by T. W. Brown
Crashing through the brush, we burst into a clearing to see Greg Chase, that thirty-two-year-old, African-American… black…hell, does it matter anymore…anyways, that guy has this creeper by what is left of its torso and he is pounding it on a rock. Only, two things; first—he is buck-ass naked and bleeding bad from one arm, second, curled up in the fetal position, covered in blood, is Marissa Blaney, one of those kids (she was fourteen) also naked.
Snoe simply walked up behind Greg, put a bullet in the back of his head, then turned to Marissa and, while the girl was looking at me as I put a crossbow bolt in the zombies head, shot her in the temple. I guess we’re not waiting to see if they’ll turn anymore.
By now, thirty or so people are catching up. Any chance of containing this vanished with their arrival. There can be no disputing what was going on with Greg and Marissa. Also, the folks at Irony now know that no place is safe from the threat of the undead plague.
At dinner, the main conversation was who is having sex with whom. What should be done about it…and how will it be enforced.
I’ve never been happier to be leaving this place. These next three days can’t go fast enough. Until the 17th, I’m going into hiding and, unless it has to do with my team or the trip, I’m not coming out.
Thursday, July 17
Early Morning
I’ll be surprised if Irony is still in one piece when I—if I—get back. Once more I’ve left the rugged Cougar Peak area and the relative, if not falsely relied upon, security of the community known as Irony, USA. Once more I set out for the Noxon/Trout Creek area and an abandoned religious sect’s compound. The thrill of being out in the uncertainty has me actually giddy with anticipation.
Maybe I am an adrenaline junkie.
Evening
We made excellent time today. Tonight we are camped beside a beautiful blue river surrounded by pine trees. As the sun sets, it is almost completely silent. I did see a bird, a really big one, gliding in the cloudless sky.
More exciting, we are looking down on a tiny town that Roy says is Heron, MT. this is exciting on a few points: First—we made great time on some back roads and only ran into issues late this afternoon. Considering how long this trip has taken in the past, and to know it would be possible that we could be looking at our objective tomorrow feels like a good omen. Second—we have located what looks to be the encamped location of the maniacs who killed Scott, Sasha, Bill, Shannon, and Kyle as well as being at least partially responsible for Sam’s death.
They are set up nicely in Heron. They have big rigs, motorcycles, Hummers, and a freakin’ tank! We actually found them by mistake. Their mistake.
We were setting up by the river deciding that it would be best to hit our target shortly after first light. We hadn’t seen more than a handful of zombies—all stragglers—during the day. And did I mention that it is so very quiet?
A burst of gunfire suddenly echoes. About twenty minutes pass. We have all gone to locked-and-loaded status and on the lookout for trouble to come from any direction. We had just about reached the point where we could relax when Ella, who is set up in some dense brush by the water, starts snapping her fingers (it gets attention without being too loud). A raft is floating down the river. It has a few posts mounted on it. There are a total of seven people fastened to them. Also, lying sprawled on the raft are a few more…and they are starting to stir! The folks fastened to the posts are all dead, obviously shot up.
None of us can figure out why there are some who were shot to death and yet, obviously, several recently bitten folks are left unbound, unshot, and just laying on a raft, then set adrift on a river.
We were rotating in our groups of four, keeping watch on their camp. We had a vote and have decided that even if we have to delay our trip to Noxon/Trout Creek…so be it.
These people are worse than the zombies and need to be dealt with.
Friday, July 18
Nothing worth having or doing seems to come easy. Today is no exception. My team had the second watch. All of us have come to the conclusion that these people have no regard for themselves or others. They make no attempt to hide or be secretive. Sure, this is the middle of the wilderness, but zombies seem able to hone in on sound just as if they could hear. Since I’ve never met one that could tell me one way or the other, I can only guess.
These people have obviously made obtaining alcohol a priority. I won’t say I was surprised when we found a wide variety of drugs as well. They partied until long past my watch shift.
We moved in before sunrise. Since we’d had a couple hours of evening light, as well as their blazing bonfire, it was simple to side-step the barricades and pits meant only to stop or hamper the unthinking, unreasoning undead.
There was no formal sentry in place. These folks were cowboys to the last. They did have a handful of zombies collared and chained to twenty-foot leads. A couple actually got aggressive at the sight of us. Nothing a well placed crossbow bolt didn’t solve. The oddity was the pair that simply sat quietly watching us pass. It almost seemed that they—the zombies—wanted us to come and kill these demented folks.
I can say without question, even discounting their penchant for sadism demonstrated by the manner in which they killed our friends, that this was a sick group. More on that in a moment.
We crept in and made for the biggest concentration. We knew they were crashed out in a trio of double-wides. It was almost too easy to tie off the doors, making exiting a real problem. Then, after dousing the trailers and a good portion of the surrounding ground with gasoline…we positioned ourselves in firing zones and lit the match.
