Zomblog: The Final Entry

by TW Brown

  I fought, kicked, bucked, and squirmed. Finally I got myself free and crawled away. I made it to my feet a second time and looked around frantically. No direction was clear, but I took off in the way that seemed most likely to give me a chance.

  When I finally reached the road, I fell to my knees gasping for breath. I puked up a scalding mixture of bile and a tiny smidge of food to give it some texture. It was while I was on my hands and knees that I noticed the nasty bite on my left hand.

  I hoped desperately that I was one of the lucky immune. Then a handful of those bastards came barging through the brush beside the road and I had to get to my feet and run. I don’t think that I ever once considered running towards Vegas.

  In all of the chaos, I’d lost my weapons and canteen. The only thing I still had was my satchel. It seems right that I am left with nothing but this journal. I’m in the old watchtower that I slept in a couple of nights back. Along the way, I saw my reflection in the side mirror of a car. The tracers are already visible in my eyes even in the filthy mirror that I looked in.

  I know that I don’t have much time left. Writing this is taking all of the energy that I have. There are moments when it is like I can feel the infection spreading throughout my body. Down below, about a hundred of those things have gathered around the base of the tower. Their growls and cries and mewling keep jarring me back to the task at hand which is to finish this last…this final entry.

  To whoever finds this, if anybody does, please—if at all possible—get this to my daughter. I’ve included enough information so that she can be found. When I set this book down, my plan is to secure the strap of my satchel around my neck and the other end around the railing. I realize that I will come back as one of those things, but my hope is that somebody will come along and see me. If they come up to investigate, they will find the book.

  I wish that I had something profound to say now, but honestly, this headache is beating every thought out of my skull before it has a chance to gel. So…I guess that all there is left is to say goodbye.

  Epilogue

  Tuesday, August 1, 2023

  My name is Orlando Scott. Las Vegas, 1st Regiment-Expeditionary Unit. I found this book a few weeks ago while returning from Correctional City.

  The originals of this document were returned to me after Command Control inspected and copied each of the three separate texts. A convoy bound for the Northwest and the Rainier settlement will be taking the originals. If the assumption is correct, Ms. Gainey referred to what is now know as Corridor 26, a series of trading posts just west of the ruins of Old Portland.

  Saturday, June 8, 2024

  My name is Snoe. My father’s name was Samuel Todd. My mother’s name was Meredith Gainey.

  Continue reading and enjoy an excerpt from Tw brown’s book …

  dead: the ugly beginning

  1

  The Ugly Beginnings

  I ain’t no hero. I never thought of being one. When I was young, I didn’t dream about being a police or fireman. I never considered joining the military, even after 9-11 when so many others my age flocked to the recruiter’s office.

  Hell, I was the guy who picked a desk in the middle of the classroom on the first day of school when all the Brains rushed for front row seats and the Jocks and Stoners roamed to the back. I didn’t play sports, at least not in any organized way. When sides were chosen (even if it was just a pick-up game with my buddies), I was pointed out someplace in the middle. Sometimes I would pull off a play in football, basketball, kickball…whatever, which was only amazing because it was me doing it.

  I had my share of girlfriends. I lost my virginity my senior year. On prom night. To a girl who played flute in the high school marching band. Her name was Kerri or Kathy…or Kari or Cathy.

  So you’re starting to get the point. Right?

  I worked in an office complex after I graduated college …B minus GPA. Never married, but I was engaged a few times. My one bedroom apartment was small, but it suited me and my dog just fine. Well, that was until the horror movies jumped off the screen and landed right in the middle of an atypically un-believing real world.

  Some of the stuff about zombies proved to be true.

  Some not.

  Most of how humanity was predicted to act was drastically underestimated. The best. The worst. Sometimes I wonder how in the hell we’ve survived as a species.

  That will likely be answered definitively sooner than I would like.

  It may seem corny, but no one I’ve met since it began can give me a solid answer as to how it all rolled into motion. Sure, there are theories: Government Bio-weapon gone awry; Super-virus; alien particles from space; demons from Hell; and global warming. Each gets equal billing when you hear the topic come up. Maybe it’s a mix of all of the above. Or, maybe God got tired of us messing up his toy. And if you don’t believe in God…well then you can refer back to the list and pick your favorite. Honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m too tired from running. How I ended up leading a band of survivors in this Romero-Hell is my new reality. The time for blame has long passed.

  Since things began, I’ve seen…we’ve all seen…things best forgotten. Yet, I, as well as anybody still alive, know that forgetting is impossible. The best you can hope for now is sleep without the nightmares coming back to refresh those images you desperately try to shove into a hard to reach spot in your mind. There are some things that the movies missed, or could not accurately convey. The biggest would be the smell; that, and the psychological toll of hearing a person scream as they are ripped apart and fed upon.

  ***

  “…seem to see no pattern in what is being called The Blue Plague, due to the discoloration common in the final stages where it is theorized that the body is starved for oxygen.”

  Click.

  “Sars. West Nile. Crap. What’s next?” I turned off the television and tossed the remote onto a stack of unread magazines scattered across my coffee table.

