by GJ Zukow
figured out the basics of our plan when we turned on all the lights and shined every spotlight we could on him.
David started pleading and crying, begging for our forgiveness saying it was the booze that made him do those things.
I reminded David that we had pleaded before too, and he had laughed at us.
I feel absolutely no remorse for feeding David to the zeds as we made our escape.
I yelled "Now!", to Allan, signaling for him to open the front doors, letting the undead pour inside.
As Allan ran past David (who was wide eyed with terror, seeing what was about to befall him), the hungering dead stopped chasing Allan and went straight for David.
As David started to scream in the anguish of being eaten alive, I tossed one of the grenades out the back door. The blast cleared those few zeds from the area who were too slow to make their way to the front before we had to run past them. The explosion only killed a couple of the zeds, but it did knock the others down and stunned them long enough for us to escape.
David was still screaming as we hopped over the brick wall behind the club and made our cautious way to the deserted Firehouse where we are now.
We'll stay here as long as we can but there isn't much food here. At least we're free of David. I'm looking forward to being able to get some sleep again. There are no cannibalistic monsters beating down the doors here, the quiet is beautiful.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
In the past week, here in the Firehouse, Allan and I have settled down into a routine of sorts. Without David around we are both much more relaxed, or as relaxed as any sane person can be when the dead scour the earth to devour the living.
The building itself is bigger than it looks from the street. The first floor consists of a large bay, now empty of fire trucks, and a reception room with a couple of small offices and a single restroom. The oversized roll up doors that give entry to the bay are sturdy but as an extra precaution I have locked them in place. I don't want either me or Allan to accidently hit the wrong switch (they're located right next to the bay's light switches) and have them unexpectedly open. The single ground floor window and the reception door have been covered with thick plywood. The second floor consists of a small kitchen, a little recreation room, a toilet and locker room with showers and a bunkroom. The single window on the second floor, in the kitchen, faces to the rear of the building. Although the kitchen window wasn't covered with plywood, it was a pain to get into. We had to climb up a drain pipe to the bay roof and lean over the side of the building to force the lone, uncovered window open and crawl through. The whole rear yard of the building is completely covered in pavement and fenced in with an eight feet high, razor wire topped fence.
I would have loved it if there were a fire truck in the bay. The pure size, power and weight of the thing would have made an excellent vehicle to drive in. I could run over the undead that were unlucky enough to get in my way with impunity. It would also be easy to push any smaller vehicle blocking the road out of the way.
As it is, this place has yielded up some very useful items. Bolt cutters, axes, and machetes to name a few.
When we first arrived the kitchen was almost bare of any food at all. We have since restocked the cupboards with whatever we could find in the neighboring houses. The surrounding houses provided slim pickings, requiring multiple forays into the abandoned buildings for what little we have now. The lack of provisions in the area showed how critical the food shortage actually was. Even if the Scarlet hadn't risen, there would have been massive death and rioting as the populace slowly starved to death.
In the rec room there is a big collection of DVD's which has, gratefully, given us the opportunity to enjoy some entertainment. The chance to stop our thoughts from endlessly dwelling on our situation has proved a godsend. We covered the kitchen window with multiple black garbage bags to keep any possibility of light from the TV escaping. I don't know how necessary it actually was to do that, but better safe than sorry. I even went so far as to go outside while Allan had the TV on to make sure there was no noticeable light or sound to alert any passersby, whether they be the living or the walking dead. We keep the volume way down, forcing us to sit close to the set but neither of us minds doing so in the least.
Allan and I have been taking turns going out on scavenging runs. There is a large map of the area in the bay, even showing the individual lots. We mark where we raided on the map, so that the person who has to go out the next day doesn't waste time searching a building the other had already looted.
Allan goes out, and he's obviously scared of doing so. He does anyways, just as I do. He'll go out and check out a handful of nearby places, coming back in an hour or two. I go out and spend up to six hours exploring, actually enjoying it. I find I enjoy being away from the firehouse and Allan not because I don't like him, but because I need to have a break from the close confines. How do I explain it? You know those couples that not only live together but also work together? That is not me. I could never handle that. I don't mind my own company and I need time to myself. They say familiarity breeds contempt but it's not that. Sometimes, after I've filled my pack with all that I can carry, I still don't go immediately back to the firehouse. Once, after seeing the lonely pictures and hubris of the lives of families now shattered and dead I didn't leave because I broke down in tears and cried. I didn't want anyone, especially Allan, to see me crying. I have to stay strong around others, letting no emotions escape and show how weak I really feel. Mainly though, when I take those breaks, I find I can more detachedly think about the situation and make plans if things change.
I've gotten pretty good at wielding the bayonet on the M16. I keep it nice and sharp and it does a good job of sending the undead to their final rest. I can thrust it through an eye socket, through the mouth or upwards under the jaw, forcing the steel blade deep through the skull and into the soft brain. So far I haven't had to fire a single round.
I came across what had to be an assisted living facility. Not a place for old people in their advanced age, more of a "half-way" house for those with mental problems. A place for those afflicted with schizophrenia, personality disorders and other ailments of the mind that didn't actually require them to be locked up in a standard facility. The fact is that those unfortunate people, while not suffering so badly as to be institutionalized, still needed help just to cope with everyday life. There was a ton of meds, which I didn't take, and rules posted on the walls. The paper work in a room turned office confirmed my thoughts about the house. The place was empty, not one zed was inside. That was a little unusual, the majority of houses seemed to have at least one of the rotted things inside. In a room on a second floor I found a makeshift altar of sorts. It kind of gave me the creeps. There were pictures of Jesus Christ and the Madonna hanging on the walls. The walls were covered with hand-drawn crosses and prayers and entries from the bible. There was nothing outwardly sinister about the room but it gave me the creeps thinking of someone desperately praying, while suffering with insanity, to a God that no longer cared.
Prominently displayed in the center of the little altar (a table covered with candles, rosary beads and necklaces with crosses and crucifixes), I found this single hand written page. I have placed it here in my journal, between the pages. I keep it because it touched something inside me. I became depressed for a while after reading it and it took some time for me to regain my composure before I could go back to the firehouse and Allan.
"Dear God forgive me of my sins. The demons have been hounding me, speaking filth and lies into my mind ever since I was thirteen. I know that they have been trying to get me to turn away from you, trying to get me to commit the sins that would lead to my damnation. I know, and ask your forgiveness, that I have blasphemed many times. I have fornicated and used drugs and alcohol. I have dishonored my mother and father and told many lies. I have stolen and broken most of your commandments. Please have pity on me, oh lord. I have struggled with the demons that constantly insult me and tel
l me things I should never hear. Nobody has ever believed me when I tell them the voices I hear are real. They think I'm crazy, but who wouldn't be insane with these wicked devils and their horrible whisperings?
At first I thought that what was happening was real, but now I know it can't be. The unseen ones, who have secret names, have been laughing at me and telling me that everything and everyone is dead. That you, the Holy Spirit, are responsible for this. I know you're not. I know that this is all an illusion. I know for certain that I died when I got sick before all of this madness started happening. I know I died and am in purgatory. It must be purgatory because there are no flames and the devils are still only voices. Thank you for not sending me to hell.
The hellish voices in my head have turned into the clamoring of legions. They are so loud and insistent that I can barely think. I know you want me to do this because the devils want me to hide from their minions and suffer in this house for eternity. I know they don't want me to face my fear and pay for my multitude of sins. I know that I will not be able to escape this purgatory until I give up my flesh and the entire world. I am so afraid of having to feel so
