HOLD

by Duane P. Craig

  Three che­ers for all of us be­ing on the sa­me pa­ge and ha­ving a plan we be­li­eve in. Three bo­os for how dam­ned bad it hurts to swing that fuc­king sled­ge­ham­mer hund­reds of ti­mes. I’m so­re as hell, and I can tell that ever­yo­ne el­se is, too. Even Lo­we’s mons­ter ass is ac­ting li­ke he’s be­at. Still, it’s go­od to know that we all want the sa­me thing.

  We’re go­ing to ha­ve to ke­ep wor­king at ma­king an entry ho­le pro­bably well in­to to­mor­row. Whi­le Lo­we kept smas­hing away with his de­ter­mi­na­ti­on, the rest of us be­gan sco­uring the bank for any and all ligh­ting de­vi­ces. We’ve got­ten a box full of flash­lights thus far. We sho­uld be just fi­ne on­ce we get to go un­derg­ro­und.

  Fred was the first to re­al­ly bre­ak thro­ugh the conc­re­te. It’s a ni­ce si­zed chunk, but we ha­ve pro­bably a go­od bit of work left to go in ma­king it big eno­ugh for the all of us to fit thro­ugh.

  It’s ne­aring my turn aga­in at swin­ging the sled­ge­ham­mer for a whi­le. I’ll just cut this entry a bit short. I ne­ed to wrap this jo­ur­nal well so as not to get wet and da­ma­ged. I al­so ne­ed to fi­gu­re out how to ke­ep Ca­mo out of the wa­ter, too be­ca­use we’ve be­en using so­me me­tal shel­ving posts to me­asu­re the wa­ter. It se­ems to be abo­ut chest high on most of us.

  DAY - 97

  I’ve had the lon­gest day of my li­fe. In fact, I’m wri­ting this an ac­tu­al full day af­ter the fact. That’s how long we we­re trek­king thro­ugh the old se­wers. The salt wa­ter was to­ugh on us in a lot of pla­ces, too. The­re was not­hing easy abo­ut get­ting to our cur­rent des­ti­na­ti­on.

  It was abo­ut 2 am yes­ter­day mor­ning that we bro­ke a ho­le big eno­ugh for us all to en­ter the old se­wer system. We fi­gu­red, why wa­it? We all just grab­bed our we­apons that we felt we co­uld carry or wa­de thro­ugh wa­ter with and to­ok to the plan.

  Ini­ti­al­ly, the systems we­re le­ading us west, but we fi­nal­ly ca­me upon a duct that led back to the north whe­re we ne­eded to he­ad. Des­pi­te the wa­ter be­ing very high in po­ints, our flash­lights held up pretty well - only two of the many shor­ted out.

  The worst part of the en­ti­re jo­ur­ney was bus­ting a par­ti­al­ly bro­ken wall that put us in­to an exis­ting, new junc­ti­on of the se­wers. The wa­ter was rus­hing us the en­ti­re ti­me we tri­ed to bre­ak the wall down, and as so­on as the wall did crumb­le for us, we got rus­hed even mo­re so. I know that we lost a go­od bit of our am­mu­ni­ti­on in a co­up­le of back­packs that the wa­ter rus­hed off with, but ove­rall we we­re just fi­ne for the sce­na­rio that wo­uld co­me right af­ter. The junc­ti­on we had bro­ken in­to was a har­bor for mu­ta­ting gho­uls. They we­re everyw­he­re, and that’s exactly how we be­gan to fi­re every gun we had - everyw­he­re. So­me of the gho­uls we­re lum­be­ring on two legs, still, but many ot­hers we­re chan­ging in­to sha­pes that hel­ped them mo­ve fas­ter. It wasn’t long be­fo­re Lo­we was back to slin­ging his mac­he­tes aro­und and hac­king gho­uls apart. The bas­tard ba­si­cal­ly for­ced the rest of us to grab kni­ves and mac­he­tes to use as well, ot­her­wi­se we’d ha­ve en­ded up sho­oting him.

  Ellen was the only one to ta­ke a wo­und in the fight, tho­ugh.

  One of the gho­uls had rip­ped open her right leg badly. It’s a hell of a ga­ping wo­und and one that we co­uldn’t sew up at the mo­ment. Lo­we felt the ne­ed to go to her aid and grab a gun aga­in for de­fen­ding her. I can say that des­pi­te her pa­in, it hel­ped us as we all grab­bed guns aga­in and fi­nis­hed the fuc­kers off.