  Pluck, my Basset Hound, twitched a big, floppy ear and closed his eyes in disinterest. I scratched him behind one of those ears, earning a contented doggie sound.

  I got off the couch and made one of those habitual trips to the fridge. I popped it open knowing deep down that I didn’t really want anything. A thud from the living room signaled that Pluck was on his way, just in case I might produce some tasty treat that would undoubtedly be shared. I’m pretty sure Pavlov’s dogs are hidden somewhere in Pluck’s family tree.

  As is often the case when I’m about to make a major life choice, this one being leftover Chinese take-out, or last night’s pizza, the phone rang. I passed Pluck just as his paws smacked the linoleum with a scrabble of clicking claws that were in dire need of trimming. His exasperated huff caused his thick jowls to flutter.

  “Yeah?” No need for formality since I could see Bill Wright, a friend of mine’s name, in the caller ID on my phone.

  “Steve, are you watching this?” My friend Bill was naturally excitable, but something in his voice was off.

  “Is this sports related?” I made no attempt to hide how totally not interested I was. “Unless it involves a female gymnast losing some or all of her outfit—”

  “Turn to Channel Seven now!”

  The near-hysterical timbre in his voice had me grabbing my remote before I realized it. I punched the buttons with my thumb. The green volume bar inched across the bottom of my screen as I tried to comprehend what I was seeing.

  “…of the local police force along with a detachment from the National Guard have set up around the town’s perimeter. No contact has been established with any of the residents up to this point. Reports from the air indicate that it is unlikely that any survivors exist.”

  The buzzing in my ear reminded me that I was still on the phone with Bill. Also, my arm remained extended towards the television. My hand was empty because, at some point, I had dropped the remote.

  “Another 9-11?” I felt my chest tighten.

  “I don’t
think so,” Bill said. I could hear his keyboard rattling in the background. “This shit is all over the place. And not just in our country. It’s global!”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Straight-up horror movie shit!”

  “Uh-huh.” My enthusiasm and interest began to recede quickly.

  “Dude, I’m totally serious! Packs of crazed people are going on rampages and just tearing people apart. YouTube already has like a thousand postings under “Zombie Attack” that show some twisted stuff. At least it did until the site locked up and crashed.”

  “So you’re telling me that zombies are out there going all George Romero on the unsuspecting citizens of the world?” I was still watching my now muted television while sitting on my coffee table rubbing Pluck’s head as it rested on my knee. It wasn’t showing me any zombies, just a talking head and a caption that read: Possible Small Town Epidemic.

  “If you saw any of these clips, you’d be grabbin’ a gun and headin’ to the nearest shopping mall!”

  No, I didn’t believe Bill in the slightest. That was mostly due to the hours he, I, and others spent imagining just such a scenario; usually after viewing any of the Dead flicks. Take your pick…Night, Dawn, Day, Land. Original. Remake. We’d seen them all enough to recite lines like Rocky Horror fans. It always led to the “what if” conversation.

  One of the oldest, most overused sayings is, “Be careful what you ask for…” You know the rest. So, I did what anybody else would do if their friend called to say that the zombies were coming. I hung up.

  ***

  Sometimes you will see something in life that makes you say or think, “That’s just like that movie….” Or, if you’re the literary type, it could be in a book. I’ve read or seen lots of ‘zombie-esque’ stuff over the years. I always thought it would be so cool. Of course, I’d never go into that dark place that so many fall prey to. Plus, those zombies move so slow…at least until the British influence brought on the sprinting zombie. Man, am I glad they got that wrong.

  ***

  I went to bed watching Talk Show with Spike Ferensten. Overall, a normal Saturday night for me. Ironically, it was the utter darkness that woke me.

  My eyes opened to that total blackness that modern man had grown so unaccustomed to experiencing. The first moments were disorienting. Usually there is a blue glow that filters through my curtains from a car rental place that casts its light on my closet door. I live near the airport, so I can count on two fingers the number of times I’ve lost power. Both times were due to terrible ice storms.

  It was late April.

  In the distance I heard sirens. That is nothing unusual near the airport at any time of day or night. So, I closed my eyes with the intention of going back to sleep. An unfamiliar growl signaled the change in my world…I just didn’t realize how drastic at that particular moment.

  The growl changed register. Suddenly, my droopy-faced, foot-warmer of a dog began barking furiously. There was no mistaking the message.

  Danger!

  I climbed out of the covers and tried to creep to my bedroom doorway. If there was a creaky board in the floor that I missed, I’d be shocked. I peeked down the hallway. My front door was in a direct line of sight, and on the right was my living room window with the curtains closed. Through an arch on the left would be my kitchen and a much smaller window. My apartment was on the second floor and in the corner of the small thirty-unit complex. Usually, at night, the big lit sign from the luxury hotel across the street shone brightly in my living room; even through closed curtains.

  Not tonight.

  “Pluck!” I whispered.

  I could see his dark shape, barely discernable against my front door in the blackness. The shape moved and was at my feet pushing against me with its bulky head. I reached down to scratch behind his ears and noticed that Pluck’s hackles were standing straight on end.

  “What the hell?”

