Journals of the Damned (Book 2)

by GJ Zukow

  Journals of the Damned

  Volume Two

  G. J. Zukow

  Prologue

  Confederate States of America

  Southern Expeditionary Forces Command

  June 17, 2023

  With the opening of the Library of these Confederate States, in its goal to become a repository of knowledge, I have acquired these three enclosed journals. These three hand written diaries of the Apocalypse need to be entered into the public records, they are eye witness accounts and they are historically significant. I was there, in Key West, when the first -and only living survivor- of the authors washed up on an outlying sandbar. In the late summer of 2014 we had no idea about the secret of ammonia. As proof of these -at the time- outlandish claims she offered up these journals. While she and the baby she carried were kept in Quarantine, these books, along with discussions with her, led us to believe she was telling the truth. They were passed hand to curious hand in those early days as people wanted to read them for themselves. We knew about the undead. We knew of the crazed carriers. Nobody except for Ms. Kolkowsky had ever seen some of the things she described -and lived to tell of it-.

  Even though there was some small talk of charging her with possible crimes, everybody quickly realized that this teenager had more experience in dealing with the undead than they. There was no reason to go through with such an elaborate ruse and we all have had to do some hard things to survive thus far.

  The second journal, written by one Martin S. Trebuchet, M.D., provided some previously unknown insights into the physiology of the deadly parasite controlled cadavers. None of us in this section of the world had the chance to study, let alone dissect, the unnatural animated corpses.

  As for the third book, written in a scratchy hand to begin with, it is the diary of a madman. While it is noteworthy for its historical significance, it is an interesting study into psychology and the effects of the single celled menace upon the human mind. The end becomes hard to read, both the deeds and the handwriting become abysmal.

  The power of ammonia was the tipping point in the eventual resurgence of the human race. It allowed for the quick reclamation -except for the war against the hybrids- and the start of the reconstruction, it certainly saved countless lives in the process.

  The worn books have passed from hand to hand for almost 10 years, ending up in my possession where they have resided for the past two years.

  As per requirements, attached is a Document of Release form as signed by the sole remaining, living author. I am enclosing the original journals themselves, along with a transcript of them -included in the body of this message-. I have also included them as attachments -in the required form- for entry into the database.

  Lieutenant Jacob Martinez, CSA

  Library Officer of the SEFC, Miami

  Book Three

  Jannie’s Second Journal

  Wednesday, October 30, 2013

  My name is Jannet Marie Kolkowsky and this is my second journal. My first journal resides somewhere in a house that was completely overrun by the living dead. It wasn’t just my diary that I lost in that house, I lost practically everything except what I was carrying.

  When Allan and I first sought refuge in that boarded up house, it was out of necessity and not choice. We were forced to flee our old safehouse when a group of marauders came into our desolate town and discovered us. The small town we had been hiding in, waiting for the ungodly undead to finally collapse, was more a group of ruined buildings and burned down houses than anything else. Even though there turned out to be no other survivors in the town, (except for a single carrier, completely overtaken by the scarlet and driven insane), food was scarce. The food shortage caused by the single celled parasite killing off the world's livestocks and the following time of madness obviously hit this town hard. The one big thing that the desolated town had going for it was that it was zombie free, once Allan and I cleared it. Small groups of the walking abominations still made their way into the area but they were relatively simple to eliminate.

  When I saw that the raiders were in the throes of the scarlet I had a hard time believing my eyes. I had to focus intently through my binoculars a second time to confirm it. Never before had I seen anything other than the uninfected (like me), the carriers (those that are sometimes referred to as 'Reds' due to the scarlet coloring of their skin) or the hungering dead. I never got the chance to witness them close up for myself, thankfully, but Allan did and he confirmed my fears. Every person I had seen with the infection never lived for more than a week or so once they contracted it, unless of course they continued to exist in that state of being where their immune system was strong enough to keep them from actually dying and being reanimated.

  This in itself raises new questions about the parasite. Has the Omni mutated again, causing those who were once immune to become infected? Have those raiders found a way to slow or stop the parasite's growth? I guess only time will tell.

  When the truck Allan and I were diving ran out of gas, due to a bullet hole in the gas tank, the house we fled to seemed to be a good option. All of the other houses and buildings in the immediate area had been ransacked, burned, broken into or damaged by the hurricane that passed through central Florida. The single story house was boarded up and looked secure. It wasn't. The house was boarded up not because the previous owners were preparing for the apocalypse that overran the world, it was boarded up because it was a condemned, abandoned wreck of a house that was about to collapse on itself. We didn't know that until we got inside. The roof leaked in a hundred places, the water ruined the majority of the two-by-fours that made up the structure and the floor had rotted through in every room. That night we were just going to stay there temporarily until we found something better but we ended being trapped inside.