  Our re­ma­ining trek thro­ugh the systems be­gan le­ading us to man­ho­le ent­ran­ces to the city stre­ets. We be­gan ta­king turns to go up the lad­ders and try to pe­ek a vi­ew of whe­re we we­re in the city. We we­re ho­ping to find mo­re ru­ral su­bur­ban sur­ro­un­dings, but we had to fi­nal­ly de­ci­de on go­ing back top­si­de at an in­ter­sec­ti­on with three of the cor­ners ha­ving gas sta­ti­ons. We just dar­ted for the sta­ti­on with the big­gest sto­re at­tac­hed to it and ha­ve ma­de that our cur­rent hol­ding po­si­ti­on.

  Ellen has lost a lot of blo­od, but she is stitc­hed up - 37 stitc­hes that Beth put a lot of ti­me in­to. Fred is li­vid but ke­eping calm, as he knows his an­ger wo­uld pro­bably just put El­len in a pa­nic. El­len is cur­rently se­da­ted with be­er from the sto­re’s co­olers and as many pa­in re­li­evers we co­uld find in the me­di­ci­ne ais­le he­re. Al­so, as much as I wo­uld li­ke to ke­ep Fred from wor­rying abo­ut El­len’s pos­sib­le in­fec­ti­on of na­no­tech trans­mit­tan­ce, I can’t gu­aran­tee him anyt­hing. What I can tell him is that it all to­ok pla­ce whi­le un­der the salt wa­ter, and that we ha­ve yet to see anyt­hing gho­uls sur­vi­ve comp­le­tely un­der any wa­ter. Even the flo­aters we had en­co­un­te­red don’t go un­der­wa­ter wit­ho­ut ha­ving to co­me up. The na­no­tech we­re wor­king wit­hin ves­sels. They are still sus­cep­tib­le to shor­ting out in the wa­ter, I’m thin­king. Su­rely no­ne of them we­re trans­fer­red.

  DAY - 98

  Lo­we and I had be­en up sin­ce first day­light and both de­vi­sed pretty much the sa­me plan. The­re just hap­pe­ned to be di­esel tan­kers par­ked be­hind the gas sta­ti­on ac­ross the stre­et. We co­uld see that they we­re in de­cent sha­pe, too. Lo­we was thin­king of ste­aling one and fin­ding his tank to re­fu­el it and ke­ep it in our use. That was fi­ne with me be­ca­use af­ter that, I wan­ted to ta­ke each tan­ker, park them at both ends of the ca­use­way, le­ad every gho­ul we can to the mid­dle of the ca­use­way and then blow them, stran­ding the gho­uls in the mid­dle. I went ahe­ad and told Lo­we every bit of what I had plan­ned and how to get it do­ne, now, with his tank. He ag­re­ed, and we we­re in bu­si­ness.

  Fred and Beth we­re fi­ne with sta­ying in the gas sta­ti­on and ten­ding to El­len. Beth ga­ve El­len a glan­ce and then sta­red at me whi­le tap­ping a hand­gun on the gro­und ne­ar her. I just nod­ded. I knew what she me­ant, and I knew she just wan­ted so­me­one to ag­ree with her on what may ha­ve to be do­ne. Lo­we and I grab­bed mac­he­tes and two hand­guns each as we fi­gu­red to be run­ning mo­re than figh­ting. I al­so re­mo­ved Ca­mo from his duf­fle bag. I fo­und a cle­ar, plas­tic do­ugh­nut con­ta­iner, emp­ti­ed it and put him in­si­de of it. A few ho­les we­re ma­de for his bre­at­hing, and we had our­sel­ves pretty much a type of mo­od-ring/gho­ul ra­dar. It fuc­king wor­ked, too.

  In only mi­nu­tes, Lo­we and I we­re dri­ving one of the three di­esel tan­kers at our dis­po­sal. Lo­we fo­und a tan­ker that had keys still in the ig­ni­ti­on. He in­sis­ted on dri­ving, which was fi­ne with me. I had Ca­mo in his box atop the dash­bo­ard, and I had the hu­ge map to the city as well. I na­vi­ga­ted our way thro­ugh the city. As much as I’d lo­ve to say it was an easy task fin­ding the tank, it just didn’t hap­pen that way. It was hard eno­ugh to ma­ne­uver thro­ugh the crow­ded stre­ets full of cars. Then, just when we fi­gu­red things we­re comp­li­ca­ted eno­ugh, it got very dark and clo­udy, and it hap­pe­ned fast. It was ra­ining wit­hin mo­ments of no­ti­cing the over­cast sky.