  That was all I managed before something outside brushed up against my front door. In a flash, my normally docile companion was lunging towards the door barking furiously. Not thinking, I ran after him yelling his name and that he quiet down.

  A dull thud.

  I moved my agitated dog aside with one leg and leaned over just enough to ease the curtains aside so that I could take a peek out my living room window. A man stood at my door. To be more precise, he was leaning against it with his back to me. That was the first time I got a hint of that smell.

  I watched as one hand raised and brushed the doorknob. It fell listlessly back to his side. My first thought was that this guy had been hurt and was seeking help. He wore coveralls and a heavy utility jacket. I figured him to be from the power company.

  There are moments in life that you never forget. Ones that never erase themselves from memory and end up in that permanent photo gallery your mind keeps. Some of those images blur over time. Others become glossier, as if they’ve received a bit of mental airbrushing. The first girl you kissed becomes a vision of pure beauty. That first car loses all the dents, dings, and rust spots.

  Some memories do the opposite.

  That body leaning against my door jerked like it was convulsing. The head snapped around so suddenly that I’m pretty sure I heard something pop…right before I screamed and fell backwards on my ass.

  Something heavy struck my doorknob. That sound was like a slap on the face. I scrambled to my feet and did one of those stupid things I said I’d never do. You know what I am talking about. The person in the movie has to take that ‘one last look.’ Of course that is usually when he or she gets their face eaten off. So, I pulled the curtain aside just enough to get that peek.

  I know in my logical mind how dark it was that night. Over time, my brain has filled in the shadows. His name was Ed. I know that because it was embroidered on the left breast of his dark jacket with white thread. There was a milky film over his eyes that looked like a thin coat of Elmer’s wood glue. Black blood filled the vessels in his eyes, which add a particularly nasty effect to that vacant, soulless look that lets you know you’re dealing with a monster (oddly it is also a giveaway for somebody in the latter phases of infection). The dark smears around his mouth are the bright red of arterial blood in my nightmares. Ed’s mouth is open and his face is pressed against my living room window.

  The apartments I called home for over a decade were not the greatest: leaky faucets; poor insulation; and cheesy carpet from an era that was long out of style way before I moved in. But back to the windows…they are thin enough that you can feel a cold breeze through them on a blustery fall or winter day. I knew seconds before it happened that the glass was not going to hold.

  Crash!

  And just that quick, everything I knew, loved, did for fun…gone. My world had been shaken violently, and the pieces would never settle into anything resembling normal ever again.

  Ed’s stench hit me hard. The smell was so thick that I could taste it in the back of my throat. Two things happened almost instantaneously; Pluck lunged at the body that was halfway through my living room window, and I puked. To say “vomited” or “threw up” would diminish the true nature of that moment. It was as if my stomach heaved so violently that my intestines reversed flow and joined in the event. My mouth and nose burned from the bile-laced mixture that spewed from deep inside my guts. I staggered back, unable to see for a moment. Over the ringing in my ears I heard Pluck snarl and bark as he threw himself at the unnatural thing that threatened his master. I probably owe my life to that stupid dog.

  His sudden yelp brought me back.

  My eyes cleared, and I could see Ed holding something in his hands. It took another second to overcome the shock of what I was seeing. It held Pluck by a hind leg and his collar as it buried its face into that soft, warm, scratchable belly. When its head snapped up, long strands of skin and viscera pulled away. My best friend howled loud enough to drown out my own cry. But for a moment anyway, Ed was occupied.

  God help me.r />
  I ran.

  I scrambled for the door, fumbling with the lock for seconds which seemed eternal before I could yank it open, and I ran away. I ran away from my apartment. I ran away from all my stuff. I ran away from that smell of death, and blood, and puke. I ran away from Ed.

  I ran away from Pluck!

  At the bottom of the stairs was a small, pink bicycle with training wheels. My mind held up a mental flash card of a tiny Mexican girl. She would ride that bike around the square inner-courtyard of the complex. She always rang the little bell on her handlebars if she came up on somebody from behind. She would laugh.

  So I ran.

  I reached the parking lot and realized that I had never bothered to grab my keys. The stupid ones in the movies always go back. My mind flashed on that image of the Ed-thing taking a bite out of the middle of my dog. Every hero in the movies knows how to hotwire a car. I had no clue. I still wasn’t going back.

  I stood there like an idiot for a moment, then heard a low steady sound. The backside of my apartment complex’s parking lot is a steep, tree-covered embankment. There is a wall made of river rock that forms about a five foot base before the earthen slope begins and rises up to the street above. That street is like a border between my apartments and a quiet residential neighborhood. Parked on the edge of that street, just visible through the trees that overhung most of the parking lot, was a big power company truck.

  It was running!

  Hoisting myself, and scrambling up the embankment, I reached the road. Typical for this time of night (it was 3:42 a.m. according to my watch) it was quiet. I sorta turned a slow circle to make sure all was clear. Farther down the road from me something may have moved in the darkness. I wasn’t about to wait and find out. Still, rushing to the truck without at least a little caution could be as fatal as a stroll down this road into the deep, black shadows.