by Ian Rogers
I’m still scared, but I have a better idea of what’s going on now. People talk about fear of the unknown, and I get it, I really do. I get how it’s scarier not knowing. But I tell you, there are days when I wish I didn’t know what I do. That I never lived to see what I’ve seen.
December 1
I can’t remember how long they kept calling them snakes. After a few days of watching nothing but CNN, I started to tune out. By then they were appearing in cities all over the country. All over the world.
I remember the last newspaper I saw before I came to this warehouse. It was the Seattle Times, and the headline said PANDEMONIUM! The front page was dominated by a picture of downtown Seattle. It could have been Any City, U.S.A. except for the Space Needle in the background. Many of the buildings in the picture appeared to have been completely overgrown with thick creeper vines. The caption said:“TENTACLES” OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN OVERRUN DOZENS OF BUILDINGS DOWNTOWN.
I watched a televised argument between two scientists. One of them was against calling the things “tentacles,” because they hadn’t yet determined what they were attached to. The other scientist didn’t see how that made any difference. He was right, in his own way. It turned out the tentacles were only the opening act.
And frankly, I think it’s a good thing we don’t know what they’re attached to.
December 2
Let me tell you a bit about my life here at Casa Warehouse. It’s a fairly static existence, except for the newspapers. I find them sometimes, and looking at them is like looking at relics of a lost civilization. I guess that’s what they are now. We’ve become the Incas and the Mayans; the lost Roanoke Island colony and those poor suckers on Atlantis, if it ever existed (Barney was positive it did).
I have a routine of walking around the warehouse twice a day, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon (I never go out at night). I don’t do it for the exercise. I do it because of what the old-timers call cabin fever. The warehouse is huge—about a million times bigger than my studio apartment on Oak Hill—but there are still days when I feel like climbing the walls.
So I walk. Like an old man going for a constitutional around the block. Sometimes I find things. Mostly junk blown across the bridge from town. Sometimes I find newspapers stuck to the side of the warehouse. Seeing them like that always reminds me of the leaflets you see stuck under windshield wipers.
I peel them off and keep them. I never go out looking for more. That would be a bad idea, especially now. I’ve already drawn the attention of the ramblers, and even though I can’t see them, I can smell them. That sharp sweet smell of rancid meat. They’re out there, lurking around. I can feel them.
December 3
The “experts” had all kinds of theories, but no answers. Some of them said it was a government experiment gone awry. Others blamed a tear in the fabric of reality. Some wag even blamed Global Warming. And of course, the saucerheads blamed UFOs.
Then, for a period of about forty-eight hours, the various nations of the world turned their attentions on each other. The U.S. blamed terrorists; so did England; France and Germany blamed Russia; Russia blamed Japan; the countries in the Middle East blamed each other.
Martial law was declared in almost every major U.S. city. The Army and the Navy rolled out and got rolled over; same for the National Guard. Things started to break down. Then they started to slow down. The phones died. The TVs showed only test patterns, then static. People left the cities en masse, only to get stuck on the highways.
None of it mattered to the tentacles and the ramblers and the rest. To them a meal on the road was just as good as a meal at home.
I didn’t own a car, and although it would have been easy enough at that point to steal one, I felt the key to survival wasn’t in leaving town . . . at least not exactly.
I put myself into one of the situations they give you in college entrance exams—the kind I had done so well on before I got here and flunked out. I put myself in the position of the monsters. I tried to think the way they did. If I wanted to eat, where would I go? Where the food was, of course. Where the people are.
So I packed a bag and went where there were no people. I almost made it, too.
Almost.
December 4
I don’t know what the ramblers are. Zombies, I guess. They look human: they have human facial features, however disfigured and grotesque. I came upon five of them just as I reached the Town Bridge. I saw them and they saw me. Only a couple of them had eyes (most only have dark pits where their eyes should be), but that didn’t seem to bother them. I could feel them looking at me, scrutinizing me. They each had a nose, or the vestiges of a nose, and long, jagged fangs that punctured their cheeks and shredded their lips as they snapped their mouths open and closed. They were standing in front of a burned-out deli, filling their filthy maws with the spoils from the shattered display window.
I stood frozen for a moment when they started toward me. Not walking, not running. Rambling, as it were.
I ran. I looked back once, but kept running. On the other side of the bridge, the road bent to the north and I lost them behind some trees. I’d put about a mile between them and me, and I thought that would be enough. They don’t move very fast.
I was panting and sweating and laughing. It was not good laughter. It was the kind of laughter they put people away for. I forced myself to stop.
I started walking again until I reached the industrial section of Oakridge. Warehouses, factories, and other soot-caked buildings. Smoke stacks pointed into the sky like silent cannons. Broken glass twinkled in the weeds that grew up from the cracked cement. Concrete culverts channeled rust-coloured water. A set of old train-tracks on a railway embankment.
In a word: heaven.