  The dark­ness and ra­in se­emed to be a sig­nal for the hi­ding gho­uls to emer­ge. I didn’t see them at first, but I did see Ca­mo turn red. I knew it wasn’t go­ing to get any easi­er as so­on as I saw him chan­ge co­lors. As you co­uld easily as­su­me, Lo­we was all smi­les. He was ha­ving fun run­ning over the gho­uls. I gu­ess that stra­tegy was dri­ving me mo­re than fun, as I kept har­ping on him not to pi­er­ce our tan­ker by wrec­king it. As we got to the tank, get­ting it run­ning was a re­al task. Gho­uls we­re trying to climb abo­ard it as so­on as Lo­we par­ked the tan­ker truck be­si­de it. Lo­we felt the ne­ed to start hac­king away at the gho­uls, so I was­ted no ti­me in
at­tac­hing the fu­el ho­ses from the tan­ker truck and res­ting the ot­her end of the ho­se aro­und the lip of the tank’s gas tank. I had to throw the val­ve open and was­te a lot of di­esel fu­el, but the tank got re­fu­eled in only se­conds. I just as qu­ickly clo­sed the val­ve and tos­sed the ho­se asi­de to cap the gas tank. I re­al­ly wan­ted to put the ho­se back on the tan­ker as it was ori­gi­nal­ly sto­red, but mo­re gho­uls kept co­ming our way. I had to start hac­king away at them just as much as Lo­we was. I even­tu­al­ly got back in­to the tan­ker truck, and Lo­we got him­self se­cu­red in the tank. I ma­de it a po­int to get the tan­ker truck star­ted, out of Lo­we’s way and get a go­od ways down the ro­ad ahe­ad of him. I as­su­med what wo­uld hap­pen next, and su­re eno­ugh, Lo­we got his tank mo­ving, and he to­re in­to so­me gho­uls and a ne­arby car. The tank’s me­tal track spar­ked and ig­ni­ted the spil­led di­esel fu­el.

  When an­yo­ne of us fi­nal­ly saw Lo­we aga­in, he was get­ting out of the tank at our gas sta­ti­on. He was smi­ling with so­ot all over his hands and fa­ce - the crazy bas­tard.

  DAY - 99

  The ra­in hasn’t stop­ped at all sin­ce yes­ter­day. It’s not a storm by any me­ans - just a ste­ady, light ra­in. The dark­ness from the over­cast sky is pretty much is in li­ne with ever­yo­ne’s mo­od, as well. We’ve ta­ken a loss in a sce­na­rio which has sha­ken us.

  Lo­we and I we­re just out­si­de of the gas sta­ti­on and tal­king abo­ut ta­king two tan­ker trucks comp­le­tely to the ca­use­way and sco­ut it as much as ti­me al­lo­wed. Sud­denly Beth and Fred we­re bac­king out of the gas sta­ti­on. El­len had them at gun­po­int. El­len was de­li­ri­o­us and lo­udly ran­ting at us all.

  She was then chan­ging her aim bet­we­en us. One ma­in po­int she kept spo­uting at us was that she felt we we­re plan­ning on kil­ling her be­fo­re we mo­ved on aga­in. Then she just kept tal­king from two ot­her ext­re­mes - at ti­mes tel­ling us how she was go­ing to for­ce us to find her a hos­pi­tal - to fix her li­ke we did Fred. Then she’d just as qu­ickly start spo­uting how she wo­uld kill her­self in front of us so that we co­uld suf­fer with that me­mory for the rest of our mi­se­rab­le exis­ten­ces. The wo­man ac­tu­al­ly had Fred bro­ken down in­to te­ars. Beth lo­oked to be clo­se eno­ugh to te­ars her­self. Everyt­hing chan­ged, tho­ugh, with the emer­gen­ce of two gho­uls that ap­pe­ared from aro­und a bu­il­ding se­ve­ral yards away. The gho­uls we­re that of a stumb­ling mot­her pus­hing a strol­ler in front of her and al­so the gho­ul of an in­fant still strap-loc­ked in the strol­ler. I ha­ve to ad­mit it was one of the most dis­tur­bing things that I ha­ve se­en yet. El­len had just be­en tal­king abo­ut us ha­ving no fu­tu­re, and sud­denly, symbo­li­cal­ly we co­uld see that the in­fancy of our on­ce pos­sib­le fu­tu­re was ta­in­ted and da­ma­ged be­yond re­pa­ir. El­len to­ok no­ti­ce of the gho­uls and lim­ped qu­ickly over to them whi­le fi­ring shots the who­le way. And that’s when the ot­her gho­uls emer­ged from aro­und the sa­me bu­il­ding. They to­ok af­ter El­len qu­ickly and to­re her apart.

