Journals of the Damned (Book 1)

by GJ Zukow

  I really wasn't prepared for what I found. I'm just glad that the scene in the kitchen had been degraded by the passage of time and the work of the flies and insects. The corpses I found there had been reduced to bare bones, I could only image (and I really don't want to, but I can't stop myself) what the scene looked like when it was fresh.

  The first thing I saw as I slowly made my way down the stairs, into the living room was the zombified corpse of what could only be the mother. It could only be a member of the damned undead, any other corpse would have rotted away to bones by now. It was standing like a silent sentinel starring blankly towards the kitchen doorway.

  The wretched thing had gone into one of those odd comatose states that the undead go into when inactive for a long time. It didn't become aware of my presence until it was too late for it. The bitch fluttered her soulless eyes, like it was awakening from a deep sleep, just as my axe bit deep into her skull. As the horror collapsed in a heap at the foot of the couch I noticed a hand-written, time faded note safety pinned to one of the cushions. I didn't read the note until after I had investigated the rest of the house, including the kitchen.

  Three skeletons lay in a pool of dried, putrefied flesh. Two of the skeletons could only be those of the children, by their size they could only have been about five or six years old when they died. Both of the children's remains were missing their heads and one of them was missing a leg. The adult skeleton had to be that of the fathers, it was intact but there was a meat clever sticking out of his face. The oven door was open and there was a roasting pan with the child's missing leg bones still in it on the table. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened here, and the note more fully explained it.

  There came a rustling from the plastic trash can sitting next to the counter and I became curious as to what animal could have gotten into this closed up house. There was no animal in it though. The re-animated, desiccated children's heads were in there, gnashing their teeth and wriggling around feebly at the sound and smell of fresh delectable flesh, my flesh, in the room with them. I hesitated then, it was upsetting and I swallowed hard at the sight before I drove my axe into their small skulls.

  Here is the note verbatim that was pinned to the couch:

  "To whom it may concern;

  I am not a murderess. Even though I killed my husband it was in self defense. With all the madness and insanity that has engulfed the world I cannot take this anymore. I'm in fear of losing my mind and losing control like all the rest that have become infected. This is my suicide note. I swallowed every pill in the family medicine cabinet, sleeping tablets, pain-killers, birth control, everything. I ate hundreds of them. Do not resuscitate me. Please let me die. I can't go on without my family. My poor children. They were everything to me. My loving husband of eleven years had gone insane from the parasites and had killed and gutted my darlings like they were deer. I awoke this morning and came down stairs with the smell of my husband cooking some strange but mouth-watering meat. When I found him smiling slyly and offering me a plate of my babies for breakfast I screamed in horror and then he came at me too. So I killed him. I killed him and I know it was the infection that made him do it. We were all infected. I can't come to grips with the fact that even now, knowing what the smell is from, I still want to eat it. We were all going to die anyways but dear God why like this? Forgive me. Forgive my husband."

  After reading the suicide note I should have felt something more but I'm numb now and that worries me. Only the brief twang of sadness at the sight of the contents of the garbage and that was all I felt.

  I left the way I came in and went about my way.

  I reached the old safe-house, which turned out to be not so safe, and searched it again for clues. On my second tour of the house I found a spray painted note on the inside of the closet that she had blasted her way out of. It read:

  "Fridays 12 - 1 dumbass"

  " As long as I can"

  "Don't die"

  "J."

  I don't know why I didn't notice it before, although it was written on the back of the broken closet door. I should have spotted it before though.

  I checked my watch and cursed it. It was a cheap plastic kids watch with some idiot cartoon character on it and no day or month even, just the time in am or pm.

  It didn't take me long to find a pawn shop. It was easy to spot, there were still sun faded signs hanging in its smashed windows stating boldly that "We buy GOLD" The store had been looted before, with all the jewelry cases (that assuredly held the afore mentioned GOLD) shattered and empty. The cabinet that had obviously held expensive watches had also been robbed but there were still a few that had been missed. I lucked out when I spotted a stainless steel kinetic model that had a battery backup. I slipped it on my wrist and noted it said today was Wednesday. Excellent I thought, if Jannie is still around it gives me a day to prepare to meet her.

  While I was admiring my new found watch and giving it a shake or two to energize it I heard the UPS truck again. As soon as I heard it I knew it was the same truck that I had spotted raiding the pharmacy. For a moment I stood there, inside the pawn shop listening as the truck came closer, it sounded like it was coming right down the street towards me.

  I was about to go outside and flag it down when unexpectedly a thirty something year old man in worn blue jeans and worn blue jean jacket ran into the store and dove for cover behind a shelf. We were both surprised and we both instinctively pointed our weapons at each other.

