Journals of the Damned (Book 1)

by GJ Zukow

  I had no sooner checked the front doors, hoping they would be open, which they weren't, when I started around to the back. Before I could run around the corner I heard the front door open and someone from inside called out.

  "Quick, come in here," a distinctly older male voice said in almost a whisper.

  All I could see of him at the time was an expensive suit sleeve and white shirt cuff. The hand holding the door open belonged to a black man, that only meant that I couldn't tell from where I was if he was infected or not. I had my rifle and I had my pistol so I entered the darkened club.

  The interior was dark, the only light shining was behind the bar. A lone neon Budweiser sign lit the interior. As the sturdy doors closed behind me, I paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  "Welcome to my club. Are you here to put in an application?", he laughed then, an almost good natured sounding laugh.

  My eyes hadn't completely adjusted and I almost stumbled on a table while I followed him to the bar.

  He had stopped on the other side of the long bar, like he was going to wait on me and fix me a drink. I still couldn't see if he was infected yet and I leaned forward to get a better glimpse of his eyes to see if they had started to turn black.

  That's when he flicked on the bright over head spotlights and strobe lights. The unexpected switch from darkness to intense light blinded me and I instinctively closed my eyes. He suddenly grabbed my M1 carbine way too easily from my grasp. He caught me completely off guard. That's twice someone had stripped me of my firearm in barely over a week. First Mike did it and now this crazed maggot. I have got to find a rifle with a strap or make one for this somehow, so I can wrap it around my arm and stop this nonsense. Nobody will ever do that to me again I assure you.

  He laughed manically and I could hear him removing the cartridge and ejecting the loaded round. That was his mistake and he will never do that again, guaranteed. I didn't need to see him to know where he was, his laugh was loud and filled with madness. I simply reached into my rear pocket and shot into the sound of that laugh. The abrupt end to his laughter told me he was dead and I knew it before his body hit the floor.

  I walked around the bar and put another round in his head just to make sure. He died with his eyes open, they were black globes. He was infected alright, even if he wasn't, it didn't matter. Pull a stunt like that and I will shoot anyone.

  When the sound of the gun shots stopped echoing in my ears and my eyes were back to normal I saw another disgusting sight.

  There were two stripper poles on a stage at the far end of the club. Both of them had an undead horror handcuffed to them. Dead flesh in heavy make-up and glitter strained against their restraints at the sight of my young, warm body.

  When I walked up to them, to put them out of their misery, I saw open tubes of K-Y and used rubbers. The zombie strippers had the sheen of the lubricant on them, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what the sick freak had been doing.

  This place isn't too bad. There's a little kitchen well stocked with food. There's running water and even a small shower in the girl's dressing room. Electricity, heat, and even surveillance cameras. I should be OK here for the time being.

  Friday, October 5, 2012

  I stood there and simply stared at what once were young women, who didn't appear to be much older than I. They were handcuffed to the stripper poles, the shiny steel cuffs had cut and sliced open their wrists. Having become the unliving monstrosities that they are now, the deep wounds went to the bone, if they felt any pain at all they didn't show it. The steel of the cuffs had carved through skin, muscle and tendon without a drop of blood spilling on the stage. I could plainly see deep black patches on their bodies where the blood that had been in their poor bodies had pooled and congealed when they died. Eventually I knew they, in their unceasing struggles to be free and devour the living, would end up cutting and separating their dead, unfeeling hands from their wrists.

  I could have simply shot them in the head then but chose not to. I already had one mess behind the bar to clean up. I might have to stay here for a week, maybe more. I really didn't feel like having to clean bits of dead flesh, hair, skull and brains any more than I already had to. I figured I could take the opportunity to experiment with different ways to more cleanly kill them, silently.

  To kill the first undead stripper, I searched for and found, a nice long skinny knife in the kitchen. I stood behind her, grabbing a fistful of her filthy black hair and pulled back on her head. It came to me that this must be nearly the same way the insane owner must have had his vile way with her dead body. Instead of holding a knife in his hand though, he must have wrapped it around her waist and pulled her back, using the nasty things handcuffed wrists for leverage. It was an interesting way to control the thing, to say the least. I, however, took the opportunity to slide the blade into the base of the skull, where the spine meets the head. It was gross, I could feel the blade scraping around on the bone of the spine and skull until I found the right angle to sever the spinal cord. When I did that the body collapsed but the head still snapped its jaws and the eyes still tried to track my movements. The body was dead but the parasite controlled brain was still active. I gritted my teeth as I reinserted the blade up through the small opening, where skull meets spine, stabbing into the remains of its brain. As soon as I did so, there was an immediate reaction, the eyes rolled spasmodically and its black tongue rolled and stuck out so that the jaws bit the end of it off. After a couple wriggles of the knife, scrambling and dicing that part of the brain, the eyes stopped and even the facial muscles slackened. Now I knew another way to quietly kill the things. I practiced my new skill on the second, working on my technique.