  Lo­we and I had to physi­cal­ly drag Fred to get him mo­ving.

  Beth hur­ri­ed in­to the gas sta­ti­on and grab­bed as many of our back­packs of sup­pli­es as she co­uld. She ma­de su­re to grab the one with our C4 in it. I ma­de it to a tan­ker truck, Beth got to her own tan­ker truck and Lo­we drag­ged Fred in­to the tank with him.

  He­re at the ca­use­way we ha­ve co­me upon a night­ma­re of con­ges­ti­on. The­re are cars everyw­he­re and even a few gho­uls abo­ut. Lo­we mo­ved his tank on­to the ca­use­way a go­od ways whi­le Beth and I par­ked our tan­ker trucks si­de­ways, per­pen­di­cu­lar to the la­nes and just at the ent­ran­ce of the ca­use­way. We've ta­ken half of our C4, plas­tic exp­lo­si­ves and choc­ked them un­der each tan­ker truck’s ti­res. Now, we’re all in­si­de the tank and just wa­iting for mo­re gho­uls to show. On top of that, Fred’s be­en a qu­i­et mess the who­le ti­me. No­ne of us are su­re how to even try and con­so­le or com­fort him eit­her. We know it’s mostly po­int­less with how much pa­in he must be fe­eling. The­re’s no fi­xing it, and the ag­re­ed as­sump­ti­on is to let him de­al with it alo­ne be­ca­use we know dam­ned well that we are go­ing to ha­ve a ma­j­or fight on our hands so­on - we ho­pe his pos­sib­le ra­ge will help. Of co­ur­se, we are ke­eping eyes on him at all ti­mes and ha­ve not al­lo­wed any we­apons wit­hin his qu­ick re­ach in ca­se he gets su­ici­dal.

  Supply checks re­ve­al that we’ve got only hand­guns, mac­he­tes and kni­ves, two shot­guns but no ext­ra am­mu­ni­ti­on be­si­des what's in the guns. Lo­we and I ha­ve each cla­imed mac­he­tes with Beth cla­iming two hand­guns. The ot­her half of our C4 exp­lo­si­ves sho­uld be eno­ugh to blow the ot­her end of the ca­use­way, and the tank has 3 shells left to fi­re. We se­em to ha­ve comp­le­tely lost Ca­mo in all of the day’s con­fu­si­on and pre­pa­ra­ti­ons, as well. He’d be red and easy to find if he was anyw­he­re aro­und. He must know what’s co­ming.

  DAY - 100

  We ne­ver went to sle­ep and had just watc­hed out of the tank’s small vi­ewing slats. The gho­uls we­re everyw­he­re.

  They had grown mas­si­ve in num­bers over­night and re­min­ded me of stan­ding ro­om only crowds at hu­ge mu­sic fes­ti­vals. It smel­led abo­ut the sa­me, too. Lo­we got the tank mo­ving and crus­hing past ve­hic­les. He sud­denly stop­ped and ro­ta­ted the tur­ret to aim at the two tan­ker trucks we had left at the ca­use­way ent­ran­ce. Lo­we fi­red a shell and comp­le­tely le­ve­led that end of the ca­use­way. It blew a go­od 15 yards or so of it comp­le­tely in­to dust. The wa­ter rus­hed in fil­ling the spa­ce cre­ated. We tur­ned the tur­ret back for­ward and pus­hed on ma­king our way to just past the mid­dle of the ca­use­way - fi­ve big trucks had ma­de a bloc­ka­ge that our tank just wasn’t go­ing to cle­ar - the climb pro­ving too ste­ep.

