by J. Thorn
That was how I found myself in Sikkim when it all started. The old man bolted, and having a private helicopter ready, he didn’t exactly have to worry about flight tickets. I have no idea what happened to him, but I hope he made a tasty meal for some of Them. The old bastard dumped all of us and ran. There were ten of us, and we tried to make it to the bungalow, thinking it would be a defensible position. I was the only one who made it. I’ve thought of writing down what happened in those two days when we fought our way through the hordes of monsters, but I don’t know if I can yet bring myself to do it. At least, not without a stiff drink and as I’ve said, there’s no more booze left.
Damn the old bastard. He could have kept a few more cases of beer and skimped on some food.
Day 102. Tourism in the land of zombies.
Skipped a couple of days, but I’ve been busy. Today is when I head down into the city. I have just a couple of days’ worth of water left, and this seems as good a time to venture down as any. For one, They have not been out for the last two days. I don’t know why that might be so, but I don’t want to wait another day and find out that They’re back and I’m stuck here without water.
I’m terrified and no, I am not afraid to admit it. I’ve seen combat several times, but nothing, absolutely nothing compares to being close to Them. Forget what you’ve seen in zombie movies. All that ketchup and special effects is good enough for vicarious entertainment, but it all becomes real only when you see a human being get eaten alive in front of you and when you shoot someone feet from yourself and find pieces of their brain stuck on your shirt hours later.
Another thing the movies got wrong: it’s not just head-shots that do them in. They die all right, but can take a hell of a lot of punishment, which makes me believe that it’s some sort of disease, but whatever it is, They scare the shit out of me. They just come at you, focused on biting you, and don’t seem to feel any pain or fear. I’ve seen men infected by a single bite, but sometimes They just go frigging rabid and tear people to pieces instead of infecting them. Who knows that They’re thinking, if they still think. I remember some news articles from back in 2012 about so-called ‘zombie’ attacks in US where people high on drugs would go totally apeshit and start attacking and eating people. If I remember, one of them had to be shot dozens of times to stop him, since the drug gave him almost superhuman strength and ferocity. I wonder if what’s happened to us has anything at all to do with that. I guess I’ll never know for sure.
I got closer to Them than I’d ever wanted to when I made my break for the bungalow and I killed more of them than I can remember. I just hope They don’t hold grudges – I don’t want to find out the hard way today.
In case I don’t make it back, and in case this notebook does get to anyone, congratulations on surviving longer than I did, and do plan your supplies better than me.
Day 103. The city of the dead.
I went out last night. Going into a city full of zombies at night may seem insane, but actually my chances of survival in the dark are much higher than in daytime. It’s easier to find cover in the dark and at the end of the day, even in a relatively small city like Gangtok, which used to have a population of about two hundred thousand, you can remain unseen if you want to.
If anything, running into Them was not the biggest of my worries. Certainly, I wouldn’t have relished bumping into Them, but that’s another thing the movies get so wrong about zombies running amok. In any city, even one the size of Gangtok, once you factor in all the people who have died or escaped, you will have only a fraction of the initial population left as the undead. That leaves you with plenty of space to hide, if you know how to, and I was trained for years to operate behind enemy lines.
The far bigger worry is disease. A town with thousands of corpses rotting in the open for three months is not a pleasant place to enter. The stench alone makes you want to puke and I must confess I threw up my breakfast of baked beans and tea soon after I got down the hill. The trip down made me realize just how tough a climb it must be for Them. Even for a very fit man it’s a tough climb, and my former horny employer loved this bungalow for its secluded location. Of course, he didn’t have to worry about climbing – his helicopter got him to the helipad at the top.
I was winded when I got down and after I regurgitated my breakfast, I wondered what the hell I had got myself into by coming down. I was wearing gardening gloves I had found and a cloth tied around my mouth as a mask, but I had no idea if it would be enough to protect me from whatever bugs were lurking among the corpses. I didn’t have to wait long to see the first signs of who the city belonged to now.
I can’t even count the number of zombie novels I read that talked about empty and spooky city streets after the dead rose. Believe me, there’s nothing empty about bloodied and decomposed body parts littering the streets. I’ve seen combat and death and I came closer to Them than I’d ever want to again in the first couple of days, but this was something else. This was not like the aftermath of a battle. No, this was more like a slaughterhouse. I tried to pick my way through the carnage, but I wouldn’t bet a penny that I didn’t have someone’s brains sticking to my shoes.
The first hour was thankfully quiet as I rummaged through several houses and found little but rotten food. Then I struck gold as I came across a bar I had visited a couple of times. Lounge 31 was a nice place to hang out and sip reasonably priced beer, but now it looked like a tornado had come through it as I shone my flashlight around. There were pools of blood in several places but no bodies, which made me think that those bitten here had been infected and not killed. That was till I reached the bar and saw the butchered remains of a man behind the bar. I wondered if it was the bartender I had chatted with so many times, but there was really no way to tell.