  That first night and the following day we made small forays into the surrounds, gathering what food and supplies we could as we searched for suitable shelter. We awoke the next day early in the morning, before dawn came, to the sounds of a host of the undead scratching and clawing at the front of the house. How the undead found us I'm not sure. Maybe one of them had spotted us climbing through the attic's ventilation window, above the porch, and slowly dragged itself here alerting others of its horrible kind to us. Doesn't matter I guess. The only saving grace that the place afforded us was its fenced in backyard. The zeds concentrated themselves at the front of the house and only a few of them were able to get over the wire fence. Those undead that did reach the rear of the house mainly got there from being pushed and shoved by others of its kind and not from being dexterous enough to climb it on purpose. The undead converged upon us from all directions and although our little backyard held only a handful of the monstrosities, the surrounding house's backyards filled up quickly through open gates and holes in the lengths of their demolished or knocked down chain link fences.

  Yesterday, in the small hours of the darkness, the whole front of the house actually collapsed from the sheer weight of the famished and rotting undead hammering and clawing at the walls. The ruins of what had been the outer living room wall crumpled into a heap with part of the ceiling falling on top of it. I had finally found sleep in one of the back bedrooms and that sound woke me with a start. If it weren't for the obstacle the destroyed wall created for the undead, things would be very different now. Even though the remains of the wall and ceiling greatly hindered the undead from quickly gaining access to the interior, the horde pushed and shoved itself over and through the broken and splintered opening. They heedlessly trampled one another as they sought our flesh. Allan had been in the kitchen and both of us were cut off from one another by the collapse of the ceiling. Slowly the house started falling apart aroun
d us and I heard Allan bust through a window. I heard him yelling and screaming as he fought his way past the monsters in the next yard. I know he escaped and I know he ran first to draw off as many of the ghouls as he could.

  All of my stuff was in the other room, when I went to get it before I too would flee, I found I couldn't open the door to it. The door had gotten jammed as the weight of the old house shifted and fell apart. Worse yet the zeds were inside the house now and they spotted me. Back into the bedroom I ran, closing the cheap hollow door behind me, knowing there was no lock on the door and that it wouldn't stand up for a minute. All I had with me was my handgun (which is always with me, even when I sleep), and a Mossberg shotgun. The cheap door was quickly splintering and failing under the pummeling. I tried previously to open the bedroom window but it had been covered and screwed and nailed shut quite solidly. I knew I wouldn't be able to get out that way. A closet in the corner would at least keep the undead from spotting me right away so I entered it and closed the door behind me. Almost as soon as the closet door shut the bedroom door gave way. I was trapped in that small closet, the undead would have surely found me within minutes and then I would have died an agonizing death. The drywall had actually fallen apart in places, exposing water weakened and dry-rotted boards over the thin insulation and outer covering of aluminum siding. I tried to kick my way through the wall but it was still too sturdy for me but not for my shotgun. As soon as I kicked the wall of the closet the undead knew where I had hidden. After my first blast with the shotgun to the wall I could see freedom. As the horde converged upon the closet door I sent my second blast right through it, knocking back and down the front line of those horrors that were trying to get to me. Back and forth I shot, through the wall then through the remains of the closet door until I weakened the wall enough that I could crawl through. Once outside again, blessedly escaping death again, I ran. I don't know what happened to Allan. He was my friend and I hope he's still breathing.

  Friday, November 1, 2013

  There was a series of small explosions last night as a bunch of transformers blew all over the city. I heard the distinct sound of each one as they successively overloaded, each one sounding closer to this old church than the last. I had climbed up to the roof to take advantage of the light of the full moon, allowing me to make out and get a sense of the neighborhood without having to worry about being accidentally spotted by one of the walking dead as I would have during the day. As each transformer blew, the area surrounding it went dark. The cascade of explosions seemed to start in the west and quickly rolled towards me, plunging the whole city into complete darkness. In a matter of minutes all the electricity was gone forever with the last explosion sounding like something bigger than a transformer had overloaded. Then came the all too familiar smell of smoke. Thick tendrils of smoke waft from the glow of a few minor and one major blaze. The nearest fire seems to be a couple of miles away, in the direction of the fallen safehouse, so I'm in no danger.

  It's going to take me a couple of days to get used to the lack of power. Even when I did use it, I used it rarely and sparingly, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. Still though, running water was a huge blessing. Now I need to worry about stocking up on enough water to get me through whatever other hard times are yet to come to me on top of not being able to fall back on the socket in the wall when I need it.

  I've been taking shelter in an old Baptist church that was still in solid shape. I think the original church was built before electricity to begin with and then two additional wings were added to it. The main church itself seems larger on the inside than it looks from the outside and though the sunlight still streams in through the colored glass windows casting a warm and comforting light, I feel uneasy sitting among the now and forever empty pews. I wondered if "zombification" was what the bible meant by the dead rising again. It felt almost as if I were sitting in the ruins of not only a world of people but that of a newly dead god.