  It felt li­ke the tank was go­ing to tip over on one si­de. We had no cho­ice left but to back up, fi­re our last two shells to cle­ar wha­te­ver kind of path we co­uld and ma­ke a run for it. I put on the back­pack with our re­ma­ining C4, as so­on as I knew we we­re abo­ut to ma­ke a run for it. Fi­ring tho­se two shells ope­ned a la­ne for us, but it lo­oked to be clo­sing as so­on as we exi­ted the tank. Lo­we was the first one out, swin­ging a mac­he­te every di­rec­ti­on and cut­ting he­ads in half. Fred just snap­ped, grab­bed a shot­gun and was out im­me­di­ately af­ter Lo­we. Fred ra­ged ahe­ad se­emingly wan­ting ever­yo­ne right be­hind him as he was wor­king hell on the gho­uls. Del was out next and swin­ging a mac­he­te li­ke a mad­man. They we­re all ar­tists of de­ath, so much that I think the De­vil him­self wo­uld ha­ve be­en ple­ased. I had two hand­guns, and for as long as I co­uld I to­ok de­cent eno­ugh he­ad shots. We qu­ickly re­ac­hed a po­int of run­ning mo­re than figh­ting, tho­ugh. Lo­we was the first one I saw fall prey to the gho­uls - then Fred. It was dumb luck that did them both in. Lo­we was run­ning atop cars and his legs fell thro­ugh a winds­hi­eld. He fell fa­ce first in­to the car’s ho­od bus­ting se­ve­ral of his te­eth out. He drop­ped his mac­he­te in the fall, and in no ti­me, gho­uls we­re bi­ting and te­aring at his fa­ce. Li­ke co­wards the rest of us kept run­ning. Fred drop­ped his shot­gun and re­sor­ted to punc­hing at gho­uls un­til he en­ded up get­ting his fin­gers bit­ten off of one hand. Del drop­ped back to help Fred. I kept on mo­ving, al­most back­pe­da­ling as the gho­uls we­re thin­ning out at that po­int on the ca­use­way - the bulk of them be­hind us. Del was di­cing gho­uls as best he co­uld whi­le drag­ging Fred be­hind him. The gho­uls fi­nal­ly to­ok Fred for the­ir own, tho­ugh. Del simply high­ta­iled it to me at that ins­tant. Del and I we­re all but at the end of the brid­ge, and
I had the C4 exp­lo­si­ves down - so­me shot­gun shells I put with them to ser­ve as de­to­na­tors. One gho­ul I didn’t see was abo­ut to at­tack me, but Del tack­led it to the gro­und. It to­ok a bi­te out of Del’s back be­fo­re I got over to ta­ke ca­re of it with Del's mac­he­te. I don’t even re­mem­ber how many pi­eces I cut that fuc­ker in­to, but I just as qu­ickly got us up and over to the is­land’s bank se­ve­ral yards away from whe­re I shot my last hand­gun ro­unds the at the exp­lo­si­ves. It blew out al­most as many yards of the ca­use­way as the ot­her end - no mo­re get­ting to the is­land on fo­ot or wit­ho­ut le­ar­ning to wa­de or swim well, first. Del’s plan had pa­in­ful­ly suc­ce­eded. We so­on fo­und our way to a mock ran­ger’s sta­ti­on that ho­used an ele­va­tor down in­to the un­derg­ro­und mi­li­tary ba­se. The ba­se is tras­hed, tho­ugh - use­less. Not­hing he­re se­ems of any use. I se­arc­hed ho­urs for a def­ri­bu­la­tor - not­hing’s he­re of use but ext­ra hand­guns. The­re are thick, glass cells he­re just li­ke the ex­pe­ri­men­ta­ti­on ro­oms at the ot­her ba­se. I’ve loc­ked Del in­si­de one. Now, I’m just go­ing to sit he­re watc­hing him whi­le re­ading the poc­ket si­ze Bib­le that Lo­we ga­ve me days ago. I’m go­ing to re­ad it back­wards from Re­ve­la­ti­ons to Ge­ne­sis, so that it has a happy en­ding this ti­me. Al­so, as I sit he­re, I’ll con­si­der how long I can ke­ep Del ac­ti­ve in that cell. I know he’ll turn so­on, but I res­pect­ful­ly owe his eyes se­ven to eight mo­re months no mat­ter what his con­di­ti­on is. I owe it to him to let him see his child at le­ast on­ce.