  I found the key to the handcuffs in one of the pockets of the corpse behind the bar along with the keys to the strip club. I dragged the dead dancers to the large dumpster out back. It turned out to be a harder job than I thought it would be. I thought dragging my little sisters corpse to her grave (twice) was bad, but she weighed next to nothing compared to these grown adults. By the time I was ready for the third corpse, that of the man I had shot, I had to take a break. The large dead man had to weigh as much as both of the girls combined. Maybe I would just drag his body outside and leave it for the crows.

  I saw a couch in the VIP room and almost collapsed into it. I felt exhausted, like all the energy had just drained out of my body. Whether it was from not sleeping well for the past few weeks or the stress or a combination of the two I can't really say. I just felt worn out, both emotionally and physically. I passed out then and fell into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep. I don't know how long I slept, there are no windows or clocks in the bar.

  I awoke famished, hungrier than I had been in a long time. To my surprise and joy the club's freezer was well stocked with whatever I desired. This place had obviously been shut down since the animal madness swept the planet, when food was still abundant. I ate like a pig and when I was finished I slept again.

  For all the good points the building had going for it, I found I was lacking even the most basic hygiene products. There was no shampoo or soap and I had failed to pack even a comb or toothbrush. I wanted a blanket or sleeping bag. I was going to have to risk going back out into the zombie infested world to do some looting.

  I knew the area, I knew my best option was to hit up the Walmart a couple of miles away at the most. I traveled light, just me and my weapons, on foot. On the way back, depending on how much I was carrying, I decided I could always try my luck and find a car to drive back in.

  When I got outside things seemed to be more active than they were just a few days ago. Not in a good way though. There were more of the undead in the streets. There were more gunshots and distant screams as survivors found their house was no safe place to hide anymore. Thick black smoke from burning buildings billowed into the sky all around.

  While none of the zombies were as fast as a living person, many of them were capable of moving at more than a sl
ow shuffle. It seemed to take forever, hiding, waiting for a break and then dashing from cover to cover, avoiding the undead. At times I had to backtrack. Other times I had to shoot my way past small groups, drawing the attention of even more walking carcasses. Every time I had to use my weapon I had to go into a more circuitous route, taking myself slightly further from my destination, trying to lose the ravenous undead following me. Over fences, through backyards and around neighborhood houses I traveled.

  I lucked out and came across an abandoned checkpoint, the soldiers who had manned it finally succumbed to the scarlet. Many of them lay twitching, a sure sign that they would eventually rise as mindless, cannibalistic horrors. I mashed their heads with the butt of my carbine and looted their cold cadavers. I found an M16, with a sling and a wickedly sharp bayonet attached to it. No one would strip my rifle from me again. I found some ammo for it and stuffed it into one of their backpacks. I didn't find as much ammo as I thought I should, I guess they had been doing a lot of shooting. There was certainly plenty of the dead sprawled around, evidently shot by the soldiers. There came a certain thrill when I found three hand grenades and I happily added them to the ammo. I was kind of disappointed, having barely filled a quarter of the backpack, when a group of zeds started getting close enough to spot me.

  The Walmart parking lot looked like a small war had been fought there. It wasn't much better inside. I quickly got what I needed, cramming all of it in the deceptive size of the military issue pack. I did have to take the cold weather sleeping bag out of its package and compress it to make it fit, but I got what I came for.

  On the way out I came across an uninfected survivor, a older guy named Allan, who was rooting around in one of the aisles. He seems almost completely unaware of the situation. He's not the brightest person, in fact I think he's a bit stupid. Besides that though he's scared as hell and he doesn't seem to have a very aggressive personality. If it weren't for me he'd have been eaten for sure. He follows me around like a lost puppy. I think he's actually more afraid of me than the undead. That suits me just fine. At least with him I know I'll be the one in control.

  I decided to let him stay here with me at the bar. I actually could use some help and as long as he stays cool I won't kill him.

  Friday, October 12, 2012

  I no longer see the point of writing in this journal as often as before. I figure I'll write once a week or so, mainly to keep the boredom down, when nothing has been happening. If something does happen, breaking the endless tedium, I'll gladly write about it. Otherwise all I'll have to scribble down is a list of what I ate or how many times I went to the bathroom. Besides those small changes in my days, there is nothing different.

  The hours creep by ever so slowly. It's gotten to the point that I hate looking at my watch to see what time it is. Sometimes I glance at my watch thinking a couple of hours must have gone by, when in reality, only a mere half an hour has passed.

  There are multiple big screen, high definition television sets in the bar but they are all worthless. There is no programming, every station is dead. There is no radio here and I would love to have one, not for listening to music, that would be too risky. If I wanted to listen to some music, there is a D.J. booth here and a small computer loaded with MP3's. What I would want to do with a radio is to see if there are any remaining stations on the air.