December 5
I brought a bag of books with me from home, but I lost it when I was running from the ramblers. I suppose if I get bored enough, I might actually go looking for it. It might come to that. There is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO HERE! I’m not so bored that I wish something would happen. I know if I did that the next thing I’d know there’d be a knock on the door. Ding, dong! Avon calling! Except the Avon Lady would be an Avon rambler with a dirty pink pantsuit, empty eyesockets, and a mouthful of broken glass for teeth.
I found some letterhead in one of the desks. My new home is—or was—called DTS Shipping. I haven’t been able to find out what DTS stands for. I’m not sure it matters, but it’s something to do.
There’s an enclosed area at the rear of the warehouse which houses a row of offices. I’ve turned one of them into my living quarters, which is just a glamorous way of saying I unrolled my sleeping bag on the floor and my Garand is propped in the corner. There’s also a men’s room and a ladies room and an empty vending machine.
The walls are cement cinderblock and completely windowless. There’s a skylight in the ceiling that provides enough light to see by day, and enough shadows to jump at by night.
I should have brought candles.
December 6
Found a new door today.
When I first came here I made sure to check all the possible ways in or out of the warehouse. Thankfully there was only one door in the entire place that wasn’t a fire door or a loading door—by which I mean a door that a rambler or a tentacle could open from the outside. I use a few of those leftover crates to barricade it at night before I go to sleep.
The new door I found is at the end of the hall near the washrooms. It was on the other side of the vending machine, which is why I missed it. It leads out into what I presume was a smoking area. It’s a fenced enclosure about twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Not quite enough room to have a dance party, but it sure beats staying inside all day.
December 7
Winter’s coming, it’s official. The wind is getting colder, sharper. It reminded me that I haven’t shaved since I left home. I’ve grown a beard and didn’t realize it.
In the effo
rt to combat boredom, I decided to open the crates that are lying around here like some giant kid’s toy blocks. I am now the proud owner of a set of patio furniture—four plastic chairs, one plastic table with a folding umbrella, and a hammock.
I’m going to set everything up in the pen out back. I’ve lived in an apartment my whole life, I think it will be nice to have a backyard for once.
December 8
Spent the morning rearranging furniture. The table takes up a considerable amount of space—so much I ended up hucking two of the chairs over the fence. I thought about keeping only one, for me, but you never know when company might drop by. Ha-ha!
I set up the hammock between two of the fence posts, so that it hangs diagonally across the enclosure. If I lie in it one way I can see the train tracks that run through the industrial area; if I lie in the other direction I can see the smoke rising from town.
At least I can’t hear the screams anymore.
December 9
Been outside lying in the hammock. It’s not exactly hammock weather, but I’m bundled up with blankets. It’s nice just to be outside in the fresh air. Living in the warehouse is like . . . well, living in a warehouse.
I wish I had a razor. This beard business must be an acquired taste.
December 11
I found a newspaper today. It’s the December 4th edition of the Seattle Times. The headline says, U.N. DECLARES STATE OF INTERNATIONAL EMERGENCY. There’s a photograph of the U.S. president standing before the General Assembly. His shoulders are slumped and he looks tired and defeated.
There’s another photo, this one of a weary-eyed man the paper identified as the U.S. Surgeon General. The caption is a quote that says: “We have no contingency plan for something like this, but we’re all praying for a quick resolution.” When the government tells you to start praying, that’s when it’s time to worry.
The paper also contained several “exclusive” photographs. One particular image has burned itself onto my mind. It shows a creature that looks like an enormous shark with six or eight crab-like appendages extending out of its underbelly. The caption says it washed up on the shore of Newfoundland. In the bottom left corner of the picture, a trio of kids can been seen poking the shark thing with a stick.
December 13
It’s raining outside. The sound it’s making on the corrugated tin roof makes me feels like I’m living inside a Jamaican drum. I thought I heard a dog barking last night, but it might have been a dream.
Speak of dreams, I had a real doozy last night. Dreamed I was talking to God on the telephone. We made small talk for a little while, then I started telling Him about everything that was going on right now—the tentacles, the ramblers, the shark-crabs (or crab-sharks, if you like). He seemed genuinely concerned, but right before he was about to speak, I heard a click.
“Call waiting,” He said. “Can you hold on?”
Then I woke up.
Can you hold on?
December 14
Heard the barking again last night. It’s not a dream. I know because I had just woken up from one. Could be a dog out there, maybe even a wolf.
In the dream I was having another telephone conversation with the Lord Almighty. This time He answered the phone with “Complaint Department, how may I help you?”
I told him that cities are burning, tentacles are tearing people apart, and the dead have risen and are eating the living.
When I was finished, I heard Him blow air over the receiver. “Holy moly,” He said. “Would you like some cheese with that whine?”
I asked him if there was another god, a caring god, who I could speak with instead.
“All the gods are busy,” He told me. “They’re sleeping.”
(later)
Let sleeping gods lie.
Is that funny or have I been in this warehouse too long?
December 17
Feeling better today. Things were getting a little scary there for a while. Cabin fever, I guess. I scoffed at it before, but now I am converted, praise God, hallelujah!
