by Joshua Guess
The sentiment is understandable, but I don't think it's at all fair for anyone to take blame. Doing so implies two things: that there is fault in the person who didn't see it coming (there isn't), and that the person who didn't see it coming had any say in whether the deceased lived or died (they don't).
I used to be strongly against the idea of any person in this world ending their own life in the face of all we have to deal with. Maybe John had been fighting the undead a lot recently and felt overwhelmed by the incessant attacks, the brutal toll it takes on us to cut down the enemy. Maybe it was years of survival while watching other people die. Could have been witnessing marauders descend into the darkest depths of human depravity, or any of a dozen other kinds of suffering.
Or maybe he was just tired. None of us can know.
I'm not so harsh with my opinions now. As I say from time to time, I'm with Heinlein on this one; it is the right of every person to choose their own end, should they wish it. Sometimes our lives are chaotic and our paths determined by the waves of circumstance that carry us. The journey itself can thrash us around in ways we can't control, ways we hate. The only power we have in the face of a life we cannot tolerate is to end that life. Not pretty. Not nice. But true.
I still think it can be a selfish choice. It's hard not to at present, when we're pressed hard at the walls every time a new attack comes. Two or three a day, sometimes in different locations, sometimes hitting a weakened section over and over again. We aren't facing a huge unified force of zombies yet, which is probably saving us from taking very serious losses, but the sight of the undead breaching a section of the new expansion cuts you right down to your marrow. The feeling of desperate terror as you fight to survive can tear you apart.
John could have chosen to live. People do it all the time. We live for ourselves, because it is our driving instinct. Some of us live for others, to support something larger. Many people nowadays make the logical choice to support a group such as ours because they recognize the practical reality that there are better chances of survival if we move as one. Fight as one.
But when you're looking at a swarm of flesh-hungry enemies breaking into your home, it can fuck you up. Knowing that you'll have to be on your guard constantly for the foreseeable future, have to struggle in ways your life in the world that was never prepared you for...that does damage. John may have seen something terrible one time too many. He may have envisioned his future and seen only heartache and pain and ruthless effort just to get by.
Again, we will never know. I wish he had talked to someone, maybe gained some perspective and realized that the good times and moments of joy are that much sweeter when contrasted against the bitter. Maybe he would have survived his own thoughts.
Or he might have still made the same choice. In the end, that's what it comes down to. It was his call. As a community we make the choice each day as we recommit to a purpose. Some of us might be going with the crowd purely out of self-preservation, and that's fine. We aid the tribe for a lot of reasons, but the practical effect is that we live for each other. John chose to end that commitment. He didn't leave or side with the Exiles because he was sick of it. He took the last door honorably available to him. He ended his part in the social contract without harming the rest of us.
And though we will be weaker without him, one less defender of the helpless among us, he had the right. I can't say much more about it than that. Some of you may disagree, and that's good. We should have an honest and open dialog about these kinds of things. We value life and service, sacrifice and goodwill. But shouldn't we also honor personal choice in this manner?
What do you think? Was John wrong to Move On to whatever may come next, leaving the rest of us to deal with the increasingly damaging zombie attacks? Or did he have the right? I hope I have you thinking about it.
I still am.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Reflex Save
Posted by Josh Guess
A thing happened to me this morning as I was doing my routine with Steve and the captive zombies. Well, zombie, in this case. Just one. New Breed, though, and I capitalize the name here because I'm still trying to shake off the experience.
I'm going to make a long story short here, because I've been posting freaking novels lately.
We were in the enclosure with the zombie. He--the zombie, not Steve-- was eyeing us cautiously. Steve stayed well back, near the gate. He's done that the last few days, ready to step up and help but not close enough to make me rely on him. I've taken to carrying not only my trusty gun, but a heavy knife (a thick Randall boot knife my mom gave me when I graduated high school) and one of the custom machetes from North Jackson in a sheath at my side.
I had a round chambered, of course, and held my hands steady. I've managed to ward off the anxiety for the last few days, and even when I felt a tremble of it in my gut today I didn't falter. The idea isn't just to pop off a round and commit the act of killing one of the undead, though just doing that was enough of a breakthrough at first. Keeping my calm while assessing the situation is the goal. Creating endurance.
So I waited until the zombie faked left then darted toward me to throw my right foot back and firmly plant myself in a stance. I pulled the trigger with the same slow squeeze I'd spent long hours practicing.
My gun made a little clicking sound.
Fortune favors the bold as well as the pants-shittingly terrified, which is what saved me from taking a serious injury. I didn't even try to fire a second time, instead dropping back while throwing the now-useless piece of metal and plastic at the zombie's face. Interesting note: even zombies have the gut reaction to pull away from something trying to smash into their eyes.
I tried to pull the machete, but fumbled the clasp and gave the zombie too much time to recover. We went hand to hand.
