Day by Day Armageddon

by J. L. Bourne

  John and I picked the best boat out of the few that we rounded up a few days ago. I checked the fuel tank and saw that it was 3/4 full. There was a fuel pump on the marina, so decided to see if it still worked. Went into the marina office, and checked for a pump switch. Number two pump switch was still on.

  I went out to use pump number two to fill the boat up. No joy, the pump worked; however no fuel came forth. It must have been drained when the shit went down. I went back inside to flip pump number one back on line. Squeezed the nozzle and it pumped for a few seconds before any fuel came out. A nice rainbow of fuel was present on the surface of the water. In another time, that might have cost me a fine. A few seconds of pumping and the last 1/4 of fuel was added. I found a couple empty plastic gas cans in the marina, filled those and tied them into the boat.

  John went back in and grabbed my rife and held it at the ready toward the shore while I worked. We still had no idea what capabilities the dead had when it came to water. Yesterday, while listening to the last radio music broadcasts of mankind, John and I found a metal key box next to a shelf in the administration office. All of the watercraft had a registration number stuck to the side of their hulls with reflective number tape, so finding the key was not a difficult task. I matched the number with the key marked ‘Shamrock 220’ and went back out to her to give it a shot.

  The back end had drifted, facing the admin office door when I walked out. The boat’s name was painted on the rear with a half-circle type banner. It was the “Bahama Mama.” I jumped on to the stern and walked over to the wheel and inserted the key. John was still sitting on the dock, eyes trained toward the strips of hotels and the street. I slid the throttle to the start position, and turned the key. On the second attempt it started with no problems and I let it run for about five minutes.

  I sat there smiling at John at how lucky we had been. I turned the key to the ‘off’ position and just as the engine died down, we heard what it had been drowning out. A football stadium of hideous moans echoed throughout the buildings on the island. We could hear Annabelle’s reaction from inside the marina. She was upset at the noise, and the hair on the back of my neck was standing up. Now that the engine worked without any doube, it was time to plan a trip to gather supplies. Leaving in the morning.

  February 22nd

  0403 hrs

  As the day went by yesterday, the shoreline was home to over fifty of those things, begging for our flesh. Something just isn’t right about them. Their numbers have dwindled to roughly twenty. Bahama Mama and co. leaving for supplies.

  Exodus of the Bahama Mama

  February 23rd

  2006 hrs

  Using the night vision goggles, I prepped the boat for an early departure yesterday morning. It was around 0430 when I started loading candy bars, bottled water, ammunition, and extra fuel cans onto the boat. I brought a pry bar also, in case we had to strong arm our way into a place. John was prepping our little man made sanctuary for Annabelle. It would be dangerous to take her with us. She would be fine here in the confines of our little floating hide away.

  The twenty or so dead were still walking the shoreline, blind to the night, and hoping for a glimpse of prey. I found some plastic oars inside the maintenance shed and quietly put them in the boat (never know). John and I boarded the craft and I untied us. I reluctantly started the engine and checked the movement on the shoreline. Some of the creatures were flailing wildly and two of them were wading the water up to their knees. The fact that their fear of water was dwindling sent chills up my spine.

  As we pulled out, I navigated west. I found a chart used for water navigation in the office at the marina. Too bad there wasn’t a map of Matagorda Island in there also. I knew the general shape of the island, however, I had no idea of the details. I was now heading toward San Antonio bay. I was going slow, conserving fuel and watching out for any dangers that may appear in the light morning fog.

  My choices were clear according to the sea chart. I would sail into San Antonio bay and choose either the west, or the east shore. To the west was the small (according to chart) coastal town of Austwell, and east was Seadrift. Neither John nor I were familiar with either. We both agreed on Seadrift. No particular reason. Perhaps in the back of my mind, I thought that because of its name, it would be a better suited docking point.

  The sun was peaking up over the east horizon and was at our backs when Seadrift came into sight. There were numerous long docks, no doubt to provide berth for fishing vessels. I cut the engine and John and I started rowing toward the docks. Noise was a luxury we could not afford.

  Using the binoculars taken from the large ferry, I scanned the coastline. They were here. I could see their pitiful frames walking aimlessly up and down the main street that ran the length of the bay. There weren’t many, but enough to be trouble. The sign for the marina read, “Dockside Fishing Center.” One of the boats berthed here held a deadly crew. John and I saw three of the creatures walking the deck of the fishing boat, only forty meters away. They saw us, and one of them lunged out at us falling off the boat, disappearing into the murky waters of the bay.

  As we rowed closer to the dock, it appeared that there was a small grocery and bait store right off the pier. At arms length of the tie down, I secured the Mama to the dock. John and I carefully stepped onto the worn wooden planks of the pier. I grabbed the pry bar and stuck it under my belt. Every creak seemed like thunder. The sound of the dead walking on the other boat was much louder than we were, but it was still quiet. There were no sounds of nature and no engines; even the bay water splashing on the shore seemed muted.