The fire spread quickly. Within minutes we could hear them. About then, Turk’s group, who had our backs, opened up on the few who had sought their night’s sleep in other locations and came stumbling out bleary-eyed and confused to investigate the fire and now growing commotion.
That was also when the middle trailer exploded. I don’t know how we missed the big, white propane tank. A moment later…their ammo started cooking off. They had a lot of ammo.
Doug Keller never saw it coming. At least that is what I’ve convinced myself of since he looks so peaceful. The bullet took him right in the temple in a way that would have made a mob goon proud. He was still smiling that goofy grin, only his dead, glazed eyes made it look a bit creepy.
Doug was our only casualty.
It was while we did a thorough walk-through of this no-stoplight town that the more disturbing finds were discovered. The vast quantities of various drugs were no big surprise. Then we found the gruesome discovery in the tank. I can only imagine what purposes were served by having no less than ten armless, legless zombies in its cockpit or whatever they call the interior of a tank. There is blood caked everywhere as well as unrecognizable remains of whoever was unfortunate enough to be cast inside and locked in.
It was just after the tank revelation that we found HER. I could still recognize her face even in its discolored, waxy, sagging, zombie state. A face seen in several movies and often on the front of those useless tabloids. I seem to remember reading or hearing that she had a huge log cabin style mansion out in these parts.
My guess is this group found her. I bet she thought she’d been saved. Who knows how long they kept her or what they did to her until boredom set in. At some point, they let her be bitten. Not bad, just enough to put her in this state. Only, it seems they had not finished using her for unspeakable, unthinkable things.
She was tied to a pallet. Naked. The pile of used, discarded condoms tell a story I’d rather not dwell too deeply on. I looked into her eyes for a moment. Can a zombie be sad? Her eyes, even in death, looked like those I’ve seen on a few girlfriends who become their significant other’s punching bag on Saturday nights after a few too many cold ones.
I almost felt sorry for her before bringing up the crossbow and ending her career once and for all.
Tonight, we’ll spend the evening in our camp from yesterday. Tomorrow, we move on to Nox
on/Trout Creek.
Saturday, July 19
Their names are Julie Barton and Jack Whitefoot. They are the only survivors of Noxon, MT.
We had decided to check the town for supplies before continuing south where we will take the gravel road that will loop us back into the mountains and eventually lead to the isolated commune-cult complex.
We came into town from the northwest using the increasingly treacherous Highway 200. The street or road …whatever…is littered with scattered bodies. These rural areas probably put up the best fights. That helps, since not only was the base population minimal, but the locals took out a high percentage of the undead before eventually succumbing or perhaps retreating.
In Noxon, it seems that the fight went in favor of the living. We encountered twenty or so of the undead former residents as we rolled into town. They came out in typical fashion, attracted by the sound of our vehicles.
We stopped in front of a long, log cabin style building; the Hereford Restaurant. In less time than it takes to write this…we had put down the only visible threat. Just as we finished, a shot rang out and Turk fell to the ground clutching his left leg. Of course everybody except Sugar went diving for cover. Sugar dove for Turk.
A voice called out, telling us that we’d “best get back in our trucks and go back the way we came.” I figured the owner of that voice to be a bit more frightened than we were, even with us being initially the more vulnerable. Mostly due to the quavering change in pitch. I stood up, setting my crossbow on the ground and extending my arms out to try and show I was not a threat.
“We’re not here to harm anybody,” I said. “We are only passing through, heading towards Trout Creek.”
“Trout Creek’s dead,” a shaky male voice answered. “Nobody left,so don’t bother.”
“There was a commune nearby,” I prompted.
“The Jesus-Crispies?”
I heard a smattering of muffled laughter from my group.
“They’re all dead, too,” he called back after I shushed the others. “In fact it was them that brought this crap down on us.”
I was tired of yelling my conversation. “Why don’t you and I talk normal, instead of yelling back and forth? I’m un-armed.”
“Just you,” the male voice said hesitantly. “Come up the road to the school.”
After assuring everybody that I knew what I was doing, and checking on Turk—it was a clean shot—bullet went in and out. That’s not to say that his left calf wasn’t messed up, only that we wouldn’t have to dig out the bullet. Hey, take your plusses where you can.
I walked down the empty street, through the empty town of Noxon. I spied my young negotiator. Jack Whitefoot is seventeen. He is a couple of notches taller than six-feet and thin as a whip. His long, black braid hangs down his back, all the way to his waist. He is exactly what you would picture when imagining a young Indian—or if you insist, Native American—from the Old West.
He had pistols on each hip, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, and an old style M-1 carbine in his hands held crossways in front of his chest like he was about to “present arms” at the command of a Marine DI.
We spoke. A lot of what eventually passed between us is his own business. In short, this place fell to the plague much the same as the big cities. By the time folks were figuring it out, it was too late. The zombies we killed when we arrived were the friends and families of Jack and a young lady named Julie Barton.
Jack and Julie are the only survivors. But even more interesting…Jack is immune! He has a well-healed bite to prove it.
