any substantial accumulation in a long time it seems.
It has to be Steve’s car. Has to be. Why else would there be a luxury vehicle parked in front of MY place? He said he was going to steal a nice car. On his note he said a Benz I think. I’m sure he’d steal the best thing he saw though, or maybe he didn’t make it to the Mercedes dealership. I think the closest Mercedes dealership is right near the mall, and I can’t even imagine the fucking nightmare the area near the mall turned into. Too many people have already seen how THAT story ends.
Anyway, all of the windows in my place were intact. I couldn’t see through the curtains if there were barricades on the windows or door or anything, but I had a strong feeling that Steve was inside. Instinct maybe.
Tomorrow we lay out our plan for going back to my place. That is all we are intending to do on that trip out. From what Brian said before he died, he and his people had not reached my condo complex yet, and if I’m lucky, all of my original possessions will still be there. If that goes well, and I am not an emotional wreck, we will gather all my things, and come back here to my new home.
Tonight I hope to get a good night’s rest. I wish to dream of puppies and bunnies and pretty girls, and good friends, and good times.
I am fully prepared to be disappointed.
-Adrian
March 26th
We’re about to leave to go downtown to check out my place. I normally don’t get nervous, but right now, I’m so puckered only a dog could hear me fart.
Before I go, I wanted to mention that I’ve had some pretty fucked up dreams the past few days. I don’t know why, but I’ve dreamt of Steve.
I’ve had almost the exact same dream two nights running now. The night of the 24th, and the night of the 25th. Yesterday morning and today I awoke with vivid memories of seeing Steve in my home. He was living off what I left behind in my place. It seemed like he survived several weeks sneaking from condo to condo at night, taking what he could, but he was limited because he was hurt somehow. Something wrong with his leg I think. Maybe it was his foot? At the end of the dream I saw Steve sitting on my couch, putting a weapon in his mouth, and killing himself. I don’t know why he did it, but I know he killed himself.
This morning’s dream went further than the night before. After Steve killed himself, there was a passage of time. I remember seeing the snow fall, and I can recall it piling up high enough to block all the windows on the first floor of my place. The interior of the condo turned bluish and muted from the light slipping through the snow, and I can remember… feeling Steve moving around in the condo. He was dead. Undead.
The dream this morning ended with the snow melting, and light outside my home gently growing in intensity until it was like a spring day. I can recall the distinct smell of death inside the condo. The very last moment of this morning’s dream was the front door opening, and Steve lurching to the door, trying to get at whatever had opened it.
We’re off in a few minutes. All the preparations are made, and the vehicles are running outside to warm up. I’m gonna hit save, and close the laptop, and finally go home.
I hope for once, my dreams don’t come true.
-Adrian
March 26th (2nd entry)
I can’t sleep. I’m afraid to dream. I’m afraid they’ll come true on me again.
I don’t know how to wrap my feeble soldier brain around this bullshit anymore. I’m fucking done with trying to figure this out. I’m fucking done with cryptic messages, and indecipherable nightmares. I want to wake up tomorrow next to Cassie and realize this was all just the worst dream anyone has ever had.
But that’s not in the cards eh? Nope. Not for me.
It’s almost 11pm. Abby and Patty are downstairs, fighting to stay awake in case I do something stupid. Gilbert came back here to the campus with us to make sure I didn’t kill anyone, or myself. I’m not feeling suicidal, but I’m glad he’s here. I feel like if something happened, I could not give a shit, and still be okay for tonight.
Not giving a shit is about all I’ve got left in me anyway tonight. I’m struggling enough to give a shit about writing this. I need to write this. I NEED to write this.
I’ve sat here for fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to write what happened today in a manner that does it justice. I’ve started it five times, and erased it five times. I’ve said nice things, I’ve said mean things, I’ve said some insulting things, but the more I think about it, I just need to say it as simply as possible, and then deal with whatever comes out of me.
Deep breath in. Enter. Tab. Type it.
I shot Steve in the face today.
Once more for the people in the back row.
My best friend Steve. I shot him in the face today. He was already dead. But I shot him anyway. He was going to eat me. I don’t think he wanted to either.
That’s not fair. I KNOW he didn’t want to eat me. I’ll explain how I know that in a second.
Town was empty again today. I don’t know why. We’ve left plenty of undead behind on our previous jaunts. Just going by population there should still be thousands of them in the vicinity. There’s no rational reason for them to have disappeared, unless someone else, somewhere else is making a LOT of noise, and has attracted them away. I guess that’s a pretty fucking rational possibility.
I get the impression that’s not the case. I get the feeling the “powers that be” are orchestrating events every now and again. I think the past few days they’ve purposefully parted the “dead sea” for us to make this little pilgrimage. The more I think about it, the more that seems like the most rational thing that could be happening. The books? Gotta be something up above (or down below) that’s making this happen.