  The guy's weathered and bearded face somehow matched his clothes. He raised his left hand, palm towards me and said "Don't shoot! Get down! Don't let them see us!"

  He wasn't shouting, in fact he was almost whispering but his voice was tinged with fear. I did as he asked, keeping him in my sights as the UPS truck sped past the shop. After the noise of the truck's engine had dwindled off into the distance he visibly relaxed. But not a lot. We were still in an uncomfortable situation with each of us ready to kill the other.

  His name was Steve, and I can't remember what was said word for word, so I'll just write down the gist of the conversation.

  Steve had lived in Ocala all his life and knew the area well. He gave me a brief run down on the town's current situation.

  When the dead started to rise from their brief slumber the last surviving police and members of the military, along with the few surviving city government officials took refuge in the most secure buildings in the city. The county prison. That's who's trapped inside now, not Jannie. I was glad to hear that bit of news I tell ya.

  There came a separate faction in the city, a drug addicted group of the infected who've sickly named themselves the "Red Death". It turns out that meth slows the progression of the parasites down to a crawl. They sadistically prey upon and eat any of the immune they come across. With the help of the last of the law they had been basically confined to the fortified junk yard on the south side of town. Somehow they found a way to lead a horde to the prison and knock down the fences, effectively giving those holed up there a life sentence with no chance of parole. I'm sure the meth-heads found the irony appealing. Since then they've terrorized the remaining civilian population. They come out of their garrison to loot ingredients to "cook" more methamphetamine and search for fresh meat. If I thought the infected were bat-shit crazy to begin with, now the world has to deal with drugged crazed, parasite infected addicts who need the drug just to live. After a year and three months they've only now reached the point where the red spots cover around three quarters of their skin. Not good. Not good at all. On the bright side their anger and insanity should soon cause them to start turning on themselves. But how long would that actually take? Six months? Another year? What will actually kill them first? The meth or the infection?

  I asked him about Jannie, about seeing a blonde teenage girl around town and he laughed.

  "How could I not notice a fine looking thing like that running around?" Steve winked and laughed again.

 
"Yeah, she's still alive. She's holed up with another girl. Where, I don't know, she's a slick one. I've tried to follow her but she always manages to lose me." He confided.

  He wasn't hiding by himself. From what I could get out of him he was hunkered down with a couple of others and there were scattered groups here and there around the city.

  I asked him about the possibility of joining up with him and the other survivors to which he told me that may not be possible. The others of his group would want to vote on it first. He went on with other excuses but I understand. To be honest, it hurt my feelings to be turned away.

  All in all, it was a decent day. I'm going to make preparations for meeting back up with Jannie. I'll write again before I leave.

  29

  I'm writing this now, waiting inside the old safe-house. Waiting for Jannie to arrive. God I hope she shows up. If not I will come back here every Friday and wait. For as long as it takes. Until I hear word she's dead, or I'm dead.

  Had a hard time sleeping last night. I read some of Jannie's journal but didn't get past the first couple of entries. I couldn't concentrate enough to get into it, that and I never was a reader. I left with the intention of getting here at least an hour ahead of time. Only got here 15 minutes early due running into packs of the undead blocking my path.

  One pack almost killed me. It happened almost right on the overgrown lawn in front of this house. I got too excited about finally arriving here. As I jogged out of the backyard across the street to this broken-down, old safe-house, I ran right past a group of five furiously famished zeds. In the street right in front of my destination I battled them. I heard the shuffling of footsteps behind me and turned quickly. They were almost upon me. I had the time to swing my axe and kill the bastard that was closest. His animated corpse was quicker than the rest, in better condition, probably due to having gobbled the flesh of the living more recently than the others. The swing of my axe bit deeply into his skull, almost decapitating him at the line between the upper and lower jaw. Unfortunately, when he fell, the axe was wrenched out of my hands and stuck in the foul corpse. Using my guns were out of the question, I was too close to want to draw a herd here. I yanked out my hand axe and with two quick successive blows I took out the second. The third one, a nasty thing with half the flesh missing from its face, pearl white bone glistening in the morning sun, grabbed a hold of my right arm with both of its clawed and gnarled hands. I kept backing up towards the house trying to keep it off balance as I switched the axe to my left hand. I had to repeatedly rain blows on its rotted head (not being very good at using that hand, always been a righty) and keep walking backwards using the zombie as a shield against the two that were now within arm's reach. Finally I split open its skull and it collapsed, causing the larger of the remaining two lifeless monsters to stumble and fall. That left the animated remains of a pre-teen to put down, knowing it would be a minute or so before the fourth zed got shakily to its feet. From that point it was easy.

  My arm is bruised badly and aches but besides that I'm OK.

  I brought some of those "Orlando Magic" flags that people used to attach to their cars windows and crammed them in place along the weathered railing that goes around the front porch. I put them there to let Jannie know at a glance I was inside. I'll stash them here and re-use them every time I stay here, waiting for her.