Which sounds pretty fucking scary if you're one of the astronomically lucky people still alive that have never had the pleasure. And it is, don't get me wrong. But a grapple is one of the few places where a thinking human has the advantage. Even New Breed, smart as they are, don't have much concept of body mechanics. They can run and jump and use tools, but complex things like recognizing the center of gravity and taking advantage of poor balance and the like are beyond them. They focus on clawing, crushing, and biting, leaving you only hands and mouth to worry about.
Thanks to years of practicing what to do when rushed by a thoughtless opponent, I was able to slip to the side enough to avoid getting caught by those claws. I had enough grip on the zombie's arm to jerk him off balance. I didn't let go even as he spun away from me, instead trying to force him to the ground. That didn't really work out since the pain of even a sloppy joint lock doesn't sway the undead. It did let me keep some control, and gave me the second I needed to yank my knife out.
After that, I leaned myself over him and drove us both to the ground, the zombie belly-down. I used both hands to jam the knife into his head as he struggled to get up. It was all over in less than fifteen seconds.
My feet, still very tender from the shredding I gave them during my breakdown, hurt like hell. They aren't stitched any more but the wounds are still healing. I haven't put them up to more than a brisk walk and a little jog since. A fight was more than I reckoned on.
Steve, as it turns out, wanted to start conditioning me to react in less predictable circumstances. That makes sense in the abstract; the real world isn't a safe little fenced area with armed backup.
But he didn't have to take the firing pin out of my gun. That's just cruel. I was briefly upset when he told me that, but my anger only lasted until he pointed out that I didn't so much as flutter an eyelash after the fact. I hadn't needed help. Shit, let's be real, here. I kicked ass.
Monday, September 17, 2012
American Horror Story
Posted by Josh Guess
Half an hour ago, the news came in that a small community in a town called Benton is completely gone. We're just getting the details from those wh
o discovered the carnage, but a rough sketch of what happened was left behind by some of the last surviving townspeople.
A day ago, just after dawn on Sunday morning, the people of Benton were hit by what they believed to be mortar fire. The community itself was small in population, about seventy people, but the area they occupied was much larger. Being a rural area they were spared the large migrations of zombies in the early days. By walling in a huge park by filling the spaces between the surrounding buildings, the people of Benton were able to farm in a sustainable way inside the safety of their enclosure.
They were traders. That is, they were on the trade route we established last year. I knew some of them pretty well from communications. It was known among the groups who trade with each other that Benton was rich in resources and materials. For the moment we aren't able to pin down who rained shells down on them. All we know are the results.
Whoever hit Benton was after their supplies. It could have been marauders. Doubtful it was the Exiles given the distance from here, but anything is possible. The disturbing possibility that no one wants to say out loud is that it was neither of those groups. Because we're very careful about what information we let out, and as far as I know there weren't more than a hundred people in the world who knew the kinds of things Benton had stockpiled. The place was ransacked.
Every person there is dead. Whoever struck them moved in during the confusion and blew their only gate off its hinges with surgical precision. Those who resisted were killed immediately. Many hid and were left alone so long as they didn't stop the looting. Survivors were rounded up when found and kept at gunpoint until the ransacking of their home was complete. The attackers were fast, taking everything they needed in less than an hour.
Organized. Efficient. Lethal.
As they left in their stolen vehicles--mostly trucks the people of Benton were using to store their goods--they dragged the bodies of some of the slain behind them. Horrifically, the person who left the message behind noted that at least one of the people tied to the back of the trucks was still alive, if bleeding out.
The new breed came while the survivors were trying to cover the gaping hole where the gate had been. Maybe the new breed were watching from afar for the violence to be over. I think they're capable of that much self-control. Maybe they just followed the trail of blood and death the attackers left in their wake. Whatever the cause, we know what killed the rest of Benton's people.
The first people on the scene were the traders and guards who were scheduled to arrive at Benton this morning. Out of almost forty people left behind by the human attackers, only one of them chose not to fight the undead that came after. That woman ran to her home instead, finishing the message she'd begun only a short while before. She would probably still be alive, too, had she not seen and heard her friends being torn apart outside her walls. Her last words in the message were that she couldn't leave them alone. That she had to help.
Her body was found in the threshold of her doorway. What was left of it, anyway.
Later this afternoon we'll be holding a moment of silence for those poor folks. Many people seem to think that I do a disservice to the living by not describing these kinds of attacks and their consequences in more detail. The logic, I understand, is to drive the point home by being brutally graphic.
The most polite response I can come up with to that is "Fuck you". Honestly. Anyone who thinks people need me to tell them about death and violence, what zombies and terrible people alike are capable of needs to get their head on straight. I could describe scenes of gore and mutilation that would make you vomit. I could chronicle a thousand awful memories that are burned into my psyche for all time.
But I don't need to do that, do I? Because we've all seen it. Every one of us has been there. We've been baptized by the blood of friends and foes, stumbled across body parts on battlefields with the living and the dead. We've seen horror, true horror, in volumes no novelist could ever dream of. We've learned those lessons. No need for me to give them.