  The gangway to the boat containing the two remaining ghouls was still in place. They were a threat. I had John keep their attention. He waved his arms at them as I snuck over to the gangway (plank) linking the boat to the dock and quietly slid it into the water. The splash was louder than I expected, and they immediately turned toward me and let out the all too familiar moan. Crabs lined the deck of the fishing vessel with the two corpses. Dead fish could be seen in a pile on the stern.

  The stink was incorrigible. The crabs were snapping at the pant legs of the dead. There were several crab carcasses littering the deck. Legs were pulled off and shells were cracked. Upon a closer look at the undead creatures, I could see that several of their teeth were missing or broken. The bastards were trying to eat the crabs.

  John and I left the motley crew of ghouls and headed for the grocery store. Weapons ready, we approached the front door. No movement. Damn I was hungry. Just thinking about all of the food in there made it worse. In my right arm I had my rifle at the ready, in my left I tightly held the black steel pry bar. The little grocery store was no bigger than a tennis court. Hurricane shudders were in place prohibiting any view of the inside except through the glass front door. Two signs hung on the inside of the door. “Closed,” and “Help Wanted.” The latter was an understatement.

  Walking up to the door, I grabbed the handle and pulled. No dice. It was going to have to be the hard way. Using the bar, I slid it between the door and the frame and began prying. I wasn’t going to be surprised this time. I thought back to that Wal-Mart. Seemed like ages ago. I nervously watched the inside for movement, as I grunted and struggled with the locked door. John was becoming a good point man. He was scanning for movement, covering me. Finally after a few minutes of struggling with the door, I finally got it open.

  The store was dark and it was very warm inside. I could smell rotten fruit. I turned the light on that was mounted on my weapon. I panned the area, listening for anything out of the ordinary. John and I each grabbed carts and made our way to the canned goods section. Quietly we filled our carts with anything that could be eaten, and drank, starting with non-perishables first. All the bread was moldy, but some of the cookies were still good. Of course, the canned goods were fine.

  The refrigerator section was totally rotten. I panned my light through the glass and saw the yellow looking gallon milk jugs, and molded cheese. Then something
else caught my eye. There was movement in the freezer. I always knew there was walk space back there for the stock-boys to stock the cold goods. It appears that the stock-boy and another friend were still in there. The light excited them and I could see them pounding on the shelves full of milk. In one section, one of them was crawling through the shelf to the refrigerator door that led to us.

  John and I decided that it was time to leave. We wheeled our carts back to the front and I checked the area for any signs the enemy. I opened the front door and John wheeled out first. As I followed, I could see the refrigerator door open at the back of the store, and heard the sound of a body falling to the floor. I knew it was Mr. Stock-boy wanting to check and see if we were finding everything all right.

  John and I hurriedly jogged back down toward the pier. The carts were making a lot of noise, and I didn’t wish to wait around and see how things worked out. Quickly, we loaded the boat with the provisions. Behind us the front door to the grocery store was creeping open and I could see the pale figure of the creature that was in the refrigerator section. John and I jumped in the boat, and I kicked us away from the dock. We paddled as fast as we could, and stopped about ten meters out from where we were tied up.

  It was time for a break. Using my knife, I opened up a can of cold beef stew and drank down the contents. John did the same. As we sat there drinking bottled water, our friend on the pier was giving us a warm bon voyage. The creature looked horrible, it was missing a right hand, and most of the jaw. It was wearing a long white apron with something written on it in blood. I pulled out my binoculars and in simple block letters it read:

  “If you can read this, kill me!”

  I smiled at this and thought to myself that I would have liked to have known this man when he was alive, as I appreciated his sense of humor. I slung my weapon to my shoulder and selected single shot. I then took aim, and shot stock-boy in the head. John gave me a “why did you do that?” look, and I just glanced at him and said, “Professional courtesy my friend, professional courtesy.”

  The trip back to our marina stronghold was uneventful. About a quarter mile from the pier, we cut the engines and quietly rowed to the dock. There weren’t any of them on the shore, probably because they followed the sound of our engines away from the marina early this morning. We quietly unloaded most of the food and water. It was dinnertime for Annabelle. It’s funny how she probably eats better now than she did before all of this.

  February 24th

  2047 hrs

  John and I talked about family. I told him that I was worried about mine, and that I doubted they lived through this, even considering their location. John told me about his son and about how proud he was of him, and how he had gotten a scholarship to Purdue. He went on to tell me the antics of his recent family reunion and how his wife couldn’t get along with his mother. John asked me why I joined the service. I told him my story of how I was a poor country boy from small town, USA that wanted to serve his country, and how I came up the hard way through the enlisted ranks.

