by J. Thorn
As I was laying my traps, I went down nearly halfway down the hill, and I saw a few Moreko looking up at me. I wondered if they understood what I was doing, but at any rate, none of them made any move towards me. By early afternoon I was satisfied that if any Moreko got anywhere near the top of the hill, I would get sufficient warning and have enough time to retreat to the room where I would make my last stand. It was a small attic on the second floor of the bungalow, with a hatch on the roof that swung down to provide a stepladder to climb up. If the Moreko did manage to get to the bungalow, my plan was to take my weapons and hide there, hoping that they would not have enough sense to find the attic.
I spent the rest of the evening moving some of my stocks of food and water to the attic – enough to last a few days at least – and then cleaned the rifle. It had served me well enough in the last battle, but it was an old piece and I disassembled and oiled it. The last thing I needed was for it to jam or misfire in the next battle. Oh yes, by then I was certain that there would be a next battle.
By sunset, the damn Moreko were back, screaming their lungs out at the bottom of the hill. The city was totally dark and it was hard if not impossible to make out their numbers, but it sounded like hundreds of them were gathered there. I had made a few torches – simple enough but effective contraptions of cloth tied around thick branches, and soaked in fuel – and had placed them along the pathway till about the halfway point up the hill. I had lit them before retreating to the bungalow and now watched anxiously for any sign of the Moreko as I ate my dinner of nuts and raisins. Several times I thought I saw shadows moving but they all turned out to be false alarms. By one in the morning I was so sleepy I had begun to nod off despite my best attempts and finally I gave in and slept.
I was awakened by an inhuman shriek and I literally jumped to the window, binoculars raised to my eyes. One Moreko had made it more than halfway up the hill and had got entangled in one of my traps. His right leg was bent at an awkward angle where it had slipped into the hole filled with sharpened stakes, and he was screaming out his rage as he stood there, his leg impaled on my trap. I screamed at him to shut up and put him down with a bullet to the head. Proud of my marksmanship, I hurled a few more abuses at the Moreko out there and waited. While no others came up the hill that night, they kept up their howling and I was unable to sleep for a single minute.
As the Sun rose and I looked down with bleary eyes, I saw a large crowd of Moreko gathered at the foot of the hill, staring up towards the bungalow. It was then that I realized that while my traps and defensive measures gave me some sense of security, my current situation meant that I was effectively a prisoner of the Moreko.
Day 110. Stir Crazy.
I am now actively rationing my food and water, since the bloody Moreko don’t seem to be budging. They don’t need food, water or toilet breaks and their constant presence means that I am not likely to get new supplies from town anytime soon.
I have spent the last two days just staring at the filthy bastards, hoping they go away, but they neither try and climb the hill nor do they disperse. There must be a hundred of them now and they are a filthy, ugly bunch. Looking through my binoculars reveals them to be a motley crew – men, women, children, young and old, all united in this bloodthirsty madness by whatever virus has afflicted them. All of them have the sores and boils that seem to be characteristic of the Moreko and most display horrid wounds they must have suffered when they were infected.
To call them a group or band is perhaps a misnomer. They do not seem to be organized and there is no discernible leader. It’s more like a pack of wild animals drawn to the smell of a kill. Every once in a while, some of them will turn on each other – frenzied, bloody affairs that end with one of them being torn apart. Once one of them falls, the others join in and bite and chew on the fallen Moreko. Quite a sickening sight, and I think I am going stir crazy just sitting here, waiting for them to go away, and impotent to do anything about it.
Part of me wants these fuckers to just come up the hill so I can get it over with. The small part of me that is still sane tells the other part to shut the fuck up.
Day 111. Losing it.
Today I came close to becoming Moreko feed.
Tired of watching them just stand there, as if mocking me, I grabbed my rifle soon after sunrise and went down the hill. In hindsight it was a stupid thing to do, but at the time, I was just so pissed off that all I wanted was to shoot a few of the fuckers, to feel like I had some semblance of control over what was happening.
As I started walking down the hill, I could see the Moreko work themselves up into a frenzy and a couple of them started climbing the hill. I knelt and drilled one of them with a shot that took half his head off. The second had advanced only a few feet further when I took him in the chest with one round. As he fell to the ground, I let the adrenaline rush get the better off me and kept advancing. More Moreko began climbing the hill and I kept firing till I was out of rounds and had to insert a fresh clip. When I reached into my pocket, I heard a roar and looked up to see a Moreko just a dozen feet away from me. When I looked back, I realized with a growing sense of dread that I had ventured more than halfway down the hill.
The Moreko approaching me was a giant, standing well over six feet tall and built like an ox. I doubted he had been much of a looker before he had been infected, but the bloody boils on his face and the open gash running down the middle of his chest certainly didn’t add to his looks.
He had his mouth open, baring bloodied teeth, and he charged me. Combat veteran or not, I nearly pissed myself in terror. Things happened in a bit of a blur. I remember trying to insert my clip and dropping it. I remember the Moreko reaching out towards me, clawing at me with his filthy nails. I remember thinking that no matter how else I happened to die, I did not want to get eaten by this dirty monster.