  I hear somebody...I think Jannie's arrived!

  The following is written in the hand of a different person.

  My name is Janet but everyone calls me Jannie.

  Allan was a good friend. He was for the most part honest and generally loyal. Those are two hard qualities to come by in these times. He was one of the few people I got along with and that counts for a lot when you're locked up inside in close confines for extended periods of time.

  His body will be buried. He deserves that at least.

  It was his fate to die I suppose and he played a hand in his own undoing. Smarts wasn't one of his qualities but I don't want to speak bad of the honorable dead. At least the cruel Gods spared him from being eaten alive or having his corpse desecrated.

  I was making my way here, as I always do on Fridays, planning on reaching the house I have set up across the street and two doors down by about twelve-thirty. I always watch the old safe-house from there. It's secure and I have an excellent vantage point to watch the comings and goings. I heard through the small grapevine that he had resurfaced. I was looking forward to meeting back up with my "dumbass" friend.

  I need to tell you that after reading this journal of his, that I will keep it with my other treasured possessions. I'll keep it right next to mine.

  I can't believe he had actually found my old journal. I had searched the house repeatedly for it with no luck. I thought it was lost forever.

  He was killed by one of the "Red Death" hunting squads. Of the four that killed him and were about to take his body back to their unholy lair, only one escaped. I had my dealings with them before, had killed a handful of them before but now it was going to be my personal goal to kill them all.

  I heard the sound of the UPS truck earlier that day. I heard it enter the neighborhood somewhere and shut down. I know how they operate and knew that this meant they were dispatching a hunter-killer team to look for food. As in food, I mean we survivors. If they were on a raid they wouldn't often shut down the engine, they would keep it going 'till they got what they wanted and drove off again.

  The infected bastards, for all their drug-addicted, parasite addled minds, were very proficient at raiding.

  The parasitic colony in their cursed bodies also give them another, huge advantage. Once the colony of single-celled leeches reach a certain mass in their host, other colonies no longer see it as a possible food source. Once the "Scarlet" is visible over around sixty to seventy percent of their body, give or take, with its red splotches, they can run through the zeds with impunity. Some have said that the large swarms, or herds, have at the core of them a "Red" or two that have fully been taken over (but their immune system is such that those carriers of the infection stave off actually dying).

  I had barely reached my post when I heard gunfire coming from the old safe-house. I scrambled as fast as I could to the unboarded upstairs window and got into a firing position.

  I heard the UPS van's engine start up again and knew it could only be coming here to make a pick-up.

  It was plain to see why the Reds had found him. Allan had stuck a stupid number of those idiot car flags on the porch railings. One would have been sufficient. One in a window, on the inside, and I would have easily noted it and knew what it meant. That and there were fresh killed zeds almost on the front lawn, uneaten by stray dogs, insects or the always hungry birds.

  I thought Al might be alive yet and my hopes were dashed when the van drew up. Immediately one carrier got out the back and took up a defensive position at the rear of the truck. Just as quickly one from inside the house, who I noted with some happiness was holding a bleeding arm, took up a position on the lawn by the front of the truck.

  When I saw one of them dragging out the body of my dumbass, who I recognized in an instant, I fired a shot from my AR15 and blew his neck out. It wasn't my best shot as I was aiming for his head. Anger had flared and tainted my aim. My next shot was better.

  None of them actually knew just where that first shot had come from and they momentarily froze, giving me time to send a bullet into the Red's right eye who was at the rear of the truck.

  Then the van driver started to yell for his wounded ally as he revved the engine and started to duck down.

  I missed completely with my third shot, aiming for the wounded bitch who I thought was running back to grab Al's corpse. Instead he grabbed the weapon and walkie-talkie from his throat less buddy who had bleed out fast and nothing could save his life. The soulless fuck dodged and weaved and immediately went out of sight, the van blocking my view. The next I saw of him was his furtive hand reaching for the head-shot gang member's weapon and
my forth shot removed half of it, fingers flying away in a spray of blood.

  The delivery van sped off then, and I was able to get one last burst off. I had a nice angle, being up on the second floor, and could see the driver as he practically drove from the passenger side floor. I'm sure I placed a round in his ear and one in his shoulder.

  The van started to careen wildly, taking out a mailbox and I was hoping it would crash so I could finish the last one off. It wasn't to be though. I suppose the wounded piece of shit grabbed the wheel.

  I emptied the rest of my clip in the back end of the now bullet ridden van and watched as it drove manically out of sight.

  I didn't have much time to grab Al's corpse before the wave of ravenous undead arrived from all the noise. I fireman carried his corpse to my post, hoping he was still alive but he was gone.