Why I am less scared of that reality, than I am of this being some virus, or radiation, or government experiment? Maybe it’s because knowing that there is some kind of higher power out there somewhere makes me think that there is some kind of real and true chance that we can pull out of this. We can appease a higher power, but can’t talk our way out of the plague.
I think today is the day I finally start believing in faith. Really. And here’s why;
We arrived at my house at about 9am. The sunlight was exactly like I envisioned in my dream last night. It was a sunny spring-esque day, and the air outside was cool and a little damp from all the melting snow. You know that faintly earthy smell of spring? When the grass starts digging down into the earth to grow? It smelled like that this morning. We backed the trucks into the parking lot and set them up so we could jump in and drive out in a hurry if need be.
All four of us got out of the vehicles and checked the lower level of buildings in the complex to ensure that there were no undead about. Abby and Patty checked the windows of the units on the lower level and spotted a few undead milling about inside here and there, but they were lucky enough to not get their attention. Well, at the time we thought we were lucky, but in retrospect, it’s pretty damn obvious that they should’ve noticed us pull the trucks in. Two large trucks running, the air brakes on the HRT, plus all the truck doors shutting… Zombies have heard that much noise from a tenth of a mile away, let alone fifty feet.
Something was pulling the wool over their eyes long enough for us to do what we had to do.
Once we’d checked the surrounding area for danger, Patty and Abby volunteered to go inside and clear the house in case there was something inside I shouldn’t see. I thanked them, but I said this was something I had to do. I wanted them with me, but I had to be first in, finger on the trigger.
I laugh now. Stupid things amuse me. I have kept my keys all this time. My key rings have all the keys for campus here as well as my car keys and my house key. I’ve also still got the key to Cassie’s car. It has never occurred to me to throw the keys I don’t need any more away. I’ve added keys to the rings, but I haven’t taken any off. How strange we are.
I walked up the steps to my front door and pulled open the storm door. The screen was still in the window from last summer. Seeing it made me remember how I used to leave the door open to get fresh air moving through the place. If I left the front door open with the storm door screen open, then went to the back and opened the kitchen slider, we got this wonderful cross breeze that aired the place out perfectly. I used to sit on the couch with Cassie and we’d watch television together with Otis sandwiched in the middle and…
Sigh.
I pushed my key in the lock and gave it a twist. I did it with my left hand so I had the Glock up and dangerous. I had this odd path of logic that using a shotgun was a bad idea in my own home. If I had to shoot something, I wanted to use my pistol so the collateral damage was mitigated. I know, strange eh?
Just as I was about to push the door in I had a strong flashback to my dream this morning. It all played out in my mind’s eye as I pressed the door inward. I saw Steve’s undead body turn towards the door as it swung in. I clearly recalled the angle of the golden sunlight streaming in through the window, and hitting his rotting face, illuminating the grey and blue flesh. I watched as he stumbled past the edge of my couch, and towards the open entrance, straight towards where I was now standing.
The flashback ran in my mind like I was watching an old 8mm film strip. When the yellowing, grainy film ran dry, my point of view had reversed, and instead of being inside, watching Steve shuffle away towards the opening door, I was seeing through my own eyes, bright and clear, into my living room.
I saw Steve coming at me, precisely as my dream had shown he would. He was wearing one of my old white tee shirts. It hung on him like a drape. I was always much larger than he, and his body had shrunk dramatically from starvation. He was gaunt, haunting, and the combination of yellowing shirt and bright white sunlight almost made him look like a ghost.
His jaw was shattered. One side of it hung down, scraping against the collar of the shirt. His left eye socket was ruptured, and the decayed brown eye hung loose and deflated on his cheek. It swung like a desiccated pendulum as he dragged his bad foot behind him. I instantly knew he’d tried to blow his head off by putting a gun to his chin. He’d gotten the angle wrong and managed to shoot his own face off instead. His death must’ve been slow, and terrible in every way imaginable.
So much pain. My heart broke apart for him knowing he’d probably come here to find me, to survive with me, and I’d ran off to make my own future, and save my ass.
I slowly brought up the Glock and leveled it off at the bridge of his nose. From behind me I heard Patty and Abby gasp. I don’t know how they knew, but they realized that the person in front of me was familiar to me.
As I started to squeeze the trigger gently, I locked my gaze with the one milky eye Steve still had left, and I swear on all that I have ever loved, or held dear, he looked relieved to see me.
I can’t believe I shot my best friend today. I’m sobbing. I can’t fucking believe I did it. I don’t even know what to say. I don’t even know if I should apologize, or beg for forgiveness, or thank him for warning me he was going to kill me.