Thankfully I retained enough of my wits to realize that a rifle can still be of some use even without ammunition in it. As the big guy was almost upon me, I slammed the stock of the rifle into his throat.
His snarl of rage turned into a gurgling babble as he staggered back. It would have stopped any human dead in his tracks, but Moreko don’t seem to agree with our rules on pain. He came at me again and this time I gave up the finesse of tactics in favor of brute force, swinging my rifle like a club. I made solid contact, shattering both his skull and the stock of my rifle. As he fell, I saw two more Moreko coming up the hill and I realized that standing and fighting was suicide. I scrambled back up the hill, careful to avoid my traps, and paused only when I had reached the bungalow. The Moreko had stopped about halfway up the hill and one of them lost his footing at a winding turn and stumbled and fell. The remaining Moreko retreated back down the hill.
My little sortie was an unmitigated disaster. I have killed a handful of Moreko, which counts for nothing given the hundred or more who are still standing around the hill. More importantly, I now don’t have a working rifle. I feel like a frigging idiot.
Day 112. On mortality.
The number of Moreko below the hill has increased steadily, doubling at least compared to just a day ago. I imagine word must have spread that the human at the top of the hill is losing it and will soon be served up as buffet lunch for any Moreko who makes it to the top.
Earlier, as I watched them milling about, I wondered what I would do if they did come up the hill in large numbers. Without a rifle, I now have no means of taking them down at long range, and the few my traps may claim would hardly make a dent in their numbers. I would have to take my pistol and take refuge in the attic. As I went through my plan, a thought came to me.
Why am I going through all these exertions to try and stay alive?
I honestly can’t claim to have done much with my life. I pissed away my career and my marriage. There’s probably nobody left to mourn me anyways. If I am to be perfectly honest with myself, I doubt anyone would have mourned my passing even if none of this crap had happened.
There’s
not much to look forward to, either. If I am indeed the last human left alive here, then it is just a matter of time before the Moreko get me. Spending my last hours stuck in a dark attic waiting for these monsters to come and tear into me is not the kind of end I would have wished on my worst enemy.
It would be so easy to pick up the pistol, put it to my forehead and end it all. A little bit of pressure on the trigger, perhaps a fleeting sensation of pain, and then nothing more. No more of the damn Moreko. No more being stuck in this godforsaken bungalow. No more dreams about all the things I could have been and had, but lost largely due to my own stupidity.
Yet I cannot bring myself to do it. Is it cowardice or is human mortality indeed so stubborn that it clings on to us even when dying is perhaps objectively a better outcome than continuing to live?
By the way, the Old Monk is finished, so back to sipping tepid tea to keep myself warm at night.
Day 113. Charge of the Moreko.
I woke up this morning to see something strange. There are even more Moreko around and a dozen of them were climbing up the hill with relative ease. Do the Moreko also learn like we do? I sat there, unable to do anything to stop them, my rifle shattered and my pistol of any use only when the Moreko would be too close for comfort.
The first of the Moreko, a small boy of perhaps no more than ten or eleven, was well ahead of the others. His clothes had been largely ripped to shreds and were streaked with blood. He had been wearing a white face mask with openings for the eyes and mouth, locally called a monkey cap and commonly used as protection against the cold, when he had been infected. Of course, it was anything but white now and was streaked with blood and gore. I watched the boy stumble in mid-stride and then fall off the side of the hill with a scream.
Score one for my traps.
Another Moreko was claimed by hidden stakes, but there were too many of them, and soon they were well up the hill. I raised my pistol when the nearest one was about fifty meters away, and then I put it down. Against ten Moreko, my pistol would be little more than nuisance value and figuring that not attracting attention to myself was my best strategy, I headed for the attic. That’s where I am now, writing in this notebook, the pistol by my side, the room dark other than a small bulb I had rigged to be connected to the generator downstairs. I can hear the Moreko shuffling around downstairs and now it sounds like they’re trashing everything. I can hear the noise of something heavy being toppled and breaking into pieces – must be the TV or fridge. Even if by some miracle I manage to survive, I will now have no more food or water other than the stocks I have with me in the attic, and no means of learning about what is going on in the outside world.
The lamp just started to flicker. The buggers must have got to the generator or more likely, tripped on the wire. Now I sit here and wait, and perhaps start praying after many years. I don’t know if there is a God or whether he even gives a damn what happens to me, but it can’t hurt, can it?
Day 115. Strapped in.
Guess what? I’m in a helicopter. A bloody helicopter!
Just when I thought I was destined to be Moreko food, salvation came in the most unexpected manner. I don’t know how long I lay in the attic, hearing the Moreko downstairs, wondering when they would leave. After a while, the fatigue got to me and I must have dozed off.