  The only thing to do here is eat, sleep, watch the outside surroundings from the security cameras or play solitaire on the outdated computer in the D.J. booth.

  Conversation with Allan doesn't go far, he isn't really the talkative type. That's better than if he were the type that endlessly talked and talked though, especially if he were the kind of person that loved to yak about himself. I don't know how long I could stand being cooped up with one of those people that constantly blabber on, mainly about themselves, not being able to get a word in edgewise myself. Or worse, someone who was argumentative or always had to be right about everything. I know he was a cab driver and I know a bit about his history. While we don't have a lot in common, I don't get the sense that he is hiding anything from me about his past. Even though it's boring as heck here and there is a huge supply of booze, he's only had a couple of beers. Another good point in his favor. I can't stand drunks. He hasn't made any passes at me either. If he stays like this he won't bother me. If he starts acting stupid, there are no more cops or laws, I won't hesitate to kill him.

  I had thought that by now, the parasites' controlling the walking corpses would have surely collapsed. They haven't. In fact there actually seems to be more of them on the street outside the club.

  Outside the bar things have gotten real quiet. No more gunshots or screams. It's as if the survivors are either hunkered down, waiting for the dead to stop their unnatural wandering, secure in their shelters or have been over-run and devoured.

  There are a lot of zeds outside. By now, the last of the people who were infected with the Scarlet have finally died of it. They have died and been resurrected by the abominable, single celled, parasite.

  I'll write more when I actually have something to write about. Hopefully, the next time I write it will be to tell of how the zombies are dropping like flies.

  Thursday, October 18, 2012

  The events of the past six days had fallen into a monotonous routine. However much I dislike the boredom, I find I hate having something to write about even more.

  Allan has turned out to be halfway decent. He respects my privacy, allowing me the space I need. He spends a lot of his time cooking and screwing around in the kitchen. He's actually turned out to be a decent cook. When he's not experimenting with different recipes, he can be found playing solitaire on the old computer in the DJ booth.

  I claimed the VIP room as my own private area, Allan didn't seem to have any problem with this. The couches and chairs in the VIP room are the most comfortable in the club. We dragged one of the over-stuffed couches into the main room, by the DJ booth for Allan to sleep on. He understood my being uncomfortable sleeping in the same room with someone who was basically a stranger.

  I've spent most of my time in the manager's office, scanning the outside monitors and figuring out how to properly break down and clean the M16. There is a computer in the office, a nice new model, with a cable modem but the internet provider is down. I've set up our packs and duffle bag with stuff I gathered from the club, ready for me (us, I guess) to grab and go at a moment's notice.

  It was sometime around four in the afternoon, while I was bored and idly watching the black and white monitors, when the sound of a car horn could be heard in the distance. It wasn't a continuous sound, instead it was a repeated, more on than off noise that became louder and louder. If someone was driving through the streets, blaring their horn, I thought it had because someone was trying to distract the undead. The loud, almost constant noise was sure to draw the attention of every rotting zombie in earshot. In the silence of the apocalypse, the noise carried much further and was sure to draw a large number of the monstrosities. There were a dozen or so of the zeds viewable on the cameras and everyone of them immediately turned towards the clamor and started towards the sound as fast as their stuttering gait could propel them.

  Allan, alarmed, came rushing into the office, desperate to know what was happening outside.

  We watched, with ever increasing anxiety, as a Nissan sedan of some sort came barreling into view. The silver car's front end was clearly dented and beat up, obviously having hit multiple zeds that had crossed it's path. I say obviously because the windshield was shattered and there, hanging half in and half out, was a horrid member of the undead. The animated, decaying, corpse's legs were both broken, flopping wildly as the driver ran into and over ever more of the things as he struggled to maintain control. The driver was fighting with the foul thing, it had grasped the steering wheel and was trying to pull itself through the shattered windshield to get at the driver. The car started swerving and careening around the road even more wildly than before and it su
ddenly drove straight into the strip club's parking lot.

  "No, no, no." Allan muttered, barely audible, as if his words could stop what was happening.

  There was a large awning over the main entryway to the club. It served as a valet point and an area where the customers could get out, staying out of any rain or inclement weather. It was held up by two large posts at the far end, each dressed to appear as if they were Romanesque columns.

  The battered Nissan drove directly into one of those columns, spinning the car around. The column buckled and collapsed, pulling down a large portion of the awning. The zed that had been trying to claw its way through the windshield of the car flew out and rolled harshly through the parking lot, knocking over other of its vile kin as if they were bowling pins.

  The driver, stunned and bleeding from a head wound, got out of the car and ran straight towards the front doors.

  A huge number of the walking dead had been alerted and were hungrily making their way to the very place we were hiding.