And make no mistake Mr. Journal. My dreams were a warning from Steve. Somehow he knew I was coming. He reached out somehow, from far beyond whatever it is that life means, and he told me exactly how his undead body was going to try and kill me.
He saved my life, and unless everything I’m feeling is wrong, I think I repaid the favor by putting his mortal form to rest.
I don’t know if I saved his soul, but I think killing his body for him gave him some peace. At least now, wherever he is, he knows that he didn’t kill me, and he is no longer a danger to anyone.
The regret of having not been at home for him eats at me. It seems the more time passes, the more regret I find for myself. I failed to save my mother. I failed to get to Dorothy and John’s home. I don’t even know if they’re dead or not. I failed to get to Steve’s place before he left town, and I failed to return home to be here for him when he returned. I failed to look for my local siblings.
I failed when Dan Haggerty tried to save his son, and instead killed Mrs. Goodell and those students. I failed when I met that young couple with the young boy at the gas station. I failed when I forgot to close the door at that farm on Jones Road. I failed when Sean and his goons came here and I didn’t kill him. Lt. Daniels and a slew of innocents died because of that failure.
And we can’t forget my greatest failure of all, Cassie.
I feel like there is so much blood on my hands now. All I wanted to do is help people, but it seems I’m not very good at doing that.
Humbling to sit here and evaluate myself. The truth really does hurt. It makes me realize just how shitty I am at being a hero.
After today’s events, and the events of March 3rd, and the dreams we all seem to be sharing, I am convinced that what is happening is far more than just a virus, or a plague, or a mind controlling fungus, or some toxic chemical the military made.
I can say this with absolute certainty; this is happening for a reason. I do NOT mean that there is a definite cause. I mean there is a REASON WHY this is happening. This is an event that is being controlled, or orchestrated by a power that is not rooted in science.
As if I had to explain that. Fucking hell. There are ZOMBIES walking around in my hometown. I watched the world implode and eat itself on YoufuckingTube before the internet died. I’ve watched the undead rip the flesh from the living with gnashing teeth. Obviously science is missing something.
As I said before; I’m comforted by this epiphany. I sit here, almost happily, imagining that we are being punished for our misdeeds. I think of this as a great test, a final judgment day where we are tried for our misdeeds.
And I think to myself this lone thought; I would rather try to be a hero and fail, than live as a successful coward.
I hope that the blood on my hands as a result of my efforts is not an indication of my failures, past, present, and future. I now have supreme faith that whoever, or whatever is watching knows that I am trying to do the right thing now. I just hope my good intentions don’t the pave the road to hell.
Steve, from the bottom of my heart, I miss you, I love you, and I thank you.
-Adr
ian
March 27th
A decent, uninterrupted night of sleep has given me the focus needed to gather my thoughts. As your parents always tell you Mr. Journal; sleep on it. Sage advice given the events of yesterday.
I’m writing this in the morning. I wanted to get this out of my skull before I go off gallivanting about here on campus getting things done, and reassuring my comrades that I am indeed of sound mind. Some of my day will likely be spent reassuring myself that I am of sound mind. It might take some serious convincing.
I didn’t have the mental fortitude to go over what I took from my house yesterday in last night’s entry. I think if I can get that out and on “paper” here real quick before I eat breakfast I’ll have a great day, and I’ll be able to move forward more effectively.
Steve’s body came back to campus with us. I took him to the funeral pyre we have out near staff housing, and I cremated him. I couldn’t leave his body behind in my house. Not only was it gross to leave a dead body in my own home, but I needed to do something for him. I couldn’t just... leave him there. I am debating doing something about my mother’s body if I ever get back to the senior home she died in. That’s a problem for a different day I suppose.
Steve had eaten every last morsel of food in my house, which frankly doesn’t surprise me in the least. He also ate the bag of cat food hidden deep in the pantry. Steve was the type of guy who ate constantly, and never put any weight on. Smoking weed all the time, eating Doritos, and making macaroni and cheese was what he considered exercise too. Lucky bastard. Obviously, not finding my own food was a letdown. I did manage to reclaim a few bottles of my own liquor from the closet. From the looks of it, he drank a bunch of that as well before he died. However, I did take most of my worldly possessions from before… the end.
Seeing the pictures of Cassie and I on the fireplace mantle was rough. I have never been the kind of person who kept pictures in his wallet, and seeing the folders of pictures here on the laptop just isn’t the same as seeing the pictures in frames, on the walls in my house. After sending Steve’s brains out the back of his head, looking at those pictures left me a little shook up. A lot shook up. Abby and Patty cleared the house of any danger while I started to pack shit up in the banana boxes we brought.
The Failed Coward Page 11