I saw some packets of food lying just beyond the bloodied remains and I hesitated for a second, but then I reached in and picked up several packs of nuts and chips and stashed them in my backpack. I would clean up the blood later. If you’re grimacing about me eating chips from a pack that was once stained with blood and gore, you have no idea what desperation and hunger can make a man do.
I do have a confession to make here. After I had finished stuffing my backpack, I paused, and then I took out about a quarter of the packs of snacks and put in two bottles of Old Monk rum that were left intact. Now, don’t judge me. A man’s allowed his weaknesses, especially if he’s roaming around alone in the dark in a city that now belongs only to the dead.
Even more than food (and as much I hate to admit it, even more than the rum), what I needed was water. The overhead tanks that had sustained me so far were now almost dry and the bottled drinking water was running out, so I nearly shouted in triumph when I found more than a dozen bottles of water in a nearby house. The problem was going to be carrying it all back. I didn’t relish the idea of coming back down for repeat trips, but I really had no option. The climb was torture, and considering I have a prosthetic leg, the joint where it met my thigh hurt like hell when I got up to the bungalow. I took a break and then I went back down for more water. That was when I bumped into Them.
Man, I’m tired. I think I’ll catch some sleep and continue tomorrow. Watch this space.
Day 104. Friendly double taps.
I had just packed as many bottles as I could stuff in my second backpack and was wondering how I would lug up two backpacks. I had done forced marches in the hills carrying much higher weights, but I was now more than a dozen years older than when I had first started playing soldier and, of course, I was down one leg. It was then past four in the morning and I wanted to be back up in the relative safety of the bungalow on the hill before the sun came up. I had just come out of the door when I came face to face with him.
My mask, which I had hoped would protect me against germs, worked against me, since I didn’t catch his stench. I saw that he was one ugly bastard as I shone my flashlight on him. His hair had come off in clumps and blood and pus was oozing out from sores and wound
s all over his body.
He had that look. The same look I had seen in the first days when I fought to get to the bungalow. Eyes narrowed in hatred. No, hatred would be a wrong choice of word. That connotes the ability to feel some human emotion. The look They have in their eyes is more animal than human. Dilated pupils, narrowed eyelids and the sudden ‘pop’ in their eyes. Not a flash of recognition but more like the look of anticipation that an animal might have on seeing prey.
Of course, all that analysis comes with hindsight. At that time, I just dropped a backpack, took my pistol from my belt and double-tapped him. One shot to the mid-section and one to the chest. In case you’re wondering why I didn’t aim for the head as they show in zombie movies, ignore the movies. Your chance of scoring a head shot in near darkness with a moving target is far lower than the movies would have you believe. Plus, as I’ve said, They go down without necessarily needing a head shot.
He went down and I didn’t wait to see what happened next but made a run for it. Another one came out of a corner from my left and not having time to shoot or to put down my backpacks, I just shouldered him out of the way and kept moving. I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder and I shouted in pain. Whatever this infection does to people, it seems to make them bloody strong. I swung one backpack at his head and made good contact, but he didn’t seem to flinch. I had already learned that They have very different pain thresholds compared to normal humans, most clearly demonstrated when I kicked one of Them in the nuts in the early days only to see him not even slow down. So I dropped a backpack again and did the whole double-tap routine once more. Then I ran as fast as my one good leg would take me, praying all the time that I would not meet any more of Them.
Behind me, I could hear growls and roars as They emerged from the darkness, attracted by the commotion my shooting had caused. I didn’t look back once as I moved up the hill, trying to hold onto both backpacks and trying to block out the searing pain in my thigh from all the pressure I was putting on my leg.
I arrived at the bungalow at close to six, exhausted and barely able to stand.
What is clear is that my little sortie did manage to get their attention. All day today, They have been milling about below the hill and one or two of them screamed in the direction of the bungalow. If they were issuing challenges or abuses and hoping I’d come down, they were sadly mistaken. In this case, discretion is most certainly the better part of valor.
Day 105. Moreko Manchi.
If you’ve noticed, so far in this journal I have just referred to the bloody monsters I’ve run into as ‘Them’. When I began, I thought of saying ‘zombie’ and perhaps I have slipped into using that familiar term once or twice, but calling them zombies would be wrong. It would simply be using a term that we are familiar with from our own popular culture instead of seeing them for what They are. I should know – the irony in all this is that my one novel, the one that I never managed to get published, was a novel about zombies overrunning a border area and a beleaguered military unit that has to hold them off. I thought it was a cool story, and with my Army background, I thought the action was realistic. Of course, no publisher agreed with me. One of them at least had the decency to send not a standard rejection slip but a detailed personal letter telling me that the zombie genre was a bit crowded and I had to stand out somehow. I wish I could meet those editors now and tell them all I know about zombies.