I was awakened by what sounded like a helicopter. It was such an unlikely thought that I told myself I was hallucinating and closed my eyes. Then came the unmistakable sound of gunfire. At first I didn’t know if it was real or if my mind was playing tricks on me but I soon realized the shots were coming from downstairs. I put my ears to the attic hatch and listened, trying to figure out what was going on. The shots gave away a lot – there were a couple of people firing short, controlled bursts – the hallmark of trained men using automatic weapons in an enclosed space as they should be used. Then there were the more numerous sounds of people firing on full auto – spray and pray as we would call it back in the Army. Above all, I could hear the shrieks and screams of the Moreko as they were massacred. I had no way of knowing if the gunmen downstairs were friendly or hostile, but what was certain was that my pistol would be of little use against the kind of firepower they seemed to be packing. So once the gunshots stopped, I opened the attic hatch and came down, placing my pistol on the floor and raising both hands over my head.
‘I’m human. Don’t shoot!’
My cry got their attention and four masked gunmen barged into the room, and I was bundled off to the helicopter in which I am currently sitting, heading off to an unknown destination. The masked men sitting around me haven’t said much, but they refused to let me bring my gun or anything else. When I pleaded that I was a writer and needed my notebook, they relented.
I’m not sure if I should be elated at being rescued or concerned at being a captive. I suspect I’ll find out soon.
Day 115. LZ.
Had to get a quick entry in – the first time I’ve written two entries in one day, but things are moving fast and I thought I’d record what was going on. I’m glad I didn’t tell these guys I was a soldier. Pretending to be a helpless and handicapped writer suits me just fine for now.
The helicopter flew for about an hour and then set us down near a wooded area. That was when I got a close look at the chopper and also learnt more about the men I was with. The guys who had got me were all dressed in civilian clothes, but the men who greeted them at the landing zone were wearing Indo-Tibetan Border Police uniforms. The chopper itself looked like a fairly rusty old Cheetah from Indian Air Force stocks. So if these guys are ITBP troops and they have access to an IAF chopper, why are some of them roaming around wearing masks? Why do they not seem to be going to any Air Force or Army base?
I confess that when I saw the uniforms, for a minute I was elated as I thought that these guys represented government forces. That would mean that there still was a functioning government and that there was some place that was safe from the Moreko. But now that they’re herding me through dark forests, I’m not entirely sure who these guys are and what their agenda is.
Day 116. A city of tents.
I slept like a log last night. Maybe it was the long trek through the forest or maybe it was the fact that this was the first night in more than three months when I could sleep without worrying about the Moreko outside.
I woke up and got out of the tent where I was sleeping. There were a couple of uniformed guys around, but they were unarmed and didn’t seem to pay me much attention. So I took a walk around. My first impression that this was some sort of temporary camp was wrong. The tents stretched as far as I could see, and while I didn’t attempt a count, there must have been hundreds. It was still early, so people were largely asleep, but there was the occasional early riser up and about, and I quickly learnt that not all the inhabitants of this tent city are ITBP troopers, and indeed not all are men. There were a bunch of women washing clothes near a stream and several kids roaming about. Some of the kids ran past me, laughing and smiling at me, but the adults seemed to be minding their own business and not one said a word to me.
What was strange was that all the troopers seemed to be living in a colony of sorts – a collection of tents set aside from the rest, and with armed sentries posted at regular intervals. The civilian tents were a bit farther off into the forest. Someone has clearly planned this place out. That can only be a good sign, right? Planning means that someone is in charge, and if this small community has survived and thrived, people elsewhere must have also made it.
As I stood there in the middle of so many people, many of them just now waking up and emerging from their tents, I realized that I had never felt so glad to be among people, even if they are complete strangers. Three months of isolation in that bungalow surrounded by Moreko can do that to you. When I sauntered back to my tent, I was greeted by a guy in an ITBP officer’s uniform, and he seemed mildly pissed off that I had wandered off by myself. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but since I was now pretty much
at his mercy, I settled for a polite apology and asked when I could meet whoever was in charge. He told me that I was expected. Now I’m about to leave for a meeting with the guy who runs this place. I hope it’s someone who can tell me what is going on.
Day 116. Cloudy with a chance of mortars.
There were four ITBP troopers with me, including the dour-faced officer. We had been walking for about thirty minutes, coming out of the forest and onto some small cliffs. My leg was hurting a bit at the point where the prosthetic leg joined my thigh, but I decided not to show it, especially when the officer asked if someone like me could walk up the hill. What I wouldn’t have given for a chance to wipe that condescending smile off his face. Anyways, we were halfway up the hill when the first mortar round landed about twenty meters away, exploding harmlessly enough, but certainly startling the shit out of all of us.
Only an idiot stands around trying to listen for the second mortar round. The reason, as Sherlock would have put it, is elementary. Light travels faster than sound, and the round will land before you hear it. Turned out my hiking companions were idiots, since the officer started shouting to his men, asking them if they’d heard anything. I did what any sane man does under mortar fire – I found a nice big rock and hid behind it.