I invite each of you to take a moment this afternoon to simply spend a minute of your time remembering Benton. Them and every person we've lost, whose memories give us the determination to carry on and fight again.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Group Home
Posted by Josh Guess
Sorry about changing the schedule around on you, but I needed a bit of a reset yesterday. The news about Benton hit me pretty hard. I'm feeling a lot more stable now, having spent nearly a month doing everything I can to feel better, but such terrible news is hard for anyone with a heart to take, much less some who kind of lost it the way I did.
That wasn't the only reason I spent yesterday focusing on the real world. A few hours after the cleanup effort in Benton started, the traders doing that grim work discovered something in the ruins. Tucked away in the basement of what looked like an abandoned shack were two dozen children. No one knew there were kids of any age in Benton. No one had ever seen any.
It hadn't occurred to anyone to wonder why there would be a decrepit, abandoned building inside the walls of the place. No one went there, it didn't look utilitarian or important. According to a few of the older kids the traders rescued, the people of Benton have been stashing them there any time outsiders showed up. If there was fighting to be done, danger to be faced, or strangers to be met, the kids were secured behind a foot of concrete, two-inch metal doors that locked from within, and enough food and water to last them for weeks. There was even a clever ventilation system set up, easily powered by the kids themselves.
The adults of Benton saved their best commodity from their attackers, both living and dead. The basement was built specifically for the purpose it served and hidden from sight by the old shack. I'm astounded at how effective simple misdirection was in this scenario. It also stings a little to realize how much time and effort we've all spent on clever defenses when such a basic ruse did the job.
Then again, for it to work all the adults had to die. So maybe the trade-off isn't really symmetrical.
I'm happy beyond words to know those kids made it out. If I should go out fighting one day, I want it to matter that way. To save those who need saving.
That being said, I'm worried about those kids. Only about half of them are biological children of people from Benton. The rest are strays and orphans that Benton took in and cared for. It happens a lot in the world as it is. Many families here are composed of parents and kids that were strangers a few years ago. The philosopher in me recognizes the abstract truth that love doesn't see chromosome pairs. The realist in me understands that those kids--who are all demanding to stay together--will have a hard time adapting to new parents. The children see themselves as one family. Splitting them up would be cruel and difficult.
Maybe even dangerous. Even kids nowadays can fight like ten kinds of hell.
The discussions have already begun. There aren't a lot of settlements between here and Benton. Though the place is a good distance from us, it's in a direction not many people travel. The realistic choice is to bring them here. We're already planning to accept another fifteen hundred plus new arrivals. A couple handfuls more aren't going to tip the scales.
I don't have any say in that, but Will is our governor and I know him well. I'm not saying it's a sure thing. All I'm saying is that we can manage it better than most, and that I love kids. I think I could be a friend to them. Most people in New Haven could.
Yes, Will. I'm hinting. Pick up on it or I'll punch you in the kidneys.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
City of Lost Children
Posted by Josh Guess
It turns out that any whining I might have done to Will about bringing the kids here was moot well before I even asked. A group I've never heard of has invited the survivors of the Benton massacre to live with them. Apparently this group, housed in a location not known to anyone outside of leadership, has been quietly gathering orphans for the last year or so. Sounded sk
etchy to me at first, but there are enough people well-trusted and well-known who vouch for them that it seems impossible that these people are bad news.
The really frustrating aspect is that I don't get to know anything about the place. Literally nothing. The only message passed on to the general public was what I've already said.
I want to know more and it's driving me crazy. I want to know why they gather and care for kids. Is it solely for the purpose of safeguarding that little slice of our future? Where are they located? What defenses do they have? How can they be so certain that they're as safe for such precious cargo as they need to be?
This whole thing really drove home the point for me. For the first time I'm starting to see that I'm out of the loop. From the founding of New Haven back when it was just the compound, I was a part of the goings-on at the highest level. My judgment and problem-solving skills were highly regarded even though I might have had a position of only moderate importance.
Since my breakdown that hasn't been true. I'm only as informed as everyone else now. That's not a bad thing at all, especially considering the security risks involved in this particular situation. It's just hard to go from being able to satisfy my curiosity at a moment's notice to...not. To not having that easy option at hand.
It's a stupid thing to whine about, I know. I wouldn't even mention it here if it weren't such a drastic change from the way things were.
In the final equation it's almost certainly a good thing those kids aren't headed this way. The last few nights have been bitterly cold, which has (surprisingly) slowed down the New Breed a great deal. We've been able to repel most attacks and make a good effort at constantly repairing our defenses after attacks. The old school zombies are still proof against very cold weather, but it seems the New Breed never quite stop evolving, or at least do it faster. Maybe they're having trouble with the cold because their bodies are trying to adapt to the fire we use against them. No way to tell.