We think of zombies as some sort of supernatural, undead monsters. The creatures I see all around me are not quite that. Sure, they are bloody tough to kill, and they tear into any human they see, but as I’ve said, they can be killed. It seems like they’re infected with something that makes them stronger and aggressive and makes them seem to feel no pain or fear. Part of me feels that if it is some sort of infection, there must be a cure. Of course, that assumes that there are any scientists left anywhere to cook up a cure.
I’m back again in the evening, with arms sore from chopping wood, but with something important to share. If you’re wondering why I was chopping wood, it’s simple. It’s mid-October and it’s already pretty chilly. In two months’ time, the temperature will go below zero, and I don’t know if the generators will keep the heaters going. I am sorted for food and water now for a week but the fuel for the generator will run out soon. I have no way of knowing how long I have, but I certainly cannot lug up drums of fuel up here. So I was out chopping wood from the trees in the large garden behind the bungalow and using it to build small fires in the fireplace to give me both heat and light at night so that I can conserve the generator for when winter comes. On one of the trees, someone had etched in Nepali.
Moreko Manchi.
That means dead people in Nepali. It must have been left there by one of the Nepali minders who accompanied my boss’ girlfriend before they flew out in his helicopter. So, now my undead friends in the valley below have a name and now I shall sit by my fire, sip on some rum and watch the Moreko come out at night.
Day 106. King of the Hill.
I woke up this morning to the sounds of the friendly neighborhood Moreko kicking up a ruckus. When I went outside to take a look, I was shocked by what I saw. More than half a dozen of them were trying to climb up the hill to get to the bungalow, while a large mob was screeching and screaming below.
They may be terrifying, they may be hard to kill, but their fine motor skills are about as developed as those of a three-year-old with serious learning deficiency issues. Which was why the first of them to make the attempt lost his footing and went rolling down the hill, crashing into another one behind him. It was amusing at first to watch but three realizations hit me in quick succession.
First, they must have tried to climb the hill before, perhaps when I was lying blissfully drunk inside the bungalow. It was my sheer good fortune that they failed.
Second, they did have enough intelligence left to learn from their past failure – and that was perhaps why they had left me alone so far. By the same token, my nighttime raid had angered them, and they possessed enough co-ordination and communication to organize this attempt. I used to hope that they didn’t hold any grudges for all their friends that I had wasted, but now I wasn’t so sure any more.
Finally, they were not coming up the hill to welcome me to the neighborhood and to invite me over for tea. If they made it up, I was going to be mincemeat.
I ran inside to get the rifle and took position at a corner of the garden where I had a clear view of the Moreko climbers. One of them was now more than halfway up, laboring through the winding path that led up the hill, and had left his fellow climbers well behind. His slow but sure progress towards becoming the resident Moreko mountaineering champion was brought to an abrupt halt as a bullet took him in the stomach. He was more than two hundred meters away, and without a scope, I honestly counted a direct hit on the first shot as a stroke of luck, but as the Moreko climber tottered and fell off the edge of the path to be splattered on the rocks more than two hundred feet below, I could see the climbers following him hesitate.
I took aim and fired at the next one, sending dust rising up around his feet, but my third shot struck home, bringing him down with a shot to the neck. I had more than enough ammunition and if they insisted on climbing, I would just keep picking them off. I may not be good at too many things, and I positively suck when it comes to dealing with people, but one thing I do know how to do is to shoot. Plus, with the slow progress the Moreko were making up the hill, I had plenty of time to aim and to make sure my shots counted.
It took fifteen minutes, ten shots and four kills for them to give up and retreat down the hill. If the Moreko are indeed capable of learning, then I hope they learnt that at least for now, I am the king of this hill.
I’ve just poured myself a glass of rum to celebrate and my hand is shaking as I pick it up. Being good with a rifle and having won this round doesn’t mean that my nerves aren’t shot to hell.
Day 108. Under siege
I skipped yesterday because I fel
t there was nothing really to report. I’ve been spending the last couple of days chopping wood and also preparing my defenses. Yes, the hill is a great barrier but if the Moreko were to get up, the bungalow is a bad place to be holed up in. There are too many entrances and a large garden with trees and bushes that offer way too many hiding places. The only saving grace is that there is only one way up, a narrow path where at best three men can walk side by side. At first I had thought it a peculiar design choice, but my former employer had his reasons. He wanted his privacy and he never had to walk down – he only flew in a few times a year in his helicopter.
So I’ve been focusing on chopping down trees in the area leading up to the pathway, which both helps me build my stock of firewood and gives me a clearer line of sight to the approach. It’s funny how some training and instincts kick in without you really thinking about it. I never did tell you what exactly I did in the Army. I joined in the Infantry, in the Gurkha regiment, and after a couple of years was seconded to the Special Frontier Force. This was set up way back in the 60s to operate behind enemy lines in Tibet in case of another war with China. So a large part of my training was focused on escape and evasion, and that was kicking in now on overdrive. I jury-rigged some simple booby traps along the pathway. Nothing fancy of course given the limited material I have with me, but things that would slow any attacker down. Shallow holes with sharpened stakes that were covered with leaves, for example.