  One of the other two wings is smallish, consisting mainly of a few rooms that served as the private quarters for the Deacon. The newer, larger and more modern wing contains a nicely stocked little pantry, a large kitchen, a set of bathrooms with showers and a decent size group activity room along with an almost separate day care with its own small outside playground.

  Once I shimmied up one of the drainpipes to the roof I found an access hatch in the stylized tower (raising up high a white painted cross, facing the parking lot that served the day care) that led into the large activity room. The inside of the church was in much better shape than I had thought it could be. It was evident from the thick layer of dust that the place hadn't been touched since the apocalypse. The buildings themselves were still in good condition also, with only one cracked window that would leak if it rained. The windows were all different colored pieces of glass, set in patterns that make looking through them difficult.

  The only way into the other wings is through what once was the back room of the old church. As soon as I entered the church itself, as I explored the building, I smelled the unmistakable scent of the hungering dead. When I paused and listened I could hear the faint pawing of what must have been the former Deacon. It came from behind the door across the old back room. I didn't want to risk shooting the thing and alerting everything and everyone around to my location, so when I opened up the door I beat it back into the grave with my shotgun. Using the shotgun as a club served to not only bash in the skull of the zed but bend the barrel as well, making it unusable. I've got to get some weapons to replace what I lost.

  I did manage to find one good thing to replace the broken shotgun. I found this really nice composite bow that I can fully pull. I found it yesterday as I was doing some scavenging. It may only be an eighty pound pull but I have a gross of sharp arrows to go with it. I found I could modify the carrying case for a dozen arrows so that I can carry two dozen of them at once. If I can get in enough practice, it might just serve me well. It's silent, quick and I can reuse the arrows if I need. The length of the church is decent enough for me to practice if I stand at the main, heavy, thick, wooden doors and shoot at a target on or behind the altar, over the rows of wooden pews. I've got the corpse of the Deacon propped up and I'm using it as my archery target. I'll practice on him before I try it on his still walking brethren.

  Just now there were a handful of short, sharp, loud explosions that came from the direction of the nearest fire. It didn't bother me before but it is coming from the direction of the ruined safehouse. It actually sounds like the explosions are coming from beyond the old hideout but I can't be certain. Tomorrow I'll find out for sure. The last thing I want is for this old building to burn down around me. Tomorrow I'm going to go back to the old safehouse to see if I can get my pack and weapons back. Maybe see if I can find where Allan ran off to.

  Monday, November 4, 2013

  The only time I've felt as lonely and depressed as I am now, was on my last birthday. When August tenth came around last, barely three months ago, I fell into a dark place. All I could think about then was what I lost. Not material things, jewelry and wealth are meaningless now, but my family, friends and my whole future was stolen by the man made menace named Toxoplasmosa Mondus Omni. I was so depressed that I never even bothered to make a journal entry about it.

  Though Allan occasionally annoyed me to no end, I do miss having someone else around. Being cooped up in this church isn't helping my mood either. I get a creepy feeling whenever I spend any amount of time in the church or the Deacon's residence. Even though the church provides a decent amount of security, I think I'll start scouting for a better place to hole up until the walking abominations finally collapse. How much longer can these unnatural things keep on terrorizing the world? I have got to survive this.

  I spent most of Saturday exploring the area and getting in some live target practice with my bow as I made my way cautiously back to the derelict safehouse Allan and I had been forced to flee. Sometimes it takes me up to three shots with my bow t
o get a headshot but I am getting better. When my arrow misses the zeds completely, the undead monsters don't pay any heed at all. I don't believe they have the reasoning power to understand what an arrow is. Only when my poorly aimed shaft hits the things anywhere but the head do they react. They spin around and scan the area, trying to figure out where the silent shaft came from. I find that shooting and then ducking behind cover to snipe them, once they have turned their rotting backs to me again, is a workable tactic. Even when more than one of the shambling cannibals are grouped together, shooting and wounding one of them barely elicits a response from the others of its kind. The only real downside is that half the time, it seems, my arrows end up either being lost or they land in places I can't retrieve them. Still though, I think I love this new bow of mine.

  I made another really good discovery when I broke into one of the scattered houses while I was slowly making my way back to the ruined house. When I go into a new house, after making sure any of the living dead are no longer living, I quietly search and ransack the place for anything I can use. People hide things in the strangest places. I went into one rather nice looking home and while I only found the previous owner's stash of porn while I was looking for a gun, I spotted something interesting mounted above the fireplace. Normally, when I find a sword, it turns out to be more of a decoration than a real weapon. Some few turn out to be fairly decent replicas of samurai swords (many of them serve as real weapons for a few strikes until they break) or whatnot but this one turned out to be different. It was mounted in a nice glass case and had a plaque beneath it. In my possession now is one "Fully authentic, working replica of a Roman gladius in the Mainz pattern" with a bone and wood hilt. The blade is as sharp as a razor, cutting easily through the tough, dead flesh of the undead. I can easily lop off heads with a full swing or stab right through the face straight into the brain. The blade is a thing of beauty, replica or not.