  (Not that it matters now what my rank is anyway.)

  I’m sure somewhere deep underground in the northwest United States, rank still matters, but not here on this two-bit marina on some no name island. I went on to tell John why I didn’t stay with my comrades at the base. I paused at this, questioning to myself whether or not I should have fought the good fight. I told John that sometimes I regret not going to the base with my fellow officers. The point of the matter is, I’m alive and they are not. I would rather choose needle in a haystack over jackass in a fortress. I expressed to him that I would have to live with my decision, but at least I’m alive to do it.

  John looked at me and said, “You speak as if I am accusing you of desertion.” I apologized and told him that it was a sensitive subject. I guess I am a deserter. Who is alive to tell? I suppose if things ever get back to normal, I will No use thinking about that.

  My heartstrings tugged at the thought of my parents being board up in their attic, praying for help. My imagination could almost see their dirty clothes, matted hair and malnutrition-riddled frames. I had to compartmentalize this thought to keep from making a bad decision. Willingly attempting to save my parents whom are hundreds of miles away would be suicide. I wonder how long it took for the devastation to reach the back woods of Arkansas? It didn’t take long from the time I saw it on the news to the time it was outside on my street, clawing at my wall.

  It is a cold decision to make; however if I wish to live, I cannot let emotion tell me where to point my steps. Even in the best case, a minor lapse in judgment would mean death. If I chose to go to Arkansas to see if my parents still lived, every decision would have to be perfect, right down to where I chose to sleep at night, and where I chose to scavenge for supplies.

  What went wrong? I don’t know why it has taken me almost two months to really think about it, but what sick fuck would do something like this? I assume too much. Was man reaching the level of deity? Maybe it was something larger. I don’t want to think about that right now, as I would only curse and scream, and if it was something bigger, I didn’t want to take the chance of this higher force reprimanding me for being insubordinate. So for now, I guess we will have our little unspoken agreement. If you exist, lets just leave each other alone I’ll let you know when I’m ready.

  I don’t fear the reaper.

  February 25th

  1932 hrs

  The coast was clear earlier today when I took Annabelle out to stretch her legs on the dock. I walked her up and down the wooden planks. I could tell she had put on a couple pounds and needed a little exercise. I kept her muzzle on to avoid any loud barking. The marina resembled a system of docks that would look like an “H” from the air. The floating marina office was attached to one side of the “H” and a single, floating ramp was the only thing that formerly connected this artificial island of wood, metal and foam to the real island.

  I walked her around the perimeter of the dock. Yesterday, I took a long fishing pole from one of the boats and tried to touch the bottom from the point on the dock closest to the shore. I couldn’t touch, so that meant that the water was at least nine feet deep in that area. For some reason I feared that they might be able to wade the water and just climb up here. I felt a little more assured after my depth finder test.

  On our second walking lap around the marina, Annabelle started sniffing the wind, and the familiar scene of her hair standing up on her back became obvious. She sensed them. The wind was blowing from the shore, and we were downwind. I picked her up and took her inside. I went to the window facing the shoreline and waited. I told John what she had done while we were outside. John and I shared the window, and just kept watching.

  The sounds came first and it reminded me of the sound of a distant street sweeper being carried by the wind. Then the mass of them came slowly stumbling and even walking by. There was no way to count them, and I knew that if they wanted, they could get to us here on the marina. When I saw them pass by our location, it reminded me of a big city marathon. All it would take would be the sheer number of them piling themselves up on the water. I was getting tired of running, but this is a big island, and I’m sure that we could never find enough weapons or ammunition to kill them all. If only we had a few more days back at the tower in Corpus to plan. John is picking up faint signals from the survivors trapped in the attic. That is another thing that is getting at me.

  February 26th

  0923 hrs

  John and I were monitoring the radios this morning. It seems our attic survivors are still ok. We are still unable to raise them with our transmitter. The man’s name is William Grisham, and he is making all of the broadcasts. From time to time, I have heard a female voice in the background, but I can’t tell if it is a child or his wife. He says that they are not infected and have enough food and water to last a week, but the sounds of the corpses below are driving them mad.

  He doesn’t seem to think that they can make it out alive without help. Looking at th
e air chart that I still have, we could take the boat back to Seadrift, then find a car there and try to make it the rest of the way to Victoria, TX. I don’t even know why I’m thinking this. The whole trip looks like about fifty miles. Ten of which are on the water. That means eighty miles of round trip danger. I can’t ask John to go and actually, I would prefer that he stayed here. John is torn between doing the right thing and possibly losing his fellow survivor, or doing the wrong thing and losing his soul. My thoughts are happening in phases. I would hate to be in that position, but I was in that position and I did something about it. I chose to live.

  2145 hrs