Did I tell you that Barney died? I stopped by his trailer on my way out of town. I banged on his door, the one with the CASA BARNEY sign, but he didn’t answer. I went inside and found him lying on the bedroom floor, naked except for a pair of underwear. There was an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand. I was going to ask him to come with me, but I guess he didn’t want to go anywhere with anyone. I covered him with a blanket. On my way out, I saw his Garand rifle propped in one corner. I took it with me.
No happy ending for Barney. Mine is still under consideration, ha-ha. Sitting in my hammock helps me forget about things. For a little while anyway. It’s nice to be outside without having to look over my shoulder every two seconds. The view leaves something to be desired, but it’s better than nothing.
I’d very much like to see a train.
December 18
Good news and bad news today.
The bad news is that the ramblers have found me. The same group of five I saw outside the deli.
The good news is that I’ve reduced their number to three. Had my rifle with me (like your American Express card, you should never leave home without it) and managed to pop two of them before they could get too close. Barricaded the door with a couple of crates, and that seemed to hold.
The bastards were standing together on the south side of the warehouse, in the spot where I’ve been finding the newspapers. Like they were waiting for me to show up.
December 20
Going to do a little Christmas shopping today. Got up early and watched the sunrise from my “backyard.” Almost felt like a normal morning, except for the two dead shamblers on the ground about fifty yards away. I’ve got to get rid of the bodies, but I don’t dare touch them with my bare hands. God only knows what kind of germs they carry. I’m hoping to find a pair of gloves in one of the abandoned cars on the bridge.
If this ends up being my last entry, then I want to say . . .
Wow, I really can’t think of anything. How pathetic is that?
I guess I should pray.
Hail Mary full of grace, help me win this rambler race.
If I should die before I’m found, then I wish this warehouse burned to the ground.
(later)
Back.
No sign of the remaining ramblers (maybe I scared them off, ha-ha). No tentacles, no giant spiders, no dinosaurs trampling along the interstate. It was, all things considered, a fairly quiet day.
I made it to the bridge and spent the next few hours searching cars like a raccoon digging through garbage cans. One thing I noiced that bothered me: I didn’t see a single dead body. It was like everyone simply got out of their cars and strolled away into the Twilight Zone. I guess that’s a mystery for another day.
My haul from the cars included: canned food (beans, mostly), instant coffee, waffles, powdered milk, powered eggs, and those instant potatoes that taste like instant crap. Candles, matches, and gloves (yes!). I also found a case of bottled water, but I couldn’t carry it with the rest of the stuff. I’ll have to go back for it. No big deal. Tomorrow is anutha day!
December 21
Went back for the water this morning. Should last me another month, as long as I ration it. I’ll need to make another trip for supplies before the snow really starts coming down. It could be any day now.
Found something else when I went back to the bridge, in a station wagon packed full of camping gear. It was in a long, battered cardboard box that had seen some long years of use. I knew there was a Christmas tree inside even before I opened it. Not a real one, of course, but beggars can’t be choosers (that’s become my motto these days). I also found a box with ornaments, tinsel, and lights—no juice to power them, but they’ll still look nice on the tree. I set it up in the backyard, and it looks great!
Spent the rest of the day in the hammock, whistling Christmas carols with the Garand across my la
p.
Three ramblers rambling! Ha-ha!
December 24
It’s a good thing I got my shopping done early. No milk or cookies for Santa, but I left out a can of Spam and a bottle of water. Maybe he’ll bring me that AK-47 I asked for.
December 25
No assault rifle under the tree today. But there were a couple of ramblers trying to climb the fence. I think if I had gone outside two minutes later, the backyard would have become a killing pen.
One of them had managed to pull himself to the top of the fence. I shot him in the chest and he fell into the enclosure. He landed on the patio table, flipping it over and snapping the umbrella off. That made me angry. The other rambler had dropped back to the ground on the other side of the fence. I snapped a shot at him, but he disappeared around the corner of the warehouse.
There was no sign of the third.
Dec 26
I discovered something new today. Remember the animal I heard howling in the night? The one I couldn’t decide if it was a dog or a wolf? Looks like I was wrong on both counts. Sort of.
Turns out it was a dog—or at least, it was at one time. Not quite a hound from hell or Night of the Living Dog, but something in between.
It was chowing down on the dead rambler, the one that broke my umbrella table. I’d tossed the carcass over the fence the other day, with the intention of moving it later on. Now this thing that looked like a dog was tearing off hunks of its putrid flesh with a horrible canvas-ripping sound. The dog thing looked up at me and seemed to hesitate before hightailing it around the corner. It’ll be back, I have no doubt. And when it does, it’s dogmeat. Ha-ha!
Dec 27
Laid a trap for el poocho today. Instead of disposing of the dead rambler, I dragged it closer to the fence. Then I climbed into the hammock with my Garand, covered myself with blankets, and waited. It had started to snow and I spent the next hour or so catching flakes on my tongue.
At some point I fell asleep. I woke up sometime later to the sound of canvas ripping. I didn’t move. I made sure the safety on the Garand was off, then I slowly peeled back the blankets and looked out.