They were able to kill off most of the zombies. Only, neither could do away with their closest friends and immediate families. When they realized he was immune to the bite, they decided that, while they would not willingly allow the zombies to get to them, the need to kill those they loved was not a necessity.
To each his own.
Tomorrow, we’ll move on to Trout Creek. The kids will join us. They were given the choice and eagerly accepted. Turk was even a good sport about it and thanked Jack for NOT shooting to kill.
Sunday, July 20
I bet this place was absolutely beautiful before death found it. It sits right on this vast sparkling stretch of what I learned from Jack is The Clark Fork River. Trout Creek itself has a few forks and we want West Fork Trout Creek. Still, no reason to hurry or leave behind a potential danger.
Today, we went systematically through the area and put down every zombie we could find. The only real problem turned out to be a once majestic hotel. We discovered where the residents made their final stand. It is also where the plague seems to have finished them off from within their own ranks.
I’m no forensic specialist, but the trail is almost too easy to follow. It looks like the residents of Trout Creek retreated to this point with most of their guns and ammo (that made scavenging very convenient). Who knows how many bite victims were in that group. They boarded up all the doors and windows on the ground floor while having presence of mind to leave gaps for shooting through.
Likely, several of their own turned at once and in short order. The unfortunate element seems to be that it was the children who turned. I say this because when we were looking in, we saw very little activity. When we pried open the main entrance a dozen children no older than ten or twelve rushed us. They were short enough and the gaps were placed high enough that we couldn’t see them. This was made worse by the fact that many of the adults were torn in half. At least two-thirds were creepers.
When it was all over with, everybody was so completely drained. Even Snoe, who never seems affected by anything, looked drawn and more than a little upset. It will never be easy killing the child-zombies.
We gathered and inventoried enough guns and ammo to supply a small army. One thing about places like this, it is definitely NRA country. Gun-Control fans, Democrats, and vegans need not bother stopping.
In one house, we did find something that I’m sure will be a legacy of our dead generation: A meth lab. The occupants obviously decided to make one last batch and die in the clutches of their addiction. Actually, that find was a bit more gruesome than some of the death-by-zombie discoveries we’ve made.
I had a friend who was into the meth scene. She was so pretty. She had that curvy body that made you so totally envious. A full bust, then a narrow and slender waist that truly exemplified the hourglass figure with perfect hips. Then…she found meth. Her long, shiny, black hair became matted. Her milky white skin erupted in hideous sores and her figure caved in.
I hope that whatever generation rises out of all this never rediscovers such a terrible thing.
Tomorrow we hike in and do what it takes to secure the compound. It’s been seen from above and afar, let’s hope that we continue to enjoy the success we’ve had so far.
God, I’ve probably cursed us.
Monday, July 21
We could not have counted on there being so much death in this complex. I remember when that cult in San Diego thought the Hale-Bopp comet was going to whisk them away to some paradise or something and put plastic bags over their heads after slipping into sweatsuits and tenny-runners.
We are having to go from building to building on extermination runs. Every single building has a basement, and this seems to be where most of them were kept. Each building is done and marked because after a while…it all starts to blend in.
The operation goes a little something like this: we walk the perimeter and look inside any windows. In the case of two-story buildings, we grapple, scale, and infiltrate from the top down. Once we clear the floor, we fan out and, after a rock-paper-scissors process, the loser opens the door to the basement.
Of course we had no idea how bad the basements were until we opened the door to the first one. That was how we lost young mister Gus Miller. He pulled open the door and a stringy-haired blonde missing all of her nose returned the gesture. She latched on to poor Gus before he knew what was happening. All hell broke loose as zombies of all
ages came pouring out of that doorway and into a rather narrow hallway that made shooting absolutely impossible. We went hand-to-hand which took almost fifteen minutes. If you’ve never been in a fifteen minute hand-to-hand brawl, put on biker leathers and a helmet, now start swinging a baseball bat hard enough to crush an almost ripe watermelon for fifteen minutes.
We put down the last one and I turned just in time to watch Gus shove his pistol in his mouth and spray brains all over the wall he was propped against.
Three buildings done. Twenty-seven to go.
This could take a while.
Thursday, July 24
Halfway done. The good news is that we are close to halfway…bad news…we are only almost close to halfway. At least we haven’t lost anybody else.
Jack and Julie are just like part of the team. It is nice that this place was preparing for some version of Armageddon. They have a lot of non-perishable food, as well as cases and cases of bottled water.
There are a couple of really large buildings that we are concerned about clearing. The continuous pounding and moans of the undead are beyond description. I’m willing to bet that if there are generators…that is where they will be.
Saturday, July 26
Rolled the dice today. We’ve put off until today clearing the larger building for fear of what we felt we were sure to encounter. It was voted on and unanimous that we go into this three-story affair. It is, In fact, the largest building in the com-pound. It sits on what I would guess to be an area that would be two blocks long and one block wide.
